Bipolar Force

By Ashton Change

Bristol is a city where little happens to calm overzealous DI Alison Harts until she stumbles into a police informant-cum-drug dealer in a bloodbath. Evidence points to gangland turf, until the suspect gang is wiped out in a boat fire. Matters get out of hand when her fellow officers with earlier contact with the slain dealer join fatalities in a car blast that also claims two children. Alison questions the grieving husband of comatose WPC Elaine Morrison, but she is compromised when Ed Morrison himself becomes a moving target of police vendetta. As more officers and associate civilians join the casualties, and the wall of silence becomes even more complicated while separating victims from the culprits.

In an elusive lull that follows, Alison is tipped of a child abuser. She knows that Ed is unhitched and dangerous after losing his family, yet she cannot deny the truth that there has been massive police cover up in an earlier rape of a minor. Then she witnesses two brutal deaths involving divided forces very close to her that might have caused her own demise. Her loyalty is again in question.

As her troubled past comes under scrutiny by the man she has reluctantly woven her future with, she is torn between duty and love. Not long before the bitter truth comes out, and she has to rethink her new life, realising that all along she had known the truth but had chosen to turn a blind eye. But then, the race is on to avert an even worse bloodbath, and she too is seriously in mortal danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491875063

Ashton Change

Ashton Change is a science research writer venturing into fiction. Bipolar Force is his third fiction novel.

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© 2013 by Ashton Change. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/10/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7505-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7506-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Part 1

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Part 2

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Part 3

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

PART 1

BLOODBATH

Prologue

S he could not have walked far. Her high-heel boots could not have endured the walk from the nearest bus stop on Gloucester Road and then along Cornfield Lane to arrive at St George Road. She could have arrived by taxi, of which a few had passed by already. Yet, on she walked seemingly immune to the unexpected summer chill rolling in from the Atlantic with the jet-stream finally decided to turn eastward to assail the South West England in revenge for the earlier ravages of the Caribbean hurricanes.

For a working girl, she did not cut the sorry picture of the usual kerbside peddlers who left behind them whiffs of fragrances for prospective punters to pick and chase after when business was concluded in target locations. This one was an exceptional professional. With each practised step, her heavy beehive jet-black hairdo swayed just above the nape often concealing the face where wide-lens light reaction glasses did not. Her full dress appeared classy for a hooker, although her black leather hand gloves betrayed her intent. Her legs were snuggled into fishnet stockings above the knee-high top-of-the-range black boots. Yet again, she had a sizeable handbag that many would have assumed carried her tools of trade. To top it all, her severe stance was unexpected yet longed for by those ready for alternative gratifications without checking the bill. For all practical purposes, she was a dominatrix and no doubt about it; top of the class, not catalogue orders and kerbside survivors.

The arrival could not have been unexpected of Number Fifteen. As yet, no law had been passed prohibiting the resident from having a good time in whatever way deemed fit. He had his freedom of association to exercise, and his human rights had to be preserved as per the Geneva Convention. But unlike all earlier occasions, it was not any type of blonde that arrived. Yet, few of the neighbours ever cared to the tastes of the punter.

However, the surprise on the host’s face could have communicated to anyone watching that the arrival was totally unexpected. He literally jumped back from the doorway, and the visitor moved in to stake claim of the new domain. The door closed promptly shutting out any envious prying eyes. Thereafter, any wailing from within would not have been answered to as others would have dreaded being the subjects of the domination as much as the pleasure would have been welcome.

‘Whoever you are, I suggest you turn round and leave now,’ said the man when he regained composure.

Three wigs came off then, deliberately calm.

‘Whoever told you I indulge that way ill-advised you.’

The glasses came off in a slow move transferring them into their silver coloured case that disappeared into the large shoulder-bag. The eyes were unusually direct and not challenging.

The host staggered back in belated recognition. It had been just one peep into a locket, but it was enough. He knew that it was no random chance that his expected girl had not arrived, and that there might never be any way of finding out what had happened to her.

‘You can’t be more pathetic. How dare you come here dressed like-?’ Lost for words he waved his hands indicating the visitor who had not said a word or moved away from the door.

Silence held.

‘If you can’t even talk, I guess you can’t even turn round and leave. I will gladly do that for you.’ He advanced towards the door.

