Need You Dead

8 Monday 18 April

Matt Robinson peered out of the window, through the heavy drizzle, looking at house numbers. They raced round a long crescent, past a shabby parade of shops — a newsagent, an off-licence, a community centre — and then up an incline. The whole street had a neglected, unloved feel about it. The houses, erected in the 1950s post-war building boom, were a mishmash of terraces, semis and the occasional, slightly grander-looking, detached one. But most of them were badly in need of a fresh coat of paint and hardly any of the small front gardens showed any sign of loving care.

‘You know, this could be a lovely street,’ he said. ‘Why does it look so crap? Why doesn’t anyone care for their garden?’

‘Coz that’s where they wipe their feet when they leave,’ Juliet Solomon said, cynically.

It was an old police joke, when entering a shithole of a dwelling, that it was the kind of place where you wiped your feet on the way out. Except it wasn’t a laughing matter. Too often they went into a dwelling where the carpet was covered in mouldy food cartons, dog faeces and vomit, with a baby crawling around — but inevitably a brand-new, massive TV screen on the wall.

‘There! Seventy-three!’

He pointed at a house that was a definite cut above the others. A decent-sized three- or possibly four-bedroom detached structure, the front facade recently painted white, a shiny navy blue and rather classy front door, new-looking leaded-light windows that were over-ornate for the place, making him wonder if the owners had been the victim of a persuasive double-glazing salesman, and a neatly tended front garden with two beds of healthy-looking daffodils and rather grand stone balls on top of each of the two brick pillars. Parked on the drive between the pillars was an old model MX5 sports car, with gleaming red paintwork, a black hardtop and a hand-written sign in the rear window: FOR SALE, £3,500.

As Juliet brought the car to a halt, Matt informed the call handler they’d arrived. She replied that she had still not managed to reestablish contact with the caller.

They climbed out of the car, pulling on their hats, and hurried up the path to the front door. Matt had attended more domestics than he could remember. There would be at least one on every shift, and you never knew what to expect when you rang the doorbell. One time he’d been punched in the face by a gorilla of a man, and on another occasion the door had opened and a glass vase had hurtled past his head.

Juliet rang the bell, which triggered the yapping of several dogs. She pushed open the letterbox, peered through, then let it flap shut and stood back. Matt joined her, instinctively dropping one hand to the holster containing his Captor pepper spray.

The yapping increased. They heard a woman’s voice shouting, ‘Down! Back! Get back!’

Moments later the door opened a few inches, and an attractive-looking woman, elegantly dressed but with slightly dishevelled blonde hair, peered out at them, a bunch of shaggy puppies around her ankles. She looked nervous and her mascara had run down her tear-stained face. Her lower lip was split, with a trail of congealed blood below it. There was more congealed blood below her nostrils. She was clutching a mobile phone.

‘Mrs Belling?’ Juliet said gently. ‘Mrs Lorna Belling?’

She nodded, as if unable to speak, then nodded again. Then in a trembling voice, barely above a whisper, she said, ‘Thank you for coming. I’m sorry — sorry to have bothered you.’

‘I’m PC Solomon and this is my colleague, SC Robinson. Is your husband inside?’ Juliet asked.

She shook her head. ‘No — I saw — heard him — leave for work about ten minutes ago.’

‘Can we come in and have a chat?’

‘Please,’ the woman replied, weepily. ‘Please. Let me just put the dogs in another room so they don’t run out.’

She closed the front door, then a few moments later opened it again, and ushered them into a small, immaculately tidy hall, with white wall-to-wall carpeting on which were several urine stains, two of them looking fresh. The dogs, in another room, were all still yapping.

The officers followed her through into a small kitchen, with one wall taken up by a huge tank filled with tropical fish. On the table were laid out hairdressing tools and a number of bottles of shampoo, conditioners and sprays, along with a laptop. Through a sliding glass door they could see a large dog and a bunch of puppies in a small conservatory, and a beautiful garden beyond, with a hot-tub, wicker furniture and several ornaments.

