Alex Barclay - Darkhouse

Frank held out his hand and felt the beginnings of misty rain.

‘We need to get the body covered straightaway,’ he said. ‘Have you got anything?’

‘Just the couple of rain jackets in the car,’ said Richie.

‘Run,’ said Frank, reaching back to unzip the stiff, folded hood from the collar of his dark green anorak. He pulled the cords tight and tied them under his chin. It was the last thing he did before standing utterly still, staring ahead, his feet rooted to the ground. Every movement he made could compromise the scene. He had failed to protect Katie Lawson once before, he wasn’t about the make the same mistake again.

As Richie pulled the jackets from the boot of the car, he was lit from behind by a pair of headlights speeding his way. He spun around as the car crunched to a stop in the gravel. D.I. O’Connor got out with a black notebook in his hand, followed by Superintendent Brady. O’Connor motioned for Richie to turn the blinding beam of his torch away from them.

‘It’s definitely her,’ said Brady.

‘Yes,’ said Richie. ‘It’s getting wet. I need to cover her up.’

‘We’ve brought the white tent,’ said O’Connor. ‘Grab it there. But take one of those jackets for yourself.’

Richie ran for O’Connor’s car. He took the tent from the boot and jogged back towards the trees. The men followed, shining a torch ahead of them through the trees. They arrived at the scene, nodded at Frank, then took a brief look at the body before they set up the tent.

‘We’ll need to put a call in to the Technical Bureau,’ said Brady.

The Garda Technical Bureau, based at the Phoenix Park in Dublin, never opened earlier than nine a.m., regardless of what foul crime was uncovered during the night. In eight and a half hours, someone there would pick up a message from the machine about a suspicious death in Waterford and a team would be gathered together. The State Pathologist, who could at that stage have heard about the body on the news, would then get a call from the Technical Bureau to come to the scene.

Brady looked at Frank. ‘Let’s get this preserved.’

‘Richie, you stay here,’ said O’Connor. ‘Frank, myself and Superintendent Brady will talk to Martha Lawson, before anyone else gets to her.’

Frank did a double-take at O’Connor’s rimless glasses.

‘OK,’ said O’Connor, handing Richie the black notebook. He pulled a pen from the pocket of his padded blue jacket and handed it to him. ‘Write down every single person who comes to this scene, starting with all of us. Obviously, don’t disturb anything, be careful where you’re walking or standing. Or breathing. We absolutely cannot put a foot wrong here, I don’t need to tell you.’

Richie nodded, but there was panic in his eyes. O’Connor hesitated, then let it go.

Mick Harrington made it home into the arms of his wife and sobbed like he had never sobbed before. Robert stood at the top of the stairs watching him, thinking something had happened to his granddad, until he saw how both his parents turned and looked up at him.

Joe Lucchesi slipped gently in the front door at Shore’s Rock and shook his head slowly when Anna walked towards him. He grabbed her and they clung to each other. Then they held hands and walked down the stairs to Shaun’s bedroom.

Martha Lawson howled until her throat went dry, collapsing onto the floor of the hallway, her hands over her ears, repeating the word ‘no’ over and over again in short, wrenching bursts. Frank, O’Connor and Brady hadn’t even spoken and had to step around her to make their way into the house. Frank was visibly shaken by her reaction. He bent down and reached his arm around her shoulder, half-hugging, half-dragging her up from the floor into the living room and on to the sofa.

‘Get some tea, someone,’ he said. O’Connor looked at Brady, then took a step towards the kitchen.

‘I don’t want tea,’ Martha shouted. She threw her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. Where is she? Where did you find her?’

‘In the forest,’ said Brady quietly. ‘By Shore’s Rock.’

‘What?’ she said. ‘But did you not look there already?’

‘Yes, we did,’ said O’Connor. ‘But maybe not quite that far in. It’s very hard to get into.’

‘Obviously not that hard,’ she shouted, ‘if Katie got in.’ She let the thought hang there. ‘Oh my God,’ she said suddenly. ‘What was she doing there? What happened to her? Did she fall? Did—’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Brady gently. ‘The State Pathologist—’

‘—Dr Lara McClatchie will carry out a post-mortem on the body later today,’ finished Martha. ‘I know the rest of that sentence,’ she sobbed. ‘I hear it on the news. And I think, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that poor family” and now, look at this! I’m the poor family. I’m the poor family.’ Suddenly she jumped up from the sofa and bolted into the hall, grabbing one of Katie’s jackets from the coat stand. She yanked open the front door and staggered into the night. ‘I have to go to her,’ she said desperately. The men were stunned, but O’Connor managed to rush after her. He didn’t need to. Martha was kneeling face down in her garden, hugging Katie’s jacket to her, the drizzling rain falling gently onto her nightdress.

From nine the following morning, people from the village started to make the trip to the forest, parking their cars where the road had been blocked off and walking as close as they could get to the activity further up the hill. O’Connor had assigned one of the more sombre young guards from Waterford to stand at the cordon, accepting whatever bunches of flowers and teddy bears they wanted to lay near the scene. Once the collection had built up, cameramen and photographers edged forward to get the best shot.

Richie stood with his back to the station door, rubbing his face furiously. He had stayed with the body most of the night until he was relieved by a guard from Waterford. He turned when he heard footsteps behind him and saw a brunette standing in the doorway. He was taken aback by her height; she was at least six foot. He instinctively looked at her feet. She was wearing flats — khaki trainers with black stripes. He looked back at her face. She was outdoors attractive, with a healthy sallow complexion, thick eyebrows, full lips and no makeup. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail.

‘We’re not really open,’ said Richie. ‘But if it’s an emergency—’

She frowned. ‘Hmm. I think it’s gone beyond an emergency,’ she said, her accent West Brit. ‘I’m here about the suspicious—’

Frank had been trying to move out from behind the counter, but was too slow.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, nodding towards Richie. ‘Good morning, Dr McClatchie. I’m Frank Deegan, the sergeant here.’ He shook her hand, then turned to Richie, ‘This is the State Pathologist. This is Garda Richie Bates.’

Richie blushed. ‘I’ve—’

‘Only ever seen me on TV. I don’t look the same in real life apparently.’ She smiled.

‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

‘You’re very welcome, if that’s the right way of putting it,’ said Frank. ‘Let me bring you up to the scene.’

‘Please, call me Lara.’

Frank guided her outside, past her old black Citroën and into the Ford Focus. He filled her in on the drive. Two news vans had arrived since he had left earlier, their reporters and cameramen loitering outside. Frank drove past and pulled up behind the Technical Bureau van. The first thing they were hit with when they stepped out of the car was the smell of vomit.

‘Someone always throws up at the scene,’ said Lara. One of the forensic scientists sidled up to her.