All Her Fears: DI Tracy Collier Book 3

by Emmy Ellis

  She led the way, and Damon jogged to her side. They ducked beneath the tape and walked along the pale-coloured path, blood spatter dotted in various places.

  They entered the left side of the field via the gate and tromped over towards the body and PC York, who straightened upon their approach and gave a nervous smile.

  “Glad to see you’ve got booties on this time, York,” Tracy said.

  “Thought I’d better, ma’am.”

  The low roar of traffic interrupted them, and Tracy peered through the leaves of the hedge. Gilbert had arrived along with SOCO. “You can go and stand with Newson now.” She smiled at York.

  While they waited for Gilbert, Damon said, “I don’t want to look at her. The old lady.” He jerked his head in the direction of the body to their left, lying against the base of the hedge.

  “No, can’t say I fancy it much either.” Tracy swallowed the lump in her throat. This was someone’s gran, their mum, sister, aunt. What the hell the world was coming to she didn’t know. “Ah, here’s Gilbert now.”

  He walked down the path towards the gate.

  “Here’s hoping he’s on top form,” she said. “I could do with cheering up.”

  Damon shook his head. “I’ll just wait over here. I’m not in the mood for his dark jokes.”

  It was a good job Tracy was then, wasn’t it.

  Chapter Three

  “Good morning to you, Tracy, Damon.” Gilbert beamed and pulled a plastic sheet out of his black case and held it. “We’ll get the photos done of her in situ, then I can pop her on this.” He held the folded sheet up. “Ah, here’s our guy now.”

  Tracy, Damon, and Gilbert moved away so the photographer could do his job.

  “I heard from Kane,” Gilbert said.

  Tracy’s hackles went up. DI Kane Barnett wasn’t a name she wanted to hear right now. She was still angry with him for being a prick when she’d first turned up to take on the squad job. “That’s nice for you.”

  Gilbert laughed. “Don’t you want to know what he’s up to?”

  “Not really, but I suppose you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “He’s tracking Charlotte Rothers down on Cornwall’s police time now he’s working for them.” Gilbert nodded knowingly.

  “That isn’t news.” Tracy sniffed. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear sooner. He must have fallen for her hard.” Tracy hoped Charlotte’s life wouldn’t be buggered up with Kane arriving in her new place of residence. She’d probably gone down south to get away from what had happened—she didn’t need an ex-lover chasing after her. The woman had suffered domestic violence and had been terrorised in a neighbour’s man cave or whatever the hell it was.

  “All done,” the photographer said. “I’m off over to the path. I’ll be back once you’ve moved her to take more shots.”

  Tracy glanced that way. Mini numbered cones had already been placed where the blood was by a SOCO. She returned her attention to Gilbert, who’d crouched beside the body. Damon sighed and bowed his head.

  Tracy took a deep breath and forced herself to look at the old woman properly. Her back faced them, curved—the foetal position seemed posed, her limbs too precisely placed for her to have just been dropped like that. Or maybe she’d curled up prior to being murdered—or during the kill.

  Gilbert rose and snapped out the sheet then spread it on the grass. He put her on top—how he managed to do that by himself was anyone’s guess. “She’s in rigor, so she’s pretty fresh.”

  Tracy winced at his candour and studied the body. She turned away when he lifted the nightie—the woman deserved respect even in death.

  “You can look back now,” Gilbert said. “Throat slit, left to right, so a right-handed person if killing from behind, left-handed if it was done from the front. I’d say it was from behind.”

  “How so?” Tracy asked.

  “The depth of the cut. From behind, there’s a deeper slice because the victim is leaning against you. From the front, you risk them falling backwards as you slash—less stability, unless they’re on a bed or have something behind them.”

  “I see.” Tracy turned to check Damon was okay. His face had paled, but he’d managed to hold on to his breakfast.

  “She’s in the seventy to eighty mark,” Gilbert went on. “Or an old-looking sixty-something. No ID. Wouldn’t have thought so anyway, considering how she’s dressed. So what are you looking at, do you think?”

