Part 1 (1/2)

Blood Money.

Maureen Carter.

It's a great pleasure and privilege to work with Lynne Patrick and her inspirational and gifted team at Creme de la Crime. Huge thanks to everyone there as always. I'm grateful, too, for the knowledge and expertise given so generously by Detective Sergeant Chris Elliott and Lead Forensic Manager Robin Slater. Their contribution to Blood Money is immense and goes far beyond answering my numerous questions. I thank both for their valuable time and expertise. Any error of interpretation is mine.

Writing as I've noted before would be a lonelier place without the support of some special people. For 'being there' even when they're sometimes miles away, my love and affection goes to: Peter Shannon, Veronique Shannon, Corby and Stephen Young, Paula and Charles Morris, Suzanne Lee, Helen and Alan Mackay, Frances Lally, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhart, Anne Hamilton and Bridget Wood.

Finally, my thanks to readers everywhere as always, this is for you.

For Sophie and Dan.

1.

The woman is a bad sleeper at the best of times. Now it is the dead of night. She's drifting off when she's convinced she hears a faint sound on the landing. Her scalp crawls as she shoots upright, trying to identify the noise. After thirty, forty seconds hearing only her heartbeat, she sinks back under the duvet, chides herself. Without Rod's rea.s.suring presence, it's easy to let the mind play tricks. She hates being a widow, vows to stop watching the news, reading the papers, always full of scare stories.

Then the door inches open.

Rigid with fear, she hardly dares breathe. Silhouetted in the threshold is an intruder, moonlight glinting off what she's sure is a knife in his right hand. She feigns sleep, desperately hopes it's a figment of her imagination, knows the dark figure will still be there when she opens her eyes. Another sound. She strains her ears. Footsteps pad closer. A smell wafts towards her. Lemon? Lime? Not sure.

Grab the phone. Call the police. Thoughts instantly dismissed. Reaching out would be futile. She fights an almost overwhelming urge to scream, to flee. Alone and afraid, she prays. Harder than she's prayed in her life. Sweet Lord, please make him go... sweet Lord...

”Turn over.” The whisper is soft in her ear, his minty breath warms her cheek. The sweat feels clammy on her spine. Paralysed with fear, her pathetic whimper escapes involuntarily.

”On your back.” It's an order. Barked. Spittle hits her face. ”Now.”

In slow terrified motion she obeys, then gasps in shock, confusion. A grinning clown face looms over her, thick scarlet lips silvered by the full moon, s.h.a.ggy ginger curls either side of a smooth pale pate. Dark eyes glitter through slits in latex.

”Please... don't... hurt me,” she pleads. ”Take whatever...”

”Shut it.” With a gloved hand he switches on the bedside lamp, the other strokes her jaw with the knife. Their glances lock: prey and predator. It's no contest. She has neither will nor means to protect herself let alone counter-attack. Who is he? What does he want? The voice is m.u.f.fled slightly, but the cadence suggests a young man: twenties, thirties, perhaps. The woman swallows hard; she's old enough to be his grandmother.

The clown's inane grin is fixed as the intruder ogles the contours of her trembling body. Despite her long white nightdress she feels naked, acutely aware how the flimsy cotton flutters in pace with her wildly pumping heart. Her breaths are short, shallow. She cuts a glance to the bedside table, a gla.s.s. He reaches for it. ”Drink?”

”P... p... please.” She parts dry lips, forces a wary smile. Maybe if she talks to him? Makes him see her as a human being? When she struggles to sit up, he flings the water in her face.

”I said don't move, dumb a.s.s. What did I say?”

The tepid liquid runs down her cheeks, drips from her chin, her hair. ”Don't m...”

”Including that.” He taps the blade against her mouth. She shrinks back. ”We do things my way or my way. Get it? Faith?”

Hearing her name from those mocking lips stings like a slap. She stiffens as the implication sinks in. ”How...?”

He whacks her face with the back of his hand. ”What part of 'shut it' don't you understand?” He hurls the duvet to the floor, hitches up her nightdress with the knife. With the tip of the blade, he strokes her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the spread of her belly. She crosses her legs, tries to cover her chest; hot tears cool and pool under her ears. Mind-numbing fear? Would that it were. The woman's only too aware she's at the mercy of a callous thug in her own home. She knows she won't be able to live here after this a.s.suming she lives.

”Make a sound you're dead. Clear?” Wide-eyed, she nods. He reaches a hand over his shoulder, and for the first time she notices the rucksack. She watches as he removes four lengths of thin cord which he places beside her, then a small velvet pouch which he slips into his jacket pocket.

Dark eyes still glittering, he flexes theatrical fingers, bounces on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. ”Coming, dear... ready or not...” The sing-song taunt's more menacing than the snapped directions. When he straddles her, she loses control of her bladder.

