Natalie Ward shifted onto her side, flicked on her mobile and let out a soft groan. It was just after 1 a.m. She let out a heavy sigh that didn’t disturb her husband, David, who was fast asleep on his back, loud snores filling the room. She gave him a shove for the third time and was relieved when he finally shifted onto his side and the noise desisted.

The alcohol was to blame. Every time he had too much to drink, she had to go through this same process. With him now quiet, she relaxed her shoulders and reflected on the evening. It had passed off much better than she’d expected. She wasn’t the greatest dinner party hostess and certainly wouldn’t win any awards for her culinary skills, but the meal had been passable and David’s father, Eric, and his new girlfriend, Pam, had both been good company. The children had been on form too, and sixteen-year-old Josh had managed to smile politely at Eric’s terrible jokes, while fourteen-year-old Leigh hadn’t grumbled once about the slightly overcooked macaroni cheese her mother had offered her as an alternative to the roast lamb and salsa verde.

She stared up at the ceiling and attempted to still her thoughts that rose like champagne bubbles and fizzed and popped in her mind. She wasn’t like David, who usually crashed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. She’d suffered from insomnia for many years and learnt that when her mind was unwilling to allow her to sleep, she had to let it play out its thoughts. She couldn’t even blame the alcohol. Last night she’d only drunk soft drinks. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to join in with the others and get merry – she certainly had – but she hadn’t wanted to ruin the meal. It was the first time Pam had been invited to their house, and Natalie had wanted it to be successful for Eric’s sake. He’d been nervous about introducing his new girlfriend to his family, especially to David, who in spite of his smiles had found it difficult to see his father with somebody other than his mother.

Eric had been a widower for ten years. It was long enough in her book. She was pleased he’d found somebody else to share his life with. It was a pity David didn’t feel quite the same way about it…

---

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ David pulls at his right sock as he speaks. ‘It’s not your father.’

Natalie bites her tongue even though she wants to tell David to stop behaving like a petulant child. His mother has been dead for ten years. If either of her own parents had survived the other, she’d have wanted them to have found happiness again. David seems to have forgotten she’s lost both her mother and father and is rambling.

‘She’s way too young for him. She’s only fifty-six. He’s almost seventy. What does he think he’s trying to prove?’

‘That he’s alive,’ she says, carefully. ‘He’s a youthful seventy-year-old. He wants to enjoy himself while he still can.’

David emits a noise like a flat raspberry but doesn’t pursue the conversation. He tugs at the other sock and throws it onto the floor beside the bed, on top of his other clothes. ‘I’ve had too much to drink,’ he declares as he draws back the cover and gets into bed.

‘I know. Get some sleep.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

She picks up his clothes and drops them onto the chair in the corner of the room in case he gets up in the night and falls over them, then gets ready for bed. By the time she’s cleaned her teeth, David is asleep.

---

Natalie understood his concerns. His father was a constant in their lives. Eric was the person they rang if they needed anything fixing in the house – he was a dab hand at DIY – and he popped around most weeks to help out in the garden, or just for a pot of tea and a chat, and he’d been their go-to babysitter for many years before the children were old enough to be left alone. David was frightened of him drifting out of their lives. Natalie didn’t see it the same way. Eric needed to live out what time he had left, doing what he wanted to do, not to be at their beck and call. Besides, people often grew apart. It happened all the time. Look at her and Frances. She’d had no contact with her estranged sister for several years and she didn’t miss her. Really? Not a little? She ignored the small voice in her head that had piped up. Instead of getting sleepy, she was becoming more agitated, as was often the case once she started thinking about Frances.

They’d decided to take the kids into Manchester for a shopping trip today. If she didn’t get some sleep soon, she’d find the hour-and-a-half journey to town and subsequent drag about the shops too gruelling. She tried the relaxation techniques she’d been taught by a psychiatrist. She scrunched her toes and released them, then moved onto her calf muscles, which she tensed then released. Little by little she tightened and released the muscles in her thighs, her stomach, her diaphragm, her chest, her shoulders, arms, hands and fingers until every ounce of tension evaporated. Her breathing slowed and she began to spiral down a long, dark passageway into oblivion.