‘You should know where to back off.’ The voice was almost like a news bulletin on a transistor—neither threatening nor subservient, and no emotions attached.

‘Oh, it talks?’ he sneered. ‘And why should I back off?’

Silence again. But the host had halted in his stride and his challenge seemed to waver to the steel in the voice. Yet, he was not going to be intimidated in his own house—his legal dwellings. He had already lost his desires and wanted to go out and do some work before he could seek a momentary replacement.

‘I’ll tell you this for free—easy availability comes because there isn’t getting enough at home.’

The eyes should have been enough of answer, and a lesson in the art of leaving a beaten enemy a way out.

But in his regained omnipotent feeling from his worded prowess, he never saw the dangerous sparkle in the eyes of the visitor. In any case, he had already made up his mind. He covered the inter-spacing steps and shoved at the unwelcome visitor, not expecting any resistance. His home advantage as well as stature further outweighed the deficiency in rebuttal vocal argument. So he shoved even harder intent on ridding himself off the interference.

The pummel came up then and fast, almost in a blur. It was delivered with the heel of the palm to the chin. Its force was reinforced by the weight of the ulna-radial lock with humerus propelling the strike like a ramming rod. It almost lifted him off his feet as it catapulted him backwards towards the wall. And then the room plunged into darkness.

The phone started ringing then.

ONE

SUNDAY

T he hours after midnight had a busy quiet that was heightened by the occasional silent footsteps and roller-wheels on the cold linoleum and humming machinery. Then it had gone quiet in the deathly hour when even the watchful had reposed seated in station with the wall or desk for headrest for the graveyard shift.

Staff Nurse Jodie Kruger stirred from a fitful doze to the face of a familiar psychiatric-rehabilitation case looming down on her. The threatening black face with widely flared nostrils below a heavily hooded forehead and deep-set beady red eyes shocked her fully awake in an instant, speeded by a massive thump to her head by the wall as she jerked back. But hospital porter Desmond was not interested in her, though still mesmerised by her nurse cap. Often, he was to be seen spotting one on his thick afro that appeared to resist combing even when wet. To her stern stare, he left with a swagger that highlighted his immense size and broad shoulders.

Jodie had worked at the Accident-&-Emergency wing of the Great Western Royal Infirmary for eight years, gradually rising through ranks. She had no children, and all her time was taken by her career. When Pieter Kruger had dead, their three bedroom semi-detached house in the suburban Tewkesbury-by-Sea had been too large for her. She had tried tenants ready to sign long leaseholds. She had posted strict rules that few would comply with—actually meant to discourage. It had been a lucky shot to get Dickson Jamul whose apparent mature disposition, manners and good hygiene had appealed to her instantly after disappointments with college students. She had also regularly benefited from his taxi services when often he rushed to pick her up from hospital when she worked late. She knew that occasionally he brought a woman to the house, but there was never a time she had met one. She did not mind his lifestyle so long as he kept it that way. Her only dictate was that he left the kitchen and bathroom spotless, dry, and clear. He had complied with the rules when many before him had failed. For that, she had ceded some ground on her strict rules. They had learnt to co-exist.

After a more than active night shift, she arrived home just after seven to a quiet house although Dickson’s white Peugeot was still in the drive.

Unfortunately, the bathroom was not clean that morning. The floor was wet, the floor mats tumbled and soggy. The taps were still dripping, while congealed soap scum clogged the drain hole. Two towels were discarded in one corner, and froth had not been wiped from the wash-hand basin.

Not wanting to raise hell in the early morning, she retired to her bedroom without taking a very necessary bath, knowing that the bathroom would be spic-and-span when she woke up later.

Her wake-up alarm at 10:30 ensured she had time for a bath, a light breakfast, getting dressed and out of the house in time for the 11:00 mass at the nearby Kensington Baptist Church. However, the mess in the bathroom stopped her short. And checking out of the small window, she saw that the car was still in parking. She whirled round in anger and stormed into the hallway towards the smaller bedroom, fuming.

‘Dickson?’ she called out, then followed it with a light rapping on the door.

When she got no reply, she knocked harder, raising her voice to a shout. Decency stopped her from cursing as she continued calling out. But after a minute of trying, she lost her cool. She touched the door lock handle and turned it. She was surprised when it gave in. In the months since Dickson had taken up tenancy, she had not touched the handle. It felt strange to her.

