‘What information.’
‘Residents of the retirement home have made previous complaints of property going missing. We are interviewing an employee of the home.’
‘Ha! I knew it!’ I say, sounding cocky.
Caroline tells me to be quiet.
‘I told you he was lying.’
‘Shush, Evie.’
‘Did you find June’s engagement ring?’ I ask.
‘I can’t go into the details,’ says the undertaker. ‘But I think you should count yourself lucky.’
Lucky! I want to scream. In what universe am I lucky?
Caroline shoots me a glance that says, Don’t say anything.
I follow her to reception where Davina is waiting. She does exactly what I expect her to do, wrapping me in her big fleshy arms and smothering my face between her breasts until I think I might suffocate. I hate being touched, but I let her hug me and make this strange noise in her throat like I’m going to be the death of her.
I’ll get a red card for what happened today. I’m the queen of red cards. I’m a royal flush. Hearts and diamonds. I’ll have to spend next weekend at Langford Hall, cleaning the bogs or weeding the garden or washing out plastic tubs or scrubbing the frying pans.
Why? Because I’m just so fucking lucky.
5
Cyrus
Six police cars are parked outside the old brick factory, which is built alongside a bleak strip of dark water. The Tame is a shitty excuse for a river, more solid than liquid, obscured by weeds and debris and overhanging branches. A canal intersects the river, separated by large metal doors with leaking seals. In another thousand years they might wear away, and the oily water will find a way to the sea.
In other places, industrial ribbons like this have been cleaned up and turned into golden real estate, but maybe this one is too contaminated with heavy metals or too expensive to remediate.
Driving across a patch of waste ground, I park beside a chain-link fence. Nearby, a battered supermarket trolley bears the sign: PLEASE RETURN TO ASDA.
A handful of boys, high-school age, are knocking a football around the vacant lot, juggling it on knees, feet and heads. They’re watching the police at work and I can feel their energy and excitement. This is new. Different. Worth sharing. Their phones come out occasionally, as they check the status of their posts.
Three detectives are smoking beside a coroner’s van. Two of them I recognise. One is Whitey Doyle and the other is Alan Edgar, who gets called Poe because they all have nicknames. The third officer is new to me but has a similar pallor and waistline, caused by a poor diet and lack of sleep.
A drone is hovering above them, taking photographs of the location. In the modern age of policing, a jury has to be put at the heart of the crime scene and made to feel like it is taking part in a reality TV show or a gritty fly-on-the-wall documentary.
I sign the scene log and show my credentials before entering the cool of the factory. Parts of the roof are missing – torn off by a storm or salvaged by scrap-metal merchants. The holes create shafts of light that angle God-like from above. One of them is illuminating a silver Maserati Quattroporte nosed hard against a concrete block.
Lenny Parvel breaks away from a group of technicians, who are lifting a wrapped body on to a trolley. In other circumstances we might hug or kiss cheeks. Instead, we bump fists.
In her mid-forties, with short dark hair, Lenny is dressed in her usual Barbour jacket and knee-high boots, which make her look like a no-nonsense lady-of-the-manor out walking her dogs.
Lenny isn’t her real name. She was christened Lenore and burdened with a plethora of middle names because grandparents had to be placated and traditions maintained. I’ve known her since I was thirteen and she was twenty-seven. She was the officer who found me after my parents and sisters were murdered. I was hiding in our garden shed wearing bloody socks and holding a pickaxe. I had come home from football practice to find my mother’s body on the kitchen floor, lying next to a spilled bag of frozen peas. My father lay dead in front of the TV. Esme and April perished in the bedroom they shared upstairs.
I hid in the garden shed, listening to the sirens getting closer. Lenny found me. She was a young constable, still in uniform, and she stayed with me, asking me about school, what position I played in my football team. She offered me a Tic Tac and held my hand steady as she shook them into my palm. To this day, I cannot smell breath mints without thinking of that moment.
‘Who found him?’ I ask, glancing at the car.
‘A group of lads.’
‘The ones outside.’
‘Yeah. They use this place to play football. We think he died last night.’
‘You said he was one of yours.’
‘Detective Superintendent Hamish Whitmore. He retired on medical grounds six months ago. Stress and anxiety.’
‘Depression?’
‘We’re checking.’
I notice a nylon rope snaking across the floor. One end is tied to a metal pole and the other is lying near the back wheels of the Maserati.
Lenny explains her thinking. ‘Looks like he pulled the rope through the driver’s side window and looped it around his neck. Then he buckled up and hit the accelerator.’ She moves towards the car. ‘When he reached the end of his rope, the noose severed his head. The car kept rolling until it hit the wall.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘We might have met once at a bio-security conference in London. Nice guy. Old school.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Manchester.’
I’ve reached the Maserati, a prestige car, in pristine condition. Expensive. Loved. Inside is a different story. Blood covers the windows, seats and dashboard. I will dream about this tonight, picturing the bodies of my mother and father and sisters. I will wake with a scream dying on my lips, unsure if the sound has stayed in my head or set the neighbourhood dogs barking again.
I walk around the car, crouching at the open doors, careful not to touch anything. I lean inside the driver’s door, noticing how the seat is clean where Whitmore’s body was pressed against it.
‘The keys were still in the ignition,’ says Lenny. ‘The engine kept running until it ran out of gas.’
‘What did you find in the car?’
‘Usual stuff. His wallet. Driver’s licence. Registration papers. Phone.’
‘What about a suicide note?’
‘No.’
‘Was he married?’
‘Separated.’
‘Any kids?’
‘A daughter. Grown up.’
I look admiringly at the car. ‘This is a seventy-thousand-pound motor.’
‘He must have been doing OK,’ says Lenny.
‘On a police pension?’
‘He was driving part time; hiring himself out as a chauffeur with security experience. He did some work for a film company based in London.’
I study the footwell of the car. The brake pedal is covered in blood, but not the accelerator. His foot must have stayed in place until the last possible moment, when it slipped off, although it doesn’t explain the small patch of clear carpet to the right of the pedal, unless something else was resting on the accelerator.
I point out the satnav system. Lenny has already checked the list of destinations.