Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
My heart stuttered. ‘Your uncle? I thought you didn’t have family left alive?’
‘I don’t. Not really. Alasdair was my mother’s brother, but he …
he hated that she’d taken up with an ogre.
Refused to come to their bonding ceremony.
Refused to visit with me. When Mum died, he blamed Dad.
My father never came out and said as much, but I always got the feeling that my uncle was Anti-Crea. ’
I shook my head. ‘Robbie, I’m so sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ He swallowed hard. ‘When I was a teenager, my piping powers were … fluctuating. I fucked up and piped someone in front of an audience.’
‘What happened?’
Robbie started the engine and turned his attention to the road. ‘My dad killed them all.’
I closed my eyes and blew out a deep breath. Fuck, this was heavy. Still, I appreciated his willingness to share with me like I’d asked.
I had no doubt my father would have done exactly the same to keep me hidden. Keep me safe.
His father was dead and gone, so I let it go. ‘And then?’
‘Then he took me to Alasdair and told him to train me or he’d do the same to him.
We had a two-week holiday with Uncle Al.
’ His tone was sardonic, making it clear that such familiarity had never been offered.
‘After he was sure I knew enough not to fuck up again, he kicked us out. We’ve never spoken since.
He may have been my mother’s brother, but he was never family. ’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks. The address is his. He moved away from the Home Counties after our little two-week tête-à-tête. Dad kept track of him in case he ever became a threat. When Dad died, I kept up the same habit. Drummond currently works at Chester Zoo as a keeper, piping the ordinary animals when needed. His Common co-workers think he’s some sort of genius animal whisperer.
He’s written books on animal behaviour. He is – was – a smart man. ’
‘No he wasn’t,’ I said sharply. ‘If he disowned you, then he was a fool.’
He slid his eyes to me and smiled. ‘Thank you for that.’
‘We don’t know it’s him. The DB could be someone else. A friend. An intruder.’
Robbie nodded but kept his hands clenched on the wheel, and neither of us spoke again until we pulled up outside. Ed arrived at the same moment, parking beside us.
‘All right, Stacy?’ he asked. After a quick glance around to make sure no Common realmers were in earshot, he greeted Robbie, ‘Your Excellence.’
‘Not too bad,’ I replied. ‘You?’
‘I’m all right.’ He paused. ‘I stayed up way too late watching Welsh bog snorkelling.’
Despite myself, I grinned. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. There’s like this peat-trench filled with water, murky as hell, and they have to swim it as fast as possible, but without using any swimming strokes.’
‘Hold up, how are they supposed to swim then?’
‘They have to propel themselves with nothing but flippers on their feet. It honestly looks like someone thrashing around with a shark.’ He grinned. ‘It’s hilarious. Some of them even wear fancy dresses. Five stars, totally recommend.’
I snorted. ‘I’ll pass. You got some booties and gloves I can snag? I left my briefcase at home.’ Sneaking out like a thief in the dead of night meant I hadn’t grabbed my usual kit. At least Dad’s old pocket watch still sat where it always did; I’d miss the weight of it too much to go without.
‘Always.’ He passed me some shoe covers and a set to Robbie too, then passed us both some purple nitrile gloves.
I took them and shoved my hair back in a rough ponytail. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘It’s DS Roberts and DC Atkinson on scene.’
‘They’re not going to love this.’ Ed hooked a thumb at Robbie, indicating he was the this in question.
‘I’ll deal with that,’ I said confidently as we approached the property. Civilians on a crime scene were a massive no-no – but Robbie was far from a civilian, even if they didn’t know it.
The address was a terraced house nestled among others of the same ilk, their red-brick facades streaked with years of rain and dirt.
A thin strip of scrubby front garden separated each from the pavement.
The patch provided just enough space for a wheelie bin, a straggling rosebush, and not much else.
Outside Number 24, police tape fluttered in the mild morning breeze, stretching from the wrought-iron gate to the chipped doorframe like the warning it was: bad things have happened here; stay back.
DC Atkinson stood sentry in his uniform, expression blank but posture rigid.
It was still too early yet for rubbernecking neighbours, but they’d be waking soon, and then we’d see their lace curtains twitch as they stared at the scene with a mixture of nerves, schadenfreude, and relief it wasn’t their house taped up.
The morning light picked out the condensation on the windows, the faded paint on the sills, and the marks where the door had been forced open.
The lock was busted, the wood splintered.
The door had been kicked in. Risky, as the noise of such an action had surely woken the victim. The killer would have had to move fast.
I walked forward and nodded at Atkinson.
‘Ma’am,’ he greeted nervously, eyeing the ogre next to me.
‘He’s a civilian consultant,’ I said firmly. ‘He’s coming in with me.’
‘Roberts won’t like it.’