‘Dickson?’ she called out again, hoping the rattling lock would wake him up.

She got no answer. Thus, she pushed the door open to an offensive smell. In the pitch darkness, she could not see much, which prompted her to feel against the wall searching for the light switch.

She froze, and then felt her heart latch all the way to her mouth. She gasped, then cried out before she covered her mouth too late as she voided her stomach the tea and cake she had taken before leaving duty in a continuous spurt out of her mouth as she reeled back, shaking and wetting herself. Something was swallowed and nearly choked her.

Somehow, she managed to scurry out of the room, down the stairs without breaking a foot, and out of the house, forgetting that she had been about to take a bath. The towel she had wrapped around her waist below the nightshirt dropped at the door, leaving her semi-naked. She sat on the floor outside, her right hand clenched to a shaking fist that she used to cover her mouth, her left hand clasped about her chest. The noises she was making were almost animal like.

Soon, shocked neighbours and sympathetic passers-by formed a ring around her. Little could be made of what she was saying, and before anyone offered her any clothing to cover her nakedness, the police arrived.

She was going to miss a most necessary mass.

Alison Harts lived twelve houses down and round-the-corner on the next road from Jodie Kruger’s. Most of her time was spent at work and there was little indication of her career even as she often did more legwork almost like a regular bobby on the beat. Were it not for the heavy paperwork, she knew she could have been teaming up always with the uniformed in order to be in the forefront of fighting crime. It was her therapy to against a backdrop of her bedridden mother’s cancerous pains that had beaten doctors as she had survived yet another year, thanks to private care paid for from a generous alimony and a life insurance.

Alison visited her mother every Sunday afternoon, spending the night in the vacant house she had been brought up in, then resuming duty the following day. That Sunday morning, she was driving back to her house to collect her travel bag. As she neared the turn into her road, she stopped abruptly to the surging mob on the road.

She got out of the unmarked car and edged her way to the centre of the mob dreading another site of blood when she was so set on being on her way to see her mother. Her relieve at the sight of the sobbing semi-naked woman felt like a childbirth that she had never known. She stooped to her to help.

‘Detective Inspector Alison Harts,’ she said in introduction flashing her badge, looking around the crowd again to exert her authority.

‘She needs this,’ said a woman who had come out of the house next door, handing her an overcoat.

Alison took the proffered coat and wrapped it around the sobbing woman. She had recognised her as one of the neighbours, having often driven past her and wondering why she never drove. She had lived long in that street and had known of the death of her husband—actually stopped seeing them together. The present shivering picture almost told her that there would be blood in the house and briefly wondered whether it would be from knife wounds or a rolling pin. Memories of her past came back, days she would go to work without taking bath or breakfast when she would be bundled out into the street.

Soon after, only the three women remained out in the street, and the neighbour invited them to her house. Alison took the sobbing woman’s hand and guided her to the open door, noting how she took a wide berth away from her own door that stood slightly ajar, thanks to a white towel that remained wedged.

Alison watched as the victim dejectedly sipped chilled water that seemed to physically relax her, as downcast eyes studied the borrowed coverings morosely. Alison wondered what else she was seeing in the jacket wrapped about her and the material their host had belatedly brought to use as a dress.

As yet, Alison had no idea of the reason for the public lack of shame although the woman appeared in all manners sane.

‘Now if you don’t mind, tell me why you were outside without-’

She did not complete her question, rather indicating her meaning with a hand that she waved to once up and down. She watched as horror assailed the victim who shrunk again, hunching herself as if to be rid of any connection with the question, or with the inquirer as much as Alison had been helpful.

‘Okay, would you mind telling me your name, then?’ asked Alison realising she had to start with the basics. Seated at her feet, she still had to bend further to peer into the woman’s face.

‘Jodie,’ she answered without elaboration, eyes on the floor, sniffing.

‘And would you mind telling me what has distressed you so much?’

The weeping started then—silent sobs that few could have heard unless if already attuned to them.

‘Jodie, tell me what is the problem. I can help.’

‘There is a dead man in my house.’

Coming from one with a superb medical mind, the cut-and-dry answer could not have been more astute. Her tone was completely divorced from the words and she might have played a recorder.

