On Cold Ground (Detective Karen Hart) Page 18

  As Karen locked the car, her relief gave way to a new creeping feeling of dread. She couldn’t explain it.

  She studied the quaint red-brick bungalow. It looked the same as always. Tidy, well kept. The light from the lounge illuminated the bare front flower beds with a yellow glow. If the lights were on and he was home, then why wasn’t he answering his phone?

  Her footsteps crunched across the gravel as she walked up to the front door. As she got closer, she saw the door was ajar. The feeling of dread multiplied a millionfold.

  Scanning the area, she reached into her bag for her personal alarm. Should she go to the neighbours? Call for help from there? But maybe he’d left the door ajar himself. Perhaps Anthony had taken a bag out to the bin and . . .

  She pushed the door wide. ‘Anthony?’

  Silence.

  ‘Anthony. It’s Karen.’ She stepped into the hall.

  The place felt still, unnaturally so. It was quiet – so quiet she could hear the gentle tick-tock of the carriage clock in the lounge. It had been part of Anthony’s retirement gift, and he proudly displayed it on the mantelpiece.

  She stepped into the lounge and felt some of the tension in her muscles ease. The lamp gave the room a cosy glow. Anthony’s easy chair was beside the fire. His reading glasses were on top of the newspaper he’d put aside, on the footstool. The fire was burning cheerfully. The gold-coloured carriage clock sat, as usual, in the centre of the mantelpiece. A strip of green, frosted with fake snow and tied with Christmassy red ribbons, decorated the top of the fireplace. A small artificial tree stood in the corner of the room, its colourful lights twinkling.

  Maybe Anthony was in the kitchen. Perhaps he had headphones on, and that was why he hadn’t heard her calling him.

  She turned to leave the room, and then stopped as her heart missed a beat. Behind the sofa, she saw his arm.

  He must have fallen. Had a heart attack or a stroke. Karen fumbled for her phone as she darted forward, but when she reached the sofa, she stopped.

  No. No. No.

  This couldn’t be real. It was a nightmare. It had to be. She curled her hands into fists, her fingernails digging hard into her palms, willing herself to wake up.

  Though her eyes took in Anthony sprawled out on the floor, his forehead a bloody mess, her brain refused to process it.

  She dropped to her knees beside him, and gently touched his face. ‘Boss?’

  She shuddered at the red line that encircled his neck. He was still warm. He could be alive. She needed to get her act together. She felt for a pulse. Nothing. He wasn’t breathing.

  His face was wet. Water, not blood. Why? Then she realised it was her tears. She was crying over him, contaminating the crime scene like a civilian, a rookie. What was wrong with her?

  She grabbed her phone, but the stupid thing refused to work. With a sudden flood of rage, she threw it across the room. Then lunged for the landline phone on the windowsill.

  Karen spoke to the emergency services operator in a rush, giving the details. Then left the phone connected as she tilted Anthony’s chin, and tried to breathe air back into his lungs.

  Deep down, she knew it was too late, but she couldn’t give up if there were the smallest chance . . .

  She fiercely wiped away the tears that refused to stop coming, then performed chest compressions. ‘Please, boss. Please . . .’ she said over and over again, as she tried desperately to bring him back to life.

  His chest lifted and fell as she forced oxygen into his lungs. But it wasn’t helping. She’d lost him.

  Her mentor, her confidant, her stalwart supporter, her friend.

  He had called her, and she hadn’t reached him soon enough. She’d let him down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Karen didn’t stop trying to revive Anthony until the first responders arrived. They guided her gently away from his lifeless body and took her into the kitchen. She wasn’t sure how long she sat on the stool beside the breakfast bar. It could have been minutes or hours. The bungalow gradually filled with people.

  One of the crime scene techs had come into the kitchen and asked for her clothes, giving her a white paper forensic suit to wear in exchange. She shivered. The suit was thin, and the front door was open, letting in the frigid night air.

