Page 23 of The Scene of the Crime (Jessica Russell #1)

Jessica was relieved to get home but knew it would be hard to sleep as her mind went over the crime scene, looking for any behavioural or forensic clues she’d missed.

As she went to her room to change, she heard the TV in David’s bedroom.

She knocked on the door, and he told her to come in.

He was lying on the bed in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

As she entered, he quickly closed his laptop.

‘How was your first day on the job?’ he asked.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘but draining.’

‘Is it a murder case?’

‘The victim was badly injured. He’s still alive, but it’s touch and go if he’ll make it.’

‘Was it local?’

‘No. It happened in Hackney.’

‘There was nothing about it on the six o’clock news.’

‘It hasn’t been released to the press yet.’

‘What happened?’

Jessica didn’t want to go into too much detail. ‘Basically, it looks like someone broke into a house, opened the safe, and attacked the owner. But keep that to yourself.’

‘What was stolen?’ David asked.

‘We think a Rolex watch and cash from the safe. The victim’s in a coma, so until he comes around, we can’t be certain. Did you get your blood test results yet?’

‘No, still waiting . . . probably be another few days at least. No news is good news, though,’ David said with a forced smile, which didn’t go unnoticed by Jessica.

‘Is your back still playing up?’

‘It’s not as bad as it was. I took your advice and spoke with my manager. I’m working in the sorting office for the next few weeks.’

‘That’s good of him. Did it help?’

‘Yes, today was a lot less strenuous.’

‘Maybe laying off the cycling for a few weeks will also help,’ she said.

David nodded. ‘I made some Bolognese. There’s some in a container you can heat in the microwave. You’ll have to make some fresh spaghetti, though.’

‘That’s great. Thanks.’ As Jessica left the room, she glanced in the mirror and saw David slowly open his laptop.

She knew he had a bad habit of searching medical websites when he wasn’t well and wanted to ask if anything else, besides his back, was worrying him, but decided against it for the moment.

Jessica changed into her tracksuit and slippers before going into the kitchen.

She boiled some water and added spaghetti.

While it was cooking, she checked the dishwasher, removed the dirty plates, bowls, cups and cutlery David had put in, rinsed them, and systematically restacked them.

After cleaning the sink and wiping the work surfaces, she checked the kitchen diary to see which bins were due for collection in the morning.

It was food waste, non-recyclable refuse, paper and cardboard.

Jessica slipped on some rubber kitchen gloves and emptied her bedroom and bathroom bins into a bin bag, then knocked on David’s bedroom door again.

‘Sorry, I’m just sorting out the bins as it’s rubbish collection day tomorrow,’ she said, picking up his waste bin and tipping it into the bag.

‘I meant to do it earlier. Sorry, I forgot,’ he said.

‘No problem. Besides, you always forget to separate the paper and cardboard from the non-recyclable stuff. Is there anything else you need to bin before I leave you in peace?’ she asked, holding up the bag. David shook his head.

After going downstairs, she headed to the utility room and emptied the cardboard and paper from the bin bag into the recycling box provided by the council.

She noticed a paper bag with the local chemist’s logo, which had been in David’s bin.

Curious, she opened the bag and found the contents: squashed cardboard boxes for a Metatone tonic bottle and Amitriptyline, which had a prescription label with today’s date.

She sighed, realising that David must have visited the doctor’s surgery earlier that day.

She remembered he had previously been prescribed Amitriptyline for severe depression after his nervous breakdown.

She heated the Bolognese sauce, poured it over a plate of spaghetti and sat down to eat. While twirling the pasta with her fork, she thought more about what she’d found. It was odd that he had been prescribed Amitriptyline again, as she hadn’t observed any signs of depression.

‘You all right?’ David asked as he entered the kitchen, holding an empty water bottle.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Just got a lot on my mind about the investigation.’

‘Is that why you’re playing with your food instead of eating it?’ he asked as he filled the bottle with tap water.

‘Just wondering if there’s anything I missed at the scene. You know what I’m like.’

David sighed. ‘Yes, I do . . . you found the box for the Amitriptyline tablets, didn’t you?’

She slowly raised her head and nodded.

‘It’s not what you’re thinking, Jess.’

