Page 1 of The Taskmaster
Chapter One
Twenty-Four Years Ago
Our sirens blared, blue lights lighting up the dark street as we drove at speed through the rundown urban neighbourhood. We swerved around a sharp corner and pulled up in front of a shabby terraced house. The front door was off its hinges; the first response unit that’d already arrived couldn’t wait for back-up. They knew there was danger, and they had to get inside. But the question was, did they get here in time?
I shut off the engine, radioing to let dispatch know we’d arrived. There was an officer standing guard at the front door to the property. The place hadn’t been properly cordoned off yet, and forensics were on their way. But it was essential to preserve the scene and not contaminate any evidence. Whatever we found inside, we knew it was going to be tough.
It was four a.m., but there was a large gathering of neighbours outside on their lawns, no doubt woken by the sirens and the flashing lights, desperate for any shred of gossip. Or maybe it was the screaming they’d heard before that alerted them, followed by the hollering and forced entry of our firstresponders. Dispatch told us a neighbour called this one in. It was a domestic. I hated when they used that word to describe whatever had happened here tonight. Domestic made it sound trivial. It wasn’t. Someone had been hurt by a person they trusted. It was the worst betrayal of all, in my humble opinion.
My partner, Jenkins, and I got out of the car and strode up the uneven pebbled path, we glanced around the neighbourhood at the gawping crowds, thirsty for a show. Like the vultures that used to gather at public executions back in the day, they were here for the entertainment.
“You’d think they’d have something better to do than stand around gossiping. They’re like sharks, circling, out for blood,” I said, as we approached the officer guarding the door.
“Shame they didn’t come out of their houses when it was really kicking off and do something useful,” Jenkins replied.
But this was a poor area. A crime-riddled estate where people were all too happy to look the other way to avoid getting involved. We knew the place well, so it was no surprise they’d kept their distance.
The officer on the door gestured to the inside of the house and told us, “It’s not a pretty sight in there.” A grim expression on his face as he shook his head.
We put on our protective gear, then I pushed past him to enter, muttering, “When is it ever a pretty sight for a callout like this?”
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I knew from the initial callout that this was a violent incident involving a male and a female who lived at the property. Philip and Ruth Dalton were the names given to us. We didn’t recognise them. There were a lot of families in this area whose last name would’ve sent alarm bells ringing, but Dalton wasn’t one of them. Maybe they’d flown under our radar. But not anymore.
We stepped into the tiny hallway with no carpet on the floor and filthy floorboards. I screwed my face up as a musty, damp smell hit me, but once we entered the living room, the metallic stench of blood and the foul odour of excrement made us both recoil. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and put it over my face to help counteract the effect this house was having on my guts. Jenkins did the same.
Our superior, Officer Stamford, appeared in the doorway across the living room and said, “The incident started down here.” He nodded to the smashed TV on the floor and the upturned coffee table.
The place didn’t look habitable, despite the mess from the altercation. The walls were stained, and the curtains were ripped and hanging off the curtain pole. The sofa had no cushions fitted, and springs protruded from the base. A quick glance to the left showed a kitchen with dirty dishes piled everywhere, old takeaway boxes and rotten food festering on the counter, and rubbish strewn all over the floor.
“Neighbours said they heard her screaming for help,” Stamford added. “They said she screamed most nights but tonight was different. It went on longer. Got louder. And then they heard the gunshots.”
I shook my head. “So they heard her scream for help on other nights and didn’t think to call it in before?” The longer I stayed in this job, the more I lost faith in humanity. What sort of people listened to a woman suffer and ignored it, day after day?
“Gunshots. Great,” Jenkins stated. “So what are we dealing with? Has he fled the scene?”
“No. Both bodies are upstairs in the bedroom,” Stamford replied. He didn’t move with any urgency, a clear indication that they were dead, and there were no other suspects for us to investigate. We were only here to collect evidence.
“Lead the way, officer,” I said, and trod carefully through the living room to the doorway where he stood.
There was a narrow staircase behind the door, with bloody handprints streaked up the dirty wall, where they’d obviously fought and she’d fled for her life. Stamford led the way, followed by myself and then Jenkins, as we all took slow steps towards something none of us wanted to see.
“Has anyone been to the neighbours yet to get their statements?” I asked as we ascended the stairs.
“I’ve sent an officer round. Not sure how much help they’ll be, though. You know what people around here are like. They see a police badge and suddenly amnesia hits harder than anything.”
I knew that was true. I’d lost count of the times a case had crumbled because someone from this area wouldn’t talk, or they retracted their statement. But what could you do?
We got to the top of the stairs, where I could see a tiny bathroom just ahead, but Stamford turned to the left, taking us straight into the bedroom.
I was not prepared for what I saw.
It was the smell that hit first, even with the handkerchief covering my face. Blood, excrement, death, so overpowering it seeped through your pores with every second you stood there looking at the scene in front of you. I had to switch something off in my head, pause my emotions and observe it like it wasn’t real. But it was. It was so fucking real and so fucking gruesome.
A woman was hanging from the ceiling, with a rope around her neck. Her stomach had been cut from chest to abdomen, and her organs spilled out of her onto the filthy, blood-soaked floorboards. I fought the sick feeling in my stomach and took a step closer, inspecting the bruises on her naked body and her fingernails that were bloody, some hanging off because of how hard she’d fought her attacker. An attacker who lay at her feetwith half of his skull missing, and the gun still clutched in his murderous hand.
“I see he took the cowards way out,” I remarked, using my foot to prod his lifeless body.
“And she put up one hell of a fight,” Jenkins replied.
