Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

Louis Preston emerges from the bathroom, looking like a surgeon preparing to operate.

‘There are traces of blood in the S-bend of the sink.’

‘Somebody cleaned up.’

‘Forensic awareness is such an important life skill,’ says Preston. ‘I blame it on American cop shows. They’re like “how-to” guides. How to clean up a crime scene, how to dispose of the weapon, how to get away with murder . . .’

Cray winks at me. ‘What’s wrong, Preston, did some smart defence lawyer punch a pretty little hole in your procedures?’

‘I got no beef with defence lawyers. Some of my best friends are bottom feeders. It’s the juries I can’t abide. Unless they see fingerprints, fibres, or DNA, they’ll never convict. They want the proverbial smoking gun, but sometimes there aren’t any forensic clues. The scene is cleaned up or washed by rain or contaminated by third parties. We’re scientists, not magicians.’

Preston scratches his nose and looks at his index finger as though he finds it fascinating.

Meanwhile, I wander across the landing to the bathroom. A wicker laundry basket is tucked beneath the sink. The toilet seat is down. The shelves above the sink are neatly arranged with toothpaste, toothbrushes (three of them), liquid soap and mouthwash. The hand-towel beside the sink is neatly folded and hung over the railing.

‘They tidied the place,’ I say out loud.

Cray appears behind me.

‘Make any sense?’

‘Not much.’

‘Did Ray Hegarty make many enemies in the job?’

‘We all make enemies.’

It’s not an answer.

‘Any skeletons?’

Her voice hardens. ‘He was a good copper. Straight.’

A different SOCO appears at the base of the stairs. Calls to Preston. ‘I found a stash of porn in the shed. You want me to bag it?’

‘What sort of porn?’ asks the pathologist.

‘Magazines, DVDs ...’

‘Anything unusual?’

‘Like what?’

‘Rape scenes, violent fantasies, anything involving children.’

Cray stiffens in protest. Already she wants to safeguard Ray Hegarty’s reputation. A murder investigation is a circus of possibilities, where the spotlight is so fierce it reveals every blemish and flaw. The victim is also placed on trial and sometimes they die all over again in the courtroom - portrayed as being somehow responsible and slandered as viciously as they were stabbed or strangled or shot.

Cray won’t let that happen. Not this time. Not to her friend.

Outside, the crowd has thinned out. A few remaining teenagers are loitering on the far side of the lane, kicking aimlessly at dead leaves. A young man swigs from a lurid can. His dark hair has blond streaks cut in a ragged curtain that doesn’t so much frame his face as provide him somewhere to hide.

My eyes rush to judgement. He looks familiar. Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve seen too much of the world and now it is starting to repeat itself.

Then I remember where I’ve seen him. Sienna Hegarty kissed his cheek and climbed into his car. The youth is still staring at me. A fringe of hair is flicked from his eyes. He turns away and begins walking quickly.

I yell out to him and he runs, jinking between bystanders and parked cars.

Cray is still inside with Preston. I yell to the uniforms guarding the gate but none of them reacts quickly enough to stop him. The kid is forty yards ahead. Whippet thin, underfed, built for speed. I lose sight of him as he passes under the arch of the old railway viaduct. By the time I reach the same corner he’s disappeared completely.

I notice a farm track on the left. It’s the only possibility. Turning up the twin ruts, I keep running, feeling a weight hang around my heart and lungs. Walking hasn’t made me any fitter.

Ahead, a car engine starts, rumbling through a broken muffler. The Peugeot accelerates out of a muddy farmyard, the back tyres snaking in the slick puddles. He’s not slowing down. I’m caught on the grassy ridge between the twin tracks with hedges on either side.

I raise my hand. He doesn’t stop. At the last moment I throw myself to one side, curling my legs away from the spinning wheels.

Lying on my back, I take a deep breath and gaze at a bank of moving clouds, listening to my heart thudding.

‘Are you all right?’ asks a voice in a slow West Country drawl. It’s Alasdair Riordan, the farmer I saw earlier.

‘I’m fine.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Resting.’

He nods, satisfied, and turns back to his tractor.

‘Did you see that car?’ I ask.

Alasdair pulls off his woollen hat and scratches an itch on his scalp. ‘Aye, I did.’

‘It almost ran me down.’

‘Aye.’

‘You didn’t happen to get the number?’

He replaces his hat and shakes his head. ‘I’m not too good with numbers.’

A moment later two uniforms appear. Ronnie Cray is behind them, sweating profusely.

‘You all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Who was in the car?’

‘Sienna’s boyfriend.’

She registers the information like a fevered prospector. ‘You should have left it to us.’

‘He ran. I chased.’

‘What are you - a dog?’ She looks at her muddy shoes. ‘I hope that kid knows how to polish.’

My mobile is vibrating.

‘What happened to Sienna?’ blurts Charlie, close to tears.

‘She’s in hospital.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s in shock, but I think she’ll be fine.’

I can hear playground noises in the background.

‘They’re saying that Mr Hegarty is dead. They’re saying that Sienna killed him.’

‘We don’t know what happened.’

‘But he’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I go and see Sienna?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Can I call her?’

‘No.’

She sniffles and blows her nose. Charlie rarely cries. She bottles things up. Holds them inside. Ever since the kidnapping, I have watched her closely, anticipating problems. Is she eating and sleeping properly? Is she socialising normally? Sometimes I dare to hope the worst is over, but then the nightmares will return and she cries out, clawing the air, snatching at unseen things in the darkness. Stumbling to her room, I kneel beside her bed, stroking her forehead and talking softly. Her eyes will open, looking vacuously into space as though a terrible revelation about life has been whispered in her ear.

This was my fault, my doing, and I would flay the skin from my back if I could rewind the clock and protect her next time. I don’t want to assuage the guilt. I want to change her memories.

Midday. Wednesday. I’m walking the same brightly lit hospital corridors, smelling the disinfectant and floor polish. Sienna’s room is still under guard. Detective Sergeant Colin ‘Monk’ Abbott, a black Londoner, is dozing on a chair with his legs outstretched and head resting on the wall. He must have pulled an all-nighter. Mrs Monk won’t be happy. I met her once at a DIY store in Bristol. She was half Monk’s size, trying to control three young boys who were treating their father like a climbing frame.

Monk rocks to his feet. He could touch the ceiling.

‘She awake?’ asks Cray.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘She said anything?’

‘No.’

A doctor comes out of the room, his white coat unbuttoned and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He’s young, no more than twenty-six, lean like a greyhound, running on machine coffee and the adrenalin of residency.

‘How is she?’ asks the DCI.

‘Physically, she’s fine.’

‘Is there a “but” in there somewhere?’

‘Her hearing and speech seem to be functioning normally and she’s responding to visual stimuli, but her heart rate keeps surging.’