IMPOSITION Read online

  But at the top of the stairs, he suddenly froze. Manny had clearly heard a loud click, as if the timer for the central heating had kicked in – but he couldn’t be sure.

  Chapter Three

  Cragg glanced around. It didn’t make sense. The door leading outside was perfectly still, as if it hadn’t been opened at all. But he knew it had. You couldn’t imagine a sound like that. “Hello?”

  No reply came.

  He moved forward, placing his hands on the counter, his finger on the panic button. To call it a panic button was a bit excessive. What it actually did was send a wi-fi signal to the computer in the patrol car, and the phones of the men in uniform, which basically said, “whatever you’re doing, come back to the station”.

  “Is there anyone there?” he called out again, walking to the end of the counter and lifting the hatch to step into the main room, where he received yet another shock.

  To his left, was a man on his knees. Even though he was crouching, Cragg figured he had to be six feet tall at least, with a solid muscular frame. He had wavy black hair, combed back in an Elvis style. His features were chiselled and tanned. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans and wore a check-patterned shirt. His arms were stretched out in front of him with his hands bunched into fists resting on the floor. He was shaking, breathing heavily. “Oh, God,” he said quietly.

  Cragg moved forward quickly, bending down. A closer inspection revealed the man was sweating. Although the desk sergeant didn’t know him his face was familiar. He had seen him around the town on the odd occasion.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  The man flinched at Cragg’s question. Perhaps he’d been attacked, though the desk sergeant could see no evidence of that. But he knew enough about the way people fought these days to know that they didn’t always leave any outward signs.

  Cragg put his hands on the man’s shoulder. “Come on, sir, let’s get you up and into a more comfortable position. Can you tell me your name?”

  The man pushed Cragg’s arm away – not violently but very gently, considering his size. “I need help.”

  “Of course you do,” replied Cragg. “And that’s what I’m here for – to help you. Let’s get you to the other side of the counter into a chair and you can tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Once again, he refused Cragg’s help but stared at him. “It’s not me that needs help, it’s her.”

  “Who?” The situation had suddenly grown more urgent. Cragg needed answers. “Who needs help?”

  “My wife.” The man suddenly sunk to the ground, placing his head in his hands. “Oh, God, no.”

  Cragg put his arm on the man’s shoulder. “Please, sir, I need to know what’s going on. Who are you?”

  Cragg was about to ask another question when the man suddenly spoke. “Robbie Carter.”

  “Good, Robbie. Well done. Now, can you tell me your wife’s name?”

  Robbie Carter rubbed his hands down his face. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “Jane. It’s Jane.” There was a pause. “I think she might be dead.”

  “Dead?” Cragg repeated. “You think your wife is dead?”

  Robbie Carter lifted his hands and grabbed Maurice Cragg’s shoulders. He started talking, fast, as if he was reading out bullet points.

  “I’d been out all night. Came home. On the floor, she was on the floor, in the bedroom.” His breathing turned to sobs. “Place has been burgled. Mess all over. I think she’s dead, sergeant. She needs help.”

  Cragg stood up quickly. Staring into Robbie’s eyes, he said: “Mr Carter, I want you tell me where you live... now! It’s very important, please tell me where you live.”

  “Swansea Court – number two.”

  “That’s out near the leisure centre and the school, isn’t it?”

  Carter simply nodded.

  Cragg moved faster than he had done in years. Around the other side of the counter he picked up the phone and dialled the hospital. When the receptionist answered he barely gave her time to take a breath.

  “Louise, it’s Maurice Cragg at the station. I need an ambulance and I need it now. Two Swansea Court. There’s no time to waste: woman upstairs on the bedroom floor. Her name is Jane. Her husband says she may be dead – he doesn’t seem sure. He’s very distressed. Quick as you can.”

  “Right away, Mr Cragg.”

  Cragg replaced the receiver and came back around the counter. Robbie Carter was still kneeling on the floor. “Mr Carter, I have to ask. Have you seen the offender at all?”

  Robbie didn’t say anything.

  “Mr Carter, I need you to tell me everything you can. It’s important.”

  Robbie stared vacantly ahead, past Cragg.

  The desk sergeant couldn’t take any chances. He couldn’t allow an ambulance crew into a dangerous situation, so he came around the counter and through into the back room. The television had warmed up and the episode of Armchair Theatre he’d planned to watch was well under way.

  He grabbed the handset on the radio and called the patrol car.

  The radio crackled in reply. “What can I do for you, Sarge?”

  “I’d like both of you round to number two Swansea Court right now. Ambulance is on its way: woman either dying or possibly dead. Her name is Jane Carter. The husband’s here at the station. The house has been burgled. Suspect may still be on the premises and very possibly further life at risk. Proceed with caution and I’ll get some more backup out to you.”

  “On our way.”

  Out in the lobby the sound of a mobile phone broke through, which was followed by a scream so spine-tingling that Maurice Cragg dropped the handset and raced back to the front desk.

  Robbie Carter was still on the floor, staring at his phone with an expression dark enough to curdle milk.

  “What’s wrong, Mr Carter?”

