Will’s coaxing murmurs echoed from the other side of the door, and she opened it wide, the sound of sirens filtering through as they drew near. ‘You’d better stay here. I’ll get the boy.’
She tentatively knocked on what was the living room door before pushing it open. ‘Hey there,’ she said, looking around. ‘Want to come out to the car and see if we can find you some more chocolate?’
A tuft of red hair popped up from over the brown fabric sofa – followed by a pair of eyes and a freckled nose. Slowly he walked out, nodding in agreement.
Jennifer looked at his dirt-streaked feet. ‘You’ve no shoes on. Would you like me to carry you?’ Jennifer said, curling her fingers around his hand.
The little boy nodded, staring up at her with round liquid eyes full of sadness and knowing. Somehow, he knew his mother wasn’t coming back, and it broke Jennifer’s heart. She was no stranger to neglect, and for the second time she swallowed back a tide of emotions, her throat clicking dryly in response. Pulling a throw from the sofa, she placed it around the little boy’s shoulders. His thin body clung to her like a limpet and she carried him from the house. She whispered words of reassurance, rubbing his back to ease the shivering vibrating through his tiny frame. It’s OK, shhh … you’re safe now. We’re going to get you somewhere nice and warm. Police cars silenced their sirens as they drew up on the pavement in front of the house. She recognised the social worker as she stepped out of the car, flanked by a police officer. Jennifer gave her a watery smile as she joined them. The boy’s small, stiff fingers clung tightly to the back of her neck, and Jennifer’s heart ached. It was not the first time had she felt like bringing a child home. Out of all the horrific incidents she had to attend, child abuse was the one that she struggled with the most. But she had a job to do, and gently she handed him to the woman from social care. The little boy gave Jennifer a look of regret before being taken away.
Jennifer stood, unconsciously wringing her hands as she watched the car drive away. Will gently touched her forearm, bringing her back to the task in hand. ‘He’s safe now. We have to concentrate on finding this guy before he kills again.’
She could see from his worried expression that any doubts he had about the seriousness of the killer were now cast from his mind. ‘He must have taken the camisole from her room and posted it through my letterbox,’ she said, her voice sounding a million miles away.
‘Hello,’ a voice said from behind, accompanied by the lingering smell of cigarettes. Jennifer swivelled around to see Ethan, and hoped he wouldn’t tell her off for entering the scene.
‘I’m glad to see you, boss. I’m afraid I’ve had to enter the scene to remove the child.’
‘Your sergeant has filled me in. As for entering the scene, you would have been severely criticised if you’d left the child in there alone. You did the right thing.’
Jennifer exhaled in relief, and left Ethan to liaise with the pathologist. Briefing was in Lexton that afternoon, and she had to get back to the station to examine the phone. She fully intended to book in Emily’s phone as evidence, but not before she’d had a chance to examine her texts and social media for herself.
[#]
She couldn’t leave without speaking to the next-door neighbour, who would make up part of the house-to-house enquiries. The man was named Mr Marshall. At least that’s what he told her when she asked him for his details. He seemed affronted by Jennifer’s presence and refused to invite her inside, despite the small crowd gathering on Emily’s front lawn. It was only a matter of time before the local news turned up, and Jennifer prayed she would be long gone when they did. Working where she lived only became a problem when her face was broadcast in the local media, and like most of her colleagues, she preferred to remain anonymous.
Mr Marshall leaned against the chipped doorframe, staring at her with apathy. It was most likely the same apathy that earned him his considerable girth bulging over his faded blue jeans. His lumberjack checked shirt gave off a pungent odour of sweat and tobacco, making Jennifer grateful for the warm spring air.
‘So you’re telling me you didn’t hear anything suspicious last night? Anything at all?’ Jennifer asked, her mouth set in a grim line. She was still reeling from Emily’s death, and could not get the image of the little boy’s wide moon eyes out of her mind. Recriminations wormed their way into her mind as she glanced over at the police tape surrounding Emily’s house. She should have kept a better eye out for the young mother. If she had, maybe she’d still be alive.
Mr Marshall spoke with half-closed eyes, like someone who had just woken up, but Jennifer guessed that was his default setting. ‘That kid was always up against the window, crying and whining, just like he was last night. This used to be a nice neighbourhood, until they moved all the social welfare cases in.’
Jennifer resisted the urge to ask the slovenly man what contribution he had made to the world. ‘So you’re telling me you saw the little boy crying? Was there anyone looking after him?’
He waved his hand in front of him, as if he was swatting away a fly. ‘Nah, she was too busy going out to worry about him. She was always bringing back fellas, you’d hear them kicking off in the middle of the night. Then your lot would turn up, and that would be the last you’d see of them. It’s the kid, you see, not right in the head. What bloke would want to be involved with that?’ He emphasised his point by tapping the side of his greasy forehead.
Jennifer clenched her jaw as hot fury built inside her. She swallowed back the bitter taste invading her mouth. Her words came in a low growl. ‘You mean to tell me you knew the child was left alone and you didn’t report it to anyone?’
Mr Marshall shifted his slippered feet. ‘Not my business. Besides, you get a brick through your window for reporting things around here. Now if you don’t mind, I’m watching the footie.’
Jennifer shoved her foot in the doorway. ‘Mr Marshall, this is a murder investigation, so I can assure you it takes precedence over a game of football. If you’re withholding evidence we can discuss this matter down the police station.’
Marshall’s eyebrows shot up; the blubber on his chin wobbling as he vehemently shook his head. ‘There’s no need for that. Come inside if you want, but I’ve told you everything I know.’
Jennifer followed him inside. It was amazing how the hint of arrest opened doors.
Apart from giving Jennifer the opportunity to voice her disgust, her meeting with Mr Marshall did little more than confirm Emily’s son was sadly neglected. Such information compounded her regret, but did not bring her any closer to resolution. But there was more than one way to catch a killer. Emily’s mobile phone burned in her pocket with the need to examine it.
Chapter Twenty
Bert
Bert eyed up the large oak tree that skirted the empty fields at the end of their house. Lately he had been feeling sicker than ever, and wondered if the special concoctions his mother brought him to drink contained more than just vitamins. Sleepy all the time, his legs no longer afforded him the strength to escape to the forest. Instead, he focused on the oak tree, staring at the raven housed in its branches, waiting for him to come. As he hitched up his dungarees, his mother’s voice echoed throughout the house in song. She was busy making preserves, and the last thing he wanted was attention being drawn to the fact he was doing something she perceived as dangerous. But he had gotten away with disposing of his special tonic, and was going to make the most of the time he felt well enough to go outside. Bert swung his leg through the open window. He was eight years old now, and didn’t need his toy box to reach it any more. He ambled down the field, swearing under his breath as Callum called after him from the shed. He swore a lot in his head, they were words he picked up from his father, used only when mother was not around. He liked how they made him feel. Callum would never swear. The very mention of a swearword made his face crumple, as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.