She didn’t sink into sleep. The soft burr coming from her mobile dragged her back to the here and now, hauling her inch by inch from the warm pit where she’d finally found comfort and peace to reality. It was work. She lifted the phone to her ear. Superintendent Aileen Melody sounded alert and anxious.

‘Natalie, there’s been a murder.’

Natalie snapped to in an instant and, throwing back the covers, swung her legs out of bed and drew up into a seated position. ‘Where?’

‘Eastborough. I’ll text you the address. It’s a young woman by the name of Charlotte Brannon. Her husband found her dead in their bedroom. I know you’re on leave but I want you to head the investigation. You okay with that?’

Natalie stood up. ‘On my way.’

There was a short pause. ‘Thank you. And Natalie, I ought to warn you… there’s a baby too.’

Natalie stopped mid-track. ‘A baby?’

‘Their son. He’s unharmed but he was at home during the attack on his mother. I’ve sent Mike across.’

Mike Sullivan, who was in charge of Forensics, also happened to be David’s best friend. ‘Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops.’

David stirred. His voice was thick with sleep. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah. Go back to sleep.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Work.’

He mumbled a response and pulled the duvet high around his neck. Before she’d finished dressing, he’d dozed off again. He was familiar with the routine. She slipped out of the bedroom and downstairs into the kitchen still harbouring the warm aroma of cooked spices and wine and a hint of conviviality. She searched for her car keys in the dish by the kettle and, grabbing a coat from the hook by the back door, went out into the cool morning.

---

Maddison Court in Eastborough, a smart suburb of Samford, was a prestigious estate of thirty architect-designed houses. Each property boasted a sweeping driveway and about half an acre of garden, and was worth upwards of three quarters of a million pounds.

The blue flashing lights from the emergency vehicles already present – an ambulance and three police cars – strobed across the dark sky. As Natalie donned the protective clothing she kept in her car, she glanced around and spotted a plump woman with bright-red hair squatting beside the open passenger door of a squad car and talking to an individual sitting inside, head in hands. It was Tanya Granger, the family liaison officer. Natalie took a moment and allowed her gaze to run up and down the road. The neighbouring houses were lit up, with most of the residents either peering out of their windows or standing by the open front doors, with dazed looks of total disbelief on their faces, observing her as she suited up. The estate was alive even though it was 2 a.m., and as she strode purposefully up the sloped driveway, past the new Bentley 4x4 parked next to a black BMW Coupé, she was mindful of the neighbours gathered in small groups, mobiles in hands to snap photographs or film the comings and goings outside the Brannons’ home. No doubt they’d be uploading them to social media with shocked comments and speculations about what had happened.

She showed her ID to the policeman on the door, who added her name to the crime scene log. She caught sight of Murray Anderson, one of her sergeants, and PC Ian Jarvis as they pulled up behind her car. She signalled to them to join her.

‘Canvass the area, would you? And make sure everyone goes back inside. They’re not helping by filming events. Politely suggest they desist and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious.’

She didn’t wait to ensure they’d followed orders. She knew they would and that the streets would be clear of voyeurs when she next came out. She crossed the threshold into a large entrance with grey slate tiles and found herself looking into a downstairs cloakroom with toilet and scalloped sink.

She moved through the door on the left and took in the enormous room with floor-to-ceiling windows to one side and gossamer-thin curtains draped artistically beside each, but not pulled to. Natalie found the place charmless – little more than a sparkling show home, or dressed for a Homes & Gardens magazine feature, and lacking in any homely touches. Tall white lamps with pleated white shades stood on the floor adjacent to a grey seven-seater settee. Sculptures of cartoon-like birds filled up spaces on grey shelves above a fake inset fireplace, while others of angel-like figures were dotted about the room on grey modern tables. Black-and-white paintings by the same artist were grouped on white walls: one of people clutching umbrellas against the wind, another of a man and boy on a tree branch, both holding fishing rods, and a third of a child riding a bicycle and towing a barrow of red hearts.

It was stylish, but Natalie couldn’t get a feel for the couple who lived here. There were no normal indicators of family life other than the very large flat-screen television on the sitting-room wall. A staircase broke the open-plan room into two, the far end opening up into the kitchen, equally trendy and lacking in the sort of chaos and clutter she linked to family life. There was no evidence of a baby in this house: no highchair or toys, no paraphernalia she would ordinarily associate with a baby, and no photographs. Who doesn’t proudly display photographs of their children? she thought to herself. Her own house was filled with memories of her children: framed pictures of Josh and Leigh as babies, as toddlers, and more recently as teenagers on most of the downstairs walls and even stuck to the side of her fridge.

