The place had been trashed.
In an instant, what should have been familiar was gone. What should have been comfortable was dispersed like smoke. He stepped over a broken picture frame which had been ground into the carpet. A large, dusty footprint showed across the broken glass. A man’s shoe.
The photo was of Mrs Demelzer and Helen, smiling up at him, squinting against the sunlight. Nearby, a small vase was in fragments on the floor, and books had been pulled from their shelves, pages opened and scattered like wounded birds. The television lay on its face, the back ripped off, and several cushions were in tatters around the room, foam stuffing littering the carpet like brown soap suds.
The kitchen was the same. Drawers had been emptied, storage boxes up-ended and even the fridge and oven left gaping, like mouths opened in shock. He moved quickly through to the bathroom. The same treatment there, with a snowfall of talcum powder and pills to add to the disarray. He swallowed, remembering Helen’s pride in her home. It hadn’t mattered that she had spent more time out of it on jobs than inside; it was her sanctuary whenever she needed it. Or had been.
He’d deliberately left the bedroom until last. This had been Helen’s inner sanctum. But it hadn’t escaped the storm. The bed was ripped, the bedclothes flung across the floor, the wardrobe opened and gutted, with every piece of Helen’s clothing tipped out, the shelves laid bare. Drawers lay tumbled upside down, some on the floor, others on the bed, showing the trail the intruder had created. Even the carpet had been peeled back.
Palmer noted the personal effects, the papers, the clothing, the soft and the delicate, the workaday and utilitarian, all tipped out into the light with no respect, no thought for the owner.
He felt the resurgence of a deep, intense anger.
He turned back to the living room. There was no point in looking further. If there had been anything to find, a search like this would have uncovered it.
He picked up the broken photo frame, and fragments of glass fell to the floor, tinkling like mournful music. The back had already been torn off, revealing the white reverse side of the photo. It was dated three years ago, in black ink. And a notation.
Christine D and me.
A slim blue book caught Palmer’s eye. It was closed and had been placed on the edge of a coffee table, the positioning out of sync, almost, with the rest of the room. He picked it up and let it fall open.
It was an address book, divided alphabetically, two pages per tab. The tabs were made of coloured plastic. He flicked through it. There weren’t many entries, mostly phone numbers and a few email addresses. Helen would probably have had more on her mobile than in here. Some entries had been crossed through in a deliberate, end-of-an- era style, some altered to reflect new numbers or address details.
His own name had a line drawn through from left to right. Not heavy, he noted. Not angry. Simply drawn through. With regret, maybe? He tried not to think about it, and wondered why the police hadn’t taken the book with them.
Unless the man who’d trashed the place had found it afterwards.
On an impulse, he checked the G tab. There was one entry, followed by a familiar phone number and Riley’s name. Underneath had been written: Any contacts?
Palmer stared at it. Helen must have been thinking of calling Riley about work. Johnson was right: she’d been getting restless. It explained why the Post-it was in her car.
He was about to close the book when he noticed a gap in the pages. The D tab was gone, a ragged edge where the pages had been ripped out. He saw why. An envelope lay on the floor near the coffee table. A friendship card lay next to it, a simple coloured wash with a piece of verse. It was signed Christine.
Christine Demelzer.
His neck went cold. The card, the photo and the address book. The intruder had made the connection and removed the details.
In its place he had inserted a folded toffee wrapper to mark the page.
Long Cottage huddled silent and still in the darkness of Cotton Hill. Palmer stopped his car a hundred yards away and stepped out, allowing the door to click shut. He listened for night noises, sounds he was familiar with from hundreds of night-time surveillance jobs, hunched in his car or under cover, listening to nature all around him. All he heard was the wind through the trees and a motorbike engine clattering in the distance. No birds, no foxes. Nothing.
He let the minutes drift by, breathing in the smells carried on the air. A hint of wood smoke, the sweet aroma of cut vegetation, the faintest tang of cooked food.
He left the car and walked along the edge of the road. Once he was close to the house, he stepped onto the verge to muffle his footsteps, his shoes swishing faintly through the grass. He felt as if he was being watched, but pressed on, the feeling familiar. The night could play tricks, no matter how experienced you were, and if you gave into it each time, you’d do better to stay at home and do crossword puzzles.
He walked down the side of the cottage and stepped over the back gate, which was little more than knee high. The flagstones in the path felt uneven and partially overgrown. He trod carefully, easing his toes forward to feel for obstacles in his way.
The back door was locked. A pale glow of blue-ish light showed from inside, reflected through from the front room. Palmer walked round to the front and knocked softly on the door.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ Mrs Demelzer stood in the narrow gap. She looked wary but calm.
‘Sorry,’ said Palmer softly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. You really shouldn’t answer your door to strangers without using the chain.’
‘You didn’t startle me. And it’s my door.’ The elderly woman stood aside to let him in. She sounded tired and her shoulders were slumped, as if she had been carrying a heavy load. ‘I heard about Helen,’ she said in explanation, and shuffled through to the kitchen. She switched on the kettle, then turned to face him, her eyes moist and accusing. She was rubbing her hands together in agitation, as if they itched. ‘You should have told me.’
Palmer nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I wasn’t supposed to know.’
She sat down at the table and signalled for him to do likewise. In the background, the kettle roared like an old steam engine. She toyed with a fold in her dress for a while, then looked at him with keen eyes.
‘The police came. They said Helen’s death was suspicious and it was being investigated. They wouldn’t give me any details, though, and said I should avoid reading the papers. I think they were being kind. They asked me if I knew anything about Helen’s recent movements. Her friends.’
Palmer didn’t say anything.
‘I didn’t tell them about the papers I sent you. Or your visit. Was that wise? I mean, I don’t really know you. But you were Helen’s friend and I know she liked you a lot. She told me not long ago that she was sorry it had ended. She said you made her smile.’
The kettle clicked off noisily, a forced punctuation, and she got up to make the tea. Palmer felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.
She came back to the table with two mugs and set them down.
‘Has anyone else been here?’ Palmer asked. He had difficulty speaking calmly. A car rumbled by outside, and he felt the hairs on his neck stir.
‘No. Not that I’ve seen. Why?’
On the drive down, he’d thought about what he could say to this woman. Whatever he told her would be alien to her world, as dark and unlikely as anything she could imagine, set against this picture-perfect cottage and the garden she tended so lovingly. But leaving her here was unthinkable, especially after the way Helen’s flat had been turned upside down. Whoever had done that would eventually come here. It was the law of all search patterns: when all the most obvious possibilities have been covered, you start in on the rest.