The Blame (eBook)

2

It wasn’t yet 8:30 a.m. when Erin and Tom entered the main office the next day, and already constables were heads down, clacking away at their keyboards with caffeine-fuelled intensity, while the senior detectives marched in and out of meeting rooms, hurling questions at their bowed heads: where’s that neighbour’s statement; how long til the fingerprints come through; any update yet on the transport system’s CCTV footage? When a case this big came in, it was like your first day all over again. Only once in their careers might any of them get the chance to investigate a murder that was dominating the front page of every national newspaper, and Erin could practically feel the excitement crackling in the air that morning.

The chief superintendent, Peters, never came looking for you himself. He’d always send the last person he’d spoken to on a mission to find you. He was still having his morning latte, bought from the deli round the corner, when she and Tom were summoned in. 

One of that day’s papers dominated the available space that Peters’ monstrous house plant had left on the table. He pointed at the two-page spread, as though showing them a plot of land he was vaguely interested in buying, and took a sip of his coffee. ‘The back of your head’s in this one, Radley.’ 

When Erin had first heard Peters speak, she’d thought she’d gone deaf. He had such a low, quiet voice he was practically murmuring to himself. She’d soon worked out it was deliberate. He wanted to have you leaning in, focusing all your attention on him to try and catch what he was saying. 

He wasn’t about to turn the newspaper the right way up for them so she tried to make sense of the photo from her upside-down perspective. There were splashes of white and bright yellow – the forensic investigators in their plastic coverings. She was looking at the site where they’d found the body. In the background, a man in a dark coat was facing the other way; Tom, potentially. She must have been there next to him, but she was out of sight.

Peters looked at them. ‘I’m giving this to you two.’

Even though she’d seen it coming, Erin felt the ice-cold rush of adrenaline. It was just the feeling of being picked. Childish and immediate like having your name called out while stood up against the wall in PE. Even six years in, it hadn’t gotten old yet. 

‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Both of you. Things have been said.’

That was the useful thing about having Tom as a partner; there was never any shortage of people singing his praises.

‘I don’t need to tell you how much is riding on this one,’ Peters continued. ‘We were all there. Almost the entire force. And the bastard dumped the body right in front of us. I’d be surprised if we’re not a complete pissing laughing stock, wouldn’t you?’

Erin was glad he wasn’t looking at her, so he couldn’t see her wincing. But Tom nodded, sincere and understanding, just what Peters wanted. 

The super’s eyes roved back to the page in front of him again. ‘So all the more reason to throw everything at this one. You’ve got free rein on resources. Anyone specific you want me to assign on this with you?’

Tom looked into the plant, and then back at Peters. ‘Lewis Jennings,’ he said.

Peters’ owlish eyebrow lifted slightly. ‘Jennings who only just made DS?’

‘He’s ready for a case like this.’ 

For a moment Peters looked like he might say no. Then he nodded. ‘Alright. Use as many people as you need. Find who did this.’

*

When police had searched the Madson family’s house the day before, nothing was missing apart from Sophie’s keys, phone, wallet and a yellow handbag. This wasn’t a runaway case: Sophie had planned on coming back that day. 

The handbag wasn’t found on the body, and nor was her phone. That was a pain – they could find out who she’d texted from her phone company, but without the mobile the actual messages were lost.

A conversation with the digital forensics team revealed she’d been captured on the transport system’s CCTV, getting the 133 bus into town at 11:12 a.m. The staccato images showed a girl in a white top sat on the lower floor of the bus who got up and left when the bus stopped at the high street. That put her in the centre of town just under two hours before she called 999 from the field. 

A team of forensics had combed that field from top to bottom. They’d found nothing. So far, the only crime scene they had was in the woods. According to the CSI, the blood patterns at the base of the tree confirmed Sophie hadn’t died there; she’d been moved and repositioned. When Erin had asked the CSI what that said about the killer, he’d replied: ‘Considering the risk they took to hide the body there, and the publicity of the place, an exhibitionist. Someone who wanted her to be found.’

Something else supported the theory that this killer enjoyed the limelight: they’d picked a fairly high-profile victim. ‘Sophie appears in a Google search more than your average sixteen-year-old,’ said Tom, on the drive to the Madsons’ house. ‘Looks like the gymnastics was more than just a hobby. Bronze in last year’s regional championships. She’s pictured in a lot of blogs that follow these things. I think they’re mostly run by people’s mums.’

He held out his phone. Erin, who was driving, glanced away from the road to register the photos of Sophie in a spangly uniform, body bending into bizarre, zero-gravity movements. Without knowing it was Sophie in them, she wouldn’t have recognised her. She had her hair scraped off her face in a tight ponytail and her expression was one of morbid concentration. 

‘So it wouldn’t have been hard for someone to find her,’ she said grimly.

‘Exactly.’ 

‘One of the researchers – Joel—’

‘The one who downs Lucozade like he’s not sitting around on his arse all day?’

‘Him. He said most of the girls in that team were all double-barrelled names and grammar schools. Sophie was the only one at that level who came from a lower-income family.’

‘You think that had anything to do with it?’

Erin shrugged. ‘Maybe she felt isolated there. Or it could have made her seem more vulnerable to someone who was targeting gymnasts.’

She stopped at a red light and Tom ran a hand over his mouth, thinking. Watching him, a glow of warmth spread through Erin. Times like this, when it was just the two of them, embarking on another case, reminded her how lucky she was to have Tom as a partner. Out of training, she could have been lumped with any one of the officers who’d joined at the same time. Instead, by sheer luck, she’d landed the high-flying homicide detective several years’ her senior, adored by every probationer. She’d never forget the case that had brought them together. Close her eyes and she was there: only a few months into the job, with no homicide experience, speed-reading the incident report as she followed Tom into the interview room where the suspect was waiting for them. For three gruelling hours they were in there. At a few points Erin thought they should pack it in. But they kept going, her and Tom, rallying back and forth, sticking with the strategy they’d planned outside, then – when that didn’t work – relying on their own intuition, and on each little signal from the other.

That was the first time Erin appreciated the importance of the partner-to-partner relationship. It was like a marriage, really. You learnt how to read the other. Sense their discomfort. Anticipate their next move. Except, unlike a marriage, it was built on grim foundations, not candlelit dinners and cinema trips, but traumas. Shared experiences of the stuff no one should have to see. 

Wakestead was still littered with reminders of last night’s search, missing posters of Sophie trodden into the pavement, disintegrating into blue sludge after the early morning shower. The sight was made all the more disorientating by the swarm of TV crews. Everywhere they looked there seemed to be at least one white van parked up with tired-looking cameramen crowded around outside, drinking from Thermoses. 

About six of these vans were parked right outside the Madsons’ house. As soon as Tom and Erin left the car, the reporters who’d arrived in them surged forwards in a wave of noise and lights that flooded the road in front of this otherwise dreary row of suburban houses.

Inside, the house had a horrible nether zone feeling. They’d shut the curtains to get some privacy from the cameras but turned none of the lights on, casting the room in a thin, dusty light. 

Sophie’s parents were called Richard and Andrea. They were sat on the sofa together, holding hands tightly, when Erin and Tom entered the living room. Erin got the impression they’d been sat here all day and all night, braced against the endless stream of forensic investigators who trampled back and forth through the house, arms piled up with Sophie’s belongings.

‘We know you’ve already given a statement to the family liaison officer who was here with you yesterday,’ said Tom. ‘That will really help us try and narrow down where she was going and who she was meeting. But there’s still a few things we need to ask you.’ 

Richard nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

‘The first thing it would be good to hear is what Sophie was like as a person,’ said Erin. 

He looked at...