  Robbie Carter’s eyes were wide: spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. He showed Maurice Cragg his phone.

  “He’s still there,” Carter hissed.

  Chapter Four

  Two squad cars pulled up at the house within seconds of each other, blue lights flashing but no sirens.

  The four officers jumped out in unison and Constable Mike Atherton took charge. His partner, Emma Longstaff had only been with the team for three months. She was twenty years old and a direct replacement for the late PC Gary Close.

  Atherton recognised the other two officers from Pickering as Dave Reynolds and Steve Smart. He issued orders. “Steve, Dave, can you go round the back? Emma, you come with me.”

  Swansea Court was a small cul-de-sac with four houses, each one detached: two stood opposite each other on the way in. The other two were located at the bottom behind the small island used as a turning circle. Number two was the only one with a light on in the bedroom. Everyone else was obviously still in bed, unaware of the drama.

  Atherton pushed open the gate and raced up the pathway. He had a very uneasy feeling about the whole thing. Cragg had said the woman was either dying or dead, with a possible suspect on the premises. He doubted very much the man would still be there now.

  The front door was locked. “Emma, can you wait here? Keep your eyes and ears open and please be careful.”

  A shout from the back informed Atherton that the officers had found an open window. On both counts, “life at risk”, and “suspect on the premises”, the scene had to be treated as a co-ordinated fast approach. Fresh in his mind were the five building block principles, of which the first was preservation of life.

  Dispensing with formalities he barged straight inside.

  The other two were close behind and one of them instantly located a light switch.

  His immediate view of the kitchen was a mess. Even pigs wouldn’t live in such a sty, which backed up the burglary theory.

  Atherton jumped over a variety of items on the floor and pushed his way into the front hall. Switching on another light, he cast a quick glance at the musical gear in front of the main door.

  “Check the living room, Steve.”

  Emma Longstaff followed Mike Atherton as he bolted up the stairs two at a time. Atherton had one hand on his truncheon and the other on the banister, calling out as he did so.

  The bedroom with the light on was the obvious choice. Once in, he saw a white female, laid on the floor on her left side, with her right arm outstretched, as if she was trying to reach out for something. She was slim with long black hair, and hazel eyes. She was wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown that had come open at the front, revealing a see-through black negligee underneath and a pair of white panties; no bra.

  He immediately knelt down and called out her name. “Jane, can you hear me, love?”

  Longstaff had checked the rest of the upstairs rooms, in which all lights were now blazing, before she joined Atherton. “All clear.”

  Atherton leaned over the woman on the floor. “Jane?”

  There was no response. He felt for a pulse, lowered his head to her chest. Nothing. He glanced at Longstaff and shook his head.

  “Has she gone?”

  “Definitely.”

  During the initial response it was sometimes difficult to determine if a death was the result of natural causes, an accident, suicide or homicide. Atherton couldn’t clearly put it into any of those categories.

  First impressions: no blood, and little or no evidence to show what had actually happened. No external marks were evident on her face. He quickly checked the areas he could see for cuts and bruises but found nothing. “What do you think?” he asked his colleague.

  Smart and Reynolds had joined them. “All clear downstairs.”

  “Hard to say,” replied Longstaff. “Looks like she was ready for bed. It’s still made up. Duvet folded back. Maybe she’d
just come up here, used the bathroom and was just turning in.”

  “Heard a noise downstairs, maybe?” said Smart.

  “If she did, she certainly didn’t go and check, otherwise why have we found her up here?” Atherton asked.

  “In that case, the burglar was obviously pretty quiet and took her by surprise.”

  “Not sure about that, either,” replied Atherton. “Look around the room, I can’t see any sign of a struggle, can you?”

  “Bathroom’s a mess,” replied Reynolds. “Maybe it all happened in there.”

  “Why drag her in here?” asked Smart.

  “I’m with Steve on that one,” replied Atherton. “Can’t see any evidence of that either. If he’d dragged her from the bathroom, surely something would have been left in its wake.”

  “Not for us to try and determine,” said Reynolds. “We’ll need the CSIs to work their magic.”

  Atherton stood up. His bad feeling about the crime scene was still with him. As he glanced around, the five building block principles kicked in again. Preservation of life was out of the window. He’d broken rule two by not preserving the scene so far, but that couldn’t have been helped because he was too busy applying rule one.

  Although they knew the victim’s name, she would still have to be identified officially. As for suspects – there were none, as yet. That only left securing evidence. And there didn’t seem to be much of that either: certainly not as far as the death was concerned. He suspected the place would be littered with prints from the theft but as his colleague had said, that was up to the CSIs.

  “If the burglar did kill her, how the hell has he done it?”

  Longstaff leaned in towards Jane Carter’s body. “Can’t see anything on the outside, so it must be something on the inside.”

  “Maybe he’s poisoned her,” said Reynolds.

  “What with?” asked Atherton.

  “Could be anything,” said Reynolds, eyes darting around the room. “Not that I can see any signs.”

  “He’ll have taken it with him. Can you see any puncture marks on her skin?” asked Longstaff.