The unexpected answer jolted Alison backwards and she almost jumped in horror. The friendly neighbour too, was shocked, and she instinctively moved away from the pair to stand next to the wall, almost washing herself off them and whatever had brought them to her house.

It was more than the call of duty that galvanised Alison to action. Luckily, the towel that had dropped off Jodie’s bust was still wedged between the door and the frame. Surreptitiously, she pushed the door wider and stepped into the house, scanning every part from the corridor. Cold courage assailed her and she proceeded to the lounge, past a dining room and a kitchen, and yet she did not find the body.

She checked the rear garden through the kitchen window, and that too was empty. She took to the stairs carefully testing each step at a time looking up towards the landing. The first door she opened hesitantly was the bathroom, which was empty. She proceeded further on, her truncheon now ready. She checked another room, a bedroom that showed evidence of a woman’s readiness for an elaborate bath. Tentatively, she checked about, and even the closet was empty bar the clothing. Another bedroom was also empty, and she felt her heartbeat ease slightly.

Only one door remained and she approached it, tensed again. From that far, she sensed the stench of fear above the vomit. She realised that her body was hot and sweaty, her mouth dry and acrid, and her muscles tensed to near fatigue. She pushed the door open and froze.

In the course of her duties, Alison had come across many casualties. She had been at scenes of accidents, she had seen bodies fished out of the Avon; she had seen blood. She had even been in the force that had been rushed to London after the Seventh Seven bombings. But, she was not ready for the scene that confronted her, and the characteristic acrid stench of dried blood.

She was sweating as she looked at the bed again, her body tergiversate and head turned to the blackened mass.

It was like a sacrifice at an Alter even though based on her scant knowledge of the Bible. The body lay in an improvised trough on the mattress, the edges ridged with the duvet, bed sheet and the pillow at the head. The body had bled nearly all the blood that had congealed around holding it like a frozen chicken leg in sauce. A kitchen knife was still embedded as though to continue with the curving. The hands had been folded palms together prayerfully on the chest as if the victim had been jumped while making peace with his Maker.

A sensation like a tidal wave hit her, and her stomach started heaving.

Five doors away from Jodie’s house on the other side of the road, a man stood in the lounge occasionally following the activities outside with detached amusement. He yawned loudly, feeling his shoulder muscles aching. The long night drive had worn him out, but the desired sleep appeared elusive. He had not felt relaxed after the shared dicing although the cocktail he had downed might have diluted the effect.

The high hedge denied him a good view of the house. He had seen a woman walk up to the house the previous evening. Tall and slim like a typical dominatrix right to her dyed hair, she had appeared to flavour the diversity. One look at the door and he could have sworn the woman had forced the man backwards.

Now another woman had created a scene outside. It was bound to happen.

The neighbour was known for his tastes. His flashy attire had not deceived all, nor his attempts at being friendly and neighbourly—things totally foreign to the true English at heart. He had known that it wouldn’t be long before something drastic happened to expose him.

He knew that the police would be calling on him later, and he made his own arrangements. His history with old bill was a chequered one, but often they had been on the same side. He would never forget the face of the cab driver chasing him and the police in the car looking down on to him. He had been surprised at the coincidence of the neighbour’s presence at the station when he had been nicked. Grassing was unforgivable.

He hoped that whatever had happened had not heralded his plans. Until the matter had been resolved, there had been too many in the taking and the infinitesimal loss of income was not in his taste.

‘Louise?’ he thundered.

Timid footsteps padded from an upstairs bedroom to bare wooden floor boards in the corridor.

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Twelve-year old Beryl Wilkes stood behind the window of the tiny Northwest facing bedroom looking outside. It was her favourite spot and her link with the outside world.

Directly below the bedroom was the lounge and she could hear voices of the women seated in the front garden of the next door Number Ten. The benefits of long hours of summer sunshine had bypassed her, except for the heat and the warmth of clothes that her younger siblings would bring from their rear garden and she had pressed them to her face. She only left that spot at the window to go to the bathroom or to the kitchen, or when her mother Susan told her to stand by the door waiting for her return. She never met new people, always scampering upstairs to the bedroom even when her younger siblings had the odd friend visiting, which was quite rare. Yet, little that happened along the St. German’s Road escaped her. The sequence of the cars that drove past her window kept her attuned to the noises and life outside. She had learnt the patterns of a few faithful ones, and often stood by the window waiting until they drove past. She knew well over half of the residents of and the regular visitors to the twenty six houses on the other side of the road and three nearest neighbours on her side of the road. She never left the house; for three years, she had remained indoors.

