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“There were the same markings, on the wall.”
“As this?” He gets up, goes to his bag left in the hallway, and carries the files of the five victims back, opening the top one and pulling out his own crime scene photos. He’s annoyed. He’s tired, and he knows he’ll have to be up early in the morning. Back to a murder investigation with real evidence, not spurious links imagined by his ex-wife. He flicks through the photos quickly then puts one in front of her—the Roman numerals spray-painted in green next to the bodies.
She pauses, staring at the photo. “No. Not like that,” she says, quieter now. “They were scratches. On the wall.”
“Scratches? In a torture chamber.” He can’t keep the patronizing tone out of his voice. He’s humoring her now. She realizes, and doesn’t like it.
“They were clear, Adam. Obvious.”
“And you never mentioned this before?”
“No. It hadn’t been important—”
“What numbers were they?”
“XX. Twenty. Down to—”
“So just lines, then. Scratched into the wall?”
“Yes, but …” She looks at him, biting her lip. “I’m not crazy,” she whispers. She looks like she’s going to cry, and he feels a wave of sympathy.
“I never said you were.” His face softens, his body relaxes. “Milly,” he says gently. “This isn’t him. This is some other sicko. He’s in prison—you know that.”
She nods slowly, entwining her fingers together in her lap.
“Here,” Adam says. He holds out his bottle of beer. “I find this helps.”
She smiles weakly, then takes it, tipping it against her mouth for a long swig. She swallows quickly, then has another.
Romilly’s phone beeps in her pocket.
“That your boyfriend?”
“Probably.” She pulls it out and reads the message. She places the beer back on the table and stands up, picking up her coat. “I should be going.”
“Sure.”
Adam follows her to the door, leaning over and opening it. “You’ll let it be now. Right, Milly?” he says.
“But—”
“Please. This is a police investigation. I appreciate your … help. But leave me to it now. Please.”
She nods. He watches her walk to her car, her head down, shoulders slumped. He feels sorry for her, he really does. But fuck, this has nothing to do with her. What happened then.
He shuts the front door and goes back into his warm house. He looks at his kitchen table, the mess of paper, and picks up the SOCO report again.
He doesn’t remember reading this one—and she’s right. It talks about the scratches, the Roman numerals next to the door. Twenty, through to eighteen. There were four victims though, he remembers, so the missing seventeen would join them to the new murders: sixteen down to twelve. Maybe he should consider it. Maybe …
He shakes his head decisively. No. No, he shouldn’t. This isn’t the same. And the man is in prison. For life. There’s no way.
No fucking way.
OFFICIAL (SENSITIVE)
This forensic information is not intended as evidence.
Streamlined Forensic Report (SFR)
