her in any of the rooms, in a variety of ways, at any time of the day or night, silently and without leaving evidence or causing a commotion. It just didn’t stack up. Unless it had been a crime of passion: one of them had been having an affair, confronted the other. Peter had lashed out in a blind rage. It’s always the man, isn’t it?
My mind turned to Peter and Karen finding the body. I imagined myself as Peter coming up the stairs. I was about the same height – five ten – so I stopped at the spot where he would have seen Marion’s body on the landing.
Karen wouldn’t have seen the body yet. She was five foot four, tops, and must have been at least a step below Peter, if not two. He called Marion’s name and went to her body.
Karen told me she’d been the one to check for signs of life. That’s how she got Marion’s blood on her hands. Had Peter made any sort of check first? If not, then why not? Did he already know she was dead? I couldn’t be sure if this meant anything, but made a mental note just in case. I’d mention it later to the investigating officers, show them I had solid detective potential.
I walked up to the police tape and exchanged a nod with the forensics who were tweezing every inch of the landing.
There seemed to be very little blood on the carpet and walls, considering all the wounds Marion had suffered. Either she had died quickly – blood stops flowing when you expire – or most of her wounds were superficial. I wondered if I’d get a look at the pathology report.
The window on the landing overlooked a flat roof below. Someone could have climbed onto that roof and scrabbled up the rooftiles to this window. I unfastened the latch and opened it as far as it could go: about four inches. It looked new and hadn’t been forced. The killer didn’t get in through here.
Cool air rushed my face, voodoo lurking in its slipstream.
After three hours, they close the window, to ensure that the spirit doesn’t return.
She usually gets home before six … we got back just after nine …
Had I been standing here as her spirit returned, hungry for vengeance?
My eyes followed the blood streaks along the wall. I wondered what would happen to the flat now. Surely Peter could never come back to live here, guilty or not. Who would paint over the blood? Would future prospective tenants be told of the horror that had taken place, here on these stairs?
The flat door below heaved open, followed by the sound of someone labouring up the stairs.
‘You could probably get this for a hell of a good price now,’ panted Clive, as if he’d read my mind, ‘be a smashing first-time buy.’
‘Could you actually live here though? Every time you’d come up these stairs, you’d be thinking someone died here, horribly.’
‘I’d leave the blood and charge people for a look.’
‘Jesus.’
We both stared for a moment in silence at the spattered remnants of Marion Ryan’s final seconds, the red colour already browning.
‘What do you think then?’ said Clive.
‘Well, if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that crimes tend to be either personal or opportunistic,’ I replied. ‘This was definitely personal, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well, if I’ve learned anything over the past twenty years, it’s to keep an open mind.’
I could feel his look. ‘Tell them what you think today, but don’t be too opinionated. They won’t respect that.’
I nodded.
‘You’re a PC, they’ll see you as nothing more than a street butler; present when needed, otherwise invisible. Know your place, son.’
‘Got it,’ I said, the words, ‘cannon fodder’ drifting through my mind.
I’d be fucked if I’d know my place in Clive’s class system. England, the world’s only courteous tyranny.
Marion lay on the waiting room table at Clapham police station, beaming and radiant. The photo of her and Peter on a recent night out dominated the Standard’s front page. Head tilted into Peter’s chest, her smiling blue eyes oozed contentment. Her hair – big and curly à la Julia Roberts’ in Pretty Woman – had an almost other-worldly crimson glow which seemed to drain all the blood from her milk-white skin. Her high cheekbones and freckled nose brought Eve to mind. But Marion’s features – nose, chin, eyebrows, forehead – were more pronounced: she was striking, rather than pretty. Juxtaposed with her strong face was a smile so coy, kind and natural that it lit up the page, casting a sad shadow across my chest. I forced my eyes away from the photo to the accompanying report. I needed to expunge all emotion, stick to the facts.
London-born of Irish parents, twenty-three-year-old Marion O’Leary met Peter Ryan in North London’s Archway Tavern when she was seventeen. Peter, from Mayo, had been her only boyfriend. They got married in Ireland last year.
I’d met lots of second-generation Irish in London, like Marion. Invariably, they held a romanticised view of ‘the old country’, usually based on a handful of childhood holidays, and family propaganda. Most had been indoctrinated in Irish culture since birth. I bet Marion attended the local Catholic school and church. She would have taken First Holy Communion and Irish dancing classes and celebrated Paddy’s Day more than I ever did.
She would have socialised in Irish pubs and clubs, hoping to meet a dashing Irishman who’d whisk her off her feet. They’d marry and move to a bungalow in the west of Ireland, where their kids – red-haired, freckled and plentiful – would run about barefoot and gleeful, stopping only to say the Angelus together at six o’clock each evening.
We first-generation Irish had news for these ‘plastic Paddies’, some quite old news at that: romantic Ireland’s dead and gone.
I couldn’t help assuming that Marion had bought wholesale into her parents’ dream. Marrying her first proper boyfriend made me suspect she was trusting, idealistic, a little naïve – not the type to have an affair, or to let a stranger into her flat. So how then did Peter fit into all of this? Why would he kill her? Maybe he was having an affair and couldn’t bring himself to tell her. After all, most Irishmen will do anything to avoid a scene. Or she confronted him about it and he flipped. But surely he didn’t hack his own wife to death on the stairs with a knife, then go back to work? That didn’t stack up.
I was mentally listing the most compelling reasons why this crime had to be domestic when I leapt at the sound of my own name. The uniformed officer led me out of the waiting room, down a long corridor, through a pair of electronic security doors, along another corridor, then left into an interview suite. I sat there in airless isolation for what seemed like an age, a hothouse mushroom incubating on stale smoke and sweat. I couldn’t understand why I felt so nervous.
Two middle-aged detectives finally strolled in, coffee cups full, fags on, fresh smoke sweetening the fusty air.
‘I’m DS Barratt, this is Inspector McStay,’ said the taller one, letting his superior sit first.
I talked through everything that happened last night, throwing in my theories for good measure. When I wrapped up, they told me to write it all down in a statement, minus the theories. As I wrote, I repeated my assertion that Marion must have known her killer.
‘Thank you, PC,’ snapped McStay, emphasising my job title, ‘the Big Dogs are all over it now.’
I went on, ‘She clearly let her killer in. She knew him or her well enough to pick up her post.’
‘Who would be your prime suspect then, Lynch?’ asked Barratt, mildly amused.
‘I’d have to start with the husband, Peter. Was he playing away? Did she find out? Has he got a history of violence? It doesn’t usually come out of the blue, does it? I’ve read about a lot of other cases and it normally