She was already feeling the effects of sleeplessness. She had been in bed when the noises had awakened her late into the night. She had listened to the bickering, then the slaps. The weeping had proceeded to the bedroom, and the noises in the kitchen had ceased. She could not tell how long after it had been when the bedroom door had been opened.

She had been up from 5:30 to the sound of the alarm. The breakfast, as usual, had been ready by six. The bath had been just warm enough, and the kitchen had been mopped by seven. Hers was not just slave labour in the capitalist West, it was like an office with any conceivable department and she the sole labourer.

Her ordeal had started four years before. She had been hurt on a Saturday afternoon at the rear of the Stapleton Hill council tenement that had been home then. She had been lured to the secluded end of the property between a large metal skip and the building. The offer of sweets had been too much to resist and she had wanted to give them to her brothers. Then just a child, she had known little of what had happened thereafter, and even the present was still one continuous blur of hurt. This was not helped by the fact that her mother was none the better off to offer succour or console.

Beryl knew no peace apart from watching over her sibling brothers.

Only a very observant person could occasionally have spied on Beryl lurking behind the curtains of window of the bedroom. And one such person was forty-six year old Russell Goss. And presently, he had a pair of high-power binoculars trained to the window and following her movements about. He knew every feature of her body. He had been observing her for over a year since he had received the windfall to secure mortgage for the Number Five. It was the closest he could get. And from his position, he had seen all he had wanted to, and more.

He picked up his mobile phone and laboriously dialled the number long committed to memory.

‘Talk.’

‘Subject in place, not much change . . .’

‘Good work,’ said the recipient.

Russell retreated to his bedroom and sat down again. He missed active life. He hated the confinement. He switched on the TV to the news of more house repossessions that heightened his distress. He counted his podgy fingers and grimaced. He still had many years to dance to the tune of his piper, and that was not very agreeable.

There had to be another way.

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Outside the Gare du Nord terminus, the mid morning sunshine was already hot to warrant a few bare-chest and scrimp-dress competitions. Throngs of travellers jammed the gangways and lifts, and more were arriving.

There was a queue as the continental coaches took up positions that would lead them to the different floors where they would be disgorging their passengers while others boarded.

The earliest channel crossing Eurostar whistled into its the allocated platform just before nine. One passenger was still asleep as the train came to a halt, and did not stir as the carriage emptied.

The attendant arrived with staccato of high-heels tapping that seemed to stir the sleeping passenger whose bleary eyes told all the fatigue.

‘Sorry, I must have dozed off,’ said the passenger extending the tickets for inspection.

‘We have arrived in Paris already.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ she looked sympathetically then continued on down the aisle.

The passenger waited until the attendant disappeared to the next carriage before closing the aisle to retrieve a bag that disappeared into a larger travel bag, then walked out of the train. There still was another long journey to make.

TWO

D I Harts was thankful that she had skipped breakfast that morning, and that she had not taken any coffee at work. As she got violently sick, not much escaped to contaminate the crime scene, and the bile that welled up she quickly saved and wiped from her mouth with her uniform as she backed out of the room. When she felt okay, she went to the kitchen and rinsed her mouth, then drunk some water straight from the tap. She took some kitchen towels and wiped the specks of semi-solids from her shoes, pocketed the lumps of paper then straightened her uniform and went to the lounge.

She called the station and reported a homicide.

She collected a blue-and-white police tape from her car and marked out the circumferences of the front and rear gardens. As an afterthought, she added more tape from one corner of the house to the car, round it and back to the other corner of the house. She stood in the perimeter thinking of the meaning of the violence so near her house, yet she would not have known about.

When she went to the next-door neighbour’s kitchen again, it was apparent that the scene in Jodie’s house had shocked her too. She accepted a cup of tea without looking at either, then moved to stand at the window looking out to the garden. Instinctively, a chill ran through her spine and she shivered visibly, transmitting her fear to the other two who had been eyeing her. Feeling the alienation that the two seemed to have forged against her in her absence, she went out of the house to wait for back-up.

