The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(6)

“One more thing. If—and only if—there has been an incident, DCI Cooper’s home and person deserve our respect. That means no smart comments and no pictures. You stay put, you keep your eyes forward and note anybody sniffing around. If I find either of you has breathed a word, you’ll be pulled up on a disciplinary. Is that understood?”

Ryan watched their faces turn pale and was satisfied that his threat had hit home. He gestured towards two other officers who were standing a short distance away carrying a small battering ram, affectionately known as the ‘enforcer’. Above their heads, he caught sight of several pairs of curtains twitching in the houses across the street.

“Let’s get it over with,” he said, and pulled out bright blue protective shoe coverings and matching nitrile gloves.

You could never be too careful.

He led the short way along an encaustic-tiled pathway towards the front door and knocked loudly.

“DCI Cooper? It’s DCI Ryan and DS Phillips. Open the door, please!”

No answer.

He tried again, louder this time, hammering his fist until the door rattled.

“DCI Cooper! We have reason to believe your life is in danger! Be advised we are about to force entry!”

Still no answer.

On the off-chance, Ryan tried the door knob but found it locked.

“Back door’s locked too, sir,” one of the constables told him.

“Alright, let’s get it open.”

Ryan stepped back to allow the two waiting constables forward. In one easy motion, they swung the ram and there came the sound of splintering wood as the door flew open, revealing a shadowed hallway beyond.

Ryan held up a hand to signal caution, then stepped inside.

*

They smelled the blood first.

The air was saturated with the tinny scent of it as Ryan and Phillips moved warily through the downstairs rooms, eyes watchful for any signs of life. They found the crusted remnants of a bowl of porridge beside the sink in the kitchen and the dregs of a glass of wine on the coffee table in the living room but not much else. There was a curious stillness, as if the walls were watching their progress through the house.

Waiting.

“Upstairs,” Ryan said quietly and padded up the narrow staircase to the first floor. Phillips’ heavier tread sounded behind him, familiar and comforting as they walked headlong into the unknown.

The air grew more stagnant as they emerged onto the landing, searching inside each room they passed until only one door remained.

“Get ready,” Ryan muttered and grasped the handle.

Both men remained standing inside the doorway for long seconds while their bodies adjusted to the horror, struggling to control the urge to reject what they had seen.

“Dear God,” Phillips managed, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth to repel the stench of human waste.

Ryan’s face remained shuttered. Calm grey eyes swept over Sharon Cooper’s bedroom, noting the tiny details that would later become the fabric of his nightmares.

The curtains were closed.

“Make a note for Faulkner,” he said, referring to the Senior Crime Scene Investigator attached to CID. “Check the curtain fabric in here and in the living room downstairs. He might have forgotten to cover his hands.”

Phillips nodded, breathing hard through his teeth.

“Is it definitely her?”

Amid the destruction, it was by no means obvious.

“I think so,” Ryan replied, and forced himself to look again at the remains of what had once been a woman.

Sharon Cooper’s body parts had been laid out on her bed like the components of a macabre jigsaw puzzle against a canvas of blood, which drenched the linen and oozed onto the floor in coagulated drops, forming puddles on the pale blue carpet. A few strands of matted blonde hair hung limply from her head, which had been placed atop a broderie anglaise scatter cushion like a ceremonial offering. The clothes she had chosen to wear that morning were folded neatly at the end of the bed and a single fly flew in circles above her left foot, tipped with pink polish.

“It’s inhuman,” Phillips breathed. “I’ve never—in twenty years, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

And he had seen his fair share. From bodies found in rubbish bins to the kind of vengeful murder inflicted between the ruling gangs in the criminal underworld, he’d seen it all in his time.

But this was different.

“Whoever did this really enjoyed themselves,” Ryan agreed, swallowing back rage as he thought of the woman’s family and of the friends she left behind. He thought of all the memories she would never make, all the life left to live.

Nobody had the right to take it from her, and never with such brutality.

Nobody.

Ryan closed his eyes briefly, remembering the last time he’d seen Cooper alive. She’d been stressed and run-down, both of which were natural by-products of heading up an important investigation that had drawn national headlines.

“Stupid thing’s on the blink again,” she’d told him. “All I want is a packet of ready salted. Is it too much to ask?”

“Give it a good kick,” he’d said. “It’s therapeutic.”

Meaningless, nonsense words, but he thought of how her eyes had crinkled when they’d shared a joke.

Now, those same eyes were filmed white and stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.