Read Online The Start of Everything by Emily Winslow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Winslow
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place to dispose of something anonymously. But at night it must be a different place.
“Had to be in the dark,” I say.
“Yes, but why? Why here? I can think of a hundred secretive places in preference to this. Maybe someone chose here because they couldn’t get much farther. Someone without a car?”
That would be almost all the students in Cambridge, a fifth of the city’s population. “But you wouldn’t want it near you,” I insist. “You’d put it where it couldn’t be attached to you. You’d walk. You’d ride a bike. Anything to get it far.”
“Or you’d put it where you could keep your eye on it.”
I look around. Is someone watching us now?
We sort through the latest Crimestoppers tips in my car. Too many of the reports don’t fit our profile exactly. People are lazy, or desperate. Here’s one: Ashley Abington, seventeen, runaway. Had an online-only relationship with a supposedly seventeen-year-old boy in Cambridge. Missing since October. Dark hair.
We visit her parents. They suggest that Ashley could have dyed her hair blond. I assure them that the hairs found with the body were not dyed. The mother crumples in relief.
We don’t mention the dark hairs on the hammer.
Twice that week I hear from them, pressing me about their missing daughter. I assure them that Sergeant Spinola is doing everything he can, to remind them that this is his case, not mine. They don’t believe me. I start to regret being so free with my card.
At home, I rummage through our tools. The weight of our household hammer had sifted it to the bottom. I fish it out and heft it in my hand. This one is wood-handled. The weapon one is metal-handled and heavier.
The spatter pattern on the bloody shirt positioned it as worn by the attacker. The hairs wound around the hammer claw indicate the target was the victim’s head. Any traces of who had once grasped the hammer handle were obliterated by its long soak.
A heavy footstep presses on the floorboard behind me. I turn fast, both hands on the hammer grip.
“Whoa.” Dan takes a step back.
I apologise. I breathe deeply.
“What’s up?” he asks, waiting for permission to come close.
I drop the hammer back into the box and shake out my hands. Once the press is on to something, I’m allowed to tell him. “She was killed by a hammer,” I say. Whether the hammer from the brook is the same hammer is up for grabs.
Dan touches my shoulder. “Don’t let it in,” he says.
I know that. Letting it get to me isn’t helpful. If I’m emotional, I can’t do my job right. A good job takes a clear head. “Our forensic results have been compromised by the water. Not much to go on. So I’m … acting it out,” I say. Under what circumstance would a hammer be the weapon of choice? Did the killer bring it, or was it to hand?
My first thought it that you’d have to be angry to swing a hammer like that.
My second thought, based on my reaction when Dan unexpectedly entered the room, is that it might be enough to be afraid.
Keene gets the call, as usual. I’m behind the wheel. Funny how the same day has been on repeat for the past week.
“Train station,” he reports to me, flicking his mobile shut. “Cambridge city centre. Someone jumped.”
“Who’s on the scene?” I ask.
“Two transport police are there. Three uniforms.” He shakes his head. “And almost two hundred bystanders, from the platform and the train. Names and witness statements are being noted, but it’s not practical to hold the whole crowd.”
“Was it a man or woman?”
“Woman. Maybe girl. They found her bag. It had a library card. No credit card, no driving licence.”
That sounds like a teenager. “Jesus,” I mutter.
“I know. She’d been harassing people on the platform. Could have been a push, maybe.”
“Maybe.” Probably not .
I change lanes. Normally I’d hate to be distracted from a bigger case. For a suicide? An accident? But our fen girl remained as anonymousas that
“Had to be in the dark,” I say.
“Yes, but why? Why here? I can think of a hundred secretive places in preference to this. Maybe someone chose here because they couldn’t get much farther. Someone without a car?”
That would be almost all the students in Cambridge, a fifth of the city’s population. “But you wouldn’t want it near you,” I insist. “You’d put it where it couldn’t be attached to you. You’d walk. You’d ride a bike. Anything to get it far.”
“Or you’d put it where you could keep your eye on it.”
I look around. Is someone watching us now?
We sort through the latest Crimestoppers tips in my car. Too many of the reports don’t fit our profile exactly. People are lazy, or desperate. Here’s one: Ashley Abington, seventeen, runaway. Had an online-only relationship with a supposedly seventeen-year-old boy in Cambridge. Missing since October. Dark hair.
We visit her parents. They suggest that Ashley could have dyed her hair blond. I assure them that the hairs found with the body were not dyed. The mother crumples in relief.
We don’t mention the dark hairs on the hammer.
Twice that week I hear from them, pressing me about their missing daughter. I assure them that Sergeant Spinola is doing everything he can, to remind them that this is his case, not mine. They don’t believe me. I start to regret being so free with my card.
At home, I rummage through our tools. The weight of our household hammer had sifted it to the bottom. I fish it out and heft it in my hand. This one is wood-handled. The weapon one is metal-handled and heavier.
The spatter pattern on the bloody shirt positioned it as worn by the attacker. The hairs wound around the hammer claw indicate the target was the victim’s head. Any traces of who had once grasped the hammer handle were obliterated by its long soak.
A heavy footstep presses on the floorboard behind me. I turn fast, both hands on the hammer grip.
“Whoa.” Dan takes a step back.
I apologise. I breathe deeply.
“What’s up?” he asks, waiting for permission to come close.
I drop the hammer back into the box and shake out my hands. Once the press is on to something, I’m allowed to tell him. “She was killed by a hammer,” I say. Whether the hammer from the brook is the same hammer is up for grabs.
Dan touches my shoulder. “Don’t let it in,” he says.
I know that. Letting it get to me isn’t helpful. If I’m emotional, I can’t do my job right. A good job takes a clear head. “Our forensic results have been compromised by the water. Not much to go on. So I’m … acting it out,” I say. Under what circumstance would a hammer be the weapon of choice? Did the killer bring it, or was it to hand?
My first thought it that you’d have to be angry to swing a hammer like that.
My second thought, based on my reaction when Dan unexpectedly entered the room, is that it might be enough to be afraid.
Keene gets the call, as usual. I’m behind the wheel. Funny how the same day has been on repeat for the past week.
“Train station,” he reports to me, flicking his mobile shut. “Cambridge city centre. Someone jumped.”
“Who’s on the scene?” I ask.
“Two transport police are there. Three uniforms.” He shakes his head. “And almost two hundred bystanders, from the platform and the train. Names and witness statements are being noted, but it’s not practical to hold the whole crowd.”
“Was it a man or woman?”
“Woman. Maybe girl. They found her bag. It had a library card. No credit card, no driving licence.”
That sounds like a teenager. “Jesus,” I mutter.
“I know. She’d been harassing people on the platform. Could have been a push, maybe.”
“Maybe.” Probably not .
I change lanes. Normally I’d hate to be distracted from a bigger case. For a suicide? An accident? But our fen girl remained as anonymousas that
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