As she got closer, Natalie revised her opinion about the cause of death; now, she could see bruises around the throat that screamed strangulation.
There were protocols to be followed. And the first of these was the preservation of life. She was sure the little boy was dead. The skin discolouration and maggots told her that. But there was no way she was going to go down as the sergeant who left a still-living toddler to die in the centre of a murder scene.
Reaching him meant stepping into that lake of congealed blood. Never mind the sneers from CID about the ‘woodentops’ walking through crime scenes in their size twelves; this was about checking if a little boy had a chance of life.
She pulled out her phone and took half a dozen shots of the bodies. Then she took two long strides towards them, wincing as her boot soles crackled and slid in the coagulated blood.
She crouched and extended her right index and middle fingers, pressing under the little boy’s jaw into the soft flesh where the carotid artery ran. She closed her eyes and prayed for a pulse, trying to ignore the smell, and the noise of the writhing maggots and their soft, squishy little bodies as they roiled together in the mess.
After staying there long enough for the muscles in her legs to start complaining, and for her to be certain the little lad was dead, she straightened and reversed out of the blood. She took care to place her feet back in the first set of footprints.
She turned away, looking for some kitchen roll to wipe the blood off her soles, and stared in horror at the wall facing the cooker.
‘Oh, shit.’
DAY TWO, 9.05 A.M.
In metre-tall dark red digits, smeared and dripping, someone had daubed a number.
666
Feeling her heart thumping in her chest, and not enjoying the sensation, Natalie spoke into her Airwave.
‘Control from Sierra Bravo Three-Five. That G28 in Wyvern Road? Looks like a double homicide. Two deceased. Adult female and young child, a male. A boy, I mean. Christ! A little boy!’
‘Sierra Bravo Three-Five from Control. You OK, Nat?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Send the grown-ups.’
‘Which ones?’
She glanced at the bloody number again. ‘All of them.’
‘OK, Nat. On it.’
She saw a roll of kitchen towel on a pine spindle. Pulled off a half-dozen sheets. Cleaned her boot soles as best as she was able. Scrunched the bloody wad into a tight ball and stuck it in the bin. She’d have to tell the CSIs to take impressions of her soles for elimination purposes, even though she hadn’t seen any other footprints on her way in.
Downstairs, she knocked on the front door of Flat 2. The wife opened the door, still in her gym clothes. Maybe she thought she could still make the class. Not. Going. To. Happen.
‘Mrs Gregory, can I come in?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She stood aside and Natalie entered the cleaner, brighter, not-smelling-like-a-butcher’s-shop version of the flat upstairs.
‘I need to take statements from you and your husband. Is he around, please?’
The woman nodded and offered a tight smile. ‘Rob!’ she yelled. ‘The policewoman’s back. She wants to talk to us. Sorry,’ she said, turning back to Nat, ‘he’s a freelance designer. He listens to music while he’s working. It’s the only way I can get through to him. Do you need a tea or a coffee or something? I have herbal. Peppermint, chamomile, chai, ginger, or even some builder’s somewhere.’
Nat didn’t answer at once. My God, you’re a cool one, aren’t you? Are you used to living underneath murder scenes? Did you have something to do with this one? She pushed the thought down. Above my pay grade.
‘Builder’s would be fine, thank you.’
Ford was writing a report when his force-issued mobile rang. Grateful for the interruption, he answered without looking at the screen. ‘Ford.’
‘It’s Alan in Control, sir. Nat Hewitt’s at a crime scene. Says it’s a double homicide. You’re the duty DI.’
‘Address?’
‘Flat 3, 75 Wyvern Road. CSIs are already there. Plus, I called the coroner and the pathologist.’
‘OK, thanks. I’m on my way.’
He shrugged on his suit jacket, patting the pockets for wallet, car keys, notebook and his own mobile. He grabbed a black nylon hold-all from beside his desk. His murder bag contained everything he might need for a scene, from Tyvek ‘Noddy suit’ with matching bootees to a set of lock picks and a selection of screwdrivers. He unplugged a slim black power pack from the wall and dropped it in. Most important of all, his policy book: an A4 notebook in which he recorded every decision on every case, including justification and possible consequences.
Moving through the Major Crimes command, he called out to a young DC, Julie Harper.
‘Jools! You’re with me.’
‘Guv?’
‘Double homicide. Wyvern Road.’
On the short drive over, Jools spoke without taking her eyes off the road. ‘You OK, guv?’
The concern in her voice made him want to lash out. He felt a flash of anger, then forced his jaws to unclench. ‘You’re the second person to ask me that today.’
‘Sorry. It’s just, today’s . . .’
‘Yes, Jools! I know. The anniversary of my wife’s death. Why is it that once a year everybody treats me like I’m made of porcelain?’
‘Because they care about you?’
‘I’m fine without, thanks. We’re here. Find a spot and let’s get on with it.’
A long, tree-lined street of mainly Victorian terrace houses, Wyvern Road stretched in a gentle incline from Castle Street in the west to the ring road carrying two lanes of traffic between the Southampton and London roads.
Two marked cars blocked off the street between Piccadilly Road and Chayne’s Close, sun flaring off the yellow squares in their Battenberg livery. Blue-and-white police tape fluttered in the summer breeze as they drew closer to the principal crime scene.
Ford and Jools nodded at the uniformed loggist stationed on the north-side pavement, who was sweating in the heat. She took their collar numbers then lifted the tape for them to duck under.
Outside 75, a white CSI van had been parked on a double-yellow line. Uniforms were already knocking on doors, talking to neighbours.
Another cordon to cross, this one yellow-and-black crime scene tape. Before they entered, Ford and Jools climbed into their Tyvek suits. He ignored the glances she kept shooting him.
A woman’s voice called out. ‘Sir?’
Ford turned to see Nat Hewitt hurrying across the road.
‘I wanted you to hear it from me before anybody else told you,’ she said as she arrived.
‘What? You look like you’re going to throw up. Bad one, is it?’ he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the house.
‘Yes, but that’s not it, sir. I had to walk right into it. The blood. I had to check the little boy wasn’t dead.’
‘And was he?’
‘Poor little mite.’
‘You did the right thing. Just see the CSIs get your boot prints for elimination.’
She nodded, and hurried away to the far end of the cordon. Ford tracked her as she approached a group of onlookers, phones held aloft. Why did they feel this compulsion to film horror and then upload it to their social media accounts? He hated it.