Page 24 of No Safe Place

Thursday | Early hours

Callum

He sat on the sofa, his sofa.

‘We need to take some photos of you,’ a gentle voice said, from the doorway, and he turned.

He’d forgotten the detective’s name. She must be in her early fifties, her face the only thing visible in her full protective forensic gear.

Kind face, but stern. Flecks of grey visible at her temples under the hood of her paper suit.

She’d been asking him questions about himself, his writing, who he lived with.

She was with a younger man, also in white overalls, who smiled at Callum and held up a DSLR camera with an apologetic shrug.

Callum looked down at his hands, then held them out in front of him.

The man walked over with a rustle and put the camera to his face, and the detective stayed in the doorway. Callum closed his eyes as the shutter sound started, willing himself not to count how many photos he was taking. Trying to dampen down the panic that was still beating below his breastbone.

‘Turn them over for me. That’s it.’

More shutter clicks.

Callum wanted to ask someone if Sam was okay – if she was still alive, but if he opened his mouth, he’d immediately throw up.

He’d retreated into the house as soon as he heard the sirens, but left the door open as an invitation. The first police there had asked him questions and he’d stuttered out answers.

I didn’t see anything.

I don’t know who stabbed her.

I tried to help.

‘Can you stand up for me?’ The man reached out to put a hand under his elbow, but Callum flinched away.

He took photographs of Callum’s torso, then picked up the bags. Not clear plastic bags, like you saw in detective programmes on TV. Paper bags, like you’d get at a farm shop.

Callum followed his instructions. Pulled his T-shirt over his head, dropped it into the first bag. His trainers went into the second. The man smiled at him encouragingly, like he was a toddler undressing himself before bed.

Before Callum took his jeans off, he pulled out his phone from one back pocket, and his small red Moleskine from the other. The man had to go and find more bags for those, smaller ones. Then his jeans went into the third large bag, and he sat down on the sofa in his boxers.

The skin of his chest was stained lightly red in some places, where the worst of the blood had been, but otherwise it was clean. Under the bare seventy-watt light bulb the bloodstains up to his elbows looked comical, like part of a gory Halloween costume.

‘Can I have a shower?’ he asked. His voice was a croak.

The forensics man turned to the woman.

‘We’ll get you cleaned up at the station, Callum,’ she said gently.

The man took a step back, collecting up the bags of his belongings.

‘I can’t leave.’ Callum’s voice cracked. ‘I can’t leave the house.’

‘I’m afraid you can’t stay here, Callum,’ the detective said. Field – that was her name. She moved into the room, to allow the photographer to get past, and then it was just them. ‘This is a crime scene now, and we need to do everything we can to catch whoever hurt Sam.’

He had to leave the house.

A breeze lifted the curtains up into the air.

He had to leave the house.

‘Is she dead?’ he asked, in a whisper.

Field shook her head. ‘No, Callum. She’s with the paramedics now.’

Sam was alive.

‘You recognised Sam, didn’t you, Callum?’ Field asked. ‘How do you know her?’

He couldn’t concentrate.

He was going to be taken away.

‘Met when we were teenagers.’

Field’s eyes were wide. ‘Were you in hospital together, Callum? The Maudsley?’

Callum felt numb, couldn’t feel his fingers. Managed to nod.

‘Did you take part in David Moore’s trial together, Callum? In 2010 – did he write a paper about you?’ she asked, and her voice was more urgent.

The weight of his exhaustion and anxiety was threatening to bury him, and his shock at the question was dimmed, overwhelmed by everything else.

‘Yes,’ he choked out.

They were taking him back there.

‘Last question, Callum. What alerted you to what had happened outside?’

Callum sat on his hands, to try and stop them from shaking so badly. ‘There was a knock on the door.’

Field’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’

‘I didn’t see anyone, when I answered it. It took me ages to get the door open, I had the bottom lock on, or something. Then Sam was just—’

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t go on, couldn’t say anything else.

‘It’s going to be okay, Callum,’ Field said firmly. ‘We’ll get you cleaned up. We’ll find out what happened to Sam. This will all be okay.’

There was a silence, and Callum supposed he should say something, but all he could think about was leaving. Leaving the house, the street, the road.

The panic was still fighting to break through the numbness and the shock.

‘I’m going back outside now, Callum.’ Field’s voice was far away, distant. ‘I’m going to find someone to sit with you, and then I promise, we’ll sort this all out.’