Slowly he replaced the receiver and looked at Myrna with an expression of deep shock.
‘ What is it?’ she asked worriedly.
Kruger rubbed a hand down his face. It was many seconds before he found the words to tell her.
Danny reached home within the space of a few minutes. The Mercedes jarred to a springy halt in her driveway. She darted quickly, like a fugitive, to the front door of her house and wasted no time getting inside, slamming the door shut with such force that the frame rattled. She slid the security chain on, drew the bolt and fell against the back of the door. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to get hold of herself. She was shaking uncontrollably, but she fought it. In the end she lost, seemed to burst out of herself and dashed down the short hallway, ripping her outer jacket off and leaving it discarded in her wake, splayed on the carpet. She veered into the lounge and headed directly for the drinks cabinet in the sideboard.
With trembling fingers she unfastened a bottle of vodka, poured a large measure with a spit of tonic and drank it very quickly. It was the only drink capable of calming her shattered nerves.
She lit a ciggie and sank down into an armchair, gratefully feeling herself take control again. The drinks cabinet was now at her eye-level and she could see its contents. There were several bottles of whisky, a drink she detested. She snorted with contemptuous derision when she recalled the reason for its presence.
For Jack.
His favourite tipple. After about ten pints of Boddington’s Bitter, that is.
Anger washed over her.
She grabbed the bottles, stormed into the kitchen and emptied them down the sink. Four half-full bottles of good quality single malt guggled away. She wasn’t sorry to see it go, even though her money had purchased it. She tossed the empty bottles into the swing bin.
The bastard, she thought. The cheeky bastard.
She then descended on the house like a hurricane, whooshing through all the rooms, collecting every piece of anything Jack Sands had left behind. Twenty minutes later she placed a black plastic bin-liner in the middle of the kitchen floor and wiped her hands with satisfaction. Everything had gone into it. She had been surprised at how much the adulterous sod had accumulated in a house that wasn’t his home.
That sorted, she was still perplexed about what to do about Jack himself. It did not make a great deal of difference that she was a police officer with all that experience behind her. She was still a woman — a lone woman — with a problem, experiencing all the anxieties that lone women suffer.
She had to weigh up the odds.
By taking it further, and possibly getting nowhere due to lack of evidence (Jack would never be stupid enough to let anyone find the Mercedes star on him), all that would happen is that Jack would be further incensed.
She decided to leave it. Let it ride. Accept what had happened and hope Jack would see sense. He’d had his last laugh, made his point. Maybe that would be enough for him.
Maybe.
A long sigh cleared her lungs. She felt happier now.
From the fridge she took a swig of fresh orange to take away the lingering flavour of the vodka and poured herself a very cold glass of Chablis. The fresh, icy-sharp taste revitalised her senses. She came alive again.
In the hallway she picked up her jacket, turned to go upstairs for a shower. On the first step the phone rang.
‘ Yep, Danny Furness.’
There was a hollow silence on the line.
Danny went as ice-old as the glass of wine in her hand. ‘Jack, I know it’s you. Stop messing around.’
Silence. Possibly some breathing.
‘ Jack, just fuck off.’
‘ Bitch.’ One word only. Growled. Frightening.
She slammed the phone down, immediately picked it up again and dialled 1471.
The electronic voice said, ‘You were called today at 2017. We do not have the caller’s number to return the call. Please hang up. Please hang up. Please hang…’
Mark Tapperman raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise when he saw Kruger and Myrna arrive together in the same car — her Lexus. Kruger ignored the reaction. ‘What’ve you got for us, Mark?’
‘ Come on, I’ll show you, but I’m not sure Myrna will want to see.’
‘ She wants,’ Kruger said with a tone that brooked no argument. ‘She used to be a Fed. She’s seen some shit in her time.’
Kruger and she had discussed it on the way over. He had not wanted her to come, let alone visit the actual crime scene. She insisted; he didn’t argue.
‘ It ain’t nice,’ Tapperman warned her.
She sighed and looked at him like the dumb chauvinistic cop she imagined him to be. He got the message and acquiesced. ‘Your decision, lady.’
They walked across the sidewalk from the car towards what was the front of a four-storey apartment building in Greenwood Heights, north-west of central Miami. A police crime-scene cordon tape was stretched across the front doors, supervised by a uniformed cop with clipboard. Tapperman approached the uniform and gave him a few details which he entered on the log which recorded persons in and out.
Tapperman lifted the tape with a forefinger, Kruger and Myrna ducked under, followed by the cop.
‘ The whole building’s been sealed for the moment. When we’re satisfied we’ll draw the cordon in,’ Tapperman explained. ‘We’ll use the stairs,’ he said. A forensic team of three were crouched down in the elevator, dusting for prints and traces of anything.
‘ Try not to touch too much,’ Tapperman said. ‘We ain’t had a chance to do the stairs yet.’
‘ Okay,’ nodded Kruger. He slid his hands into his pockets and meekly followed Tapperman. Secretly he was dreading what he was about to see. His guts fell as though they’d been filled with a bucket of cement.
They passed a couple more uniformed cops guarding the stairs. On the third floor all three of them were required to don a pair of paper overalls and plastic shoes which would have to be bagged and tagged for evidential purposes when they left. Then they went up onto the top floor where they emerged on a carpeted landing. A hallway ran off to their left, doors on either side, entrances to apartments. There was a mass of police activity from the landing all the way down the corridor.
Tapperman turned to them. ‘We’ve managed to work out a way down the corridor without disturbing too much evidence, so can I ask you guys to follow exactly in my footsteps. It’s important.’
Numbly they both nodded.
Tapperman glanced at Myrna. Her horrified face sent a shiver down him, reminding him it was one of the worst crime scenes he had ever visited. He took a deep breath, began to lead the way.
Kruger steeled himself. Perspiration rolled down his forehead.
Before following Tapperman, he allowed himself a couple of moments to cast his eyes down the hallway ahead. He pursed his lips. He too had seen some awful things in his life, but this wasn’t far off taking the biscuit. Blood was everywhere.
Splats of it.
Gobs of it.
Swathes of it.
The carpet was saturated in it. Some parts of the floor looked deep enough to float a toy boat in it. The walls were covered, as though some would-be modern artist had opened a tin of red paint and gleefully thrown it everywhere with artistic abandon.
Tapperman walked a couple of yards before noticing he was alone. He stopped, looped his chin over his shoulder. ‘Coming?’
Kruger and Myrna caught up. He walked on, held up his hand to halt them and pointed down to his side at something on the carpet by the wall which both of them had seen already anyway.
A severed hand.
Cleanly cut off at the wrist. Lying there, palm up, like a gruesome ashtray. It was a right hand and there was a gold ring on the little finger.
Myrna touched Kruger. He reached back and squeezed her hand.
Tapperman moved on. Two yards further he stopped again, pointed down to his right. Was it a leg this time? Kruger wondered initially. Then, no. It was a forearm, cut from elbow to wrist. A hairy, muscled forearm.