  ‘Karen?’

  She turned and saw Morgan, who was wearing a similar suit but still had his clothes on underneath. He looked at her with concern.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’ Morgan frowned as he came closer.

  ‘I shouldn’t have touched the body, other than to determine he was dead. But I so wanted to believe I could save him. I had to try.’

  ‘DS Hart, are you ready?’ This time they both turned and saw a short woman, one of the crime scene team. She held a test kit in her gloved right hand.

  Karen said she was, and the woman proceeded to scrape under her nails. Then she took swabs from her skin. The swab from Karen’s cheek came away red. Blood. Anthony’s blood. Karen felt a wave of pity mixed with fury. How could she have been so stupid?

  Voices carried through from the living room. She recognised one of them as belonging to Raj, the pathologist.

  Karen slid off the stool. ‘I need to speak to Raj, to apologise.’

  Morgan put a hand on her shoulder. ‘No, you don’t. I’m going to take you home.’

  Karen tensed. ‘I’m staying on this case.’ She glared at him, daring him to try to convince her otherwise, but he didn’t.

  ‘We’ll leave your car here, and I’ll take you home. I’ll ask one of the uniforms to drop your car off later.’ He put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I can handle this, Morgan.’ She shrugged him off.

  He looked at her for a long moment, not saying anything. ‘You need to go home. Shower, get some sleep. Tomorrow, if you want to stay on the case, you’ll need to impress the super, show her you can cope.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Trust me. You’re not.’

  The fight deserted her. She didn’t have the energy to argue.

  They left the kitchen just as one of the crime scene technicians mentioned a letter. Karen stopped abruptly. ‘The Cleanser left a letter here?’ She hadn’t seen it.

  ‘You can look at it tomorrow,’ Morgan said.

  ‘What does it say?’

  His face was blank.

  ‘Morgan, please!’

  He didn’t reply. So Karen walked into the living room and up to the crime scene technician, who was holding the note in a plastic evidence bag.

  She held out her hand. The technician shot a look at Morgan, who nodded. Karen read the note quickly.

  I did warn you this one would be closer to home. DCI Anthony Shaw has been cleansed of sin. His guilt was a heavy burden. During his time in the police force, he took multiple bribes, purposefully left violent crimes unsolved, and destroyed evidence. He drank to try to ease his guilt, to free him of his demons, but it didn’t work. But now, thanks to me, he is finally absolved, free of sin.

  The Cleanser.

  Karen felt sick. She pressed a hand to her stomach and handed the evidence bag back to the technician. ‘It isn’t true.’

  ‘I know,’ Morgan said, reaching for her arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked outside. Karen was trembling, partly due to the freezing temperature and partly from shock. Once inside Morgan’s car, Karen buckled her seatbelt and Morgan put the heaters on high.

  She couldn’t stop shivering. ‘I can’t believe Anthony was killed by the same person who killed Lloyd Nelson and Laurel Monroe.’

  ‘He was strangled, and his forehead was marked.’

  ‘But he wasn’t corrupt,’ Karen said through chattering teeth. ‘Not Anthony. I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘I know.’ Morgan began to reverse, carefully manoeuvring the car past a marked vehicle.

  ‘Are you just saying that to make me feel better because you think it’s what I wan
t to hear?’

  ‘No, Karen. I’m saying it because I think all three of these letters are filled with lies. We haven’t been able to verify any of the allegations.’

  ‘But why?’ She bowed her head, clutching her hands together in her lap, and tried to stop shivering. ‘He was so proud of his career. Why would they try to destroy his memory?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Morgan said as he turned on to Lincoln Road.

  Karen’s head felt fuzzy. She pushed a hand through her hair. ‘Why were you there tonight?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why were you at Anthony’s? The super took you off the case.’

  He shrugged. ‘The duty sergeant called me. Told me you were there. I came for you.’

  ‘Because you thought I’d fall to pieces?’

