‘Hang on, what was that?’ Dawson asked, grabbing the mouse from Bryant’s hand.
Bryant frowned. He hadn’t seen anything.
‘Watch this,’ Dawson said, going back to the point Bryant had chosen but set to play at a slower speed.
‘See that?’ he asked.
Bryant shook his head.
‘Look again. A second before Marie enters the car park.’
Bryant leaned forward and for the first time didn’t focus on their witness.
‘A flash,’ he said.
Dawson nodded as he rewound again.
‘A torch?’ Bryant asked.
Dawson shook his head. ‘Too quick. Didn’t Henryk say something about the attacker wanting him to close his eyes. Could it be linked to that?’
‘Not a clue,’ Bryant said, dumbfounded. Interesting, but it still gave them nothing further in being able to identify the perpetrator.
‘We need a better shot of him,’ Bryant said. ‘The camera at the end of the high street didn’t pick him up in the time frame, and there’s no footage of him at the bus station. So, what’s left?’
‘The church,’ Dawson said. ‘He must have cut through the graveyard.’
Bryant agreed. Not a popular route in the dark, but attractive if you were on the run.
‘So, what’s on the other side of the church?’ Bryant asked, forcing his colleague to interact.
‘Traffic cameras, both sides of the road,’ Dawson said, excitedly.
They swapped to another menu and found the area they wanted.
Dawson typed in the time, and waited.
They both stared hard at the screen. Nothing.
‘Try the other one,’ Bryant said.
Dawson flicked to the other camera, and gasped. There he was.
They’d got the figure of a man walking at speed towards the camera, and watched as he continued to come close. But his head remained bowed.
Dawson squinted at the screen, and frowned. ‘He’s looking at his phone.’
‘What the hell for?’ Bryant asked. ‘He’s just beat a man almost to death.’
‘Well, he’s not hunting bloody Pokémon,’ Dawson replied.
Bryant sat back in his chair. ‘This guy has just beaten someone to within an inch of their life and literally two minutes later he’s checking Facebook. What the?—’
Bryant stopped speaking as his phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognise.
‘Bryant,’ he answered.
‘It’s Keats,’ the voice said. ‘Your boss seems to be tied up on something else so I’m coming to you. I’ve got a body ? and I can tell you now, it isn’t pretty.’
THIRTY-THREE
Stacey adjusted the satchel across her body as the bus pulled away.
The doubt was already crawling all over her, and right now she had no idea whether to listen to it or shoo it away. She was very rarely out in the field and never without direct instruction from her boss, or someone else higher up.
Somehow, it felt both wrong and right at the same time. Wrong that no one knew where she was or what she was doing, but right that she was acting on a compulsion in her belly.
There was no obvious crime; Justin Reynolds had definitely committed suicide, but there was something in his letter that would not let her go. She knew she could be courting trouble for herself. She didn’t know how Kim would react and had been fighting that thought throughout the bus journey.
But, wasn’t this what she’d been trained to do? she asked herself as she turned into Aston Drive.
Only when she saw the small, tidy, semi-detached property did she question the actual logistics of her actions.
Behind that door was a grieving family. A mother who had lost her son in one of the most horrific ways imaginable. What if she was about to walk into a house full of well-wishers, family members, comforters, all trying to bring a moment’s relief from the pain?
Stacey slowed as she neared the property. Only a small Citro?n was parked outside. A couple more vehicles were dotted around the kerb but no others close to the house.
What exactly was she hoping to achieve? Stacey asked herself critically. She had nothing to offer this family, nothing to ease the grief. And yet she was still being propelled forward.
She wondered, briefly, if her own boss ever questioned herself quite so rigorously before acting on her gut instinct. She suspected not.
Bravely, she tapped the door and ignored the part of her that hoped the knock went unanswered.
Too soon, she saw a shape looming closer towards the glass-panelled door.
It opened to reveal a woman in her early to mid-forties. Her frame was slight and no colour graced her cheeks. Stacey had not met Justin’s mother properly on the day of her son’s death; she had been flanked by paramedics checking her over and neighbours offering words of solace. Today, she wore jogging bottoms that had room enough for two and a grey hoody. It took Stacey a second to realise the woman was wearing her dead son’s clothes.
‘Mrs Reynolds, my name is Stacey… I mean, Detective Constable Stacey Wood.’
She fumbled in her satchel, and then dropped her ID card on the ground. She scooted down and retrieved it, holding it up to the woman’s questioning gaze.
Mrs Reynolds looked past the card and frowned.
‘You were here the other day, when…’ The words trailed away.
‘Yes, I was. I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Stacey said, trying to ignore the awkwardness.
This was a mistake. She should never have come. She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t the one asking questions in the face of someone’s pain. She was the one making the tea. Her curiosity would have been best left in her head.
Perhaps this was a good lesson on the thin line between curiosity and instinct.
But the damage was now done. She had knocked on the door. She had interrupted the woman’s grief. If she turned and walked away now, Mrs Reynolds would definitely be making some kind of call to Halesowen Police Station.
‘May I come in?’ she asked.
Mrs Reynolds stood aside as Stacey stepped into the narrow hallway.
The woman closed the door and Stacey followed to the lounge.
‘Is this some kind of official visit?’ Mrs Reynolds asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
‘No Mrs Reynolds… it’s not. I’m just here to…’ Her words trailed away as she fought to find the right words.
‘I’m sorry, officer, but I think I’d quite like you to explain yourself.’
Her tone of frustration was understandable. Stacey was still trying to make sense of it herself.
‘I read his letter,’ Stacey said, as if that explained everything.
‘And?’ she said, coming to a stop in the lounge.
Stacey was faced with condolence cards resting on every surface. Her intrusion into this woman’s grief slapped her around the face.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,’ Stacey offered, wishing she never had.
‘But why did you?’ the woman asked, lowering herself onto a single seat. She stroked at the fabric of the jogging bottoms.
Stacey perched on the edge of the sofa. She was already envisioning the letter of complaint that would be sent in regarding her conduct. There was no way back for her now.