Читать книгу The Girl Next Door - Phoebe Morgan - Страница 10

Chapter Two

DS Madeline Shaw

Monday 4th February, 7.45 p.m.

‘It’s my stepdaughter, Clare. She hasn’t come home from school.’

The call comes in to Chelmsford Police Station just after 7.45 p.m. on Monday night. The team are polishing off a tin of Quality Street left over from Christmas; DS Ben Moore is hoovering up the strawberry creams while DS Madeline Shaw targets the caramels. It’s the DCI who answers the phone, holds up a hand to silence the room.

When she sees the look on Rob Sturgeon’s face, Madeline picks up the handset, presses the pads to her ears. Ian Edwards’ voice is gruff, but she can hear the urgency in it that he’s trying to control. Immediately, she knows who he is – the Edwards family live in Ashdon, in one of the big detached houses off Ash Road. His wife Rachel works at the estate agency in Saffron Walden. She’s got one child from her first marriage: Clare. Madeline lives three streets away from her: they are practically neighbours.

‘She’s normally home long before now, school finishes at ten past four,’ Ian says, his words coming fast. ‘I’m afraid my wife is getting a bit worried.’ A pause. ‘We both are.’ DS Moore is making a face, delving back into the chocolate, but Madeline listens carefully. The DCI is asking questions, his voice calm – how old is Clare, when did you last see her, when did you last hear from her.

‘We’ve tried her phone, dozens of times now,’ Ian says. ‘It’s just going to voicemail. It’s not like her to do this—’ He breaks off.

Madeline is about to chip in, to tell Mr Edwards that she can come round – after all, she’ll be going home anyway – but the door to the MIT room swings open and Lorna Campbell pops her head round the door, her coat on even though she normally works until eleven.

‘Detective Shaw?’

Madeline slips off her headset. ‘Everything okay?’

Lorna raises her eyebrows at the team. ‘Report just in of a body found in Ashdon, in the field at the back that borders Acre Lane. Female victim. Guy called Nathan Warren phoned it in, says he was out walking, stumbled across her. You ready?’

The DCI’s face changes. Wordlessly, Madeline follows Lorna outside.

The girl is lying on her back in Sorrow’s Meadow. In the summer, despite its miserable name, the field is full of buttercups, bright yellow flowers shining in the sun, but in the winter it’s dark and barren. Clare Edwards’ golden hair is fanned out around her head like a halo, blood is soaking into the frosty grass around her skull. Madeline’s torch beam picks out the places where it’s already darkened, highlights the silvery trail of saliva that has frozen on the girl’s cheek. It’s freezing, minus two. She’s in her school uniform: jumper and skirt, a scarf and a little blue puffer coat over the top.

‘Call forensics,’ Madeline tells Lorna, her breath misting the air, little white ghosts forming above the body.

‘They’re on the way already,’ Lorna says, ‘the DCI too.’

‘Clare,’ Madeline says aloud, but it’s pointless; when she bends to touch the girl’s neck, her gloved fingers meet ice-cold skin, no hint of a pulse. For a moment, the policewoman looks away. She’s never had a case where she knew the victim before, even though her interaction with Clare Edwards has only been brief. A school assembly last December; Madeline had been called in by the head to do a routine safety chat. Clare had approached her afterwards, wanted to know more about her job, a career in the police. It had surprised her, at the time. Now, it makes her feel sick. Clare’s future is gone, over before it began.

The forensic team arrive and begin sealing off the area, their white suits bright in the darkness.

Gently, Madeline lifts the blonde hair, exposing the wound at the back of Clare’s head.

‘She looks so young,’ Lorna mutters quietly, and Madeline nods.

The torchlight lands on her rucksack, a black faux-leather bag, thin straps. Inside are a pile of school books; her name is all over everything, the neat blue handwriting re-emphasising Clare’s youth.

‘No mobile phone.’ Lorna hands her Clare’s wallet – a purple zip-up from Accessorize. Carefully, Madeline thumbs through her cards: her provisional driver’s licence, a Nando’s loyalty card, plus an old Waterstones receipt, long out of date.

‘Shaw. I’ve been on the phone to her mother. Fill me in.’

