Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Who’s the other woman?’ she had teased him, picking up the loose photograph propped up against the framed picture of her and the kids.

‘A victim,’ Ray had replied, taking the photo gently from Mags and replacing it on his desk. ‘She was stabbed seventeen times by her boyfriend because she was late getting the tea on.’

If Mags was shocked, she didn’t show it. ‘You don’t keep it in the file?’

‘I like to have it where I can see it,’ Ray said. ‘Where I can’t forget what I’m doing, why I’m working these hours, who it’s all for.’ She had nodded at that. She understood him better than he realised, sometimes.

‘But not next to our photograph. Please, Ray.’ She had reached out a hand to take the photo again, looking around the office for somewhere more suitable. Her eyes settled on the redundant corkboard at the back of the room and, taking a drawing pin from the pot on his desk, she had fixed the picture of the smiling dead woman decisively in the middle of the board.

And there it stayed.

The smiling woman’s boyfriend had long since been charged with murder, and a steady succession of victims had taken her place. The old man beaten black and blue by teenage muggers; the four women sexually assaulted by a taxi driver; and now Jacob, beaming in his school uniform. All of them relying on Ray. He scanned the notes he had made in his daybook the night before, preparing for this morning’s briefing. They didn’t have a lot to go on. As his computer beeped to tell him it had finally booted up, Ray mentally shook himself. They might not have a long list of leads, but there was still work to be done.

Shortly before ten o’clock, Stumpy and his team trooped through the door into Ray’s office. Stumpy and Dave Hillsdon took up residence in two of the low chairs grouped around the coffee table, while the others stood at the back of the room, or leaned against the wall. The third chair had been left empty in an unspoken nod to chivalry, and Ray was amused to see that Kate ignored the offering and joined Malcolm Johnson to stand at the back. Their numbers had been temporarily boosted by two officers on loan from shift, looking uncomfortable in hastily borrowed suits, and PC Phil Crocker from the Collision Investigation Unit.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ Ray said. ‘I won’t keep you long. I’d like to introduce Brian Walton from Party One, and Pat Bryce from Party Three. It’s good to have you lads, and there’s plenty to do, so just muck in.’ Brian and Pat nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Okay,’ Ray continued. ‘The purpose of this briefing is to revisit what we know about the Fishponds hit-and-run, and where we go next. As you can imagine, the chief is all over this one like a rash.’ He looked at his notes, although he knew the contents by heart. ‘At 1628 on Monday, 26 November 999 operators picked up a call from a woman living in Enfield Avenue. She had heard a loud bang, and then a scream. By the time she got outside, it was all over, and Jacob’s mother was crouching over him in the road. The ambulance response time was six minutes, and Jacob was pronounced dead at the scene.’

Ray paused for a moment, to let the gravity of the investigation sink in. He glanced at Kate, but her expression was neutral, and he didn’t know if he was relieved or saddened that she had managed to build her defences so successfully. She wasn’t the only one apparently devoid of emotion. A stranger scanning the room might assume the police couldn’t care less about the death of this little boy, when Ray knew it had touched them all. He continued with the briefing.

‘Jacob turned five last month, soon after starting school at St Mary’s, in Beckett Street. On the day of the hit-and-run, Jacob had been at an after-school club, while his mum was working. Her statement says they were walking home, and chatting about the day, when she let go of Jacob’s hand and he ran across the road towards their house. From what she’s said it’s something he’s done before – he didn’t have good road sense and his mum always made sure she held on to him when they were near a road.’ Except this one time, he added silently. One tiny lapse of concentration, and she wouldn’t ever be able to forgive herself for it. Ray shuddered involuntarily.

‘What did she see of the car?’ Brian Walton asked.

‘Not a lot. She claims that, far from braking, the car was speeding up when it hit Jacob, and that she narrowly avoided being hit as well; in fact she fell and hurt herself. The attending officers noticed she had injuries, but she refused treatment. Phil, can you talk us through the scene?’

The only uniformed officer in the room, Phil Crocker was a collision investigator, and with years of experience on the Roads Policing department he was Ray’s go-to man for all traffic matters.

‘There’s not much to say.’ Phil shrugged. ‘The wet weather means no tyre marks, so I can’t give you an estimate on speed, or tell you if the vehicle was braking prior to impact. We seized a piece of plastic casing about twenty metres from the point of collision, and the vehicle examiner has confirmed it’s from the fog light of a Volvo.’

‘That sounds encouraging,’ Ray said.

‘I’ve given the details to Stumpy,’ Phil said. ‘Other than that, I’m afraid I’ve got nothing.’

‘Thanks, Phil.’ Ray picked up his notes again. ‘Jacob’s post-mortem report shows he died from blunt force trauma. He had multiple fractures and a ruptured spleen.’ Ray had attended the autopsy himself, less because of the need for evidential continuity, and more because he couldn’t bear to think of Jacob alone in the cold mortuary. He had looked without seeing, keeping his eyes away from Jacob’s face, and focusing on the evidence the Home Office pathologist had issued in staccato sound bites. They were both glad when it was over.

‘Judging from the point of impact, we’re looking at a small vehicle, so we can rule out people-carriers or four-by-fours. The pathologist recovered fragments of glass from Jacob’s body, but I understand there’s nothing to tie it to a particular vehicle – isn’t that right, Phil?’ Ray glanced at the collision investigator, who nodded.

‘The glass itself isn’t vehicle-specific,’ Phil said. ‘If we had an offender they might have matching particles in their clothing – it’s almost impossible to get rid of. But we didn’t find any glass at the scene, which suggests the windscreen cracked on impact, but didn’t shatter. Find me the car, and we’ll match it to the pieces on the victim, but without that…’

‘But it does at least help to confirm what damage might be on the car,’ Ray said, trying to put a positive spin on the few lines of enquiry they did actually have. ‘Stumpy, why don’t you run through what’s been done so far?’

The DS looked at the wall of Ray’s office, where the investigation played out in a series of maps, charts and flipchart sheets, each with a list of actions. ‘House-to-house was done on the night, and again the following day by shift. Several people heard what they’ve described as a “loud bang”, followed by a scream, but no one saw the car. We’ve had PCSOs out on the school run talking to parents, and we’ve letter-dropped in the streets either side of Enfield Avenue, appealing for witnesses. The roadside signs are still out, and Kate’s following up on the few calls we’ve had as a result of those.’

‘Anything useful?’

Stumpy shook his head. ‘It’s not looking good, boss.’

Ray ignored his pessimism. ‘When does the Crimewatch appeal go out?’

‘Tomorrow night. We’ve got a reconstruction of the accident, and they’ve put together some whizzy slides with what the car might look like, then they’ll run the studio piece the DCI did with their presenter.’