She ends the call and puts the phone in her pocket. Matthew’s standing, pulling a note from his wallet to leave for the drinks.
‘So?’
All the colour has drained from Mel’s face. ‘Looks like we may have found the father of Gemma’s child.’
Matthew waits, stomach tightening.
‘Professor Sam Blake. One of Gemma’s English tutors – been found dead at his home.’ She fishes her car keys from her bag as Matthew widens his eyes for more details.
‘Shot.’
CHAPTER 51
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
The pattern of the adrenaline is always the same. A surge on the journey to a crime scene and then another spike when you actually see the body. Matthew is both used to it and paradoxically surprised by it every time.
A professional gear has always seen him through – in the years he was in the force and in his new business since. But always, deep down, there’s that other less predictable response; the human response. Face to face with what one person can do to another.
By the time he’s suited and booted in the white crime-scene paraphernalia, Matthew is perhaps ten minutes behind Mel. From the hallway, he can hear her liaising with the crime-scene manager. She’s requesting backup from the same people who worked at the cathedral nine days back.
Mel glances down at the body on the floor as he takes it in for the first time.
‘Told you it was a nasty one,’ she says.
Nasty is not the word in Matthew’s head. Rage is the word. He takes in the blood and the Halloween horror of the eye socket. The person who did this was, in the moment at least, full of anger beyond anything most people could imagine.
Sam Blake has not only been shot, his head has been bludgeoned so that one side of his face is completely disfigured – the left eye socket smashed in. A truly grotesque mess.
‘Sorry. Could you step left, please?’ A SOCO holding a camera is trying not to sound impatient. Matthew moves. It’s a large bedroom, thankfully, which makes this first assessment just a little easier. From the corner of the room, Matthew glances from the body and the blood-soaked rug beneath it to the bedside cabinet which has a photograph of Sam beaming alongside a woman – presumably his wife.
Matthew leans forward, narrowing his eyes. It’s a holiday snap. Looks like Greece – olive groves in the background. Hummus and tzatziki on the table in front of the couple. The professor is, was, a good-looking man. Strong jaw line. Sandy hair. Grey eyes. His wife’s attractive too. Blonde. Petite. And quite a bit younger.
‘Shot first or hit first?’ Matthew asks.
‘Not sure yet. With so much blood, hard to be sure. Will have to wait for the postmortem.’ Mel is looking at the far wall, the smart, expensive-looking wallpaper splattered with red.
Matthew’s eyes move to the blood-stained statue that lies alongside the body – presumably used to strike him. It’s chunky. Dark green. He looks around the room to see its partner still in place on a shelf just inside the door. Not a statue at all but a heavy bookend in the shape of someone sitting and reading. The books, minus one of their supports, are now sloping at an angle, two very close to falling from the shelf. So the attacker grabbed one bookend on the way in? But why do that if you had a gun?
Matthew is trying to work out if this was someone who knew about the bookends. Or would they catch a stranger’s eye easily?
He looks again at the body. There’s a huge patch of blood soaking the pale-blue shirt at the chest and the rug beneath. The gunshot wound. Sam Blake looks at least six foot. Fit. The position of the body suggests he was facing the door, so facing his attacker. Seems unlikely anyone would risk striking him first. No. Shot first, then hit.
Matthew spends a few more minutes appraising the bedroom and then steps through the hallway to the room opposite. A chill runs instantly through him. It’s a nursery in the making. The cot assembled, complete with mobile. A chair is set up in the corner as if ready for nursing, but the rest of the room is a work in progress. In the corner there are two large boxes – the labels confirming flat-pack furniture. One’s clearly a changing station with drawers. A mat covered in brightly coloured animals is leaning alongside, still in its plastic wrapping.
An image flashes into his mind of Amelie on her changing mat when she was tiny. Skinny legs kicking in frustration. Puce face furious at his fumbling. Sally, help me. I can’t get the new nappy on.
He pushes the image away as Mel walks past him. ‘Meet you outside when you’re ready, Matt?’
‘Sure. What do we know about the wife?’