‘Well, as long as I’m around you’ll have my support. And as far as I’m concerned this case is still yours to lead and solve.’
‘I won’t let you down, Mike,’ she says, hanging up. She stands for a moment, staring out of the window at the setting sun. Then she crouches down and takes her dad’s hand. It’s horribly thin and pale and offers no resistance when she picks it up, but she squeezes it tightly and leans in close with an awkward smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to go to work.’ As she says it, she remembers all those occasions when he’d said the same to her. And just like she did back then, he says nothing in return.
* * *
She starts up the engine of the Rover and almost reverses into the car of one of the care home workers turning into a neighbouring slot. Waving a half-hearted apology, she pulls away in a big cloud of smoke. It’s getting dark, so she flicks on the lights and heads down the long tree-lined road leading to the exit, before forcing her way out into a stream of traffic, ignoring the honked horns and the mouthed expletives from other drivers.
As she considers her new destination, she starts to wonder if she’s made a terrible mistake in waiting so long to interview Markham. The old gardener is the only witness; the only person to have seen and spoken to Christian. What if he’s unwittingly in possession of a key piece of evidence? What if she’s not the only one to have realised this? What if the real reason Markham had so adamantly told DS Peters to go away was because he wasn’t alone? The longer the journey goes on, the greater the concern builds inside her.
* * *
By the time she arrives her fingers are aching from how tightly they’ve gripped the wheel. She half-runs up the pathway to the front door. It’s a small house in a terrace, with a narrow strip of garden that isn’t as well kept as she might have expected from a gardener. Before reaching for the doorbell she looks in through the window; the light is on and the curtains are only partly drawn. There’s a big TV and shelves full of books in a living room that doesn’t appear to have changed much since the 1970s: the carpet flowery and losing colour, the black leather sofa worn bare on the arms. There’s nobody in sight, nor is there any sign of a struggle. Crouching down to carefully raise the letterbox, she can just make out a small kitchen at the back. Everything is as it should be, dishes washed and left on the side to dry and several pairs of boots under the stairs. Taking a step back she can see the frosted glass of a bathroom window upstairs. It is closed, and there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. She reaches quickly for the bell, picturing the old man lying on his bedroom floor with blood seeping out of him, desperately hoping that someone will come and help; only it’s not Markham she pictures at all, it’s her dad. A man of much the same age whose life is also seeping out of him, one memory at a time.
The bell rings and again she takes a step back, out of range of an arm and a knife. It’s not ‘The Cartoonist’s’ MO, but she’s not taking any chances. There’s no response. There are no cars in the neighbours’ drives and no twitching curtains around her to investigate. Perhaps Markham is not at home. She considers getting back in the car and going to see Nathan, but a glance at her watch tells her there’s still an hour to wait. Thinking of Nathan has also reminded her of something else: of standing on his doorstep up in Scotland and not giving up. So she gives the door one last, frustrated thump. It pops open a couple of inches.
She swallows hard, gives the door an extra push and watches as the hallway appears ahead of her. There’s fresh mud on the doormat and another pair of muddy boots, cast untidily at the base of the stairs. Then she notices the blood. A tiny pool of it previously disguised in the rose pattern on the carpet. Instantly aware of a blind spot inside the door to her left, she jumps to her right and stumbles as one foot slips off the path and into a flowerbed of bright red roses identical to the one she had seen at the second victim’s house.
She is unarmed, but she can see a block of knives on the side in the kitchen. To reach them she will have to make a mad sprint and hope there’s no one hiding behind the door. She lightly pats an empty pocket, cursing herself for having left her phone in the car. She’d taken it out to check the traffic en route.
She has no choice but to move forward, her head darting left to right, her eyes taking everything in, anticipating every potential threat. As she passes the bloody stain, she notices several other drips leading through to the kitchen. At the entrance, she holds her breath and leaps forward, crouching down at the same time to throw an attacker off. As she jumps she spots some vegetables on the side; a few of the carrots are in the process of being prepared, and a large kitchen knife lies next to the chopping board. She reaches for it, swinging the tip between the back door and the hallway from where she’s just come. She reaches with her left hand to try the back door. It’s locked.
She’d spotted a landline in the hallway. She should make the call and ask for help. She’s about to reach for it when she hears a floorboard groan upstairs. Someone is here. She lifts the knife and turns towards the stairs. Someone is coming.
The first thing she sees is a pair of socks, blue, pulled up high. Followed by a pair of bare legs, muscled, hairy. Next come boxer shorts, also blue. Then the weapon. It’s a black-headed hammer, gripped tight in a fist. Katie steadies her shaking hand.
‘Is he here?’
The words take a moment to translate, as does the face that’s appeared above a body she now realises is far too old to belong to Christian.
‘Jesus. I thought you were dead!’
‘Why?’ Markham’s eyes focus on the knife in her hand. ‘Oh God, he’s here?’
She shakes her head and points down at the carpet. ‘The blood!’
He lifts his empty hand up towards her by way of explanation. It’s wrapped in white fabric, a small streak of red pooling through.
‘I was trying to make something to eat. Although God knows how I’d stomach it. My hands were shaking so much I missed a carrot and got me palm. The result was…’ He seems suddenly to become aware of his lack of clothes and crosses his arms in front. ‘You’re sure he’s not here?’
‘Was it you that left the door open?’
A moment of silence, and his face twists as he searches for an answer.
‘I’d been to my allotment, to get summit for dinner and to try and clear me thoughts. I guess I must have cleared them a bit too much.’ He looks over at the door and shakes his head. ‘Right bloody stupid. But, you see, I haven’t ever been in a state like this before.’ He holds out the trembling hand gripping the hammer. ‘I mean, you think you know somebody, or at least take them to be kind and generous and friendly, only…’ He looks over his shoulder again up the stairs and comes down another step closer to Katie. ‘That’s why I’ve kept this nearby.’ He gives the hammer a twist. ‘Just in case he comes back.’
‘We’re okay now,’ says Katie, gesturing for him to lower it.
‘Is it just you?’ asks Markham. ‘I didn’t rightly trust nobody else, but now…’ He glances behind him again.
‘I’ll call in for a couple more officers. I’ve just got to pop out to my car to get my phone.’
‘You won’t be long?’ says Markham, reaching out towards her with his bandaged hand. He looks terrified.
‘By the time you’ve been upstairs and put the rest of your clothes on,’ says Katie, with her most reassuring smile, ‘I’ll be back and have the kettle on.’