Dead Man’s Daughter. Roz Watkins
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heart knows.’
*
‘Okay,’ I said, plonking myself on a chair in the incident room. ‘So, she dreamt about a shower and her mum drying her hair. And then later, she remembered finding her dad dead, and she remembered getting covered in blood and running out. Then I found her. Did you get that too?’
Jai nodded. ‘If Rachel Thornton killed him, Abbie could have come through and got covered in blood, and then her mum cleaned her up. She thinks the shower and her hair being dried was a dream but maybe it actually happened.’
Voices drifted through from Richard’s room next door. Craig was talking. Jai looked up sharply and glanced in that direction. I could only make out the odd word. She shoved her. Was that what Craig had just said?
I felt a twinge of worry. ‘What’s Craig saying to Richard?’
Jai looked blankly at me. ‘Didn’t hear properly.’
I paused and listened again, but someone had shut Richard’s door. I shook my head as if that could clear it of its paranoid thoughts. ‘Craig’s wife collared me yesterday,’ I said. ‘Asked me to go easy on him, can you believe?’
‘Go easy on him?’
‘Yeah. Said he was working too hard and blamed it on pressure from me.’
‘I’d hate to see him when he wasn’t working hard.’
‘I know. You don’t think he’s using work as a cover, do you?’
Jai shrugged. ‘Don’t know him that well. No love lost, as you know.’
I put Craig out of my mind. ‘So we’re thinking Rachel might have washed Abbie, dried her hair, put her back to bed and gone off to dispose of her clothes?’
‘It looks that way. Which would mean Rachel must have had blood all over her at some point, and there must be some clothes somewhere that she wore when she killed him. Because there’s no way she could have slit his carotid without getting absolutely covered in the stuff.’
A knock on the door. Fiona.
‘We’ve found a plastic bag,’ she said breathlessly. ‘With clothes in it. And a knife. And some boots that look like the ones that left the marks outside the door.’
‘Fantastic!’ I said. ‘Exactly what we were talking about.’
‘It was dumped in someone’s bin on the outskirts of Matlock. It was bin day and they noticed the bag when they put some of their own stuff in, just before the refuse guys arrived. They fished it out because they thought it looked dodgy.’
‘Has it got Rachel’s clothes in it?’
Fiona rubbed her nose. ‘It’s a bit . . . strange.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s the men’s boots, and a set of clothes which look like Rachel’s, which have got blood smears on them. It’s all gone off to the blood guys but I thought I should let you know . . . ’
‘What? Spit it out, Fiona.’
‘Okay. There was something else in the bag as well. You know you can tell if something’s actually been spurted on? Arterial spurt. Like whoever was wearing them was standing over the person when they were stabbed. Well, there is something like that, but it’s not Rachel’s.’
I had a bad feeling, right under my ribs. ‘Whose is it?’
‘It has embroidered puppies on it. It’s a little girl’s nightdress.’
*
Sleet rolled down the hills as we drove towards Matlock. A grit lorry chugged along ahead of us. I tried to focus on the icy road, while my mind churned with the new information. Arterial spurt on a little girl’s nightdress. Did that mean poor Abbie was there, standing next to her father while his throat was cut? I felt sick at the thought.
‘Why are we driving all the way out to see her?’ Craig said. ‘We’ve got enough to arrest her.’
‘Maybe. But there are a few question marks around her behaviour.’
‘You overthink things.’
He certainly didn’t act as if he wanted to impress me. I wondered again what he’d been saying to his wife.
‘They pay us to think,’ I said. ‘Why would she kill her husband with her daughter there? So close she got spurted on? Why would she kill him, disappear, come back, and disappear again?’
‘We could ask her all this at the Station.’
‘I know. But sometimes you learn more this way.’
I leant forward and flipped the radio on, wishing Jai was with me. You could toss ideas around with Jai. He helped me think, even if he’d been a bit distracted recently.
‘I suppose you’ll have to come off the case anyway.’ Craig’s tone was pointedly neutral. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a biggie. And you’re on holiday next week.’
I contemplated pretending I hadn’t heard, but decided against. Rumours would be started that I suffered from hysterical deafness. ‘I’ll delay my time off.’ I glanced at the sky as if God might smite me for my lie.
‘Going anywhere nice?’
‘Not really. Was your wife okay the other day? She seemed upset. Is she worried you’re working too hard?’ Two could play this game.
The sat-nav interrupted us, for which Craig must have silently thanked it. ‘At the end of the road, turn left.’
I obeyed and sat-nav man told me we had reached our destination – a modern bungalow, surrounded by more of the same. It couldn’t have been more different from Phil and Rachel Thornton’s Gothic money-pit in the woods.
The door was answered by Abbie’s grandmother, Patricia, and an ancient-looking tortoiseshell cat. Patricia looked upset; the cat didn’t.
Patricia lead us into a chintzy front room. She wrenched her botoxed forehead into a frown. ‘I hope you’re not going to bully Rachel. She’s just lost her husband, and she has mental health problems. Did you know that?’
‘Maybe we could have a chat with Rachel first,’ I said. ‘And then we’ll have a word with you?’
‘As long as you know she’s not been well. I’ll make tea and ask her to come through.’
I sat on a velour sofa in a strange shade of green and Craig went for the matching armchair. They had doily things where our heads went. I hadn’t seen that for a while.
The door eased open and Rachel crept in and sat next to me on the sofa. She picked at a loose thread on her jeans.
‘Hi, Rachel,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
She shrugged. Her look said, I’m socially conditioned to say I’m fine but I’m quite clearly not.
‘We found the bag,’ I said.
Rachel jerked back an inch, as if she’d been hit. She took a sharp in-breath.
I held out some photographs. ‘Could you confirm if these are your clothes, and Abbie’s nightdress. And if you recognise the knife. We’ve sent them for analysis, but it would speed things up if you’d just tell us what you know.’
She licked her lips and said nothing. I contemplated all the blood on the nightdress, hoping she’d say That’s not Abbie’s nightdress and I’ve never seen that knife before. She didn’t. She leant back in her seat and sat very still, staring at an ugly standard lamp that squatted on the far side of the room. Even though she was shocked and upset, she looked more composed than she had the day before, and somehow more solid.
‘Did you kill your husband?’