Prologue
Afterwards, the detective would say he had never seen anything like it in all his years on the force.
‘Stand back.’ He held out his hand, preventing the young garda from entering. ‘I’ll take a look first. You wait outside.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. If you don’t want your breakfast mingling with the blood on the floor, you’ll do as you’re told. You hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Once he was free of his charge, the detective closed the door behind him. The coppery tang held the air hostage. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, inhaled a deep breath, pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger and walked through the kitchen, paying no heed to the orange Formica cupboards or the broken dishes on the floor. Pieces of crockery crunched beneath his boots. Out of the kitchen to the hallway. Small and compact. Coats draped on the banister; the cupboard door under the stairs hanging off its hinges; footprints in blood on the tiles. With one gloved finger, he pushed at the door to his left and stepped inside.
The couch on its side. A bare foot sticking out from behind it, shielded by a flat brown cushion. Gulping down a large swallow of acrid mucus, he moved cautiously around the furniture without touching anything. Involuntarily he slapped his hand against his mouth as he looked down at the woman on the floor. Blood had dried on her face and throat and pooled to a brown stain on the carpet. He reckoned she was at least twenty-four hours past the time when anything bordering on an attempt at resuscitation could be made. The fetid air clogged his nostrils and narrowed his throat, but still he tasted the decay on his tongue.
Retreating from the room, he stood in the hall, the sound of his breathing breaking the silence. Staring upwards, he listened to the drip of a tap somewhere above his head.
The bottom stair creaked under his weight. When he reached the last step, it too creaked. He stood onto the small square landing. Four doors. All closed. His heart thumped so hard against his ribs he was sure it was trying to escape its bony enclosure. His mouth dried up and his nose became blocked, and he found it hard to breathe despite the thunder in his chest.
The door was old. Brass knobs. Steel hinges. Loose nails. He twisted the nearest handle to him and pushed the door inwards.
The bathroom.
Green tiles. Yellowed bath. White ceramic toilet bowl and sink. A mishmash of colour. A whiff of bleach, no blood. He exhaled slowly and backed out of the room. He sniffed at the stale air of the landing before twisting the handle of the next door. It rattled. Then opened.
The change in odour was seismic. Brutal copper assaulted his struggling airways. He closed his eyes, blinding himself to the scene before him. But it was useless. Forever more, when he laid his head on a pillow, the enduring image would be an abattoir of human blood. His dreams would become nightmares and he would never again sleep peacefully.
Children.
Pre-teenage babies, he thought. How could someone do this?
Two girls clothed in unmatched pink and yellow pyjamas. One of them had one bare foot, the other sheathed in a fleece sock, half on, half off; her leg outstretched as if she had been trying to flee. The second girl was over by the window, her hand similarly outstretched seeking escape, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. The curtains shielded the tightly shut sash window.
He remained frozen in his footsteps. There was nothing to be gained by walking further inside. He did not want to disturb the crime scene. The killer had long since carried out this vicious attack and fled. Or else …
The detective froze. Was the killer behind one of the other doors?
He backed out of the room, turned to the third door and eased his hand towards his shoulder holster. The thought of shooting dead the author of this devastation fuelled him with adrenaline.
‘I’m coming in,’ he warned, though he wasn’t sure he said it loudly enough to alert anyone who might be inside.
The room was another bedroom. Indiscriminately coloured bedding and two pillows lay on the floor. The sheet on the bed had a pool of damp in the centre. He was certain it wasn’t blood. More than likely whoever had been sleeping here had wet the bed. One of the girls? Had they been awakened by the noise of the intruder? Was this the master bedroom? he wondered, as his white-faced reflection stared at him from the mirror on the wardrobe door.
The window hung open and a curtain fluttered back into the room from the breeze. He knew he shouldn’t venture in further, but he had to be sure. Kneeling, he glanced under the bed. A dusty suitcase and a pair of suede slippers. He stood again and noticed a door to his right. An en suite? He crept over, unsure why he was fearful of making noise. He had declared his presence. He had a gun in his hand. What had he to fear?
The door hung on two hinges; the third was busted. Behind it, a shower with an old-fashioned plastic curtain, and a small toilet. The room was empty.
Three bodies. Mother and two daughters? Was there a father, husband or partner? If so, where was he? Had he carried out this brutal attack on his family before escaping?
He backed out of the room and glanced into the last room. A single bed. A free-standing wardrobe against one wall, a small cabinet with an unlit lamp beside the bed. A narrow window with lightweight flowered cotton curtains. Light streamed through the slit, casting a cone of dust motes through the centre of the tiny room.
He hurried down the stairs and rushed outside. Bending over, hands on knees, he gulped in fresh air and attempted to keep his breakfast in his stomach.
‘What did you find?’ his uniformed colleague asked.
‘A mother and two kids. Girls. Dead, all dead.’ He gasped for air, trying desperately to rid himself of the stench of death; of the images indelibly etched behind his eyes.
‘Two kids?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t come across their father. Not yet. The bastard.’
‘Did you say two kids?’
‘For feck’s sake, are you bloody deaf? Why do you keep repeating it?’
‘I’m not sure … I thought the report said …’ The garda fumbled in his jacket pocket for his notebook. Flipped over the pages. ‘There should be three kids.’
The detective stood up straight and wiped his brow with trembling fingers. As he searched his pocket for cigarettes, he said, ‘So where the hell is the third one?’
*
Twenty years later
Removing the frozen goods required brute force and, of course, gloves.
I found a pair in a box, beneath a conglomeration of garden equipment, refuse bags, slug repellent and weedkiller. I held a debate with myself over the possible use for the weedkiller, but eventually I threw it back in the box. In a toolbox I located a roll of duct tape. I left the shed and made my way to where my work would take place.
The lock on the first of the three chest freezers snipped open with pliers. I felt the air heaving with anticipation. I raised the lid and got to work taking out the frozen meat. Two legs of lamb and a side of beef. This was the decoy if anyone came nosing around. Once the false bottom was removed, the offending article lay there, frozen to the sides.
Lifting it out took some effort. The plastic wrapping tore in places. When it was eventually fully excavated, some of the plastic remained in the freezer. Nothing could be done about that now. Without paying too much attention to the slab of meat (for want of a better description), I dumped it on the floor. I didn’t really want to look at it. I knew what it was. I’d seen it before it was frozen.