Nick Oldham - Backlash

His two partners were silent as they ingested details of the double murder, each giving the occasional exclamation of horror, particularly when they got to the crime-scene photos, which were appalling in their depiction of the violence suffered by the victims.

‘Poor people,’ Makin said sympathetically. ‘What a way to die.’

She handed the file back to Donaldson who repackaged it neatly into the envelope.

‘Well?’ Henry said. He had stayed quiet while they had read the file. He glanced at Donaldson, then quickly over his shoulder at Makin.

‘Well what?’ she asked. ‘Looks like it could be the same offender.’

‘Anything else strike you?’

‘She could’ve been a target for right-wing extremists,’ Donaldson suggested. ‘Looking at her line of work — bit OTT, though.’

‘But a possibility,’ Henry said. ‘Anything else?’

They each put forward several thoughts, none of which seemed to satisfy Henry. Eventually Donaldson became irritated. ‘Look, buddy. I think you’d better tell us what you’re thinking, because it’s darned obvious something has hit a note with you and neither of us two idiots seem capable of seeing it.’ He leaned across to Henry. ‘So tell us, put us out of our misery, or I’ll smash your face in, one hundred miles an hour or not.’

Henry deflated visibly.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said hesitantly. ‘There’s something there, but I can’t quite see what it is — sorry,’ his voice was pathetic. ‘That’s why we’re going to visit the scene, see if I — we — can pull that “something” out of the ether.’

With the parcel tape over her eyes Roscoe could not see him, but she knew he was there. Nor could she speak to him, the tape having been wrapped under her jaw and over her head as well as across her mouth, sealing her lips, making her jaw immovable.

He had said nothing. He’d come into the room and remained silent.

Roscoe’s whole body was rigid with terror and she began to feel the loss of control again, this time down in her bladder and bowels. She had managed to hold on for all this time — somehow — but it would be impossible to do so for much longer.

She tried to speak. The sound was trapped at the back of her throat.

‘Are you trying to make contact?’ Gill asked brightly.

She nodded.

‘If I take the tape off your mouth, you will not scream, do you understand?’

She nodded again.

‘If you do, I’ll just kill you, OK?’

She could sense him moving nearer. She could smell him and then she felt him touching her face, trying to find an end of the tape.

‘I’ve wrapped you up too well.’ He laughed. ‘I’m going to have to cut a hole where your mouth is. At least where I think your mouth is. If I get it wrong, you’ll have two mouths. Then I’d have a real problem shutting you up, wouldn’t I?’

She felt a sharp point press onto her face. The tip of a knife. He jabbed it deliberately into her cheek.

‘Is your mouth here?’

She flinched.

‘Or is it here?’ He prodded her forehead with the instrument. ‘Or here?’ The knife jabbed the top of her head. ‘Or here?’ She sensed Gill moving, but this time he did not press the blade into her for a few moments. She waited, trying to anticipate whereabouts on her head it would be pressed next. Then jumped when she felt a sharp jab on her inner thigh and he dragged the knife upwards towards her vagina. Just then it did not matter any more because the abject fear she was experiencing made inner control impossible.

‘Oh, you fuckin’ bitch,’ Gill cried. ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’ Fuckin’ women! Fuckin’ bitches. I hate you all.’

This was it. Roscoe knew she was going to die. She waited for the blade to pierce her. Where would it enter her body? What would it feel like?

Gill placed the tip of the blade under her chin and pressed.

‘We appreciate this,’ Henry Christie said to DI Harrison who was waiting outside the Graveson house where the double murder had taken place.

‘Not a problem. We need to work together on this one,’ the DI said.

Henry introduced Donaldson and Makin, then they all turned and walked up the driveway to the house.

‘As a murder scene, we’ve finished with it, handed it back to the family and everything, but I know they haven’t been able to touch the place. Nothing’s been moved since we withdrew, I know that for a fact. The family are devastated and can’t bring themselves to do anything with the house,’ Harrison explained.

‘Understandable,’ Makin said.

‘And fortunate,’ Henry said, ‘for us, that is.’

At the front door the DI asked Henry, ‘What do you expect to find here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

No house which had been the scene of such tragedy could ever be the same again. The nature of what had taken place had seeped into the very fabric of the building and destroyed what was once a happy and loving environment. Now ghosts drifted around, demanding justice. Not revenge, but justice. And until it was achieved there could be no rest for them.

Henry walked around the house alone. From the kitchen where the husband had been murdered, into the lounge, then up the stairs to the bathroom where Louise Graveson had been butchered. Dried blood was everywhere. It was a mess.

He closed his eyes and wished both dead people peace, and made a vow to them, there and then, that he would do his best to find that justice for them. When he opened his eyes, the DI Harrison came into the bathroom.

‘Not pretty,’ he commented. ‘We’ve offered to get cleaners in for them, but the family have refused.’

Henry thought he understood why. ‘As gruesome as it is, it gives them some sort of lifeline to their loved ones. To get it cleaned up, wash the blood away, would be like washing their memories away.’

‘I suppose so.’ The DI shrugged. ‘So — found what you’re looking for?’

C’mon Henry, time to get operating, he told himself. ‘Let’s go back downstairs,’ he said, ‘I think it’s there, but I’m not sure.’

Makin and Donaldson were in the living room.

Henry stood by the hi-fi, a modern Bang and Olufsen contraption which would have looked more at home in an operating theatre. ‘The cleaning lady found the bodies, yeah?’ Nods all round. ‘She doesn’t mention any music playing in her statement. I think she needs asking if there was any.’ Henry was musing out loud. ‘She came in the front door and though her statement doesn’t say it, I’ll bet she came into the lounge before she found the husband in the kitchen.’ He looked at Harrison. ‘You say this crime scene hasn’t been touched, nothing been moved?’

‘Nothing,’ he confirmed.

Henry switched on the hi-fi and pressed ‘play’ on the CD. Immediately and automatically the haunting opening chords of ‘Midnight Rambler’ began. He bent down and inspected the controls. It was on repeat play.

‘This is a connection with our job. I’ll bet the cleaner came in, switched this off and then found the husband. She probably totally forgot about the music with the shock of finding him, and who could blame her?’

‘Well done, H,’ Donaldson said.

He took a small bow. ‘But that’s not all.’ He looked round the room, with the exception of some newspapers spread around, it was all very neat and tidy.

‘Have you taken eliminatory prints off everybody? Family, friends?’

Harrison feigned offence.

Yet, still, Henry did not know what it was that had drawn him to the scene of this murder. ‘C’mon, it’s staring us in the face,’ he mumbled. His eyes roved around the room as he mused out loud. ‘They spent the morning with friends, dossing around, having brunch, whatever.’