Hilary Bonner
The Danger Within
In memory of:
Chris Barrett. 1944–2020
Heather Chasen. 1927–2020
Hazel Gunnell. 1926–2021
Alan St Clair. 1948–2021
One
North Devon, 2021
The man was clearly dead. He lay sprawled across the kitchen floor, face down, arms stretched out to each side, legs slightly apart, almost as he were trying to do the breast stroke through the partially congealed pool of dark blood which surrounded him.
DCI David Vogel, already appointed senior investigating officer and the first detective at the scene, could see no obvious signs of injury to the dead man’s back, so it seemed reasonable to assume that his attacker had struck from the front and, judging from the amount of blood, that he had been stabbed to death. Almost certainly a number of times. It was possible that he could have been shot, but there was no sign of any exit wounds, and gun crime remained rare in the UK.
In spite of more than twenty years as a police officer and having frequently been faced with extreme violence and its inevitable consequences, Vogel had never got used to it. Particularly when that violence resulted in the most extreme of consequences. All too often the sight of a dead body left him desperately fighting against nausea and even faintness. On this occasion, although his stomach had lurched involuntarily as soon as he saw the blood surrounding the corpse, Vogel had so far been spared a more extreme reaction because neither the victim’s face nor his wounds were visible.
A woman, her face, clothes and hands heavily bloodstained, was sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, alongside the fridge. Her knees were drawn up almost to her chin, held there by trembling arms. She stared straight ahead in such a way that Vogel was unsure whether or not she was actually aware of his presence. Or, indeed, aware of anything. And she was silent. Totally silent. In fact, apart from the shocking brutality of the scene which had greeted him upon his arrival, silence was what Vogel was most conscious of. All he could hear was the gentle hum of the fridge.
The house had been cordoned off. The crime scene investigators were already in attendance but had yet to start work. They had provided Vogel with mask, over-shoes, latex gloves, and a set of white polyethylene coveralls which he had pulled on over his own clothes before entering the house. He was still wearing his favourite, honourably ancient, brown corduroy jacket underneath. And he so wished he had taken it off before donning the coveralls. It had been a warm July day and, although now mid-evening, the kitchen was hot and stuffy. He had started to sweat and his skin felt itchy, particularly around his neck beneath his collar which seemed uncomfortably tight within the constraints of the hooded suit. He also wished he had removed his tie. He wondered why he never thought of such things. Vogel wasn’t good at considering his own physical comfort at the best of times. When heading a murder investigation, he could think of nothing except the case in hand. Even his wife and daughter, both of whom he adored, were rarely in his thoughts.
The only other officers present were the first responders, two uniforms who had been dispatched to the property, which was located on an exclusive estate just off the Appledore road on the outskirts of Northam, in response to a 999 call.
They were silent too, awaiting further instructions from the SIO.
The crime scene guys were also waiting silently.
The fridge, one of the American sort, made a sudden loud rumbling sound like a minor avalanche. It was, of course, manufacturing ice, a large quantity of which had presumably dropped into its internal container.
Vogel was momentarily startled. A mild nervous spasm ran through his body. He hoped it hadn’t shown.
The woman sitting alongside the fridge did not react at all. Why should she? Vogel assumed that she must be Mrs Gillian Quinn, who had dialled 999 to report the death of her husband, Thomas Quinn.
This was her kitchen, and her fridge.
She shouldn’t really be in the room with her husband’s dead body, the room where the attack had presumably occurred. But he supposed nobody had dared move her, in the state she was clearly in, without medical professionals being in attendance. And the presence of the SIO.
Somewhat to his relief, he glimpsed through the kitchen window the arrival of a paramedic team in full PPE, which, ever since the outbreak of the pandemic that had overwhelmed an amazed world the previous year, they would have been wearing on any call-out, whether or not attending the scene of a serious crime.
The paramedics weren’t going to be much use to the dead man, thought Vogel, but there was little doubt that the woman needed their help.
He stepped forward and introduced himself to Gillian Quinn, very gently, trying to make contact.
There was still no response. Blank eyes stared at him. Unseeingly, he suspected.
‘Mrs Quinn,’ he continued, his voice still soft. ‘We need to move you from here, get you checked over, cleaned up, and then we’ll have a chat later. We want to help you...’
The woman still failed to respond.
One of the uniforms, PC Phil Lake, who Vogel remembered from a previous case in the area, stepped towards him. He was a big man with the build of a rugby forward and a gentle, slightly diffident, air about him,
‘She’s not said a word since Docherty and I arrived, boss,’ he said. ‘The door was open when we got here. So, we just walked in... Well, we didn’t know it was anything like this. Not at all, I mean...’
‘Of course not. That’s perfectly all right, constable. Where was Mrs Quinn when you two arrived?’
‘Exactly where she is now, boss,’ replied Morag Docherty.
Vogel had met Docherty, who was about half Lake’s size but had a considerable presence about her, on the same previous case, and remembered being impressed by her then. The Docherty-Lake team were still working together, it seemed. He wondered if Docherty remained very much the leader. He suspected she did, and that the arrangement probably suited both of them.
‘We found her just sitting there,’ Docherty continued. ‘She hasn’t moved. We tried to speak to her at first, but she didn’t respond at all. So we thought it best to leave her alone until you got here.’
‘Quite right, Docherty,’ said Vogel.
She and Lake were still in their uniforms. As first responders they’d not had the opportunity to suit up.
‘You two should move outside now,’ he instructed. ‘We need to avoid unnecessary contamination of the scene. And I want you on sentry duty. Nobody who isn’t directly involved with this case comes in here unless I say so.’
As Docherty and Lake left, the paramedics entered. Vogel quickly introduced himself.
‘Obviously you guys must do what you have to do, but I want you to liaise with CSI,’ he instructed. ‘We need the integrity of your patient protected as much as is possible for forensics...’
A welcome interruption caused Vogel to pause in mid-sentence. Detective Sergeant Dawn Saslow had arrived, bringing with her an element of the banter which made life a little more bearable for all front-line workers. Even at a time like this.
‘How did you get here without me, then, boss, did you hitch?’ she asked.
Vogel, a former Met officer whose beat, albeit as a very senior detective, now covered largely a semi-rural area, had never learned to drive, which was a constant source of mild amusement to his colleagues. When it didn’t inconvenience them, of course.
The DCI had been at Barnstaple nick when the 999 call had been passed on. Saslow had been off-duty.
‘You know that twelve-year-old probationer with too much hair who seems to have taken a bit of a shine to you?’ murmured Vogel.