‘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. Years of speaking into radios had trimmed his speech.
‘Mr Corrigan, it’s DS Roddis. You wanted an update for your briefing?’ Roddis didn’t recognize any ranks above his own, but his powerful position meant he was never challenged by his seniors. He decided the forensic resources assigned to each case, and it was he who knew the right people at the right laboratories across the south-east who could get the job done. Everybody, regardless of rank, respected his monopoly.
‘Thanks for calling. What you got for me?’
‘Well, it’s early days.’
Sean knew the lab team would have done little more than get organized. ‘I appreciate that, but I’d like whatever you’ve got.’
‘Very well. We’ve had a cursory look around. The entry and exit point is surprisingly clean, given the nature of the attack. And the hallway was clean too. Perhaps we’ll find something when we get better lighting and some UV lamps. Other than that, nothing definite yet. The blood spray marks on the walls and furniture have me a little confused.’
‘Confused?’ Sean asked.
‘Having seen the victim’s wounds, I’m pretty sure the blow to the head all but killed him and it certainly knocked him down. I have a blood spray pattern on a wall that would be consistent with a blow to his head with a heavy object.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘If the victim was prostrate when the other injuries were inflicted then I would only expect to find small, localized sprays, but I’ve got numerous others, over the carpet, broken furniture, up the walls. They’re not consistent with his wounds.’
‘Then he must have other wounds we haven’t seen yet,’ Sean suggested. ‘Or maybe the blood is from the attacker?’
‘Possibly.’ Roddis sounded unconvinced. ‘No obvious murder weapon yet,’ he continued, ‘but it will probably turn up when we get into the search properly.’
‘Anything else?’ Sean asked, in hope more than expectation.
‘There are plenty of corres: address books, diaries, bank books and so on. It shouldn’t be too hard