The room was palatial. Even with several officers scattered throughout, there was space for many more. A party house. Ordinarily, crime scenes appeared cramped with forensic units and police rammed into the same area, but not in this house. Natalie didn’t have to squeeze past anyone to look for Mike. He was standing in front of a steel-grey American fridge-freezer the size of her pine kitchen dresser, his head bowed as if in thought. She crossed the length of the room, passing a sweeping staircase, and joined him.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi,’ he replied. ‘I always fancied a fridge this size. I could fit in stacks of beer. Look: you can make ice cubes too.’ He pointed at the dispenser. The smile didn’t reach his bloodshot eyes.

Natalie understood he was trying to make a difficult situation easier. She’d been with him in similar circumstances and knew how he worked. Judging by his ashen pallor, he’d already been upstairs and seen the victim. His words confirmed it. ‘It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. I needed a moment.’

She gave him a brief smile. ‘I’m about to go up.’

‘Want me to come with you? It’s really bad.’

‘I’ll be okay. You stay here for a while.’

He glanced about at his team hard at work, heads down, and nodded. ‘Adam Brannon, the husband, is outside with Tanya. The baby’s been checked over by the paramedics and seems fine. He’s with a social worker at the moment. As far as we can tell, there’s no obvious sign of a break-in. They might have managed to pick the lock but that would take skill and the right sort of equipment. There are no surveillance cameras fitted, inside or out, so nothing there to help us. There is a sophisticated burglar alarm, but it doesn’t seem to have been set.’

Natalie considered his words. ‘Charlotte might have let her attacker in?’

‘Or they had a key.’ He let his words hang. She thought briefly of the man outside in the squad car.

‘What’s through there?’ She indicated the door at the back of the room.

‘Games room. Got a full-sized pool table in there and a desk. No evidence of any unusual activity but we’ll go through it.’ He paused momentarily, his wide shoulders dropping slightly, before speaking again. ‘Pinkney’s on his way.’

‘Good.’ Natalie liked the pathologist whose no-nonsense approach would be welcome. He managed to balance empathy and practicality perfectly and would keep her mind off the horror of the situation through facts and information, which he’d readily divulge. Sometimes, it was best to bury yourself in the facts.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She retraced her steps and climbed the staircase that rose and then twisted gently to the right to a cream-carpeted landing, where she halted. The smell of death was strongest here. Sickly sweet, it would coat the back of her mouth and fill her nostrils with its cloying aroma. Some officers used menthol vapour rub under their noses to hide the smell, or chewed gum, but she’d come to realise it didn’t matter what she used to disguise it, it always permeated her skin and entered her airways regardless. It was best to deal with it full on.

Several rooms ran the length of the landing. Doors to all were open and soft murmurings indicated the presence of officers inside. She mused on how strange it was that in these situations everyone whispered or spoke softly as if the dead could hear them commenting as they rummaged through personal effects. She inhaled deeply, regulating her breathing as best she could. In. Out. In. A soft rustling behind her caused her to turn her head, and she smiled slightly at the sight: Detective Sergeant Lucy Carmichael.

‘This is pretty sick shit,’ Lucy said. ‘You seen her yet?’ As she cocked her head, the ceiling lights illuminated her heavy blue-black fringe, making it glisten like crow feathers.

‘Just about to.’ Natalie didn’t need to say any more. A glimpse of a white protective suit and a flash of a camera bulb signposted where they needed to head. The official photographer was working in the first bedroom.

‘DI Ward and DS Carmichael,’ called Natalie as she approached. ‘We’re coming in.’

The photographer moved to one side. Natalie stepped through the doorway and took in the sight in front of her: grey wallpaper with a silver thread running through it; a Georgian, white-painted, king-sized bed, bearing a crisp white duvet and a yellow patterned throw that had tumbled partly onto the floor; four yoke-yellow and four dove-grey cushions, tossed in the corner of the room; bedside tables in white and an open door leading to a dressing area; sketches of stag’s heads in matching yellow above the bed next to yellow shelves, large enough for only a white pillar candle each. Between the pictures was one word: ‘why?’

