A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  ‘There. You see? You’re fine. Where’s Nan, mmm? How about some milk?’

  Standing, she looked down at multiple paw prints on pale tiles. Prints of varying colour and clarity. Some the richest, darkest red, others with a mere hint of colour. Too startled, too focused on the cat to notice them before, she turned. They led back to the studio.

  Paint. Has to be paint. Please. Make it paint.

  She pushed the door wide. Paint came in tubes. It squeezed out thick and held its shape. It didn’t form pools. Hanson’s hands rose to her mouth. Nan Downey was on her back, her head surrounded by a halo of pooled blood, the metal doorstop close by, her neck a mess of gore and blood, her eyes turned to the ceiling. She looked surprised.

  Hanson found herself at the back door. ‘Here!’

  Minutes passed like seconds, her head filled with noise. Her colleagues’ quick footsteps, a siren clamour, the doorbell shrilling, the door knocker’s bang!-bang!-bang! More footsteps and the voices of paramedics as they entered the hall and headed for the kitchen and the studio.

  ‘No need to rush,’ she whispered. ‘We’re hours too late.’

  THIRTY

  Hanson was bringing her afternoon lecture to a close. She’d come here directly from the Downey’s house and was glad now that she had. She’d filled her head with work until she was able to think about Nan Downey.

  She pointed up at the change of screen. ‘This is the best way I know to convey the importance of early case linkage. These six cases each feature four plus murders.’ She aimed the laser at one then another. ‘If linkage had been identified earlier in these two it would probably have saved a further eight lives …’

  Sensing movement at the back of the auditorium she looked up. Her two colleagues had come into the lecture hall and were standing discretely to one side.

  ‘OK. Anyone who wants the references, please see Crystal. You know where to find her.’

  Watts and Corrigan came down the stairs towards her as students streamed either side of them.

  ‘We’ve just finished at the Downey’s house and we’re on our way to headquarters,’ said Watts. ‘We’re expecting Hugh Downey in the next hour. You free now?’

  She closed down images inside her head of kindly, lonely Nan and her cat’s blood-mired paws.

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Hanson listened as Watts read Chong’s initial report on Nan Downey. It was short.

  ‘All we know so far is that somebody caved her head in with the doorstop then struck her in the neck for good measure.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Do we have an idea when?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Does Hugh Downey know what’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘No. We’ve stifled the news until he gets here and we can tell him. I’ve sent a couple of officers to the airport to meet him.’ He checked the time. ‘He should be on his way here now and he’ll be guessing it’s more than a problem at his office.’

  The phone rang. Corrigan reached for it then hung up. ‘He’s here.’

  They went to reception. Hugh Downey was gazing out of the window, a small carry-on by his side. He turned to them, looking tired and worried.

  ‘Is this about Aiden? Dee rang to tell me you’d arrested him. Look, I want to help but I need to get home. I haven’t managed to speak to my wife in a while—’

  ‘Come in here for a minute please, Mr Downey,’ said Corrigan, his hand on his arm as he opened the door of the small informal interview room.

  Downey hesitated then went inside. Hanson retrieved the forgotten carry-on and brought it in with her. He looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘My phone’s flat. May I call home from here?’

  Watts indicated a chair. ‘Have a seat, please, Mr Downey.’

  Hanson’s gaze was on the floor. She enjoyed her work with the police. She enjoyed the challenge, the pressure to understand and explain human deviant behaviour which it brought. The downside was what she’d seen at the Downey house. Another downside was the situation they were now in. Hugh Downey was about to be given the worst possible news. The atmosphere was charged, her colleagues’ faces grave. She watched as Downey looked from one to the other.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ His eyes darkened. ‘Something’s happened to Nan, hasn’t it? Somebody’s hurt her.’

  Watts told him that his wife was dead.

  Hanson made herself look at Downey. The mix of emotions on his face was indescribable. She thought she could see disbelief. He tried to speak, failed, tried again. He stared at them then covered his face with his hands. She dropped her gaze as the dry, racking sobs came. After what felt like an age, Watts spoke again.

