Kate Medina - Scared to Death - A gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down

‘Thanks for your honesty, Sergeant. I feel like shit too.’ Scratching a hand through his dirty blond stubble, he stifled a yawn. Branch detectives wore plain clothes most of the time and though he had changed out of his muddy shirt and jeans into a navy-blue suit he kept in the boot of his car for emergencies, he hadn’t been able to do anything about his pasty complexion or his bloodshot eyes.

‘Well, you’re going to need a strong stomach for this one.’

Callan looked where Morgan indicated, taking in the salient details quickly, freeze-framing each segment of the tableau in turn, acclimatizing himself mental snapshot by mental snapshot. In a few moments, he knew that he would have to pick over the scene, the corpse of the kid in forensic detail with Morgan and he wasn’t sure that his mind or his stomach were up to it.

‘He hasn’t been moved?’

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

‘Sorry. Stupid question.’ Callan squatted, taking care not to step too close to avoid contaminating the scene. He could feel his heart beginning to race, took a couple of deep breaths to slow it. The boy was slumped at the foot of a huge oak tree, tilted sideways, like a rag doll that had been propped in place, then slid off centre. His head was lolling on to his chest, dark brown eyes open, staring, and already showing the milky film of death, the tree’s leaves making a dappled jigsaw of his bloodless face. He had been handsome in life, and young – fuck, he was young. He looked like a fresh-faced schoolboy who’d been playing soldiers – y ou play dead now – except that this victim wasn’t the product of any game. The bloody puncture wound in his throat and the tacky claret bib coating the front of his combat jacket told Callan that this crime scene was all too real.

‘Stab wound to the throat?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Weapon?’

‘A screwdriver.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’ve bagged it.’

‘Was it still in his throat?’

‘No, it was eight metres away. Here.’ He indicated one of the numbered markers. ‘The tip was dug into the ground, the handle sticking up at forty-five degrees.’

‘Thrown?’

Morgan nodded. ‘Without doubt.’

Shifting closer, Callan studied the stab wound in the boy’s throat.

‘It doesn’t appear to be a vicious blow,’ he heard Morgan say.

‘No.’

There didn’t appear to be any trauma around the wound, no damaged skin or bruising. It was as if the screwdriver had slid in gently, finding the pliable gap between two cartilaginous ridges in the trachea, nothing unduly violent, no loss of control or wild ferocity about this death. Even the expression on the kid’s face showed no fear, merely an odd, chilling sense of calm.

A camera’s flash and Callan straightened, shielding his eyes from the blinding white light. The last thing he needed was another epileptic fit.

‘You OK, sir?’

‘Sure. I just need a coffee and ten hours’ sleep. I’ll leave you to it, Morgan.’

He suddenly wanted out of this wood. There was something about the denseness of the trees, the constant shifting of shadows as the wind moved the branches, and the smell – damp bark and leaf mulch – that catapulted him back to Sandhurst, back to that night in the woods when Major Nicholas Scott, the father of Jessie Flynn’s deeply traumatized four-year-old patient, Sami, had shot him in the back, when he had nearly died for the second time in his life. Jesus, Ben – he took a breath, trying to ease the pressure in his chest – focus on the fucking case . Stephen Foster, a sixteen-year-old kid, five months in the Army and already dead. There’d be hell to pay for this one.

The room Jessie and Marilyn entered was small and airless. Scuffed baby-pink walls, a burgundy cotton sofa backed against one wall, two matching chairs facing it, a brightly coloured foam alphabet jigsaw mat laid in the middle of the vinyl floor, each letter fashioned from an animal contorting itself into the appropriate shape – an ape for ‘A’, a beetle for ‘B’, a cat for ‘C’. The air stiflingly hot, even though someone had made an effort to ease the pressure-cooker atmosphere by opening the window as far as its ‘safety-first’ mechanism would allow. A fly, seeking escape, circled by the window, cracking its fragile carapace against the glass with each turn.

A chubby, blond-haired baby boy in a white T-shirt and pale blue dungarees was sitting in the middle of the mat, smacking the handset of a Bob the Builder telephone against its base. An elderly lady – late seventies, Jessie guessed – tiny and reed thin, was perched on the edge of the sofa watching the baby. Her hands, clamped on her knees, were threaded with thick blue veins, her skin diaphanous and liver-spotted with age. She had dressed for a formal occasion in a grey woollen tweed skirt, grey tights and a smart white shirt, the shirt’s short sleeves her only visible concession to the day’s unforeseen heat. Her brown lace-ups were highly polished, but the stitching had unravelled from the inside sole of one, the sole cleaving away from its upper.

Starting at the sound of the door, she looked over, her face lighting briefly with a sentiment that Jessie recognized as hope, half rising to her feet before collapsing back, the light dimming, when she realized that it was no one she knew.

‘Mrs Lawson, I’m Detective Inspector Bobby Simmons and this is my colleague, Doctor Jessica Flynn.’

From beneath her silver hair, the old lady’s dull gaze moved from Marilyn to Jessie and back. She made no move to take Marilyn’s outstretched hand.

‘Have you found Malcolm?’

‘Not yet, Mrs Lawson. We need some details from you to help in our search.’

She nodded, murmured, ‘Of course. Whatever you need.’

While Jessie sat down in one of the chairs opposite the sofa, Marilyn moved to stand by the window, reaching behind him to give it a quick upwards heave to see if it would budge, which it didn’t. Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the notes written in the notebook that DS Workman had thrust into his hand a few moments before Jessie had arrived at the hospital.

‘Malcolm’s car? He drives a dark grey Toyota Corolla, registration number LP 52 YBB? Is that correct?’

Mrs Lawson’s gaze found the ceiling as she tried to summon a picture to mind. ‘The colour is right, yes, and the make. I’m pretty sure that the make is right.’ She paused. ‘The registration number … I’m sorry, but would you repeat it.’

‘LP 52 YBB.’

Her eyes rose again. ‘The 52, yes, but the rest … I’m sorry, but I really can’t remember.’

‘We’ve got this information from the DVLA, so it should be accurate.’

‘The car has a baby seat in the back seat, of course, for Harry. Red and black it is. A red and black baby seat.’

Marilyn made a note. ‘Does Malcolm own or have access to any other vehicles?’

She shook her head.

‘Do you have any idea where he could have gone. Any special places that he likes to go? Friends who he could have gone to visit?’

‘He had a few friends, but he lost touch with them after … after Daniel died. He spends all his time looking after Harry.’

‘Pubs? Clubs?’

‘No.’

‘A girlfriend, perhaps?’

‘No. Really, no.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘He wouldn’t stay out all night and he wouldn’t leave Harry like that.’

Jessie leaned forward. ‘Where is Harry’s mother, Mrs Lawson?’

‘She’s … she’s in a home, Doc—’ Her voice faltered. ‘Doctor.’

‘Jessie. Please call me Jessie.’

‘She’s in a home.’

‘A home? A hospital?’ Jessie probed. ‘Is she in a psychiatric hospital?’