Find Them Dead

33 Thursday 9 May

A modern, neat-but-soulless red-brick housing estate, opposite a garage, on the outskirts of Chichester. Carer Denise Clafferty, doing her daily round, rang the doorbell of number 23, a small three-bedroom detached house, dropping in on sweet Stuie Starr.

The thirty-eight-year-old, with Down’s Syndrome, had been living on his own for nearly six months since his brother had been arrested and was currently in prison on remand, awaiting sentencing. Stuie couldn’t understand why his brother hadn’t come home since travelling to Germany to collect a car, a Ferrari that Stuie had been excited to see.

Every day when Denise visited him, to check on his welfare and the state of the house, Stuie persistently asked her the same question: ‘Is Mickey coming home today?’ Then he would add, proudly, ‘We are starting a fish and chip shop!’

Some days, the way he said it broke her heart. She had tried to explain that it would not be for a while, to manage his expectations, but nothing she said could dim his sunny enthusiasm. Every day when he opened the door, he was all smiles for an instant, all expectant, then he would burst into tears when he saw it was her — or on occasions one of her co-workers — and not his brother.

At least the trial of Terence Gready, Mickey’s alleged co-conspirator, was now under way. Sentencing was just weeks off. Hopefully the judge would take into consideration that Mickey Starr had pleaded guilty, that he’d already served six months and that he had a brother who needed him.

There was no response to her ring.

She rang again. Waited.

Still no response. Unusual. Normally, Stuie opened the door within seconds. He had been coping pretty well, ordering his groceries and essentials and getting them delivered, and he kept the house scrupulously, obsessively tidy. For Mickey, he said.

Maybe he was on the loo, she wondered. Or asleep. She rang again and waited. Several minutes passed. She glanced at her watch. Another six appointments today. Reluctantly, using the key she had — much preferring for his self-esteem for him to let her in himself — she unlocked the front door and entered.

‘Stuie!’ she called out.

Silence greeted her.

A silence she did not like.

‘Stuie! It’s Denise!’ she called.

There was no response.

‘Stuie, OK if I come in?’

She waited for some moments, then closed the front door behind her. ‘Stuie?’

The silence made her uncomfortable.

‘Stuie? You OK?’

There was a handful of post on the floor. Ignoring it, she walked through into the kitchen-dining area and saw what looked like the remains of breakfast on the table. Stuie always left the kitchen immaculate in preparation, he told her, for the fish and chip restaurant he was starting with his brother.

‘Stuie?’ she called out again. ‘Stuie, it’s Denise!’ She peered out through the window at the small, neat rear garden but there was no sign of him out there.

She went through into the lounge. The television was on, the sound low, a presenter she vaguely recognized standing on a cliff in a stunningly scenic location, talking earnestly to camera about erosion.

She went out and stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘Stuie!’ she called out. ‘Stuie! Are you up there? It’s me, Denise!’

No response.

‘I’m coming upstairs, Stuie, is that OK?’

She waited, then climbed up the short steep staircase and stood on the landing. Three doors were closed and a fourth was slightly ajar. She called out his name yet again. And again, no response.

She pushed on the door that was ajar and peered in. Stuie, in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, was curled up in a foetal position on the floor, beside the bed. The room looked like a bomb had detonated. A chair was upended and half the duvet was on the floor. The dressing-table mirror was smashed. One of the curtains had been pulled off and the rail hung down at a lopsided angle.

She ran across to Stuie and looked down. His hair, and the white rug on which his head lay, skewed sideways, were soaked with blood. There was blood on the walls and ceiling. His right arm was at a strange angle and his hand was covered in blood, too. She knelt and felt his wrist for a pulse.

Shaking, she stood up, backed away a few paces, looking wildly around, then pulled her phone out of her bag and dialled 999.