The woman indicated for them to sit down and then pulled up a chair opposite the wooden table and laid her phone on the table’s surface. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ she asked.

‘We’re fine, thank you,’ PC Solomon said. Suddenly there was a loud voice over her radio and she turned the volume down, then pulled out her notebook. ‘Tell us what happened?’

The woman stood up, walked over to the worktop and tore off a sheet of kitchen towel, which she used to dab her eyes. As she sat back down she said, ‘I’m breeding puppies — Labradoodles.’

‘Awww,’ Juliet Solomon said. ‘I love those dogs, always wanted one!’

‘They’re adorable. But my husband hates them. He was just about to leave for work this morning when one of the puppies got out of the conservatory’ — she pointed at the glass door — ‘and pooed on the carpet. Corin picked up the poo in his hand and pushed it into my face. Then he punched me, several times, screaming that he was going to kill me, and take them to a dogs’ home when he got back this evening. Then he hit me again. I ran upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom, and called — dialled — 999.’

‘The Control Room told me that, according to our records, it’s the third time this has happened in recent months — we want to try and help you to be safe.’

Lorna Belling nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know I’m being a nuisance. I’m just at my wits’ end — I’m really scared of him.’

‘You are not being a nuisance at all,’ Juliet said.

Lorna’s phone pinged with a text and, momentarily distracted, she peered at it to see who it was from.

‘Where does your husband work?’ Matt Robinson asked.

‘A tech company, South Downs IT Solutions.’ She looked at the text message again.

Juliet Solomon wrote the name of the company down. ‘How does he get to work?’ she asked

‘By train. He’s lost his licence — for drink-driving.’

‘Is that why you’re selling the car?’

‘No, that’s — well, was — my reason.’ She pointed in the direction of the dogs. ‘I need to get an estate car for that lot. But there’s a bit of a story behind selling the car — some fraud involved.’

‘Do we know about this?’

‘Yes, your colleagues do know — but it’s not connected to...’ She opened out her hands in a gesture of despair.

Robinson stepped away and spoke into his radio.

‘Who owns this house?’ Juliet asked her.

Lorna pointed at her chest. ‘Corin was made redundant not long after I met him. He moved in with me, then we got married.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Seven years ago. Since then we’ve remortgaged but I own the larger share.’

‘Why don’t you tell him to leave, Lorna?’ Juliet asked her, gently.

‘I’m planning to,’ the woman said. ‘But you know what it’s like, there’s never a right time.’ She pointed at the huge tank. ‘There’s five thousand pounds’ worth of tropical fish in here — he’s the only one who knows how to clean and maintain it.’

The police officer peered at it for some moments. ‘Have you thought about sushi?’ she asked.

Lorna laughed, lightening up for the first time. ‘I wish.’

‘Would you like me to contact one of our DV caseworkers for you? They could help you,’ Juliet said.

‘DV?’

‘Domestic Violence.’

After some moments she said, bleakly, ‘Yes — please — thank you.’

Matt Robinson came back over and sat down. ‘There’s a car on its way to your husband’s office. They’ll arrest him as soon as he arrives.’

Lorna clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’

‘You can’t live like this, Lorna,’ Juliet said.

Lorna burst into a flood of tears. Then she looked at her watch.

‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘My client’s due — my first of the day. My eight o’clock.’

The two officers stood up. ‘I’ll call the caseworkers, Lorna. Someone will be in touch, OK?’

Lorna nodded.

‘And if your husband turns up back here, don’t let him in, but call 999 immediately.’

As the two officers climbed back into their car, Juliet Solomon turned to her colleague. ‘You know the saddest thing of all with domestic abuse, Matt? So many of the victims are terrified to leave and face an uncertain future alone. So they find excuses why they have to stay or why they won’t kick their partner out.’

‘Like cleaning the tropical fish?’

‘Exactly.’