Natalie studied it for a few moments. The letters were about eight inches high, written in lowercase and slightly sloped.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ she asked.

The photographer spoke quietly. ‘Yes. It’s been written in blood.’

She tore her eyes away from the wall and over the bed. A pair of silver embroidered slippers at one side of the bed, and at the other, the battered body of Charlotte Brannon, naked in a pool of blood.

Natalie swallowed and kept her cool. It was important to look at the whole scene, not just the body, and get a feel for what had happened. Her eyes flitted across an oval-shaped digital clock, now showing 2.15 a.m., and an empty glass, resting upon a baby monitor at an odd angle, as if it had been knocked accidentally. She moved towards it. The flashing light indicated it was functioning. Cocking an ear to it, she picked up muffled commands from forensic officers in the nursery. A pillow bearing an indentation was half-on, half-off the bed. Charlotte must have dragged it with her as she tried to look at the clock or pick up the monitor. The silver slippers had been kicked away and one lay upside down. Charlotte had not put them on. She’d walked to the opposite side of the bed – the side she didn’t use. The pillow there had not been slept on. It was fluffed up in readiness. There was nothing on that nightstand other than some loose change.

Natalie forced her eyes to Charlotte’s pale body. She was on her back, chestnut hair sticky with blood, nose crushed and flattened, chin and cheeks a crimson mess. One brown eye stared at the ceiling; the other was swollen and closed with crusted blood. One arm was thrown out above her head, a slim hand the only part of her body unharmed. The other arm was bent back at the elbow at an unnatural angle. Her knees were together and her entire lower body twisted to the right. Natalie’s eyes lit upon the tattoo of three butterflies on Charlotte’s left shoulder, then travelled the length of her shattered body to the carefully painted crimson toenails as red as the blood that she lay in. Charlotte resembled little more than a broken doll.

‘Make sure you photograph that,’ she said, indicating the bedside table that contained the baby monitor. The photographer lifted his camera and began clicking once more.

‘We think we’ve found the weapon,’ said Mike from behind her, making her jump. She quickly regained her composure and, following his outstretched arm, spotted the handle of a wooden baseball bat in the large, plastic evidence bag. She stepped closer and identified brownish-red stains that could only be blood. ‘It was hidden in the bin outside, under some rubbish. It’s a thirty-four-inch, wooden, heavy-duty baseball bat.’

‘The bin isn’t the greatest hiding place,’ said Natalie. ‘The killer was either in a rush to get away and dumped it without much thought, or they weren’t too worried if it was found.’

‘Or they simply might not be very bright,’ said Mike.

Next to her, Lucy spoke, her wide eyes seeming even larger. ‘The fucker smashed her to death with that bat?’

‘Looks that way. There’s significant blood pooled around the body along with impact spatter on the bedlinen that side of the bed. Luminol will reveal if there’s any other bloodstain spatter or microscopic droplets, but I reckon it was a frenzied attack, confined to that area of the bedroom.’

Natalie tried to envisage the scene: an angry attacker with a baseball bat, a defenceless woman. Had Charlotte been trying to escape her assailant by hiding under the bed? Could this possibly have been a burglary that went wrong or a domestic dispute that got out of hand? Charlotte was still wearing her wedding and engagement rings. Natalie crossed to the dressing table and hunted through it for valuables. The top drawer contained a large Ted Baker make-up bag and pouches of colourful beaded necklaces and jewellery, none of which looked to be very expensive. The other drawers held silk and lace lingerie, most of which had been purchased from Agent Provocateur, La Perla and Eres. They’d been neatly folded and appeared to be untouched. To Natalie’s trained eye, there was nothing obvious missing.

‘We need to know if she owned any expensive jewellery and if it – or anything else – was stolen. Maybe there’s a safe. Her husband’s outside. He’ll be able to confirm if there is.’

Lucy answered her. ‘Yes. He gave a statement earlier. You want to talk to him?’