  “Not on any of the visible areas,” replied Atherton.

  “It’s all a bit strange, isn’t it?” said Reynolds.

  “How do you mean?” asked Smart.

  “There’s only four possible options for loss of life.” Reynolds held up his fingers to count them off. “Natural causes, which it could always be. Accident, but no evidence to suggest it. Suicide – it doesn’t seem very likely to me. Once again, lack of evidence. Or homicide.”

  The reasoning was left unsaid but Atherton could tell from their expressions that they were all of the same opinion. Something didn’t add up.

  “In that case, let’s get out of here and start treating it like the crime scene it is,” said Atherton. “We shouldn’t disturb anything else until the big boys get here. Can you two secure front and rear entry? Emma, take one of the cars down the end of the street and block it off. We need a crime scene log. Have you guys got any stepping plates in the car? We need to establish one route in and one out.”

  “Not enough,” said Reynolds.

  “I’ll call Cragg, ask him to have more sent over. And while he’s at it he can call MIT. This one’s way beyond us.”

  Chapter Five

  “So... what’s happened here, Sean?”

  Detective Inspector Gardener was standing over the body of Jane Carter. Having made an initial examination, he was waiting for the Home Office pathologist, Doctor George Fitzgerald, to arrive.

  Detective Sergeant Reilly was peering into the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. He pulled out five ten-pound notes. “Not what people will want us to believe, I’m sure.”

  Gardener had received a call from the desk sergeant about an hour and a half previously. Because Mike Atherton’s report was so detailed, Gardener saved time by calling his own team in immediately. Following a meeting with Atherton and a brief inspection of the bedroom, the SIO had issued a number of fast track actions.

  Despite time having passed from the initial reporting of the murder, he had decided to apply The Golden Hour principle that the offender may still be in the area. It would only need two of his team to do a house-to-house to talk to possible witnesses, so the rest he sent off around the town.

  “What time did Cragg say that Robbie Carter reported the crime?” Gardener asked Atherton, checking his own watch: six o’clock.

  “Around two o’clock.”

  “And the place had already been burgled. He found his wife on the floor, dying or dead. He didn’t seem to know which.”

  “I’m finding that hard to believe,” replied Reilly, “but not as hard as the fact that he didn’t call an ambulance immediately.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. How long would it take him to get to the police station?”

  Reilly shook his head. “Ten minutes if he drove.”

  “I’m not happy, Sean. He gets home around half-past-one – from wherever – finds the place upside down, his wife either dying or dead. He doesn’t call an ambulance. Instead, he goes straight to the police station.” Gardener stopped talking, staring at Reilly. “But it appears that he sets the alarm before he goes. Why does he do that?”

  “Shock?” offered Reilly. “Grief, maybe: it can make you do funny things.”

  “I realise everyone reacts differently, but isn’t there a basic instinct that kicks in, where for just one second, you don’t believe she’s dead: where you think that you might just be able to save her no matter what, no matter how much the evidence says otherwise? You would still call that ambulance first. Why didn’t he?”

  Gardener’s thoughts were with his late wife, Sarah, and that fateful night in the centre of Leeds, when she’d taken a bullet. He hadn’t been able to save her but he’d made sure an ambulance was called immediately.

  “I’m sure we’ll get the chance to ask him.”

  Glancing around the room, Gardener noticed a number of photographs of Jane Carter with a variety of different horses, and only one of her and her husband. At least he figured that was who it was judging by the description Cragg had given them.

  He strolled over and picked up one, studying it. “While Robbie Carter was reporting it to Cragg, his phone went off and relayed some pictures of a burglar in the house, from the alarm system.”

  “Which suggests the burglar had been somewhere on the premises the whole time,” said Reilly, stepping out of the bedroom, staring into the corner of the landing, pointing to a motion sensor.

  Gardener followed his line of vision but couldn’t see any cameras.

  “Maybe,” said Gardener. “But where was the burglar when the motion sensors were set off: up here? There are no signs of a struggle.”

  “No sign in the bedroom, either.”

  Gardener walked back into the bedroom, his scene suit rustling as he did so. He pointed to a chair. “That’s the only thing that has moved recently. Look closer at the floor, you can see imprints of where it used to stand.”

  Reilly did so. “Not enough to suggest a fight. And there’s money still in the top drawer of that cabinet.”

  “This alarm business is bugging me. Why did he set the alarm when his wife was in the house – dying?”

  “You think he might be in on this?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first, would he?”

  “Insurance scam?”

  “Let’s see when we talk to him. See if we can figure out his body language.”

  Gardener turned back onto the landing and walked into the bathroom, to the mess on the floor. Overall, the space was clean and tidy, as was the shower cubicle. On the window ledge he saw toothpaste, brushes, soap in a dish, and a facecloth neatly folded. A bottle of bleach stood at the side of the toilet.

  Gardener pulled up the toilet seat to peer inside – clean water.

  “That lot on the floor looks like an accident to me, not the result of a tussle.”

  “If it got out of control in here,” said Reilly, “they’d have needed to disable her in some way so they could drag her into the bedroom.”