Hour Of Darkness

Nine

‘How far along is it?’ Karen Neville asked as Singh turned their unmarked police car into Caledonian Crescent.

‘I can see one of our vehicles right at the far end,’ he replied, ‘so I guess that’s it.’

The street was less curved than its name implied. On either side, grey four-storey tenement blocks rose above them. ‘I should know, I suppose,’ he added. ‘I lived here when I was a kid; number ninety-eight. It’s changed a lot since then. We didn’t have door buzzers in the streets; all the stairwells smelled like prisons.’

‘Prisons?’

‘Aye. You know; boiled cabbage and pish.’

He drove slowly between the ranks of cars; Saturday, so the resident parking bays were all full. There was a disabled space opposite their destination; he took it and put a ‘CID on business’ card in the window.

The police car that he had seen was unoccupied, and the entry door to one forty-two was closed.

‘Did Mackenzie give you a flat number?’ the sergeant asked.

‘No, he was too busy giving me a hard time. Smart-arse, indeed,’ he growled.

‘Live with it,’ she said. ‘Push some buttons till we get the right one.’

Singh was about to begin the process of elimination when, to his surprise, the door clicked and opened an inch or two. The two detectives stepped into the hallway, and came face to face with an elderly lady, standing at the entrance to what they guessed was her home.

‘I took you for police,’ she announced.

The DC beamed. ‘So much for plain-clothes duty.’

The householder smiled, gently. ‘You, son, could not be anything else.’ Then she frowned. ‘Here, did you not live in the Crescent, what, oh, twenty years ago?’

‘That’s right’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘Talvin.’

‘That’s right. I used to talk to your mother. How is she?’

Unlike quite a few other neighbours, Singh recalled. ‘She’s fine,’ he told her. ‘My dad died a few years ago, though.’

‘Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, son. You tell your mum that Greta McConnochie was asking for her.’

‘I will indeed.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you know. .’

‘Where the other police are? Yes, they’re one floor up, flat one. What is it? No’ a burglary, I hope.’

‘We’re not sure yet. But it’s nothing for you to worry yourself about. Thanks, Mrs McConnochie.’

They left the neighbour on guard duty and headed for the stone staircase. Flat one faced them on the landing; they knew that not by the number but by the black-clad woman constable guarding the door. She recognised Singh, one of those ‘once seen, never forgotten’ people. ‘Hi, Talvin,’ she greeted him. ‘You got the short straw?’

‘Nah, Whitney. I’m popular, that’s all. This is DS Neville, she’s new to the division.’

The two women exchanged nods, then the constable stepped to one side. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘Forrest, my oppo’s with the girl from the law firm and the meter reader. He’s seriously pissed off with us, by the way, for makin’ him hang on.’

‘Tough luck on him,’ Singh observed. ‘We’d be pissed off with you if you hadn’t.’

He stood aside to make way for his sergeant, but she nodded to him to take the lead. The windowless hallway was lit by a halogen ceiling fitment, and there were four doors leading off it. Only one was open, so he headed for it, to find himself in a sitting room.

‘About fuckin’ time,’ the meter reader barked as the DC’s shadow fell on the floor; he fell silent as he saw what had cast it.

‘Sorry sir,’ the man-mountain said. ‘But from what we’ve been told this might be a crime scene. You’re standing in it, so if we decide that it is, you’re not leaving without giving us a statement and a DNA sample.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ the man protested.

‘No, sir.’ Neville cut him off. ‘You wait, please, for as many minutes as it takes.’ She turned to the room’s other occupants, a girl who looked to be in her early twenties, and the second uniform, a stocky man whose tunic namebadge identified him as PC Wood. She blinked. ‘Whitney called you Forrest. That is a nickname, isn’t it?’

‘No such luck,’ he replied. ‘It’s for real: my nickname’s “Plank”. My dad was a comedian, but at least he put a second “r” in Forrest. Great name for a Woodentop, eh?’

‘You are blessed.’ She turned to the girl. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

‘Tilda Trotter, from the Lesser and Syme property department.’

‘Lesser and Syme?’

‘Solicitors. The owner’s our client.’

‘But he’s not the occupant?’

‘No. He lives somewhere else.’

‘So who is the occupant?’

‘I don’t actually know. This isn’t one of my files usually, but I’m the junior staff member. My boss told me to come along and let this man in, that was all.’

Singh looked at the meter reader. ‘Who pays the bill?’ he asked.

‘Search me, mate. Ah just read them.’

‘We pay it,’ Tilda Trotter volunteered. ‘Or rather we pay it on the client’s behalf. He picks up all the utility bills, and the rates.’

As she spoke, Neville glanced around the room. The flat had central heating, and a log-effect gas fire for back-up. There was a vase on the sideboard; it held flowers but they were withered and drooping. Copies of the Daily Record and Hello magazine lay on a coffee table positioned between a wall-mounted television and a cream fabric sofa, which was matched by a single armchair.

She picked up the newspaper and saw that it was three weeks and one day old. She dropped it and her eye moved on to a small side table. It was placed on the far side of the chair from where she was standing, and on it there lay an ashtray, a pack of menthol cigarettes and a lighter that could have been taken for gold, but for the pale patches where use had worn away the plating. She stepped round and peered into the ashtray; it held half a dozen white filter-tipped butts, each with traces of lipstick.

