She gathers her courage and opens her mouth to say something.
But at that exact moment there’s a ping from her phone.
* * *
The kitchen is filling up with people now as the CSI team start to arrive, led by Alan Challow, dragged from his Sunday-night TV supper and evidently none too pleased about it.
‘Mindhunter,’ he says, though no one actually asked. ‘Funnily enough, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a fatality like this one done properly,’ he says, nodding towards the corpse. ‘Most of those TV people just don’t have the balls.’
Nina Mukerjee glances across from the other side of the kitchen table, where she’s unpacking her forensic kit. ‘Well, can you blame them? I mean – look at him.’
Because it’s not balls this victim is missing. He’s on his back, legs twisted, the wall behind a detonation of blood and bone and brain matter, and a dark stain spreading from his flung arms like some sort of macabre snow angel.
There’s the sound of voices at the front door. Barnetson makes a face. ‘The suits,’ he says. ‘Right on cue.’
The sergeant may be irritated at having to hand off to CID but Puttergill only looks relieved. He’s spent the last half-hour hugging the open window, taking deep breaths and answering in monosyllables.
‘What have we got here, then?’ It’s Gareth Quinn, filling the low doorway. Barnetson gives a non-committal grunt. Quinn isn’t just a suit, he’s a Hugo Boss bloody suit. Too flash, too smart-alecky, too prone to cut corners. And no one has any right to look that chipper at this time of the night, not at a scene like this. But as Barnetson well knows, it was only a couple of weeks ago that Quinn got his stripes back: this will be his first murder as a re-minted DS, so small wonder he’s so keen. The DC following a few steps behind looks a good deal more apprehensive. Barnetson hasn’t come across him before, so he must be a transfer in. Probably his first job in plain clothes. Green as grass, he thinks. Though not as green as Puttergill, who looks ready to throw again.
‘This is DC Hansen,’ says Quinn to anyone who’s interested. ‘Asante’s replacement.’
Barnetson remembers now – there was talk about it at the station in the summer, back when Fawley was arrested. Something about Asante coming up with evidence against him and Gislingham not wanting to work with him after that. Seems Gis got his way, though given that Asante’s ended up in Major Crimes he’s hardly likely to be complaining. And from what Barnetson’s seen, Fawley’s been bending over backwards to make it clear that, as far as he’s concerned, he has no quarrel with Asante. So as at now Fawley has two DSs on the same team, which is a challenge at the best of times, never mind when one of those is Gareth Quinn with a point to prove.
Hansen looks round the room, making discreet eye contact with anyone who looks up. Barnetson gestures towards the corpse. ‘Hope you didn’t get takeout on the way here,’ he says drily.
Hansen flashes him a wry grin. ‘No such luck.’
‘So what have we got?’ asks Quinn, moving across to the corpse.
Challow looks him up and down. ‘As any competent detective would know, DS Quinn, there’s no bloody point wearing protective clothing unless you put the hood up.’
Quinn flushes a little, then runs his hand back through his hair so it lies flat before yanking up the hood. Barnetson sees Hansen suppress a smile. He’s a quick study, that one.
‘And in answer to your question, what we have is a shotgun to the face at close range. Though a smart chap like you has probably deduced that already from the rather telltale absence of a head.’
‘Any ID?’
‘Nothing in his pockets. No wallet. No phone. On the other hand, you can at least tick the box on the murder weapon.’
There’s a gun on the kitchen table, an old-fashioned one with a polished wooden handle. But there’s something else as well. Mukerjee hasn’t started numbering the evidence yet, but Quinn doesn’t need a plastic marker to know this is important. A knife, still clutched in the dead man’s hand. A knife with blood along the blade.
* * *
Adam Fawley
21 October
22.51
‘Apparently the old man admitted it straight up.’
I can hear voices in the background, which accounts for Quinn’s super-competent ‘I’ve got this’ voice. I could have gone to the scene myself but decided to let him run with it. Only I’m wondering now if that was a mistake. For a start, I can’t remember the last time we had a shooting in Oxford. But it’s not just that: Quinn’s sent me the photos. Something about this isn’t sitting right.
I glance up at Alex and give her that look she knows so well. The ‘shit I’ve got to go in and it’s bound to take all night’ look. But she just smiles.
‘It’s fine, don’t worry. It’s part of the deal.’
Part of the deal if I’m going for Chief Inspector this year. We’ve talked about it, on and off, for ages. But then there was Jake, and then there was the baby and the Gavin Parrie case coming back to haunt us, and it was never the right time. Until – perhaps – now. But it’d be a big change. Maybe even back to Uniform for a bit. Not much more money, and much less hands-on too, even if I do stay in CID. But after twenty-mumble years in the force, and at my age, I need to decide pretty damn soon if I’m happy staying put, and if not, if I’ve got enough ambition – and, frankly, energy – to try to move up. Though as Harrison has already told me, in that ponderous ‘I’m giving you great advice here, lad’ tone of his, ‘Chief Inspector is a stepping stone, Adam, not a place to get stuck.’ So if I go for it, I’m going for Superintendent. And trust me, that is a Big Deal.
Alex touches me lightly on the arm; she knows what I’m thinking. Always. ‘Like I said, it’s OK. Just try not to wake me up when you get back.’
I pull her close and kiss her hair, feeling her body soften against me. ‘Don’t hold me to it.’
‘Promises, promises,’ she murmurs, her lips on mine.
* * *
They told Ev that Gantry Manor would be hard to find, but that was before half Thames Valley turned up and parked out front. The house is lit up like a filmset by the time she gets there, the air throbbing with blue light. The neighbours would be having a field day. If there were any.
Quinn’s at her car door before she even opens it.
‘Evening, Sarge,’ she says with a smile.
Quinn’s eyes narrow; he’s pretty sure she’s taking the piss (which she is), but if he wants the rest of the world to acknowledge his rank he can hardly call her out on it.
‘You’re just in time – I’m about to take the suspect down to the station to be processed. Fawley’s meeting me there.’
She glances across to where two uniformed officers are helping a tall elderly man into the back of a squad car. He has plastic bags taped around his hands.
‘What have we got?’
‘Fatal shooting.’
She nods; hence the bags.
‘Householder told Uniform it was self-defence.’ Quinn cocks his head towards the man. ‘He claims the vic broke in and threatened them.’
Ev frowns. ‘But you don’t believe him?’
Quinn raises an eyebrow. ‘Let’s just say he has a few questions to answer. Starting with why the hell they didn’t call 999.’
* * *
Somer turns over and pulls the blanket closer around her. She’s never had a talent for sleeping, and this is the perfect storm. The scratchy bed, the incessant just-too-loud-to-ignore noise and, even more raucous, the drone inside her own head. The questions she knows Ev wanted to ask – the questions she’d have been asking herself if their positions were reversed. Will she need chemo? Has the cancer spread? Can she still have children? Probably, probably not, and unclear, in that order. But there’s little comfort in any of it. The prospect of chemotherapy terrifies her, and the idea that in some notional happy future world she might actually have a baby is a bad joke.