  “Apart from an old dear with a second smile?” She sighed. “I don’t know. Home invasion gone wrong? She’s in bed, and someone breaks in, she makes a fuss, he kills her? I can’t think what else it would be. If she’d had clothes on instead of a nightie, that would be a different matter.”

  “I’d say she was dead before her throat was cut.” Gilbert peered closely, his nose too near to the gaping wound for Tracy’s liking.

  “How the hell can you tell that?”

  “There isn’t enough blood—if she’d been killed while alive, it would have drenched her. With no heart working to pump the blood, there’s less gush. Around fifteen minutes after death, the blood clots…you get the idea. And she didn’t die in the foetal position. Posterior lividity. She was lying flat on her back.”

  “So she died, someone brought her here, then posed her.”

  “I’d say so, but they’d have had to do that within three to six hours of her death, otherwise rigor would prevent it.”

  “So the blood on the path?”

  “Most likely isn’t the victim’s. What you see here on her nightdress is thick blood—cranberry sauce, if you will. That’s nice with a bit of turkey, that is. Cranberry, not blood. It had already started clotting and moving to the back of her body, so the amount you see here…the killer most likely didn’t get a scrap on them. The blood on the path is spatter, fresh, from a living person or someone just deceased. So unless there’s another body floating around here somewhere…” Gilbert rose. “Well, she’s not likely to be listening to The Archers anytime soon, is she?”

  And there it was, Gilbert’s beside-the-corpse joke.

  “Took you long enough,” Tracy said, allowing a grin to spread.

  “I’m not on top form yet. Too early, not enough coffee.” He winked and turned at the arrival of more SOCOs.

  Tracy blew out a stream of breath. “I suppose we’d better crack on, see if we can find out who she is. I’m going to take a picture of her face.” She snapped the shot, and while Gilbert prepared to take the body’s temperature, she cropped the image down to remove sight of the gaping neck. Her phone vibrated as she hit save. She stared at the name on the screen: NADA. “Hmm. Might have a lead. Catch you soon.”

  She strode towards the middle of the field to answer. “Yep.”

  “Might have something for you, boss. A call came in earlier from a nursing home. Um…let me see now.” The sound of paper being rustled filtered down the connection. “Yes, here. Blooming Age care facility. Reported a resident missing in the early hours of this morning. A Mrs Irene Roberts.”

  “Uniforms were sent out, I take it?”

  “Yes, boss. Her son’s there—he has an alibi apparently, according to the PC I spoke to. He was at some work do all night until three in the morning.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing if she was killed after that. Thanks, though. I’ll nip there now and see what’s what. Can you do the usual checks on Mrs Roberts and her family in the meantime? Thanks.” Tracy cut the call and gestured to Damon.

  They met up at the path and side-stepped the blood, markers, and SOCOs on hands and knees looking for other evidence.

  Out on the verge, she said, “Old lady has gone missing from a nursing home. That was Nada on the phone.”

  “Shit.” Damon shoved his hands into his pockets. “I heard what Gilbert said. If she was already dead, why bother slitting her throat?”

  Tracy shrugged. “To make sure? Perverse pleasure? Who the fuck knows.”

  They removed their whites and stashed them in the
boot. In the car, she entered the nursing home address, and they were off. She remained silent, thinking of the fact she’d never had a nan growing up, or a grandad come to that. Her parents had kept Tracy and Lisa to themselves—or she assumed they’d done that with Lisa. Her sister had been born before her, and once Tracy had come along, their father had hidden Lisa in the basement and told their mother she’d run away, then used his two daughters for his own perverted gain, along with Tracy’s old chief, John.

  Sick fucker.

  Her father might be dead, but that didn’t mean the memories had gone with him. They hadn’t gone after she’d killed John either. She should have known those two men not being around anymore wouldn’t change anything.

  She took a left onto a long sweeping drive, a huge manor house at the end, probably used back in the day by some rich bastard or other. Now it was home to the elderly. Had the victim expected to see out her final days here? Maybe she actually had.