‘In a minute. I want to see the nursery first.’ Natalie retreated from the room back onto the landing, where she steeled herself before going through the second door. The room shocked her into a heavy silence. There may not have been any evidence of a child downstairs but this room bore every trace of one and was filled with love. The theme was once again white and grey, but this time the room held a warm charm: light grey wallpaper covered in white clouds; a white-framed picture of a group of friendly blue rabbits; a grey-blue toy rabbit propped against a star-shaped white cushion on a large white chair; a blue beanbag in soft leather sat on a fluffy white rug; a blue wooden train on the floor next to two more toy rabbits, larger than Alfie; more toys and children’s books on shelves alongside photographs of mother and child; a white toy box with the name Alfie spelt out in blue lettering in one corner of the room, and in the other, the most beautiful white cot Natalie had ever seen. Charlotte would never again hold her baby in her arms in this gorgeous room and comfort him or love him. Natalie felt something constrict inside her chest like a tourniquet and she struggled for breath. She discovered Lucy by her side, clearly experiencing similar emotions.

‘At least he’s alive,’ was all she said, then blinking heavily, marched out of the room. Natalie followed her and was relieved to see the pathologist, Pinkney Watson, approaching. He and Lucy got on extremely well and usually enjoyed lengthy verbal sparring matches, but today he said nothing and, halting her on the staircase, rested a hand on her arm.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

She sniffed a response and shook her head.

‘Go outside and get some air,’ he said, kindly.

She gave a brief nod and hastened downstairs.

Catching Natalie’s eye, he spoke again. ‘I assume it’s not easy for her, not with Bethany expecting.’

Bethany Green was Lucy’s partner, a serious-faced accountant who was eleven years older than Lucy. They’d pooled all their savings for fertility treatment and, using sperm donation, Bethany had fallen pregnant immediately. While it was no secret the couple had wanted some biological connection to their child, it was not common knowledge that Lucy’s best friend, Sergeant Murray Anderson, had donated the sperm.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Pinkney continued. ‘She’s a tough cookie, that one.’

His warm smile reached his intensely blue eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. Pinkney wasn’t a handsome man, his nose a fraction too long for his face and his eyes set slightly too far apart, but he was, even at fifty-five, as enthusiastic and energetic as a toddler and, in Natalie’s opinion, one of the best pathologists in his profession. His dedication to his job was one of the reasons he’d remained unmarried and lived in a Victorian three-storey house in Samford with two Aegean cats. Although his name suggested eccentricity, his only foible was a bright-green 1960s VW campervan called Mabel that he drove to the ends of the UK at every opportunity. Given he spent so much of his time staring death in the face, Natalie reasoned he was right to head off to remote locations in Scotland or Cornwall, where he’d go walking and ‘remind himself of the greatness of nature’.

‘I’ll be outside if you want me,’ said Natalie. ‘I’m going to talk to Mr Brannon.’

‘Sure. I think I can cover it all here. If you wish to remain outside, I’ll come and talk to you once I’ve checked the victim over.’

‘Thanks, Pinkney.’

She descended the stairs, mind on what could have possibly happened to Charlotte. Mike caught her up at the foot of the stairs. ‘Bastard.’ Anger cracked his voice. ‘How could someone do that to her?’

Natalie had no answers. At this stage, all she knew was some deranged individual had murdered a young woman, and a child had lost his mother.

‘Natalie, whatever you need, you just say.’ A deep furrow had appeared between his eyebrows, dragging them together. ‘Whatever.’

She acknowledged his words and moved towards the door. There’d been no sign of a break-in. The killer had gained access either through an unlocked door, by invitation, or had a key. One such person was waiting outside to be interviewed by her. It was time to talk to Adam Brannon. She spoke to Tanya Granger who was close to the house.

‘How is he?’

‘I had a long chat to him before you got here. He seemed remarkably composed for a man who’d witnessed the results of a brutal attack on his wife. I assume it’s shock. He acted oddly when we talked about the baby. He kept repeating it would be better if Charlotte’s parents looked after Alfie for the moment.’

Natalie nodded. ‘You don’t think he might suddenly blow and go storming off on some vigilante exercise?’

‘I didn’t get that vibe. If anything, he seemed to want to retreat. Kept asking if he could get away from the house. It was freaking him out being here.’

Natalie nodded. ‘Can we have another quick word after I’ve spoken to him?’

‘Sure. I’ll be here.’

Natalie moved towards the police car and the figure inside. Was it shock that was making Adam nervous about staying around, or guilt?