This is some serious straw-clutching.
‘There’s been a series of break-ins on the other side of North Melbury. These are full-on burglaries, so perhaps not the same as this – but we have DNA from the perpetrator. The problem is that we don’t know who it belongs to. There are no matches on the database – but we’ll be able to tell if this is the same person.’
He smiles and I thank him, even though it’s the last thing on my mind. What if the blood belongs to Tom Leonard? What if it belongs to someone else who’s missing? Someone who’s been found dead on those back country lanes? How could I possibly explain it?
How can I even explain this? I was so sure I’d cleaned the floor – but then I was certain about the location of my work pass and the car keys as well. My mind feels like one big, jumbled mess. Like the pieces to Ellie’s jigsaw, all mixed up and thrown on the floor.
PC Heath walks back, his lips tight and expressionless. ‘The testing team are free now,’ he says.
PC Harvey answers before I can. ‘That never happens. What’s going on?’
His colleague shrugs and they both look to me. ‘Someone can be here in half an hour,’ he adds. ‘Should I tell them to come now?’
I should say no – but what would that look like? I called the police to report a possible break-in. They’re linking it to others across town, so I can hardly send them away. I’d look mad at best; guilty of something at worst.
‘That’s fine,’ I reply. Except it isn’t – and I have a horrible sinking feeling that it really won’t be.
* * *
It is a few minutes after midday when the crime scene analyst leaves the house. He was perfectly pleasant, working by himself and scraping up the hardened flakes of blood to take away. When I ask how long it’ll all take, he sighs. I’d bet it’s the type of question he’s asked a dozen times a day, every day.
‘Anywhere from forty-eight hours to two weeks,’ he replies. ‘It depends what sort of priority they give it.’
‘Do you have any idea whether it’s a high priority…?’
‘I wish I could help – but as soon as this gets to a lab, it’s out of my hands.’
I’m not sure if he means literally or figuratively – but I guess the outcome is still the same.
He explains that if the blood matches someone already in the DNA Database – or a close family member – then they’ll get a match and be able to identify who it belongs to. If there’s no match, then it will sit on file. They might arrest someone for something unrelated in the future and, assuming a crime had been committed, would be able to charge him or her for the other offences.
I thank him and then he heads back to his car, accelerating off along the road as I watch, wondering if he has my fate in his hands.
I’m about to turn back to my car, finally ready to go to work, when a familiar face emerges from behind the postbox a few doors down. It’s at the opening to the lane that runs along the back of the house and the man strides out briskly, hands in his jacket pocket. He heads towards me, watching the houses – but it’s only when he sees me that he stops on the spot. He edges back towards the road, a startled, frightened animal in headlights. For a moment, I think he might rush back the way he’s come but he doesn’t. He presses ahead until he’s at the edge of the drive.
‘Hi,’ Jason says.
‘Are you watching the house?’ I ask.
He squirms, tucking his elbows tighter into himself, his hands not leaving his jacket pockets. ‘No.’
I’m not sure if being in prison should make a person better at lying – or worse. Either way, he’s awful at it.
‘I’m on my way to work,’ I say.
‘Right.’
He bobs from one foot to the other, watching me but never making full eye contact. There’s a breeze that’s playing with his mucky brown hair. It hasn’t been washed for a day or two and is longer than it ever used to be, enough to be tucked behind his ears. He’s in jeans, with a green army-style jacket and heavy leather boots.
I move towards the car, keys clearly in hand. He isn’t standing directly behind the car and I could leave if I wanted – but I’d have to drive directly past him. I’m going to have to talk to him sooner or later and I suppose this isn’t the worst time.
‘You look good,’ he says. ‘All official, like.’
I’m in a suit that I’ve had for at least five years. It can be machine washed, which is the main reason I like it so much.
‘Didn’t wear many suits when I was a teenager,’ I reply.
‘Aye, me either.’
I remember the images from the news of Jason being hurried into a courtroom. I was twenty-one, so he was either nineteen or had just turned twenty. He was wearing a suit a couple of sizes too big. The jacket was low across his backside, the sleeves almost reaching his fingers. It was probably a charity shop job. Most of our clothes came from the local Oxfam or Heart Foundation stores in those days.
Ellie went to court every day but I never did. I’d watch the news each evening – a new thing for me – and then pore over the coverage in the papers the next morning. Also a new thing for me. I’d never bothered with news before then.
I can’t remember how many days the trial lasted. It felt like weeks but was probably only two or three days. It’s not like they had a lot of disputed evidence over which to argue.
‘How are you?’ I ask, continuing my new-found trend of asking stupid questions.
‘Outside is better than inside.’
Jason glances both ways along the street and then inclines his head ever so slightly, asking for silent permission to step onto the driveway. I wave him forward and he approaches slowly, as if I’m a coiled snake who might strike. He stops when there’s a metre or so between us, giving me a close-up view of his pockmarked skin. There’s a scar close to his ear, zigzagging across his hairline.
‘I’ve got to see a probation officer twice a week,’ he adds. ‘It’ll go down to once in a few months.’
Jason crouches, tugging up the bottom of his jeans to show me the plasticky tag that’s strapped around his ankle.
‘I’ve got to be in our Ell’s by nine every night. Not allowed out again ’til six.’
He hops for a moment, unbalanced on his single foot, and then settles back onto a solid standing.
‘How long have you got to do that?’
‘Six months if I behave.’
I’m not sure what to say, so remain silent.
‘How old’s your daughter?’ he asks.
It’s a question out of the blue. There’s every reason for him to know about Olivia – Ellie would’ve visited him in prison over the years, and he’s now living with her – but it still feels strange for him to mention something I’ve never told him.
‘Eighteen,’ I reply.
He nods slowly for a moment and then: ‘Wow… that’s old.’
It’s not – but I know what he means. He went into prison when he was only a little older than that. He knew me as a childless teenager – and now I have a daughter the same age. There’s a wistful calm between us and I know he’s thinking of the things we were doing when we were that age. Ellie, Wayne, Jason and me. Us against the world.
‘Is she a good kid?’ he asks.
‘Yes. She works at a local café in the evening. She’s doing accounting lessons with Ell and might go back to college.’
A nod. ‘What about your old man? He treat you well?’
For a second, I think Jason means my father – but he died when I was a child. It’s only then I realise he means Dan.
‘It’s complicated,’ I reply. ‘We’re sort of… separating.’
It sounds so official now I’ve said it out loud to someone who’s more or less a stranger. Telling Olivia was talking to family; going over things with Ellie in the previous weeks was more or less discussing it with family. This is different. I’ll be telling people at work next, then neighbours. It’s actually happening.
Jason blinks and then quickly adds: ‘Oh. He doesn’t knock you about, does he?’