  Tracy parked, and they exited, Tracy showing her ID to a PC standing at the top of the stone steps in front of the double, studded front doors. He nodded to her and Damon, then Tracy led the way inside. The wood-panelled foyer, more like a hotel’s, had cream leather sofas against the left and right walls, low coffee tables in front of each, and a glossy mahogany reception desk ahead. People milled around, some staff in white nurse tops and navy trousers, the others God knew who.

  Another PC stood talking to a tall, dark-haired man in his late forties, suit immaculate, black shoes shining. He bent his head then swiped his palms down his face—distressed?

  Tracy approached the desk and flashed her card at the woman sitting behind it. She looked a lot like Angel, a different receptionist who’d sat behind a desk in another time, another place. A shiver rippled down Tracy’s spine, and she plastered on a smile in the hopes it would shift the memories floating in her mind, back into the little box she kept inside her head where all bad things from The Past were kept.

  She needed a new lock and key for it.

  “I need to speak to someone about the missing person,” she said.

  “Oh, then you’re better off talking to the head carer who was on duty last night. Chrissy Ordsall. She pulled a twelve-hour shift, so she’s cranky.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Tracy turned to where the receptionist pointed.

  A tall woman with a man’s look about her stood with another lady, their heads bent, mouths moving. Ordsall appeared around forty. Her cheeks had a red stain to them, and she clenched her hands at her sides. Getting a dressing down, was she? It was understandable, what with a resident going missing on her shift. Not the best light to show yourself in, was it.

  Not everyone can do all things, all the time, Tracy.

  She acknowledged that truth. Before she’d created her job sheet at the station, she’d forgotten a few things in her time, like actioning tasks and even forgetting to do them herself. Although forgetting to check residents throughout the night, if that was what had happened, was a bit much to swallow.

  You can say that when you’ve completely got your own shit together.

  Hmm.

  She headed for the women, showing them her ID. “Detective Inspector Tracy Collier, and this is my partner, DS Hanks. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  Ordsall visibly baulked, and Tracy hid a cringe, wondering if she had another Hilda Jones on her hands, a bear of a woman who’d got right on her tits on the last big case.

  Don’t do this to me, God.

  Mind, God had allowed so many other things to happen to her, she didn’t know why she was bothering to speak to Him again.

  “The receiving room,” the other lady said and held out her slender, pink-nailed hand. “I’m the manager, Mrs Zello. I wasn’t here last night”—she gave Ordsall a filthy glance—“but Miss Ordsall was in charge. If you’d like to come this way…”

  She strutted off in her six-inch scarlet heels and grey power suit, her brunette hair in the tightest chignon ever. Tracy was surprised the woman’s eyebrows hadn’t stretched to her temples. Ordsall stomped behind her boss, and Tracy dared to look at Damon, who pressed his lips together and flushed as though holding back laughter.

  “Don’t,” she said under her breath. “Another Jones I cannot deal with.”

  In the receiving room, much the same as the foyer but bigger and with more furniture, Ordsall stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a vast lawn beyond that stretched far more than Zello’s eyebrows. She had her back to the room, shoulders set rigid, hands stuffed in her trouser pockets. Her pixie hairstyle was more of a fade cut, the colour bordering on black. Zello had positioned herself beside a black grand piano, something Tracy assumed was played for entertainment and wasn’t just a vast ornament.

  Damon closed the door then took out his notepad.

  “Shall we sit?” Tracy said, wanting to see Ordsall’s face during the interview and not her stiff-as-a-board back.

  Rude cow.

  Zello sat on one of the sofas, and Ordsall begrudgingly joined her, slumping down and folding her arms over her flat stomach. Tracy and Damon sat on the sofa catty-corner to theirs.

  “If you could start from the beginning?” Tracy gave one of her tight smiles.

  “This is better coming from you, Chrissy,” Zello said. “After all, it was your error, wasn’t it.”

  Sting much?

  Ordsall blanched, blinked a few times, then stared at a point above Tracy’s head. “I got all the patients into bed before eight. They usually go at nine, but I wanted the staff to have an easy night as Mrs Roberts had been playing up the past couple of days.”

  “Mrs Roberts is…?” Tracy asked, making out she didn’t know. She cocked her head.

