Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(16)

He shrugged, shook his head. ‘Someone knocked down the corner of the gatepost. I presumed it was when they were reversing, trying get round – it’s a tight spot.’

‘So you rebuilt this section?’ Ebony pointed to the pillar and the edge of the stone wall.

‘Tidied it up more than rebuilt.’

She bent down to get a better look. ‘Where was it knocked down, the middle?’

‘No . . . at the top.’

‘Can I have a number for you, in case I need to ask you any questions?’

‘Sure . . .’ He smiled. He went to his Land Rover, which was parked up the lane at another house, and brought her back a card.

‘Sorry it’s a bit muddy.’ He grinned as he tried to wipe the thumbprint from the surface with the cuff of his jacket. ‘I did tell someone at the time about the wall . . . but they didn’t seem that interested.’

‘Thanks . . .’ Ebony took the card. She looked up from reading his card: Marty Readman, landscape gardener, to see him staring at her. She looked away fast as she felt the heat come to her face. She wished she didn’t find it difficult to talk to good-looking men. Harding was waiting for her. As Ebony unlocked the door and opened it the low winter sun flooded inside and set the dust spinning. They stood in the doorway. Ahead of them were the stairs to the upstairs floor. To the right were the living rooms.

‘When you came here that morning, Doctor, what was it like?’

‘I was on my way back from Brighton when I got a call asking if I could cover for a colleague who was on duty but sick. It was a sunny day. It had been a glorious weekend. It was on my way home so I agreed. When I got here the officers who answered the 999 call from Carmichael were gone; two from the Brighton murder squad were already here.’

‘Why did they hand it over to the MET to deal with? Why didn’t it stay with the Brighton squad?’

‘Because he was a serving MET officer, I suppose. Davidson made the decision he wanted to do the best he could for Carmichael. That turned out to be an impossible task. I didn’t question it at the time. Of course . . .’ She turned to look at Ebony in the gloomy hallway. ‘That was the first mistake.’

Ebony opened her file. ‘Here in this hallway there were bloody smears on the wall and Louise’s handprints all the way down it. It says in the report that the blood on the wall was Sophie’s. She must have seen her daughter killed, at least wounded, before she was dragged down these stairs.’

They walked into the first room on the right.

‘Chrissie Newton was in here.’ Harding pulled away the rug that covered the stone floor in the lounge. ‘This is the spot.’ A fat brown spider scuttled away towards the hearth.

Ebony held the picture of Christine Newton in her hand.

‘Was the woman from Blackdown Barn, Silvia . . . was she opened up like that?’

‘Yes.’

Ebony walked across to the window and pulled back the curtain. The gardener had gone ‘They found an open bottle of wine, half a glass poured out. It was left over here beside this window; there was a small table here at the time. Maybe she was watching someone arrive when she drank it, never finished it.’

Ebony followed Harding as she walked along the hallway and down two steps to the stone-floored kitchen. ‘And Louise Carmichael was in here. Over there by the back door. Sophie was laid out beside her.’

Ebony stood in the kitchen by a small table. ‘Sophie had collected pebbles. They were found a bucket in here on the kitchen floor. They must have spent the day on the beach. Then come back here, given Sophie and Adam their tea: they found the washed-up plates, kids’ knives and forks on the draining board.’

They walked back past the lounge and Ebony led the way up the stairs. Shadows of the dead ivy outside the landing window flitted across the old plaster walls.

‘All the bodies were on the ground floor. I never came up here. I had no need,’ said Harding.

At the top of the stairwell they came to a small bathroom with an old enamel bath.

‘It says in the report that the water was left in the bath, just six inches. There were toys in there. So Louise must have been bathing Sophie when it started.’

‘Louise?’

‘Coming, Chrissie,’ Louise called down from the bathroom. ‘Just giving Sophie a bath.’

Chrissie stood at the bottom of the stairs:

‘I’ve started on the wine . . .’ she giggled. ‘Do you want me to bring you a glass up there?’

Louise leaned her head back towards the door. She was on her knees beside the bath, her hands in the water. ‘You did well to hang on . . .’ She smiled as she filled up one plastic beaker with water and tipped it into another; Sophie was concentrating so hard not to spill the water that her tongue stuck out the way her dad’s did sometimes, when he didn’t realize he was doing it. ‘You carry on . . . I’ll wait, thanks. I’ll read to Sophie and get her settled and then I’ll be right down. Are you sure you don’t mind us staying for another night? Callum must have got held up at work. I am sorry.’

Louise swished the water back and forth through her fingers. She listened and heard Chrissie sigh. She smiled at Sophie.

‘I know that Callum and I have been through a lot. I know that sometimes it all gets too much for him.’

Louise made the face that always made Sophie laugh. It was a gorgeous laugh that tilted Sophie’s head backwards and came from the middle of her body: pure joy.