‘Roberts doesn’t have to like it. This is a Unit 13 matter. DC Frost will be relieving you shortly.’
Atkinson’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like being pulled off an active case but knew better than to bitch about it to a superior officer.
I pushed the door open, Robbie and Ed in tow, and entered the small hallway with its worn lino and half-forgotten dusty umbrella stand. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of damp brick and something metallic and foul: the unmistakeable tang of blood and death.
‘Roberts?’ I called.
‘In the bedroom!’ he hollered back.
I took the tight stairs upwards, ignoring the downstairs area for now.
The stairs creaked as I made my way up, and I wondered whether they’d groaned like that for the killer – wondered if the deceased had heard his murderer coming.
Had he been jolted from sleep as the killer kicked down the door, heart pounding at the unexpected noise, only to have his fear compounded by the creak of the stairs?
I walked up the stairs quickly, counting the seconds it took to reach the bedroom: five seconds, moving at a jog.
Even if our victim had been disturbed by the door being kicked in, he would likely still have been lying in bed, coming to after being pulled from sleep by an odd sound.
And that’s if he was a light sleeper. He could have heard nothing at all.
I turned to the bed, where DS Roberts was taking photos. The victim was in bed, hadn’t even got out of it. The bed was drenched in blood.
And I recognised him.
The victim was one of the protestors from outside the office yesterday, the neatly dressed man with the trimmed goatee. The fussy little glasses were sprawled open on the bedside table, as if he’d been fumbling to put them on as his intruder came in.
Robbie made a low sound behind me, just the tiniest noise, but then I knew. The protestor was his uncle.
‘Who are you?’ Roberts demanded, frowning at the hulking ogre.
‘He consults with Unit 13,’ I interjected before things could get ugly. ‘This case is one of ours. We’ll be taking it from here. We’re already working on another case, same MO.’
Just like Atkinson, Roberts hated giving up a case, but he nodded reluctantly, knowing I was already on it – had a head start. ‘Fine. You want me to finish up here?’
‘No, you’re good. You and Atkinson can leave as soon as I have my DC on the door. Before you go though, talk me through what you’ve already found.’
Roberts scratched the back of his neck. ‘Signs of forced entry. Front door was kicked in, and the lock splintered. Bold for this type of neighbourhood – it doesn’t normally see trouble.
That’s what screwed the pooch. A shift worker, a neighbour, one Tom Gribbins, called it in.
He had returned home at approximately 5.
30am and was getting undressed for bed. As he closed his curtains, he saw someone kick down the door of Number 24 and called it in.
On attendance at 5.45am, we found the resident, Mr Drummond, newly deceased.
No other damage downstairs, no sign of a struggle.
Victim’s wallet and phone were still on the bedside table, so not a burglary gone wrong. ’
‘And Mr Gribbins?’
Roberts had a sour look on his face. ‘Looks like he did his good deed and went straight to sleep. I’ve noted his telephone number for later questioning.’
He flipped to a page in his notebook and frowned down at the corpse again.
‘No defensive wounds that I can see. He was either asleep when it happened or knew whoever did it. Massive trauma to the torso: ribs crushed, chest cavity practically collapsed inwards. I’m thinking some sort of blunt instrument, though it would’ve had to be bloody heavy.
No signs of a weapon on the property, so whatever it was, the killer took it with them. ’
I leaned in for a closer look at the gaping injuries to the victim’s sternum and stomach.
Roberts wasn’t wrong about the ribs – they were caved in, but not in the way a baseball bat or hammer would do it.
I saw the gouges and knew what they meant.
An ogre. Or, more specifically, poor Thrain Olofsson’s head.
The killer, or killers, had really fucked up here. The victim had been lying in bed when the head was used to kill him. A real ogre would have had to bend double to make the same wounds. Sloppy. Arrogant. Stupid.
I peered closer at the deceased. Strangely, around some of the gouges, the skin looked pale and puckered. I hadn’t seen anything like that before.
‘Thanks Roberts.’
He grunted and left.
I waited until I’d heard several creaks before speaking in a low voice to Robbie. ‘It’s him?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Alasdair Drummond.’
‘I’m sorry, Robbie.’
‘He wasn’t anything to me,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be seeing justice for him all the same.’ The words were soft, but the warning in them was unmistakable: he’d see the killers dead. Luckily, that aligned nicely with my marching orders.
‘I’m green-lit for a kill order on this,’ I confirmed quietly to him. ‘Trust me to do my job, and you’ll get your justice.’
‘I trust you, Inspector.’ He closed the distance between us, and though I didn’t want any public displays of affection at work, I let him pull me into a cuddle. The hug wasn’t for me; it was for him.
Alasdair might have been estranged, but he had been the last link to Robbie’s mum, and now that link was severed. Whatever Drummond was to Robbie, that still hurt. Still stung. And I got it.
So I let myself be held.