Cold Revenge (Willis/Carter #6)(33)
‘Sounds like you were in love with her,’ said Carter.
‘My cousin?’
‘Well, it happens,’ Carter said. ‘Don’t knock it till you try it.’ He was distracted by the way the letters were written, by the question mark. ‘We must get this handwriting analysed.’
Sandford stood next to him. ‘We’ve taken extensive photos; video’s been done and downloaded already. You want to take more, help yourself.’
Carter declined. ‘Sexual activity?’ he asked.
‘I can’t see any evidence of it,’ said Sandford, turning back into the lounge and standing on the plates in the centre of the room. ‘The place has been gone through, someone was looking for something. They seemed to have been calmly looking through her correspondence afterwards. They had rubber gloves on by this time; the ridges from the fingers have left an imprint. This person was careful, but not careful enough. I’ve found a good deal of money here, scattered around the sitting room. It would have been easy for the killer to take, it wasn’t concealed.’
Willis went back in to look at the body and the stab wounds in Nicola’s back. ‘It’s not the same knife as Harding described for Millie’s injuries,’ she said, ‘there’s no evidence of bruising from a hilt. This knife was thinner.’
‘The kitchen is missing a knife,’ said Sandford. ‘We’ve only found the prints on the rack so far. I think the perpetrator may have been cut, two blood types here, we’re still testing.’
‘They didn’t intend to kill, maybe?’ said Willis. ‘They didn’t come in here with that intention?’
‘Nicola Stone would have been well able to handle herself,’ answered Carter. ‘She would have used her wits, she might have attacked first.’
‘We haven’t found the knife. What is going to be the main focus here?’ asked Sandford. Carter was the Senior Investigating Officer and everyone in the case took their directives from him.
‘Extract all her documents, records, let’s find out all we can about Melanie Drummond before people realise it’s Nicola Stone. That’s where my emphasis is. We will also be making detailed background searches on the residents, and checking CCTV. Someone managed to get in here without busting the door down, that would point to someone she trusted.’
‘I’ve cordoned off the whole street and the lane at the back that leads to the garages,’ answered Sandford. ‘The area of pathway from here to the entrance will be my focus and will have to be closed for half a day while I bring a team in to help search the route through the garden onto the lane. I need support teams to search the gardens and bins in this area, starting with Cedar Road, searching for any bloody clothing that’s been discarded.’
Willis was looking at the walls around her and had already decided that Nicola Stone had never really made this flat her home. There was a small dining table in the corner by the back window and two matching high-backed chairs were tipped over. Not a painting on the walls, not a lampshade that didn’t look as if it had been chosen for its cheap ugliness, and yet there was money to do it up. It seemed to Willis that the only prettiness Nicola allowed in her life were the flowers and the shells at the edge of her bath tub. Was it guilt? Probably.
‘We’ll need the teams to start searching now before it gets dark,’ Sandford said. He looked at Willis for a reply.
She nodded. ‘We’re on it.’
Outside, Blackman joined them. DC Zoe Blackman was a single parent with two boys – her mother helped her out when she could, looking after the children whilst she worked. She had fought very hard to get where she was. Zoe was short and blonde and ferociously competitive when it came to drinking shots. She had the face of a choir-girl but she could arm-wrestle for England.
‘I got some useful information from the man at the end of the row, in number eleven,’ said Blackman. ‘He’s on palliative care and the victim used to come and see him every day. He said he saw her yesterday evening at just before six. I think you might like to speak to him?’
Roy was sitting on the edge of his bed when they got there, wearing a threadbare pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a faded red sweatshirt with a basketball logo. His scruffy room was decorated with photos of Africa: a lioness resting in the shade of a solitary tree, a photo of a house and a cove featuring turquoise seas, icing-sugar sands.
Carter introduced himself and Willis did the same.
‘Is that home?’ Carter asked, looking at the framed photos.
Roy nodded. ‘Have you ever been?’ He reached for his oxygen mask and strapped the elastic around his head. Roy’s words were punctuated by the need to stop and breathe.
‘No, afraid not, but I’d love to one day,’ answered Carter. ‘Has it been a long time for you?’
‘Too long, my friend.’
‘Roy, we’ll try not to stay long,’ said Carter. ‘We’ve come about Melanie Drummond from Flat Six. You told the officer you saw her yesterday?’
‘Yes, I did. What is it? Where is she? What has happened to Melanie?’
Willis remained standing. She was used to taking notes that way. Carter sat down in one of the two armchairs that had seen better days. The smell of the ashtray and the sight of cigarette butts made Carter dip into his pocket for another square of nicotine chewing gum; he wished he found the smell of ashtrays repulsive instead of irresistible. Willis was looking out at the back garden, the hedge, through the gaps in the foliage. This was the same view as Nicola Stone had from Flat 6. This flat was identical except that the partition wall to the bedroom had been taken down to allow Roy to live out his days in one twelve-foot space.