‘If you are suffering from depression again, then please speak to me about it. If you bottle things up, I can’t help you.’

He sat down opposite her. ‘Doctor Barnes asked me to come in to talk about my blood test results.’

‘And what did she say?’ she asked.

‘My creatine kinase levels were high. It’s an enzyme in your heart and skeletal muscle released into your blood when you suffer muscle damage or over-exercise. The doc thinks it is probably jobrelated and said there was nothing to worry about.’

‘Then why prescribe the Amitriptyline?’

‘My back and muscle issues make me feel down, but it’s not the same type of depression I suffered when Mum died. Amitriptyline is also prescribed for fatigue and back pain.’

‘Really?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

‘No, I made it all up. Stop giving me the third degree when there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Will there be any follow-up tests?’

‘You can’t help yourself, can you? I’ll have another blood test in a week, but in the meantime, I must rest and not overexert myself at work.’

‘Carrying those heavy mailbags is not going to help.’

‘Did you not listen when I told you I’m working in the sorting office?’

‘Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind. What’s the next step if your kinase levels haven’t gone down?’

‘I may need to see a neurologist for further tests, but from what Doc Barnes said, that’s unlikely.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this in the first place?’

‘Because I could see you’d had a hard day at work and got a lot on your plate.’

‘I know I can be a bit OCD about things, but I worry about you.’

He laughed. ‘A bit OCD. You’re exhausted yet you’ll go over this house from top to bottom making sure everything is neat and tidy before going to bed. You have any idea how many times I get woken up with you hoovering at God knows what hour? You’ll probably get it out tonight.’

She was still twirling the spaghetti. ‘I promise I won’t.’

‘Yes, you will. And would you stop playing with your food and eat it, or should I put it in the food waste bin . . . or would it be the non-recyclable bin?’ he joked.

‘I’ll put you in the bin if you’re not careful,’ she smiled, finally taking a mouthful. As she sucked up the spaghetti, an end flicked against her nose, leaving a red blob of sauce.

David laughed. ‘If I’d done that, you’d have given me a telling-off about my table manners. You have to stop mothering me.’ He wiped it from her nose with his finger and licked it. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

‘Just-a like-a Mama used to make,’ Jessica replied in a bad Italian accent.

*?*?*

John Wheeler sat in his underpants alone in his flat.

He was a big, powerful man, but he winced in pain as he tied the nylon boxing hand wraps around his ribs, then tightened and secured them with the Velcro end.

He knew proper bandages or a rib support would be more effective, but for now he’d have to make do with the boxing wraps.

He went to the kitchen, got a pair of rubber washing-up gloves and put them on before counting the bundles of cash on the coffee table.

‘Two hundred, two twenty, two forty, two fifty. You’ve hit the fucking jackpot,’ he said.

He picked up a handful and, without thinking, threw it in the air – and immediately felt an intense pain in his rib cage.

He groaned in agony as he bent forward, clutching his side as the money fell onto the sofa and floor.

He suddenly felt nauseous and, from the taste of bile in his mouth, knew that he was going to be sick.

Wheeler slowly and painfully made his way to the bathroom, holding his ribs with one hand and his mouth with the other.

He couldn’t kneel in front of the toilet as he knew trying to stand up again would cause him more intense pain, so he put one hand on the wall in front of him, leaned forward and threw up the sandwich and beer he had consumed earlier.

Some of the vomit missed the pan and landed on his bare feet and over the floor.

He couldn’t bend to clean it up, so just dropped a towel on the floor and used his foot to wipe up the mess.

While swilling the sour taste from his mouth with water and then mouthwash, he looked in the bathroom mirror and saw that the bruise on his cheek and left eye had now started to change from bright red to deep blue.

He took a couple of painkillers, then returned to the living room, snorted a line of cocaine, leaned back on the sofa and took some slow, deep breaths until the pain subsided.

He looked at the large digital lockbox stolen from the safe.

He had tried to crack the number code to look inside, but he hadn’t succeeded.

The burner phone he’d been given pinged.

He leaned forward slowly, taking deep breaths as he picked it up, having previously ignored all the calls and messages he’d received on WhatsApp throughout the day.