  ‘Because I thought you’d need a friend.’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’ Karen turned her head and looked out of the window.

  Morgan said, ‘I acted as duty SIO. I wanted to get you out before Churchill arrived. It’s his case, and he’ll be throwing his weight around as soon as he gets there, and I thought you could probably do without that on top of everything else.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll still have to talk to him tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, not much I can do about that. Unless . . .’ He glanced at her. ‘You could take a few days’ leave.’

  ‘No. I’m fine. I can handle Churchill.’

  Morgan pulled on to Karen’s drive, stopped the car and looked at her. ‘Will you be all right?’

  But Karen was focused on the black Lexus parked in front of her house. ‘That’s Mike’s car. He’s here?’

  ‘I called him. I didn’t think you should be alone tonight.’

  ‘Right.’ She fumbled for the door handle.

  ‘Karen?’ She turned. His face, usually so hard to read, reflected his concern. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for everything you did tonight.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me.’

  Her body felt stiff and heavy with exhaustion as she got out of the car. A fierce gust of wind swirled around the vehicle and hit her like a blast straight from the Arctic.

  Her front door opened before she reached it. Mike. He’d been watching out for her. His dog, Sandy, sat obediently by his feet.

  She turned and waved to Morgan before stepping inside. Mike shut the door and encircled her with his arms. She relaxed against his warm, solid chest as he held her tightly.

  He didn’t bother her with questions. He didn’t ask how she was, which was good because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to speak.

  Sandy nuzzled against Karen’s leg. She reached down to fuss over her.

  After a few moments, they walked into the kitchen. There was a pot simmering on the hob, a smell of garlic in the air. Mike tore off some kitchen roll, wetted it and then dabbed at her cheek. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘It’s not my blood.’

  He looked up at the ceiling, blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry this happened . . . I’ve made you dinner.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘I know you’re going to say you’re not hungry, but you need to eat something.’

  ‘What I need is a glass of wine.’

  ‘I picked some up on my way over.’ He gestured to the opposite counter where there were two bottles of red, next to the spare key Karen had given him a few weeks ago.

  ‘Thanks.’ She attempted a smile. ‘I’m going to take a shower first, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll pour the wine, and dinner should be ready by the time you’re finished.’

  Upstairs, she stripped off the paper suit and turned on the taps. Leaning against the basin, she glanced at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Mike had wiped off most of the blood.

  Her eyes were wide and staring and her skin was pale. If only she’d got Anthony’s message sooner . . .

  She shut her eyes. She was glad Morgan had called Mike, glad she hadn’t come home to a cold, empty house.

  Morgan wasn’t keen on Mike, and yet he’d called him because he wanted what was best for Karen. He was a good friend. He’d also protected her from Churchill’s inquisition tonight. She’d still have to face him tomorrow, but now she had time to prepare, to calm down, and would be able to handle him. She pushed away from the sink and got in the shower.

  She turned the temperature up as hot as she could bear it, and gradually felt the heat push out the coldness that seemed to have settled in her bones.

  As she reached for the shampoo, she thought about the contents of the letter. The accusation of corruption made her feel physically sick. The suggestion that Anthony was part of the network of shady officers operating within the force was a real kick in the teeth, as Karen had been so invested in tracking them down.

  She didn’t believe for a second that Anthony was involved.

  Now she’d never know what he’d wanted to tell her tonight. She stopped lathering up the shampoo and thought back. She hadn’t told Morgan about the message, and thanks to her ridiculous fit of temper, she didn’t have her phone. It must still be on the floor of Anthony’s living room, now evidence in the investigation, part of the crime scene.

  A wave of sadness overwhelmed her, and as the water streamed over her head, washing away the suds, she let the tears come too. It was an indulgence. She would be sad tonight, cry for Anthony and drink too much wine, but tomorrow she needed to be back on it.

