27
Daniels waited until Gormley had followed her into the office then shut the door. He went and sat near the open window, waiting patiently as she made them both a coffee and took it over to him. Not entirely sure where to begin, she sat down at her desk and chose the indirect route.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘Does it hurt?’ Gormley joked.
‘You know, sometimes it actually does.’ She was stalling, not wanting to give him the bad news about Ivy Kerr, knowing how he was likely to react when he heard what had happened to her and when. ‘This old guy who lives next door to the crime scene, George Milburn? Anyone managed to see him yet, take his statement?’
‘Only Stanton . . .’ Gormley said. ‘The old guy is as dead as a post.’
‘What?’ Daniels put her coffee down, a worried look on her face. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. Heart failure, according to Stanton. He did the PM first thing, rang me when he noticed the address was so close to our crime scene.’ Gormley sighed. ‘Coincidence, I reckon. Just his turn to go. Either that or the upset of the fire killed him. Unless of course he’s a dab hand with a petrol can. You think it’s possible to die of a guilty conscience?’
‘You serious?’ she said, looking worried. She glanced down at the murder file she’d just completed. Another dead perpetrator would finish her off.
‘Why not? Elderly doesn’t mean incapable of murder. I’ve met some grumpy old gits in my time. My old man, for starters. He’d have killed me with his bare hands if he thought he could get away with it. Was that why you wanted to see me? About Milburn?’
He waited.
It was obvious she was holding back.
‘You don’t miss much, do you, Hank?’ And still she hesitated. ‘We’ve got another murder case on our hands: Ivy Kerr, woman in her late eighties.’
The name meant nothing to him. Why should it? A crash site in the pissing rain was hardly the place to get properly acquainted.
‘When did that come in?’ he queried. ‘There was nothing on the incident log this morning. I looked.’
‘I withheld it, wanted to talk to you first.’
Hank’s face paled as she filled him in on the grim details of Ivy Kerr’s death. He didn’t need accident investigators to draw him any pictures. He’d witnessed the mayhem with his own eyes. Daniels had worked out who Ivy was from the ages of the victims on the RTA report. There had been no other elderly women involved. Ivy had to have been the old lady she’d seen Hank speaking to at the scene.
The news hit him hard. At first he didn’t seem to grasp what she was saying. Then, as the information began to sink in, it was as if he’d been punched, a body-blow from someone twice his size. His head went down and his shoulders slumped. When he looked up, his jaw bunched and his eyes were filled with hatred, not all of it directed outwards. It was obvious he blamed himself for Ivy’s fate. He couldn’t get over the fact that he’d actually been standing metres away, probably only minutes before she was bludgeoned to death.
‘It’s despicable,’ Daniels said.
‘She was alive,’ Gormley said. ‘Alive. She looked at me, Kate. Smiled almost, relieved that someone was helping her, except they weren’t, were they? Jesus Christ, what kind of animal could do such a thing?’
He lit a cigarette, took the smoke deep into his lungs and stared across the room at her. She didn’t ask him to put it out. By the look on his face, he needed it. For a while they sat in silence, instinct reminding them of an impossible task ahead. Apart from those directly involved in the accident, scores of people had gone to the casualties’ aid. Dozens of emergency service personnel: police, fire, medical. Then there were the civilians who’d left their homes and cars. To help. To gawp. Probably a bit of both. No forensics had been retained. To make matters worse, Ivy’s car had caught fire and had to be hosed down by the fire service, which meant it would be doubly difficult to find any evidence.
‘What a ’mare.’ Gormley flicked the cigarette butt out the window.
‘Everyone at the crash site needs interviewing,’ Daniels said, trying to drag him from his reverie and propel him into action. ‘The car’s gone off for forensic examination, for what good it’ll do. I’ve got a feeling this one’s going to run and run.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Gormley snapped.
She knew he meant it. It was unlike Hank to let a case get to him. But this was no ordinary case. He’d work day and night to take this bastard down. Draining her coffee, she signed off on the outstanding murder file and called Robson’s extension, asking him to collect it from her desk.
‘Make sure it’s transported in a police car directly to headquarters,’ she told him. She hung up, checked her watch. God! She was jaded already and it was just gone ten. She stood up. ‘We’d better get going, Hank. The guv’nor’s waiting and I need to brief the squad.’
‘I’ll be right along.’ Gormley picked up her phone. ‘Long story. I’ve got to call my mum.’