More police officers arrived immediately amid flashing lights and further secured the road. A team of scene-of-crime investigation officers also arrived and consultations commenced followed by further planning and coordination.

When processing the crime scene finally started, it became like a beehive. The forensic scientists went about collecting every bit of evidence that they put in self-seal sample bags. The photographer followed them flashing every item being tagged. Fingerprint experts were dusting every surface, often stopping to look closely before marking the spots. The car, too, was being dusted. The backyard was also under tooth-comb brushing, officers on all four working their way towards the distal wall.

The coroner was in the lounge waiting. He had been to the bedroom, looked at the body without enthusiasm, then backed out without disturbing it. His mind was not on the body; Sunday was not his day. He was on his sixth of his allocated ten noxious cigarettes of the day, and he wondered how he would handle the day thereafter. Once finished, he went back to the bedroom and joined the lot that included a pathologist.

‘Quite some way for a grand entrance to your sanctuary, Davis,’ mused the coroner who was on first name with the pathologist.

‘Saves the trouble of draining.’

They stood eyeing the body, immune to the stench of vomit, urine, blood and death.

A morgue assistant arrived, and removal work commenced. He switched on a recorder, then unzipped the body bag with such melodrama that everyone in the room turned towards him. Yet, his girth and height were like a wall—he was so large that as he stood by the bed, the others had to squeeze at the ends to see what was going on. His energy and vitality matched his size too. He had brought the trolley up the stairs on his own without breaking a sweat. Had it been in the privacy of the morgue, he might have carried the body slang over his shoulder—he never reacted to the cold or the stench.

The coroner certified death from multiple stabbings to the torso and neck. He identified the murder weapon still embedded to its hilt into the victim’s buccal-nasal cavities. Unconsciously, he bent the handle to check for the knife entry and there was a sickening twang as it sprang back, spraying some blood out. When everyone about the bed settled back, he physically exerted himself as he pulled the knife out—lifting the head off the pillow, to which the huge mortician moved fast to hold down.

The room had fallen into disquiet as the news sunk. Whoever the victim had offended had really overdone it.

The body was then transferred into a body bag for removal. Busy silence enveloped the whole house despite the myriad of works going on.

Outside along the street, teams of police officers were on routine systematically questioning the neighbours about the happenings the previous evening.

‘Good morning, Sir?’ asked a policewoman.

The man did not reply as he looked down on her with derision. His smile was enough answer that he would not be helping in any way.

‘You may be aware of the unfortunate accident in the neighbourhood. We are trying to establish the movements of the victim. Could you have seen him at any time yesterday,’ she asked hopefully.

‘No,’ he answered, then moved to close the door.

‘Thank you,’ said the officer as she stepped back, her eyes looking for anything to guide her. She bowed, then retreated disturbed. She noted the house number and drew a circle round it as she walked to the next door.

WPC Lisa Webb never trusted men. She had seen the girlish pair of shoes.

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Elaine Morrison sat rigid at the kitchen table listening to the news on the radio. Even though off-duty, she was stiff with tension and alert as though she was in a police car responding to an emergency. The news on the TV of a third plane clash inside a month, although on the other side of the Atlantic, had been repeated over and over again until she had gone numb with worry. She knew that worrying only made her worse, yet she could not help it. She hated every moment she was alone with her children, especially when their silence literary asked her when daddy would be home.

The phone rang five times before she heard it. She had been looking out to the back garden where the girls had been playing since early morning. They had only been back to the house for drinks, then back to their games. She felt guilty that they did not play with her any more, made worse by the knowledge that had Ed been home, either he would have been with them in the garden, or they would have gone visiting somewhere, or they would be in the house doing some activity together. As much as her career has been all about teamwork, she had been unable to take her experiences back home.

Before she could pick up the phone, it stopped ringing. She sighed, wishing that Ed was more communicative. She had given up trying to reform him, resigned that he would never use the phone to tell her anything. Years before when he had first told her he would rather travel for miles to talk with her than make a call, she had been happy that he was only looking for excuses to see her. On sharing her trials with colleagues at work, they had looked over to her and kept quiet, and the story had not been repeated thereafter. But over the years, she had found that Ed had been true—he never made phone calls unless it was absolutely necessary. That was why she did not bother to check who had been calling her. She thought she already knew . . .