  She needed to prove to the superintendent that she could handle the case, because she was determined to put this twisted criminal, who’d killed her friend, behind bars.

  After her shower, she pulled on clothes, the first thing she found in the chest of drawers – a white T-shirt and yoga pants – then went downstairs to Mike. They sat at the kitchen table and drank wine and ate pasta.

  When the food was gone, they took the second bottle of wine into the living room.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Not now.’

  He sat on the sofa and lifted his arm so she could nestle in beside him. He smelled familiar and comforting. Christian Dior aftershave and soap.

  Sandy settled on the floor close to them.

  ‘Do you want to watch something. Maybe listen to music?’ Mike asked as he topped up their glasses.

  ‘TV, something mindless,’ Karen said.

  Mike grabbed the remote and selected a romcom movie on Netflix. She knew he’d picked it for her, thinking it was something she’d like, and though she wasn’t a big fan of romcoms, she appreciated the thought.

  Karen let the noise wash over her, and stared at the screen without really seeing. Her mind was in the past, focused on memories of DCI Anthony Shaw.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The bedroom was dark when Karen woke. She reached for her phone, intending to check the time, and fumbled for it on the nightstand, nearly knocking over a glass of water, before remembering.

  Memories of last night came flooding back.

  Mike was sleeping soundly beside her, so she got out of bed quietly and headed to the bathroom. Sandy, who’d heard Karen moving about, bounded up the stairs to greet her.

  She stopped to stroke Sandy and decided the unconditional affection was just what she needed right now. Karen’s mouth was sour from too much wine, and her head ached, but Sandy’s eager greeting eased some of the pain.

  After getting showered and dressed, Karen headed downstairs and switched on the light in the kitchen. The illuminated digital display on the microwave told her it was a quarter to eight. Late. Too late to ask Morgan for a lift.

  Her car had been dropped off last night, but she wasn’t going to drive this morning. She’d had too much to drink last night.

  She made a pot of coffee and stood by the kitchen counter, looking out at the dark garden. After staring out at the frost-covered trees for a few minutes, she made herself move. This was no time for
moping and feeling sorry for herself.

  She picked up the landline phone and then realised she hadn’t memorised Rick’s number. There were very few numbers she knew by heart – her parents’ home telephone number and her dad’s mobile number, which hadn’t changed in over twenty years, and of course, Anthony’s. She had to turn on her laptop to access her contacts to get Rick’s number.

  By the time Rick pulled up outside, Mike had surfaced. As he poured a mug of coffee, Karen kissed him on the cheek and said goodbye. She gave Sandy a final pat on the head and headed off to work.

  Karen tried to tell herself this was just another day on the job, but her churning stomach was not solely due to the amount of wine she’d consumed last night.

  ‘All right, Sarge?’ Rick asked as she got in the car. ‘I heard what happened last night. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ Karen said, putting her handbag in the footwell and then fastening the seatbelt.

  ‘It must’ve been awful for you. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘You can help me find the evil sod who did it.’

  Rick drove back to the main road. He was quieter than usual and a bit tentative around Karen. He was treating her with kid gloves, and she knew it would be the same when they got to the station. Furtive glances. Whispered comments. Pitying shakes of the head. But it wasn’t their fault.

  ‘This is personal. The Cleanser did this to hurt us,’ Rick said. ‘I heard there was a letter?’

  Karen gave him a sideways glance. ‘Where did you hear that? Were you at the scene last night?’

  ‘No. Sophie told me. She texted me this morning. She wasn’t gossiping . . . She was concerned about you, said you’d be upset.’

  ‘Well, of course I’m upset, but I don’t want you tiptoeing around me. That doesn’t help.’

  ‘Do you think the super will want more manpower on the case now? She might let me and Morgan transfer back on to the murders?’ Rick asked, and he slowed the car to a crawl as they reached the traffic backed up before the new roundabout.

  ‘I doubt she’ll let Morgan transfer. Not after he was named in one of the letters.’