Chapter 12
‘Tea or wine?’ Fraser says, as they arrive home.
The heating has come on and the reed diffuser on the hall table has filled the air with the scent of orange and cinnamon.
Both Lauren and Fraser are tidy people – shoes in the basket by the door, keys in the drawer – and their two-bedroomed house is a haven from the horrors they so often face at work.
No matter what kind of day she’s had, Lauren’s taut muscles begin to relax the moment they step through their front door, and she spares a thought for Nadeeka Prasanna, who is spending the night with her ex--husband’s mum.
Lauren isn’t on speaking terms with any of her exes, let alone their mothers.
‘We stayed with her on Monday night, too,’ Nadeeka had volunteered, after Lauren had asked whether the family might be able to go somewhere else for a couple of days.
‘Kath’s got her faults, but she’s calm in a crisis, you know?
A good person to have around when something like this .
. . something like this . . .’ She’d abandoned the sentence, her forehead creasing as though she was still trying to make sense of it all.
When something like this happens, Lauren supposes Nadeeka would have said, but when did anything like this happen? A murder, sure, but a sham criminal investigation and crime scene clean-up? It was almost too extraordinary to believe.
‘I trusted him,’ Nadeeka kept saying, whenever Lauren asked about ‘DI Burton’. ‘I – I liked him.’
Every now and then, Lauren could detect a note of caution in Nadeeka’s expression; a wariness as Lauren questioned her. Because her trust in the police had been broken? Or because Nadeeka was hiding something? Lauren wasn’t ruling anything out.
‘When did you go back to the house?’ she’d asked. They had still been in the stale, overly hot interview room at the police station.
For a moment, Nadeeka had looked as though she wasn’t going to answer. Her lips parted and a tremor ran across them, and Lauren realized the question had triggered her; that Nadeeka was back in Cedar Walk, stepping into her house to find her partner’s dead body.
‘Take your time.’ If Nadeeka was lying about what happened, she was a damn good actress.
‘Tue—’ She’d composed herself. Tried again. ‘Tuesday morning.’
‘By which time everything had been . . .’ Lauren had opted for the gentlest word she could think of ‘ . . . tidied up?’
Nadeeka had nodded. ‘It was spotless.’
‘And since then, have you moved anything?’
‘The sofa wasn’t quite in the right position, so I put it back.
I’ve pushed the hoover around a couple of times .
. .’ Nadeeka had been hesitant, as though she expected Lauren to tell her off.
Lauren had tried to keep her expression neutral.
It wasn’t Nadeeka’s fault, of course, but it meant three days of DNA being trodden in and out of the house.
It meant an already impossible situation made even harder.
‘You weren’t to know,’ Lauren had said. ‘But if the scene could be kept sterile from now on, that would be helpful. I’d like our forensics team to start as soon as possible.’
‘Earth to Lauren,’ Fraser says now.
‘Sorry. Tea, please.’ She takes her bag into the kitchen, not even stopping to take off her coat. ‘I need to get the investigative strategy straight; I’ve promised the boss a briefing note before the end of the day.’
Fraser looks pointedly at his watch. It is already gone seven. ‘I guess I’m cooking, then?’
‘Do you mind?’ Lauren sits at the kitchen table and opens her laptop.
‘Course I don’t. Pasta okay?’
‘Great,’ she says, although she isn’t really listening. ‘We’ll have to leave the seating plan for another time.’ She props up her open daybook against a pile of flatpack wedding favour boxes.
‘Shame.’
Lauren throws him an amused look. ‘Don’t ever take up poker, you’re a terrible liar.’ In an open tab on her screen is the Major Crime Investigation Manual, the detective’s bible for homicides, abductions and serious sexual offences. Lauren clicks on No Body Murders.
‘You know blokes are no good at things like seating plans and choosing flowers. You women are so much better at—’
‘Don’t you dare, Fraser Hogan!’ Lauren holds up a warning finger, her eyes still on her laptop.
‘What you’re doing is called weaponized incompetence.
It’s like those men who are deliberately slapdash when they’re doing the dishes, so the little woman decides it’s easier to do it herself. It’s our wedding; we both pitch in.’
‘To be fair, though, women are generally better than blokes at domestic chores . . .’
Lauren stares at him, incredulous. ‘Unless you’re dusting the mantelpiece with your genitals, I fail to see how—’ She sees the corners of Fraser’s mouth twitch and lets the rest of her tirade fall. ‘You sod.’ She turns back to her laptop. ‘You had me going then. I thought I was marrying my dad.’
