‘We’ll do everything we can,’ I tell him.
What I don’t say is what I’m thinking:Why didn’t you call us sooner?
But it’s too late. Joanna Neal is gone. And we all failed her.
Once the car disappears, Roy turns to Dario. ‘Open the garage.’
I brace myself as the door lifts, but there’s no white van.
‘They’ve dumped it. Or torched it,’ Roy mutters.
There are spots of blood on the garage floor.
Dario frowns. ‘The basement… If the Neals didn’t furnish it, who did? And how did they get in?’
‘Start with the builders,’ Roy says. ‘Find out when the work was completed, and who had access.’
We step aside, letting Forensics take over. I stare into the distance, one thought louder than the rest:How do you tell parents that their daughter was murdered in her own home?
Chapter Forty-Two
Using Joanna’s wedding ring, the lock of her hair and a hairbrush taken from the Neals’ apartment, Forensics finally confirm the blood and hair found at the murder scene matches Joanna’s DNA. There is no doubt now that Joanna Neal was murdered in her own home.
But some of the blood found in the garage and kitchen doesn’t match her or anyone in our database. That suggests she must have fought back against her attacker, hard enough to injure him. But we’ll never be able to tell Daniel Neal exactly what happened on the day his wife was killed.
Forensics indicate that the pattern of blood splattered up the wall points to a brutal beating. The blood that can be seen pooled around her head in the crime-scene photo seems to confirm that, but without a body, we can’t be sure of anything. We have drained local rivers, combed the woods and issued public appeals. But – nothing.
Only one person has come forward: a utility worker who says he went to the house to read the electricity meter. ‘The guy whoopened the door was sweating a lot,’ he said. ‘Like he’d been exercising. He had loud music on. Seemed a bit anxious, but I didn’t think much of it. You see all sorts in this job.’
He couldn’t recall the man’s face well enough to give us a description, just remembered that he was well built and possibly in his early forties. It wasn’t much help. The house is set back from the road, and none of the neighbours noticed anything unusual. We’ve dug up the back garden but found nothing.
Dario has a theory that the killer dismembered Joanna and fed the remains to the pigs on a nearby farm. I shudder. ‘It’s happened before,’ he says. I can’t bear to think about it.
We check all hospital records for emergency admissions around the time of the murder, hoping the killer has sought treatment. Everyone we identify has a solid alibi.
Our first suspect, naturally, was Daniel Neal. Statistically, most victims are killed by someone they know. But Daniel has an alibi. He was at work, and his secretary confirms he was still in the office at five-thirty p.m. on the night Joanna disappeared. The restaurant has corroborated his claim that he called to change the dinner booking that night, and Nicola confirmed the time he arrived home. CCTV from Lockwood and Holland’s car park shows him leaving work, and security footage captures his arrival at the apartment block.
Joanna had no enemies.
Desperate, I revisit the case of the abused child whom Joanna helped. I remember it well; I was one of the investigating officers.
‘Jo insisted on reporting the parents herself,’ Gil tells me. ‘She detailed every injury, and you know the parents were sent to prison. But maybe someone in their family… Maybe they thought she owed them.’
This brings a brief surge of hope at the station, but it is short-lived. The parents are still serving time and have no livingrelatives in England. The prison confirms they’ve never had any visitors. Officially, that leaves no one to track. Still, something about the case still doesn’t sit right. Cases like that often leave angry shadows behind. But if anyone holds a grudge, they’ve vanished too.
By now, news of Joanna’s murder has swept the country. Every national paper has run it on the front page. Social media has exploded.
Surgeon Found Murdered in the One House Police didn’t Search.
Burrow was livid at that headline. ‘Bloody media,’ he muttered.
We conduct a second full-scale search for Joanna’s body. Still nothing. So we turn our focus to Neville Logan.
***
Logan Builders’ yard sits on a quiet estate in Carterton. Gravel crunches underfoot as we approach. Sacks of cement lean against a small outbuilding. A blue van sits outside;Logan Buildersis scrawled on the side in worn paint.
Dario pauses at the entrance to the office, taking in the dust-covered racks and the smell of old sawdust. Inside, a man is rifling through desk drawers. A cigarette burns low in an ashtray.
