She got back into bed and listened to Sam blundering around downstairs, banging cupboard doors in search of breakfast things. Sunlight filtered in through gaps in her bedroom curtains, but she buried her face in the pillow and waited for him to go. This house had been home to the family all her life, yet she’d never felt more alone.
How long had he kept squeezing her throat? Only for a few seconds, must have been, and yet it had seemed an eternity. Did he mean to kill her, simply in a flash of temper? Closing her eyes, she had waited for death. Strangely, she felt no fear. She was ready to embrace nothingness. To end life would at least end her despair.
Suddenly he’d released his grip. Perhaps he was more afraid than her. Perhaps he realised this, perhaps it made him hate her all the more.
‘You’re mad.’ To her horror, he’d made an effort to get the words out straight. Speaking from the heart. ‘Off your head, that’s you. Of course whoever wrote this shit got it right.’
‘What do you mean?’
She was croaking, it was impossible to recognise her own voice.
‘I hated his guts. I can’t tell you how glad I am that he’s dead.’
Studying the photographs from Warren Howe’s postmortem, Hannah felt bile rising in her gullet. The murderer had slashed Warren’s body a dozen times, tearing off strips of skin. The pathologist reported that the wounds suggested fury — or desperation — rather than physical might, but through luck or judgement the jugular vein had been ripped open. Warren hadn’t stood a chance.
Every time she had investigated a murder, she had forced herself to attend the autopsy and study the corpse with as much detachment as she could muster. The rage welling up inside her helped her to succeed; instead of surrendering to emotion, she channelled it into a fierce resolve to see the murderer brought to trial. Ben’s creed, that everyone deserved justice, had become hers. Nobody ought to die like that. It didn’t matter that, had she known Warren Howe alive, he would surely have made her flesh crawl.
Nick came in. The photographs spread out on her desk made him grimace.
‘Not a pretty sight. You’re in even earlier than usual.’
‘I wanted to finish reading the files. This morning I’m planning how to take the review forward.’
‘What would you like me to do?’
Hannah hadn’t been looking forward to this conversation. Best keep it low key. ‘You’re busy already. Isn’t your report on the Brock case due in a couple of days? And then you need to interview those people up in Cockermouth. As for Warren Howe, you’ve already given me plenty to chew on. I’ll take charge and Linz can do the legwork.’
‘Maggie Eyre can sort out Cockermouth. I know the Howe case. And the place. And the people.’
‘Yes.’ She sucked in a breath. There wasn’t an easy way to say this. ‘Too well, perhaps. You’re friends with the man whose garden the body was found in. You were a member of the original team whose work we’re looking at. We need to draw on your knowledge of the background, it’s a huge asset, but I don’t see you playing a front-line role in this review.’
‘I’m too close to it?’
‘Correct.’
He was biting his tongue, she could tell, wanting to argue, but knowing that a rant would get him nowhere. She would only be swayed by reason.
‘Didn’t we agree that the beauty of cold case review is that we can make up our own rules?’
‘Spot on.’ For all her worries about being sidelined, she relished the opportunity this job gave her to be a detective again. Not just a well-paid pen-pusher.
‘There you are, then. Failing to detect the murderer wasn’t just a defeat for Charlie, it was a defeat for all of us. Me included.’
‘My bet is, you’ll soon be sick of my pestering you for information.’
‘No more than that?’
‘It’s enough.’
He weighed up her expression, checking for any sign that she might be prepared to budge. ‘Very well, ma’am, if that’s the way you’d like to deal with it.’
He strode out of the room without another word. He only called her ma’am in private when he was deeply pissed off. Shit. What was it about Nick and this case? Something to do with Chris and Roz Gleave; she couldn’t imagine any other explanation. Whenever a personal relationship existed between a detective and a witness, tensions arose. She just prayed that while Chris was away, Nick hadn’t allowed his sympathy for Roz to spill over into something more intimate.
She took another look at the statements made first by Roz Gleave and later, after he turned up again, by Chris Gleave. They’d been interviewed by a pair of DCs whose names she didn’t recognise. Neither Roz nor Chris had contributed much of value, even though Roz had found the body. This time around, she’d talk to the couple herself.
A young girl with a ponytail knocked on her door. ‘The ACC wanted you to see this, ma’am. She asked if you could action it straight away.’
Paling as her eye caught the photographs, she handed Hannah a sheaf of paper about a clampdown on misuse of emails and the Internet. One force had been dragged through the mire in the Press after one group of officers were found sending each other racist and homophobic messages. Another lot devoted half their time to playing an Internet game that involved a yeti with a baseball bat trying to hit animated penguins out of sight. Lauren was putting new policies and procedures in place to make sure that Cumbria’s computer systems were squeaky clean. Hannah gave a long, low groan. The girl was gone before she realised that her ungracious response had come close to shooting the messenger. It wasn’t the sort of mistake she usually made with staff relations. No point in denying it, the brush with Nick had unsettled her.
At moments like this, it was a lonely job. Working for Ben had been tough, he’d been a hard taskmaster, but ultimate responsibility had lain with him and his superiors. The Cold Case Review Team was her baby and Lauren would judge her by its success or failure. Without making a conscious decision, she found herself checking her organiser for the phone list.
She’d give Daniel Kind a ring. It was about time. Hadn’t Marc himself suggested it? As she keyed in his mobile number, she felt her mood lifting. It wasn’t a big deal, just a small treat, on a par with nibbling chocolate or buying a new cologne. Nothing more serious than that.
At last Sam slammed the front door shut and revved his van underneath her window for a full minute, the old engine bellowing like a tormented beast. A parting flourish to make sure she’d woken up.
Kirsty lay very still for several minutes. Gathering her thoughts, and her strength. She told herself he hadn’t meant to kill her. He’d had too much to drink, he didn’t know his own strength. Perhaps she was partly to blame. Mum often said she let him wind her up too easily.
Life must go on. Clambering out of bed, she paused to look at a photograph on her dressing table. It had been taken at the airfield, the last time she’d jumped there. She was kitted out in her skydiving gear, a broad smile splitting her face. Recalling the excitement of the day lifted her spirits. For years, she’d found it simplest to share the enthusiasms of her current boyfriend. Football, quad biking, skiing, whatever. Trouble was, though she found it easy enough to pick up boyfriends, their enthusiasm for her never seemed to last. Skydiving was a hobby she’d discovered for herself. The Westmorland Gazette had carried an article and she decided to give it a go. It had looked like fun but she’d never imagined the sheer liberation of jumping from a plane and seeing the world beneath as you sailed through the air. Sam mocked her as a buzz junkie, but she didn’t care. Skydiving empowered her, made her feel as though at last she was living life to the full. She’d never felt so free before.