  ‘We’re very sorry, Mr Downey.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Downey. ‘Why would anybody want to hurt Nan?’ He covered his face and wept. Hanson thought that she’d never heard such a desolate sound.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Watts.

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘At home.’

  Downey’s head came up. ‘What?’

  He stared at them, aghast. ‘That’s not possible … I assumed she’d gone for a walk and been knocked down. Mugged or something.’

  ‘Somebody got inside the house, possibly through a side window.’

  Downey clamped his hands over his mouth. They waited again. After a couple of minutes he got a semblance of control.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was struck on the head.’

  ‘This can’t be. It’s impossible. Where is she? I have to see her.’ He looked up at Hanson, his eyes red, unfocused.

  She asked, ‘Is there anyone we can call to be with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I … Can’t think.’

  Watts gave a slow nod. ‘You got any relatives living in Birmingham, Mr Downey?’

  ‘What?’ Downey shook his head. ‘No. Can you phone Aiden?’

  ‘We will. You’ve been in Edinburgh this last couple of days?’

  Downey looked up, his face a blank. ‘Edinburgh?’

  ‘When did you leave Birmingham for Edinburgh, sir?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘Yesterday. No. The day before … I think.’

  ‘Were you with people who know you?’

  He nodded. ‘Some of them. An ecology conference. I did a presentation. You tend to see the same faces at those things. We were all staying at the same hotel.’

  ‘Which one, sir?’

  Downey looked at Corrigan, his eyes empty. There was no indication that he was seeing the relevance of the questions he was being asked. Hanson had never seen anyone look so exhausted.

  ‘Radisson.’

  ‘When did you last speak to your wife?’ asked Watts.

  Downey ran his hand over his forehead. ‘Have to think. It was yesterday. The evening. Around nine.’

  ‘How was your wife when you spoke, sir?’

  Downey stared straight ahead, bereft. ‘Fine,’ he whispered. ‘She told me she’d had a good day.’ His head dropped down.

  ‘OK, sir. We’ll contact Mr Malahide to let him know you’re on your way. We’ll provide transport.’

  Downey rallied. He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. I just want to go home, please.’

  Hanson and her colleagues exchanged looks. Downey had just been told his wife had been murdered at their home. He hadn’t fully absorbed it.

  ‘I’m sorry but we can’t let you do that, sir,’ said Corrigan.

  Downey looked at him then bowed his head.

  Downey had left headquarters looking totally disconnected. Hanson and Corrigan looked up as the door opened and Watts came into UCU.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Edinburgh hotel and the airline. What Downey told us checks out.’

  She searched Watts’s face. ‘I couldn’t do what you do. Give bad news.’

  He shrugged. ‘You just have to hope you get it right. Trouble is, it’s never clear what’s right.’

  Hands in his pockets he peered out of the
window. ‘Years ago I got it wrong. A man died in an accident and I broke the news to his wife. By phone. I’ve not forgotten that.’ He turned from the window.

  ‘I don’t suppose she has either.’

  Chong arrived in UCU an hour later.

  ‘I’ve just heard that the chief has given the Nan Downey murder investigation to Upstairs.’

  She glanced at Watts. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m on my way up there now to tell them that Sean Gill’s got a couple of good motives for murdering Hugh Downey’s wife. Downey sacked him a couple of days ago. Gill was ripping off Downey’s business.’

  Chong’s face below the pixie-cut hair regarded him patiently. ‘If you’ve got two minutes to listen to my post-mortem findings you can report them to Upstairs and say there’ll be a fuller report in a day or so.’ She looked at each of them. ‘Nan Downey’s cause of death: blunt force trauma to the back of the head from one strike with a cast iron doorstop. There was a second strike to the front of the neck. When you found her she’d been dead for over twelve hours. No defensive injuries.’

  Hanson looked up. ‘None?’