‘What a grim thought.’ Fraser puts a mug of tea in front of her. ‘I’ll make a start on the seating plan while the spaghetti’s cooking. Give me the guest list and—’ He catches Lauren’s expression and changes tack. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll get it myself.’
Lauren holds up her hands in praise. ‘By Jove, I think he’s got it!’
Once Fraser leaves the kitchen, Lauren drums her fingers on the pitted pine table. If only Nadeeka had come to the station earlier. If only she’d guessed something had been wrong.
‘So you only ever spoke to the man purporting to be a detective inspector?’ Lauren had tried to keep the judgement out of her voice. ‘You never dealt with another police officer?’
‘Just the one in uniform who was outside the house when I got home. After that, it was only DI Burton.’
Lauren had wanted to push it – to say But didn’t you think that was odd?
– but she had held her tongue. She had thought instead about all the people who fall for doorstep scams or distraction burglaries; who take at face value something told to them by a man in a hi-vis jacket, or carrying ID from the water company.
Nadeeka had seen a marked police car, a CSI, a dedicated FLO – why would she have questioned it?
A marked police car. Lauren keeps coming back to it. Could it have been stolen? Taken perhaps from the force workshop? Old police cars are sent to auction, but not before their ‘Battenberg’ branding is removed; could one have been intercepted?
Lauren starts typing. They will have to start from scratch, as though the murder has only just happened.
House-to-house enquiries. A full crime scene examination, as well as assessments of any secondary crime scenes, such as the café where Nadeeka met up with ‘DI Burton’.
Doorcam footage. ANPR. Cloud data will be key.
Lauren’s tea goes cold as the investigative strategy slowly takes shape.
The unusual nature of Nadeeka Prasanna’s crime report has offset the usual grumbles about weekend working, and the following morning there is an almost tangible buzz in the air.
The noise in the briefing room steadily builds, and at nine a.m. sharp Lauren stands by the large screen at the front of the room, puts two fingers in her mouth and lets out a piercing whistle.
Over the years, various line managers have suggested to Lauren that there are more appropriate ways to bring a room to order, but Lauren has quietly ignored them.
A raised, too-shrill voice would undermine her authority, and clapping her hands makes her feel as though she’s about to lead primary school children into a round of ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine’.
The room falls silent.
‘I know some of you have had to change family plans,’ Lauren says, ‘so thank you for showing up today. It’s appreciated.
’ She presses her clicker, and two photographs appear on the screen.
‘This is Nadeeka Prasanna and her partner, James – known as Jamie – Golding. Prasanna alleges she arrived home on Monday to find Golding had been fatally stabbed. She claims there was police tape across her front door and a marked police car in the street, but there is no record of any officers attending from this force or neighbouring forces. Golding’s employer, ATP -Construction, has confirmed they have had no contact with Golding since Monday morning, when he phoned in sick. ’
As she’s talking, Lauren realizes there’s no one here from the media team, despite her specific request that they attend.
The investigation could really benefit from an appeal for information from the public – particularly in relation to tracing the vehicles used by the so-called police officers – but, with confidence in the police already at an all-time low, how do they do that without causing panic?
Lauren had hoped to run through a possible strategy with the media team this morning.
She intends to propose they go public with the murder but hold back the detail about bogus police officers.
She looks around the room. ‘I believe someone from CSI is here?’
‘That’s me, ma’am.’ A man leaning against the wall raises a hand. ‘Tony Watkins. Has the victim’s partner given us access to the house?’
‘Yes. We have a set of keys.’
‘Cool. In the first instance, as per your instructions, ma’am, we’ll be looking to confirm the likelihood a murder took place. From what I’ve been told, we’ll have to take the carpet up – is she okay with that?’
‘She’ll have to be.’
‘Beyond that – ’ Tony shrugs ‘ – the usual. Do we have elims from the family?’
‘Not yet, but I’m seeing Ms Prasanna later today and will get that sorted.
’ Lauren looks to Fraser, who gives a brief nod, picking up the tacit request to collect an elimination fingerprint kit and DNA swabs.
‘Jamie Golding is no trace PNC,’ she tells Tony, ‘so I’ll ask Ms Prasanna for something of his we can swab. ’
‘A toothbrush would be ideal,’ Tony says.