Dead Scared

DC RICHARDS GAINED Entry to Evi’s house by breaking a small bathroom window. A few seconds later, he opened the front door.

‘Stay in the hallway, please, sir,’ he told Harry. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

Harry could hear Richards speaking softly into his radio as he opened first one door and then another. He caught a glimpse of a kitchen, in which everything seemed lower to the floor than usual, and then what looked like a bedroom.

Evi’s house. Alice had given him her address months ago. He’d looked at it many times on Google Earth, had tried to picture its interior. He’d imagined it cosier, somehow, wide hearths and soft gold light, not this cold, tiled, grand hallway.

There was a slender-framed wheelchair to one side of the door. He reached out to run a hand along the armrest but remembered in time. He wasn’t supposed to touch anything. Directly in front of him were stairs. There was a stairlift. He couldn’t imagine her ever using such a thing. The Evi he knew would climb the stairs herself if it killed her.

A sound from upstairs. A scuffling. Then a low-pitched whimper.

‘She’s upstairs,’ he called out. He took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he stood listening.

‘Don’t go any further,’ came the instruction from below. ‘In fact, come down now.’

Hearing the sound again, Harry ran along the carpeted corridor. Guessing, he pushed open the last door and stopped dead.

Staring up at him were scared, bewildered eyes. The whimpering sounded again. Footsteps behind told him Richards had caught up.

‘What the bugger?’ said Richards, who was peering over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry stepped forward, knelt down and unfastened the muzzle from the dog’s face. Free to pant again, the dog didn’t move, just lay still, its mouth hanging open, tongue dry and furry. Harry pulled at the knots and managed to loosen the bindings around the dog’s front legs enough to slip them off. He did the same thing with its back legs and the dog scrambled to its feet.

George and Joesbury arrived at Endicott Farm just as the sergeant in charge of the attending special operations team received news that a warrant had been signed and he was authorized to enter the property. He was hammering on the front door, shouting out a warning to anyone inside, as Joesbury and George climbed out of their car. George produced his warrant card and vouched for Joesbury to the constable who met them.

Properly handled, a tubular steel police enforcer can deliver three tonnes of pressure to a locked door. The centuries-old, half-rotten wood of Nick Bell’s front door would have crumbled under the pressure of a strong shoulder. The young constable wielding the enforcer broke through with his first attempt and half staggered over the threshold.

As George and Joesbury, kitted out in protective clothing, followed the sergeant through the front door, they heard the shattering of glass that told them other officers were entering the property elsewhere. A dog began barking.

The search team fanned out through the house, calling out warnings, kicking open doors, switching on lights, checking each room before moving on. As instructed, Joesbury and George stayed at the rear.

‘Casualty upstairs.’

Joesbury stepped forward; George’s hand on his shoulder held him back. The sergeant ran heavily up the stairs and disappeared into a room on the right. A second later, they heard a radio call summoning an ambulance. Joesbury set off again and this time he wasn’t stopped.

The air at the top of the steps seemed denser somehow, pressing closer, holding him back, as though trying to prevent him from seeing the prone form. He saw it anyway. A spreading pool of blood steadily making its way across the faded carpet. Bright-coloured hair dark and sodden. A serious head wound. Long, jean-clad legs. Blue sweater. Nick Bell.