”You should be so lucky,” he sneers, shuffles forward, pins her arms with his knees, leers for what seems a lifetime. ”'Kay, listen up. This is what's gonna happen.” He wants cash and jewellery, keys to drawers and cabinets. If she co-operates he'll leave her in peace. If she doesn't... he thrusts his crotch in her face. Through racking sobs, she tells him what he wants to know.

”Good girl.” He pats her head before s.n.a.t.c.hing the rings from her fingers and the crucifix around her neck. He crams these in another pocket before reaching for the first length of cord. She's spread-eagled to the bed where she lies s.h.i.+vering on a urine-soaked sheet.

Prowling the room, he opens cupboards, rifles drawers. She watches as her favourite brooch and earrings are jammed into the rucksack followed by a silver jewellery box where she keeps Rod's watch and cufflinks. She likes to take them out each day; look, touch, remember. Unwittingly perhaps, her glance falls on a gilt-framed photograph on the dressing table. So does the intruder's.

She steels herself as he picks it up. ”This the old man, love?” She imagines his sly smirk under the grinning mask. Closing her eyes, she pictures instead her good and gentle husband. The sound of cracking gla.s.s startles her. Suspecting what will happen next makes it no easier. Her heart hurts as he tears the wedding photograph, scatters tiny pieces confetti-like across the bed.

”c.r.a.p host, aren't you? Where's my drink?” She recoils as he reaches towards her but he only checks the knots. At the door, he lifts a hand. ”Nah, don't get up.” Sn.i.g.g.e.ring, he sneaks downstairs. Ears strained, she traces his movements as he further invades, infests her home: floorboards creak, door handles click, drawers are yanked open. She imagines him fingering her possessions, thieving anything he can sell, anything he can get a good price for. What he's already taken can't be bought: dignity, confidence, self-esteem.

Slowly she turns her head, gazes out of the picture window where the sallow moon's now skulking behind the oak tree's bare branches. Rod often teased her about not drawing the curtains, but she used to love watching her tiny slice of world go by, the slow changes wrought by the seasons. Now she screws her eyes tight, bites her lip, tastes blood.

Then she feels it again: a tiny spark of defiance. She sensed the first flicker when he ripped the photograph a needless spiteful act. Tears well but she blinks hard, urges herself to get a grip. White knights charge to the rescue in fairy stories not a waking nightmare.

”I'll be off now, love.” The clown face appears round the door. ”Nice seeing you.” He touches finger to temple in mock salute, bows out. Faith jerks her hands; the cords bite tighter into her wrists.

”Whoops.” Back again, he saunters towards her. ”Almost forgot.” She watches terrified as he takes the velvet pouch from his pocket, opens the drawstrings, tips the contents into his gloved palm. ”Close your eyes, love.”

”Please...”

”Close your f.u.c.king eyes.”

She hears the lamp switch click, feels a sprinkle of sand, dust, something light settle on her eyelids. There's a draught as he leans across, lifts something from the bed. She smells fabric conditioner, knows where from, even before the pillow's placed on her face. Please, G.o.d. No! The pulse whooshes in her ears and through her own m.u.f.fled moans, she hears his final words. ”Said I'd leave you in peace, didn't I?”

Though barely conscious, Faith feels the blade's cold steel rake her belly... then all is silent as well as dark.

MONDAY.

2.

Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss opened one strikingly blue eye and glanced warily round before snapping it shut and stifling a groan. Next to this, death warmed up would feel good. The quick scan had registered empty wine bottles, overflowing ashtrays, foil tins with lurid leftovers from an Indian takeaway and twin trails of cast off clothes that ended at the bed. Big question: whose bed? She'd need to open the other eye to answer that. And remember the guy's name.

Gingerly turning her throbbing head, she took a peek at the naked bloke snoring slack-jawed gently beside her: blue-black hair, Jagger lips, long eyelashes. Rick, was it? d.i.c.k? Mick? Whatever. Nose wrinkled, she peered closer. Last night's healthy tan now held a tell-tale pale streak or two, and a saliva trail weaved through dark stubble. This time Bev's groan escaped. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply to try to quell the gut-wrenching nausea. Not that it was entirely down to lover boy.

To be fair, when she'd spotted him in the pub he'd fitted the bill OK. Unintended pun. Mental eye roll. Then she cast her mind back to the crowded bar. As per, she'd not revealed the Fighting c.o.c.ks was her local, or told him her real name. Who'd she been this time? Laura? Lorna? Something beginning with L. No matter. She'd come on to him because he was fit, well fancy-able and she could give him a good ten years. More to the point, there wasn't a string or ring in sight. These days she didn't do relations.h.i.+ps, lost enough already; close was a no-go area. If tempted down that path again she'd buy a budgie. And staple its beak.

As for last night, they'd both known the score, and the condom on the s.h.a.g pile indicated the result. Dead funny, Bev. Not. Come to think of it, hadn't he asked to see her again? Or was that a dream? Hard to tell after a vat of Pinot. Either way, it wasn't going to happen. Emotional baggage? She had more than Relate.