She had her share of admirers, true to the saying about uniform and physical attraction. Jim had been more than ardent as much as she had told him that theirs would never be more than professional relationship. Yet, each day he had been there by her side praising and complimenting her, telling her just what she wanted to hear. But she had been through that and known the pains of having and not holding on to. Just one afternoon had wrecked her life. She had lived with the pain for too long—the secret eating her like cancer. That would be coming to an end soon, she promised defiantly, just as her alienation from her children.

She left the house and walked to the garden with purpose. Almost as if sensing her mood, the children stopped playing, instead looked at her waiting. Elaine realised that her children always had that waiting to exhale pose with her. She went down onto her knees with arms open. Instead of the hoped for leaping into her arms, they clasped their hands and walked to her like repentant serial offenders. She could not understand them as she never raised her voice at them, while Ed was the one she often clipped for the occasional slap and loud words, yet they always went back to him. They never even came to her for comforting when Ed made them cry, instead begging him to cuddle them.

‘We’re going to see Nan, dears, so let’s get ready,’ she said, fighting the disappointment in her as she tried to carry both back to the house. She could feel the tenseness in their tiny bodies.

She took them to the bathroom. As she bathed them, she felt lots she had missed in the gone two years. It was true that her career had picked up, and she had been more active and happy. But she had lost her family.

The feeling of loss did not leave her as she drove to her parents’ house.

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‘We shall cater for hotel accommodation until your house is cleared,’ said Alison to Jodie who was lying on the sofa, unmoving. She had been the unofficial family liaison officer.

‘I have a spare bedroom if it is okay,’ offered the good neighbour who had not yet heard another word from Jodie. She looked back at Alison and raised her shoulders uncommitted.

‘Jodie?’ coaxed Alison.

Jodie had heard all they had been saying, but her mouth was not responding. Tears flowed again and she covered her head with the shawl she had been lent.

At length, Jodie was assisted back to her house by Alison. Going up the stairs was too much for her, so Alison did it. In the bedroom, she parked a bag of clothes and toiletries, lingering on some items. Once finished, she went to the next bedroom and looked about not sure what she was expecting to find. Defeated, she sighed and went back to the lounge and again led Jodie to the neighbour’s house—the elderly woman she had not been talking to previously.

‘How long have you known the deceased?’ asked Alison, taking notes.

‘He moved in at the beginning of the year. About seven months.’ Jodie had finally calmed down and was more objective.

‘Do you know anyone who could have-’

It was still raw for both. All Jodie did was shake her head, looking decidedly away from Alison to the kitchen where her host had chosen to hide.

‘Do you know his previous addresses?’

‘Yes.’

‘I will need to check them later.’

For answer, Jodie nodded absent-mindedly, wishing to be rid off Alison. She was wondering why the murder had broken her down whereas she had witnessed deaths on daily basis without being moved.

Alison was still in office at 10:30. She had not had dinner yet, being content with two litres of mineral water she had drunk. The punishing bladder kept her attuned to her work. She had even forgotten the obligatory tablet.

She had landed the job of leading the investigations into Dickson’s murder as she had already taken enough details and compiled a series of leads. She sat back and read her report again.

"Most likely, the assailants had been welcomed into the house without any violence (no CCTV along the road). Information gathered from the neighbours offered little extra information, apart from the fact that the white car had been in parking from earlier evening, but the times given differed by two hours. No one had definitely seen Dickson come back.

"From the list of items missing (laptop, mobile phones, and perhaps light valuables?), it could be a robbery gone wrong. Drawers emptied, suggesting certain items may have been removed. But what had been taken?

"Jodie (landlady) to provide details of the lease agreement, and the list of previous addresses that Dickson had lived in. Further task to visit the previous residences that Dickson had lived in, to contact the present and any traceable occupants and flatmates to assist in building up his history.

"Next, Jodie asked to forward Dickson’s mail (phone bills, bank statements, personal) arriving at the address.

"Who would kill Dickson, and why the torture? It was likely to be someone or people he knew. An immigrant could have been manipulated for any number of reasons by the right people. He had no known relations, and as far