The untidiness of the room could be teenage-induced. I have one of those at home - messy, sullen and self-absorbed - but this looks more like a quick ransacking. A search.
‘Is anything missing?’ I ask.
Cray answers. ‘Nothing obvious. We won’t know until we interview the family.’
‘Where’s Helen?’
‘At the hospital with Sienna.’
Crouching beside the body, I notice blood splatters, some large and others barely visible, sprayed as high as the ceiling. A hockey stick lies near his right hand. Lacquered to a shine, it has a towelling grip in school colours.
I squat motionless in the centre of the room, trying to get a sense of the events. Ray Hegarty was hit from behind and fell forward. There are no signs of a struggle, no defence wounds or bruises or broken furniture.
Turning my head, I notice an oval-shaped mirror on a stand, which is reflecting a white square of light on to the bed, highlighting the small blue flowers stitched into the sheets.
I look at myself reflected in the mirror and can also see the door behind me. Stepping over the body, I partially close the door and stand behind it. Glancing towards the mirror, I can see Cray reflected in the open doorway.
Her eyes meet mine.
‘What is it?’
‘This is where they stood. The mirror told them when Ray Hegarty was in the doorway.’
‘But there’s hardly any room.’
‘The door was half-closed.’
‘Someone small.’
‘Maybe.’
Almost immediately I remember Sienna’s face bleached by the beam of the torch. There was something in her eyes . . . a terrible knowledge.
Louis Preston emerges from the bathroom, looking like a surgeon preparing to operate.
‘There are traces of blood in the S-bend of the sink.’
‘Somebody cleaned up.’
‘Forensic awareness is such an important life skill,’ says Preston. ‘I blame it on American cop shows. They’re like “how-to” guides. How to clean up a crime scene, how to dispose of the weapon, how to get away with murder . . .’
Cray winks at me. ‘What’s wrong, Preston, did some smart defence lawyer punch a pretty little hole in your procedures?’
‘I got no beef with defence lawyers. Some of my best friends are bottom feeders. It’s the juries I can’t abide. Unless they see fingerprints, fibres, or DNA, they’ll never convict. They want the proverbial smoking gun, but sometimes there aren’t any forensic clues. The scene is cleaned up or washed by rain or contaminated by third parties. We’re scientists, not magicians.’
Preston scratches his nose and looks at his index finger as though he finds it fascinating.
Meanwhile, I wander across the landing to the bathroom. A wicker laundry basket is tucked beneath the sink. The toilet seat is down. The shelves above the sink are neatly arranged with toothpaste, toothbrushes (three of them), liquid soap and mouthwash. The hand-towel beside the sink is neatly folded and hung over the railing.
‘They tidied the place,’ I say out loud.
Cray appears behind me.
‘Make any sense?’
‘Not much.’
‘Did Ray Hegarty make many enemies in the job?’
‘We all make enemies.’
It’s not an answer.
‘Any skeletons?’
Her voice hardens. ‘He was a good copper. Straight.’
A different SOCO appears at the base of the stairs. Calls to Preston. ‘I found a stash of porn in the shed. You want me to bag it?’
‘What sort of porn?’ asks the pathologist.
‘Magazines, DVDs ...’
‘Anything unusual?’
‘Like what?’
‘Rape scenes, violent fantasies, anything involving children.’
Cray stiffens in protest. Already she wants to safeguard Ray Hegarty’s reputation. A murder investigation is a circus of possibilities, where the spotlight is so fierce it reveals every blemish and flaw. The victim is also placed on trial and sometimes they die all over again in the courtroom - portrayed as being somehow responsible and slandered as viciously as they were stabbed or strangled or shot.
Cray won’t let that happen. Not this time. Not to her friend.
Outside, the crowd has thinned out. A few remaining teenagers are loitering on the far side of the lane, kicking aimlessly at dead leaves. A young man swigs from a lurid can. His dark hair has blond streaks cut in a ragged curtain that doesn’t so much frame his face as provide him somewhere to hide.
My eyes rush to judgement. He looks familiar. Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve seen too much of the world and now it is starting to repeat itself.
Then I remember where I’ve seen him. Sienna Hegarty kissed his cheek and climbed into his car. The youth is still staring at me. A fringe of hair is flicked from his eyes. He turns away and begins walking quickly.
I yell out to him and he runs, jinking between bystanders and parked cars.
Cray is still inside with Preston. I yell to the uniforms guarding the gate but none of them reacts quickly enough to stop him. The kid is forty yards ahead. Whippet thin, underfed, built for speed. I lose sight of him as he passes under the arch of the old railway viaduct. By the time I reach the same corner he’s disappeared completely.
I notice a farm track on the left. It’s the only possibility. Turning up the twin ruts, I keep running, feeling a weight hang around my heart and lungs. Walking hasn’t made me any fitter.
Ahead, a car engine starts, rumbling through a broken muffler. The Peugeot accelerates out of a muddy farmyard, the back tyres snaking in the slick puddles. He’s not slowing down. I’m caught on the grassy ridge between the twin tracks with hedges on either side.
I raise my hand. He doesn’t stop. At the last moment I throw myself to one side, curling my legs away from the spinning wheels.
Lying on my back, I take a deep breath and gaze at a bank of moving clouds, listening to my heart thudding.
‘Are you all right?’ asks a voice in a slow West Country drawl. It’s Alasdair Riordan, the farmer I saw earlier.
‘I’m fine.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Resting.’
He nods, satisfied, and turns back to his tractor.
‘Did you see that car?’ I ask.
Alasdair pulls off his woollen hat and scratches an itch on his scalp. ‘Aye, I did.’
‘It almost ran me down.’
‘Aye.’
‘You didn’t happen to get the number?’
He replaces his hat and shakes his head. ‘I’m not too good with numbers.’
A moment later two uniforms appear. Ronnie Cray is behind them, sweating profusely.
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Who was in the car?’
‘Sienna’s boyfriend.’
She registers the information like a fevered prospector. ‘You should have left it to us.’
‘He ran. I chased.’
‘What are you - a dog?’ She looks at her muddy shoes. ‘I hope that kid knows how to polish.’
My mobile is vibrating.
‘What happened to Sienna?’ blurts Charlie, close to tears.
‘She’s in hospital.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s in shock, but I think she’ll be fine.’
I can hear playground noises in the background.
‘They’re saying that Mr Hegarty is dead. They’re saying that Sienna killed him.’
‘We don’t know what happened.’
‘But he’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I go and see Sienna?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can I call her?’
‘No.’
She sniffles and blows her nose. Charlie rarely cries. She bottles things up. Holds them inside. Ever since the kidnapping, I have watched her closely, anticipating problems. Is she eating and sleeping properly? Is she socialising normally? Sometimes I dare to hope the worst is over, but then the nightmares will return and she cries out, clawing the air, snatching at unseen things in the darkness. Stumbling to her room, I kneel beside her bed, stroking her forehead and talking softly. Her eyes will open, looking vacuously into space as though a terrible revelation about life has been whispered in her ear.