  Chong shook her head. ‘She was hit from behind. She never saw it coming. Which was a mercy, if you ask me.’

  Hanson absorbed this. ‘You’re saying she sustained a blow to the back of the head and was then struck again? From the front?’

  ‘That’s my opinion so far. I agree with Adam’s initial analysis of the blood evidence at the scene. She was already down, lying on her back when that second blow arrived.’

  ‘But the cause of death was the blow to the head?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘Definitely. She couldn’t have lived for long after it. The wound to her neck was post-mortem. There was no blood loss from it.’

  Hanson imagined the scene. Why would somebody inflict a lethal blow, then add a second? ‘How much later?’

  Chong considered this. ‘My guestimate is several minutes.’

  Hanson recalled her first visit to the Downey’s home. ‘I met her a few days ago.’

  ‘So I heard,’ said Chong.

  ‘She was a really nice woman, cheerful and happy in spite of the health problems she had. You probably know that she had a stroke last year.’

  Chong gazed at them. ‘I found another problem. She was heading for heart failure in the next few months. I’ll let you have my report as soon as it’s done.’

  They watched her leave.

  In the silence Hanson asked, ‘Do we know if anything was stolen from the house?’

  Corrigan responded. ‘We’ll check that out with Hugh Downey but her bag, her wallet with credit cards and money appeared intact.’

  Watts had reached the door when he stopped and came back to the table. ‘I’ve just remembered. Joy Williams, Elizabeth’s aunt, called to ask if one of us can show her the field where Elizabeth was buried. I agreed to take her over there tomorrow at two but it’s very likely I’ll be briefing Upstairs on Gill and getting him in for interview.’

  He held out the pink phone message slip to Corrigan. ‘How about it?’

  Corrigan took it. ‘Sure.’ He glanced at Kate. ‘The aunt might appreciate another woman there.’

  ‘I’ll see you there. I want another look at the field.’

  In the subdued light inside her kitchen Kate pored over the available information in the Williams and Bennett cases. She glanced up at the clock. Eleven thirty. She spoke her thoughts, needing to hear them.

  ‘OK, focus on Williams for now. What do we know? What do we know for certain?’ She flicked pages of notes then pulled the Smart Notebook closer. It would send her thoughts to the board in UCU.

  ‘Facts relating to the Williams case: number one: body shallow-buried in field, wrapped in tarpaulin. Two: no clothing present. Belongings: one scarf, one gold ring. Three: No known cause of death.’ She stopped. ‘Which I suppose is an absent fact, like the clothes. Four, wool fibres caught in her fingernails.’ She reread the words on the small screen.

  ‘What does all of this tell us? That her killer is forward-looking, a careful type who plans. He wrapped the body to avoid any smell from the remains attracting the attention of animals. That suggests he’s forensically aware.’ Who isn’t these days?

  ‘If she was killed in a domestic setting he either lives alone or he can rely on significant periods of time when he has full possession of his living space. If he’s got someone in his life, it suggests a girlfriend, rather than a wife.’ Watts’s words drifted inside her head: ‘Wives go out.’

  She rested her head on one hand. ‘Absence of clothing. What might that suggest?’ She gazed at the kitchen doors, unseeing.

  ‘Concerns about DNA? That would confirm his forensic savviness. Or were they souvenirs, mementos of what he’d done which he could use afterwards, say to reinforce and build on his fantasies?’ She sighed. ‘Very possible. Almost de rigueur for the types I search for.’ She stopped.

  ‘My God, I just said “types”. I sound like Watts.’

  She read the information on the small screen again. ‘But why take all of her clothes and where exactly is this leading me? Another fact: Elizabeth Williams was actually killed in some kind of domestic environment but Amy Bennett was attacked outside.’

  She reached for her notebook, leafed through it and stopped. Here were the quick notes she’d made relating to the disappearance of Jean Phillips the forty-five-year-old schoolteacher-hiker Julian had discovered in his data search.