DCI Rob Sturgeon appears at her side; quickly, Madeline begins sliding the exercise books into evidence bags, turns to face him.

‘Have you told her yet?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, not until we’ve formally ID’d. Shit.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Is Alex here?’

They both look around, and spot DS Alex Faulkner a few metres away, talking to one of the forensics team.

‘Faulkner!’

At the DCI’s shout, Alex heads over, the expression on his face grim.

‘Looks like someone’s repeatedly slammed her against the ground,’ he says, nodding to Madeline. ‘Back of her head’s not a pretty sight.’

There is a blue ink stain all over Clare’s left hand, and her unpainted fingernails are dirty, from where she’s presumably clawed at the ground.

‘You don’t think there was a weapon?’ the DCI says, and Alex shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t look like it to me.’

‘Suggests unplanned, then,’ Madeline adds, and he nods.

‘Quite possibly. Fit of anger, perhaps. Crime of passion.’ There’s a pause. ‘We’ll be testing for rape, of course.’ He swallows, spreads his hands in the semi-darkness. ‘Or else it was planned, and our killer just decided to cut out the middle man. Less evidence that way.’

‘Someone who trusts their own strength, in that case,’ Rob says. The guys are placing markers on the frosty ground, marking the places Clare’s blood has spilled. Trusts their own strength, Madeline thinks. Nine times out of ten it’s a man.

‘You said Nathan Warren phoned it in?’ she asks Lorna, frowning.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lorna says, and catching the expression on her colleague’s face, ‘d’you know him?’

‘Yes,’ Madeline says slowly, stepping to one side as they begin to erect a little white tent over her body, looking out to where the stile leads to the footpath down to the town centre, ‘I do know him. I know exactly who he is.’

Clare Edwards is pronounced dead at 8.45 p.m. Madeline closes her eyes, just briefly, remembering the day Clare spoke to her at the school, their conversation in one of the empty classrooms, the curiosity in her eyes as she asked Madeline what being a police officer was really like. How can that girl be lying here on the floor, pale and lifeless? The two images will not connect in her brain.

‘I want you with me, Shaw,’ the DCI says, breaking the memory. ‘Let’s get this over with, for God’s sake. Keep the tent up,’ he barks, his eyes scanning the meadow, ‘we don’t want anyone seeing this.’ Gloved hands are combing the ground for her phone, lights are picking out the spots of blood in amongst the leaves. The blood on her head is darker now, dry and blackening. Madeline’s mind is already on Mr and Mrs Edwards, knocking on their front door, ready to deliver them the worst news of their lives.

‘We can walk there,’ she says at last, ‘it’s only ten minutes.’

‘Right,’ Rob says, ‘Campbell, Faulkner – update me soon as you can. Send a car after us to the house, we’ll need a family liaison officer. I want everyone on this. Jesus, sixteen. The press’ll have a bloody field day.’

Madeline leads the way, back across Sorrow’s Meadow, out of the wooded area and down Acre Lane towards where Ashdon High Street meets the river. The small town is quiet; it’s a Monday night. Driving through, you’d have seen nothing, heard nothing. The Edwards house looms in front of them, one of a pair set back slightly from the road, and the DCI puts his hand on her arm at the edge of their drive: a gravel affair, primroses either side, stiff with the cold. There’s a bird bath to the left, frozen solid in the February air. Madeline looks to the house next door, separated from the Edwards’ by a thin grass strip. Lights off, except for one. The Goodwins’ place. Both houses are huge in comparison to Madeline’s; security systems glow in the darkness. Behind the garage doors lurk expensive, silent cars.

‘Just the basics for now,’ Rob says, ‘until we have the full picture.’

‘Are we mentioning Nathan Warren?’

Madeline’s question goes unanswered; the door opens before either of them can even knock and then there they are, framed before the police in the bright light of the house, Rachel Edwards and her husband Ian. Rachel looks like Clare – that same striking face, beautiful without needing to try. They recognise her from the town; she can see the flash of hope on their faces. Madeline steps forward.

‘Mr and Mrs Edwards. This is DCI Rob Sturgeon, my colleague at Chelmsford Police Force. We have news on your daughter. May we come in?’