  “The missing resident.” Ordsall sniffed.

  “Define ‘playing up’ for me.”

  “Refusing to obey the rules—you know, not coming to the dining room for dinner, going off on walkabouts in the grounds without telling anyone… The list is endless.”

  “Go on.”

  “I then made all the nurses a cup of tea. Mrs Roberts wouldn’t get into bed, so I left her room to make us the drinks. Nurse Matthews nipped along to check all the residents were truly asleep—they were. Mrs Roberts must have got into bed by herself.”

  “So Nurse Matthews was the last to see all the residents, was she?”

  “He. Nurse Matthews is a he. Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We started watching the film, ate doughnuts—someone had gone out and bought them, no idea who—and by halfway through the movie we…uh…we’d all fallen asleep.” Ordsall’s cheeks reddened further. “As I say, that was halfway through, so about tennish.”

  Zello huffed out a long breath. “This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep during the day before a night shift, Chrissy. I’ve told all of you this so many times.”

  Ordsall ignored her. “We woke about one, long after the film had ended. Nurse Matthews went to check the rooms again and found Mrs Roberts gone.”

  “What did you all do then?”

  “We searched the premises first, then the grounds. Nurse Matthews opted to stay inside with the residents.” Ordsall slid Zello a sly look. “We’re not allowed to leave them alone in the house.”

  “You’re not allowed to nod off either,” Zello muttered.

  “What time did you call the police?” Tracy asked.

  “Around two-thirty, after our search.” Ordsall shrugged. “We made a terrible mistake by falling asleep…”

  “You did, but we all trip up every now and then.” Tracy directed her attention to Zello. “Does Mrs Roberts have any reason to have left?”

  “No.” Zello rubbed her forehead. “She’s usually a quiet kind of woman, nervy, so I can’t for the life of me think why she’s gone off like this.”

  I don’t think she went off…

  “Do you have a photo of her I can look at?” Tracy asked.

  “There’s one in her room
.” Zello jumped up, seemingly relieved at having an excuse to leave.

  They sat in silence while she was gone, Ordsall staring out at the lawn again, her eyes glassy. Tracy opted not to speak to her—the woman must be beside herself.

  She will be if Mrs Roberts turns out to be the dead body.

  Zello returned and handed Tracy a photograph.

  Shit.

  “Is her son still here?” Tracy asked.

  Zello nodded. “The chap out in the foyer in the suit.”

  “I’ll be needing to speak to him next.”

  Chapter Four

  Zello ushered Mrs Roberts’ son in and hovered by the door.

  “Thank you,” Tracy said to her. “I’d rather speak to Mr Roberts alone.”

  Zello appeared affronted but left with Ordsall, closing the door with a sharp click.

  Tracy smiled at Mr Roberts. “Please, take a seat.” She waited until he’d sat in the place Ordsall had vacated. “Mr Roberts, I’m DI Tracy Collier, and this is my partner, DS Damon Hanks. We’re terribly sorry to meet you under such circumstances.” She was getting better at this compassion lark. Pleased with herself, she went on. “When was the last time you saw your mother?”

  “Yesterday. About four-thirty. I popped in before a work do.” He rubbed his hands down his face again like he had in the foyer. His stubble rasped.

  “How did she seem to you?”

  “Oh, she had a lot to say about the staff. She was unhappy with the way they were treating her.”

  “How so?”

  “She said they wouldn’t let her do what she wanted, that she had to follow rules. I said the rules were there for a reason, and she said she didn’t like them. Last time she went like this, it was her meds. The dose wasn’t high enough.”

  “What are the meds for?”

  “Well, these ones are for her anxiety, but she also has to have insulin.”

  Tracy made a mental note to ask Gilbert about that after he’d done the postmortem. “And why was she anxious?”

  “She always has been.” Mr Roberts sighed. “As far back as I can remember anyway. Always fretting about one thing or another. The circle of worry, that’s what she suffers with. Everything goes round and round in her head until she convinces herself bad things will happen. Always has a negative outlook. Even something as small as going to the shop would give her the idea she’d get run over on the way.”