  ‘Killed outside. A killer who isn’t too concerned where he actually kills.’ She frowned. ‘But there’s nothing specific to link our cases to the Phillips disappearance.’ She went back to the small screen, fingers flying over keys.

  ‘Stick with the basics. He’s careful, forward-thinking and he plans.’ She thought again about the Williams burial location details and sat back.

  ‘It doesn’t fit.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  The previous evening still in her head, Hanson made a detour to headquarters to stare at the board’s 3D representation of the field, her eyes drifting over its features: the area of thick dark trees from which Myers had appeared, the dilapidated pavilion, the hummocky grass over which local children had run during their ball game, one of them falling, tripped up by chewed tarpaulin and a dead girl’s hand.

  She shook her head. It made no sense at all.

  At one forty she parked her car and stepped from it into hush, the only sounds bird calls and a barely audible traffic hum from the direction of Genners Lane. She walked towards the dense hedge and through the gap, blue-white police tape hanging limp on each side.

  Coming onto the deserted field she stood, and looked around. This was the first time she’d seen it in daylight. She walked its perimeter then criss-crossed the field itself. No dead wood.

  The area where Elizabeth’s remains had been discovered was still easy to identify. The grass had been replaced but it was evident that it had been recently disturbed. She headed towards it. Everything procedural and scientific had been done here, the whole field searched quadrant by quadrant, fully documented, measured, photographed and sketched, all of its physical evidence gathered. Before she left headquarters, she’d read the forensic report looking for any reference to dead wood. As Adam had told them, there was none. There was nothing here. Only a disturbed rectangle of grass.

  Hanson stood beside Elizabeth Williams’ makeshift grave then looked to her left at the old pavilion just a few metres away. She looked back to the field’s uneven grassy surface where an innocent game had revealed death. In daylight, it still made no sense.

  Attracted by movement from the direction of the road, she looked up to see Corrigan walking with Joy Williams across the field towards her. She waited as they approached. Miss Williams was wearing a black coat and carrying a spray of white, pink and blue flowers tied with pink ribbon. They reached her and Hanson picked up the sweet scent of freesias and carnations among the lilacs Elizabeth’s aunt was holding.

 
‘I’ve brought these to leave here,’ said Miss Williams. ‘I think they’ll last a little while if we don’t get rain. Do you think anyone will object?’

  Hanson shook her head. ‘No. Where would you like them to go?’

  She watched as Miss Williams approached the disturbed area of grass, wondering if it was any comfort for her to know the exact place where her niece had lain for the last year.

  ‘I’ll put them just here.’

  She placed the flowers at the centre of the grassy area. Hanson looked down at them, fragile and vulnerable, one or two of the freesia petals fluttering. She hoped if local children or visitors to the nearby pavilion saw the flowers they’d understand and leave them in peace. Giving Miss Williams a few minutes alone she and Corrigan walked some metres away.

  She turned to him. ‘When Watts and I first came here, it seemed reasonable to suppose that Elizabeth’s killer chose this place because he was local and he knew it. We revised that theory a little: he knew it but not directly because he hadn’t taken account of the risks attached to it from visitors to the pavilion, plus the local children. But this man is a planner. He’s very careful. He killed Elizabeth in a domestic environment then moved her somewhere else. Somewhere accessible. He must have perceived it as safe but perhaps he decided it was too close. He finally disposed of her body by bringing it here. I don’t think he’d ever been here but he knew of it. Maybe it gave him what he wanted: distance between himself and Elizabeth.’

  Corrigan gazed across the field. ‘How about he saw this location on the plans at Renfrew?’

  She glanced in the general direction of the college. ‘That sounds reasonable.’ She looked over to Miss Williams who was still standing where they’d left her. ‘I’ll say goodbye to her then I have to go.’

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m meeting someone. He’s nothing to do with work.’

  Hanson sipped water, her eyes on the door of the café inside the Mailbox complex. Calm down. She looked away, sipped more water, her eyes dragged back to the door as it opened. A woman came inside pushing a smart baby buggy.