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An additional metal ring is drilled into the brick wall on the left-hand side. Signs of contact bloodstaining and some apparent skin and body tissue were present on all. One explanation for these findings is that the hooks have been pierced through an individual’s skin, causing injury.
The outbuilding internal walls are a breeze-block construction. On examination, extensive insulation was found between the brick walls, and more placed over the windows.
Samples have been taken from the main areas of bloodstaining for DNA profiling tests in an attempt to ascertain from whom the blood originated. At the time of writing, the search of the grounds is still ongoing, and these findings, together with the results of any DNA profiling tests, will be reported separately.
The forensic information contained in this report is based on the information provided at the time and initial findings and/or assessment of a crime scene and exhibit(s). It is provided to the police investigator to support a line of inquiry and/or establish if there is evidential value in proceeding with the forensic information.
Should further forensic analysis or comparison be required in this case, the investigator must contact the relevant Force Forensic Department with their requirements in accordance with standard force operating procedures.
BEFORE
THE CRASH COMES just past midnight. The bang of a door being opened with force, slamming back against the wall. He lies in bed, his heart beating hard, his whole body on high alert.
His mother’s voice next, gentle and soothing. But even from here, he can hear her panic. The fizz from a can of beer, the chatter from the television. His father now, gruff and slurring.
Their talking gets louder. More frantic. He hears footsteps. His mother first, quick patters up the stairs. Then another set: loud thuds, two stairs at a time. Doors bang, shouting. Snippets of an argument that makes no sense to a seven-year-old boy. “… go to bed … tomorrow … not now, Maurice, not now … please …”
Then the sound of a slap, the thump of something falling. He can hear his mother crying, quiet sobs. He knows she’ll be trying to suppress it, his father’s rage only intensifying in the face of outward emotion.
He creeps to the door of his bedroom and opens it a crack. Through the narrow space he can see the hallway, his mother lying on the dirty carpet, her hair covering her face. His father stands over her. Still in his muddy black work boots, his heavy overalls. He would have gone straight to the pub after work, spending that month’s wages before his mother had a chance to buy food.
As he watches, his father bends down and grabs a fistful of his mother’s hair. She cries out, and he drags her, her bare feet trailing across the carpet, her hands scrabbling at his arms. He uses his free hand to punch her—once, twice—in the face. Blood drips to the floor.
He can’t look away, although he knows he must. His father throws her roughly onto the bed. He paws at her clothes, ripping some as they’re discarded. Her legs are forced open. His father is fumbling with his belt now, pushing his trousers down until they’re around his knees.
He doesn’t understand what’s going on. But he’s heard these noises many times, through the wall. The creak of the old mattress, guttural male groans. Sobbing from his mother, after.
He crouches on the carpet, transfixed. The expression on his father’s face—it’s anger, absorption. He’s lost in what he’s doing, his hairy belly wobbling in time with his hard thrusts, his eyes screwed shut, muscles tense.
His mother turns her face toward the door. Her left eye is already swollen shut; her nose crusted with blood. She sees him, and her good eye widens with fear.
She mouths a word, but he shakes his head, unable to understand.
She tries again, and this time, he knows.
“Hide,” she’s saying. “Hide.”
CHAPTER
17
Day 4
Tuesday
DCI CARA ELLIOTT is late. Adam scans the coffee shop for the woman he knows from all number of infamous news reports last year, then scowls. He’s a busy man, he thinks. People are dead. She could at least be on time. He orders a coffee and carries it across to a far table.
While he waits, he reviews the reports from the lab. Details about the fibers found on the blanket have come back: dark green polyester, synthetic, often used in insulation, soft furnishings, clothing, or cordage. Rope, Adam thinks. Why can’t you just say rope?
The analysis on the stain on the blanket is more forthcoming, consisting mainly of chloride, sodium, sulphate, with trace amounts of calcium, potassium, and magnesium. Sea salt.
“Adam?”
He looks up. “Hi, Cara,” he replies, shuffling the paperwork back into the file. “How are you?”
But he doesn’t need to ask, it’s obvious from her face. Black rings circle her eyes, her cheek bones are gaunt; he can tell she’s thin, even under the shapeless black jumper she’s wearing.
“Sorry I’m late.”
