Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(10)

Scene-of-crime officers are carrying equipment into the house. Cameras. Lights. Biohazard bags. Back-up batteries. Swabs. Print kits. Evidence markers. Barrier tape. Duckboards. Hoyle signals to one of them that he wants a word and strides across the road.

‘He seems very friendly,’ I say.

‘Yes, he does,’ replies Lenny. ‘He’s the sort of friend I’m happy to follow.’

‘Because you don’t want him behind you.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Is he new?’

‘Hoyle? No. He’s been working with the National Crime Agency. Before that he was with SOCU. A star performer. Fast-tracked. Destined to rule us all.’

She’s talking about the Serious Organised Crime Unit.

‘A funny handshaker?’ I ask.

‘Not still a thing.’ Lenny adjusts her face shield. ‘He’s one of those detectives who seems to enjoy this job too much. It’s like he feeds off the suffering of others.’

‘A soldier who thinks that war is glorious.’

‘That sort of thing.’

I study the house, making mental notes. It fronts a quiet road, within line of sight of at least six other properties. No burglar alarm or security lights.

‘What about the neighbours?’

‘They heard nothing, for a change.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The daughter and father were known for their arguments. Rohan Kirk had a habit of calling the local cops and complaining that he was being mistreated. Said his daughters were stealing his pension payments.’

A blue van is parked in the driveway. The sign on the side says Short Bark and Sides. We have reached the entrance, which has an inner and outer door with a small porch in between designed to create a heat envelope in the winter. The outer door is double-glazed.

I step onto duckboards that are spaced along the hallway. Overcoats hang on pegs and boots are lined up beneath. The kitchen is directly ahead. The sitting room to my right.

I see his feet first, pale ankles sticking from flannelette pyjama bottoms. Dry hard patches of skin on the heels. Veins etched purple on his shins. He is curled on his side, with one arm twisted under his body. One side of his head has been smashed to a bloody pulp. He crawled no more than a few feet before dying in front of the gas fireplace. His right hand seems to be reaching out for a cushion, which has fallen from the sofa, as though he wanted something soft beneath his head.

A white duvet, speckled with blood, is lying on the floor beside him, along with a plastic Tupperware bowl.

A scene-of-crime officer is crouched beside the body.

‘Craig Dyson,’ says Lenny. ‘He’s managing the scene.’

‘We’ve met.’

Dyson turns and nods. He’s holding a moistened swab, which has been run over the victim’s fingers, nails and around the cuticles. He slips the swab into a plastic test-tube which is sealed in a tamper-proof evidence bag. Labelled. Documented. Stored.

‘Any sign of the weapon?’ I ask.

Dyson motions to a decorative fireside toolset, which includes a hard-bristled broom and a shovel. ‘The poker is missing.’ He points to the blood spray on the wall. ‘Looks like he was struck from the front as he came into the room. He kept coming and was hit again. He fell here and tried to cover his head with his arms, but the blows kept coming.’

‘Fingerprints?’

Dyson points to a bloody smear on the nearest light switch. ‘That was left post-crime, there are no loops or whorls, which suggests our perp was wearing gloves.’

More traces of blood were found on the kitchen floor and in the sink. Evidence markers indicate the locations. A single cupboard door is open next to the front-loading washer-dryer. Detergent and fabric softener are visible on a shelf.

I follow Lenny through the rest of the house, looking for signs of a disturbance, argument, robbery, or flight. A female technician is working on the stairs. We’re dressed identically, but her hair is bunched under a hood and the suit looks better on her.

‘Hello, I’m Cassie Wright,’ she says, as though keen to introduce herself.

‘I’m Cyrus Haven.’

‘I know. We’ve met.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’

She laughs, her eyes dancing. ‘You will.’

Stepping back, she gives me room to squeeze past. Our suits brush and faintly crackle with static electricity.

There are three bedrooms upstairs. Rohan Kirk slept in the largest one nearest the road. The bedclothes are disturbed. His duvet thrown back. The pillow has a depression. He has a glass of water next to his bed. A bottle of sleeping pills.

A well-worn armchair is facing a large TV. Two empty beer cans are crushed on the side table, next to the TV remote and an ashtray full of wrapped sweets. Opening his wardrobe, I see a handful of sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and checked shirts, all with the same brand labels and similar colours. Clothes that are functional, but not statements.

Across the landing must be Maya’s room, which is brighter and neater. Her double bed dominates the space, along with a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Her duvet is missing. It must be the one downstairs. A dozen stuffed animals, including a Paddington Bear, are side by side on a shelf beside the window, arranged from biggest to smallest.

Several dresses are draped over a chair, beside a full-length mirror and a straightening wand that is still plugged into a socket. I picture Maya trying on clothes, deciding what to wear. Fixing her hair. Applying make-up.