‘Whoever lived here left in a hurry,’ she said. ‘She didn’t take her fags or lighter.’

‘Not good,’ Tarvil murmured. ‘Where is it?’ he asked PC Wood.

‘The door facing you in the hall.’

He nodded and headed for it.

‘Hold on,’ his DS called out. ‘We don’t want to piss off the CSIs, if they need to come in here. You got overshoes and gloves?’

‘You’re right, boss,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, I always carry them.’

Since he seemed to take up much of the available space, Neville waited until he had donned the sterile coverings before putting hers on. When she was ready, she opened the door and led the way into the kitchen.

‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed, as she saw what was inside.

‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ Singh agreed.

The fitted units were modern and expensive, and the walls were tiled, white with a yellow flower motif. Above the sink, which faced the door, a rusty red fan shape spread out.

‘Tell me someone’s been shaking a ketchup bottle with a dodgy top,’ the DC murmured.

‘I wish I could,’ Neville replied quietly.

She moved carefully around the small table in the centre of the room, then stopped in her tracks. The stains ran across the sink, down the front of the unit that housed it and into a pool, a thick reddish-brown pool, of something congealed and dried. There were splatters and smears all around, and indications of someone, something, having been dragged.

‘Mr Mackenzie was right.’

‘How?’ the DS asked.

‘This is more than a cut finger.’

‘So let’s get out.’

As they backed out, surveying the scene from the doorway once more, Singh pointed to a broad-bladed cleaver, lying in the floor next to the mass of blood. ‘Do you think that might have been used?’ he asked.

‘We’ll let other people tell us that,’ Neville replied. ‘Plank,’ she called to the PC, ‘get on the radio and ask for SOCO attendance here, right away.’ She had barely finished before the constable was speaking into his handset.

‘Should we empty the place?’

She answered DC Singh’s question with a shake of her head. ‘Not yet, Talvin. Let those two stay where they are, but go nowhere else in the flat.’ She opened the door next to the kitchen. ‘Bathroom,’ she peered inside. There were more bloodstains around the small basin and a blue towel lay on the wooden floor.

Singh looked over her shoulder. ‘Those boards, they’re rough, not sanded or stained. There’s been a carpet here.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Stapled to the floor.’ She knelt and looked closely at a metal fastening twisted as if something had been wrenched loose. There were fibres attached. ‘Purple,’ she murmured.

‘So who’s the victim?’ Singh mused. ‘The householder?’

‘Why are you assuming there’s only one? I’ve seen domestic homicides that looked just like this. The husband could have done the wife, disposed of her body and disappeared.’

‘Take a look behind the door,’ he replied, pointing. ‘That row of coat hooks. There are four garments on it, they’re all female and they’re all much the same size.’

The sergeant winced, knowing that she had missed the obvious. ‘You’re right, of course. Christ, I have been away from the job for a long time. Keep on watching my back, Talvin, will you?’

‘You got it,’ he rumbled.

‘So who is the woman. . was, I should say?’ She looked at the door for a few seconds, frowning. ‘All the indications are that the place has been empty for a while, unread meter, dead flowers in the vase. I’m sure that when we look in the fridge we’ll find milk that’s at least a couple of weeks past its sell-by. And one other thing: where’s the mail?’

She led the way back into the living room. ‘Ms Trotter,’ she called out. ‘When you entered the flat, were there any letters behind the door?’

‘Yes,’ the girl said. ‘I gathered them up. They’re on the coffee table there.’

Singh picked up the handful of mail, and began to flick through it. ‘Most of this is the usual junk,’ he muttered, ‘addressed to “The Householder”, that’s all, but, hold on, here’s one. . and another.’ He held up two envelopes and put the others back on the table.

‘Let’s see them, please.’

He handed them over, impressed by his new sergeant’s courtesy. He was used to orders, not requests.

‘I. Spreckley,’ she read aloud, from the first, then ripped it open. ‘Bank statement. It’s a current account and it’s well in credit.’ She paused as she studied it. ‘Okay, she’s over sixty, ’cos there’s a pension credit here. Plus, she’s claiming housing benefit.’

‘She does?’ Tilda Trotter, who was close enough to overhear her, exclaimed. ‘She lives here rent-free.’

‘Then let’s hope her sins haven’t found her out,’ Neville muttered as she opened the second envelope. ‘Miss Isobella Spreckley,’ she announced. ‘This one’s from the NHS; an appointment under the breast cancer screening programme. Miss,’ she repeated, then crossed to the fireplace, and picked up a framed photograph.

It was creased beneath the glass, as if it had been well-handled in its lifetime, and its colour had faded somewhat, lending it a pale yellow veneer. It showed a beach scene, and a woman in her thirties, dark-haired, full-bodied and not unattractive, with her arms around two boys, the older of whom could have been no more than ten. There was a clear resemblance between the trio; mother and sons, for sure, she thought.

‘If this is Miss Spreckley. . I wonder who these two are and where they are now.’

‘And if they know where she is,’ Singh added.

The DS barely heard him, for she was staring hard at the images. ‘Maybe we know,’ she said. ‘This photo has to be thirty years old at least. Sixty-something, female, stocky build, had children. Tarvil, have you read the file on that body that was washed up a week ago? I’m not saying it’s her, but she’s definitely a candidate.’