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Cara turns, and sure enough her husband is standing in the doorway of the incident room, a uniform by his side. He’s in jeans and a sweater; she guesses he’s on his way back to the restaurant.
She goes over to them, greeting her husband with a surprised kiss. “Lauren said you left your phone this morning,” he explains, handing it to her. She takes it gratefully. “So this is you?” he asks, gesturing through the door to the whiteboard.
“’Fraid so, yes,” Cara replies. “You saw it on TV?”
“It’s all anyone is talking about.” He pauses. “And I’ve just had a call from the school. Tilly’s been sick.”
“Shit,” Cara mutters under her breath. There’s a pause. She doesn’t know what to say. There’s no way she’s leaving right now, and her husband knows it. “Can Lauren get her?” she asks.
“She’s got the afternoon off,” Roo says, then sighs. “I’ll call her. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be back for dinner,” Cara says, trying to appease her husband. “I promise.”
“That’ll be good. I’ll bring back something from the restaurant. Noah coming too?” he asks.
Cara looks into the incident room, where Deakin is now talking to Shenton. “I’ll make sure he does,” she replies. “And Roo?”
“Hmm?”
“When this is over, let’s go away. Take the kids. To the lodge, somewhere quiet. I don’t mind.” All Cara wants right now is some peace. Sleep, good food. Spend some time with her husband.
He smiles. “That would be good.”
Then she sees Marsh gesture to her from down the corridor. Two fingers, pointing away. It’s time.
* * *
She quickly follows Marsh through the station, and as she goes, she feels the usual guilt. The burden to be all things: mother, wife, detective, partner, sister. Her daughter isn’t well, and here she is, facing potentially the most shocking multiple murder case this country has ever known. She sighs. If she will do only one thing tonight, she will be home in time for dinner.
But she can’t think about that now. She knows where they’re going, and it’s not something she’s looking forward to.
“Just keep quiet. I’ll let you know if I need you to talk.” Marsh pauses at a set of wooden double doors. “And if in doubt, say, ‘No comment.’”
He pushes them open. The noise hits them immediately. Conversation, shouting, jostling for attention as they walk through the throng of journalists to where the chief constable is waiting. Flashes from the cameras make her blink.
“Fucking vultures,” Marsh mutters to Cara as they both take their seats at the front. Cara does what she is told and stays silent as Marsh raises his hands above his head.
“Quiet!” he shouts. “Shall we get started?”
The room is bland and boring—scuffed white walls, dirty blue patterned carpet. They’ve shifted from their usual, nicer public relations setting to this one, but even so, it’s standing room only. Cara has never seen anything like it. Every seat is taken, the press pushing forward, desperate for even small snippets of information.
Slowly the hubbub dies down and the press conference starts.
“As I’m sure you’re all aware, at approximately four fifteen yesterday afternoon, police raided an apartment on the west side of town, where detectives discovered the remains of what we now believe to be eleven adult males in various states of decay.”
“Is it a serial killer?” one journalist shouts, followed by a barrage of questions from the others.
Marsh raises his arm again, frowning.
“We believe these murders were all committed by one perpetrator, yes.” Marsh is visibly sweating, a reflective sheen across his forehead.
“And is that perpetrator a guy called Michael Sharp?”
Marsh glares at the woman. “No comment.”
“Were the bodies found at Michael Sharp’s apartment?”
“No comment.”
