‘No, he’s a probationer straight out of Hendon and still scared enough to remember what he’s supposed to do. He kept to the edges, touched nothing.’
‘Good,’ Sean said automatically, his mind having already moved on, already growing heavy with possibilities. ‘Well, whoever did this is either very angry or very ill.’
‘No doubt about that,’ Donnelly agreed.
There was a pause, both men taking the chance to breathe deeply and steady themselves, clearing their minds, a necessary prelude before trying to think coldly and logically. Seeing this brutality would never be easy, would never be matter-of-fact.
‘Okay. First guess is we’re looking at a domestic murder.’
‘A lover’s tiff?’ Donnelly asked.
Sean nodded. ‘Whoever did this probably took a fair old beating themselves,’ he added. ‘A man fighting for his life can do a lot of damage.’
‘I’ll check the local hospitals,’ Donnelly volunteered. ‘See if anyone who looks like they’ve been in a real ding-dong has been admitted.’
‘Check with the local police stations for the same and wake the rest of the team up. Let’s get everyone together at the station for an eight a.m. briefing. And we might as well see if we can get a pathologist to examine the body while it’s still in place.’
‘That won’t be easy, guv.’
‘I know, but try. See if Dr Canning is available. He sometimes comes out if it’s a good one, and he’s the best.’
‘I’ll do what I can, but no promises.’
Sean surveyed the scene. Most murders didn’t take long to solve. The most obvious suspect was usually the right suspect. The panicked nature of the crime provided an Aladdin’s cave of forensic evidence. Enough to get a conviction. In cases like this, detectives often had to do little more than wait for the laboratory to examine the exhibits from the scene and provide all the answers. But as Sean looked around something was already niggling away at his instincts.
Donnelly spoke again. ‘Seems straightforward?’
‘Yeah, I’m pretty happy.’ He let the statement linger.
‘But …?’
‘The victim almost certainly knew his killer. No forced entry, so he’s let him in. A boyfriend is a fair bet. This smells like a domestic murder. A few too many drinks. A heated argument. A fight kicks off and gets nastier and nastier, both end up beaten to a pulp and one dies. A crime of passion which the killer had no time to prepare. He’s lost it for a while, killed a friend. A lover. Now all he wants to do is run. Get away from this flat and be somewhere safe to think out his next move. But there’s a couple of things missing for me.’
‘Such as?’
‘They’ve probably been having a drink, but there are no glasses anywhere. Can you remember dealing with a domestic murder where alcohol wasn’t involved?’
‘Maybe he cleaned the place up a bit?’ Donnelly offered. ‘Washed the glasses and put them away.’
‘Why would he bother cleaning a glass when his blood and fingerprints must be all over the place after a struggle like this?’
‘Panic?’ Donnelly suggested. ‘Wasn’t thinking straight. He cleaned up his glass, maybe started to clean up other stuff too before he realized he was wasting his time.’
‘Maybe.’
Sean was thinking hard. The lack of signs of alcohol was a small point, but any experienced detective would have expected to find evidence of its use at a scene like this. An empty bottle of cider. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, or a champagne bottle to fuel the rage of the rich. But it was the image he was beginning to visualize that was plaguing him with doubt – the image his mind was piecing together using evidence that was missing as much as evidence that was present. The image of a figure crouching very deliberately over the victim. No frenzy, no rage, but evil in a human form.
‘There’s something else,’ he told Donnelly. ‘The killing obviously took place in the living room. We know he must have gone out the front door because everything else is locked up nice and tight. But the hallway is clean. Nothing. The carpet is light beige, yet there’s no sign of a bloody footprint. And the door handle? Nothing. No blood. Nothing.
‘So our killer beats and stabs the victim to death in a frenzied moment of rage and yet stops to clean his hands before opening any doors. After killing a man who may have been his lover, he’s suddenly calm enough to take his shoes off and tiptoe out the place. That doesn’t make a lot of sense.’
Donnelly joined in. ‘And if our boy did stop to clean himself up before leaving, then where did he get clean? He had two choices. The sink in the bathroom or the sink in the kitchen.’
Sean continued for him. ‘We’ve seen both of them. Clean as a whistle. No signs of recent use. Not even a splash of water.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly said. ‘But it’s probably nothing. We’re assuming too much. Maybe forensics will prove us wrong and find some blood in the hallway we can’t see.’
Sean wasn’t convinced, but before he could reply the uniformed constable at the front door called into the flat. ‘Excuse me, sir, your lab team is here.’
Sean shouted a reply. ‘Coming out.’
He and Donnelly walked from the flat carefully, keeping to the route they’d used on entering. They walked to the edge of the taped-off cordon where they knew Detective Sergeant Andy Roddis would be waiting with his team of specially trained detectives and scene examiners.
DS Roddis saw Sean and Donnelly approach. He observed their forensics suits but was not impressed. ‘I take it you two have already been trampling all over my scene.’ He was right to be annoyed. The book said no one into the house except the scene examination team. ‘Next time I’m going to seize your clothing as exhibits.’
Sean needed Roddis on his side.
‘Sorry, Andy,’ he said. ‘We haven’t touched a thing. Promise.’
‘I hear you have a dead male for me in flat number sixteen. Yes?’ Roddis still sounded irritated.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Donnelly.
Roddis turned to Sean. ‘Anything special you want from us?’
‘No. Our money’s on a domestic, so stick to the basics. You can keep the expensive toys locked away.’
‘Very well,’ Roddis replied. ‘Blood, fibres, prints, hair and semen it is.’
Donnelly and Sean were already walking away. Sean called over his shoulder. ‘I’m briefing my team at eight a.m. Try and get me a preliminary report before then.’
‘I might be able to phone something through to you. Will that do?’
‘Fine,’ said Sean. Right now he would take anything on offer.
It was shortly before 8 a.m. and Sean sat alone in his bleak, functional office in Peckham police station, surrounded by the same cheap wooden furniture that adorned each and every police building across London. The office was just about big enough to house two four-foot battered oblong desks and two uncomfortable chairs for the frequent visitors. Two ancient-looking computers sat one on each desk and the harsh fluorescent lights above painted everything a dull yellow. How he envied those TV detectives with their swivel leather chairs, banks of all-seeing all-dancing computers, and most of all the Jasper Conran reading lamps slung low over shining glass desks. Reality was mundane and functional.
Sean thought about the victim. What sort of person had he been? Was he loved? Would he be missed? He would find out soon enough. The phone rang and made him jump.
‘DI Corrigan.’ He rarely wasted words on the phone.