A Painted Doom by Kate Ellis Page A

traumatic events of last September when
     she had almost met her death at the hands of someone she’d trusted, she’d lost her natural ebullience. And mental scars, he
     knew, took time to heal.
    ‘I haven’t a clue what we’re looking for,’ he said. ‘But no doubt we’ll know when we find it. If we find it.’
    Rachel gave him another shy smile before disappearing up the rather grand oak staircase. Wesley stood in the hall, wondering
     where to begin. He chose the drawing room first. After pushing open the heavy oak door, a monumental example of Victorian
     domestic interior design, he stepped into the room and looked around.
    The drawing room had a comfortable, lived-in feeling, and the traditional furnishings, though worn and not particularly fashionable,
     looked expensively solid. It was the taste of the older upper-middle class, the retired judge or military man. Effortless
     class without ostentation or unnecessary expense. Even though the walls were pale cream, the room seemed gloomy. North facing,
     Wesley thought as he searched for the light switch which, when he found it, turned out to be a solid piece of pre-war engineering.
     The place probably needed rewiring.
    He looked down at the rich Persian rug which covered most of the floor. It was almost a shame to walk on such a work of art
     but he stepped onto it and surveyed the room, his sharp eyes looking for something – anything – out of the ordinary. But there
     was nothing. The place was spotless apart from a faded brown splash mark on the wall near the door. A spilt cup of coffee
     perhaps. Accidents happened in the best-run homes.
    He wandered through the dining room, crammed with heavy oak furniture, and into the kitchen. Dark oak again. The owners obviously
     had a taste for it. He looked around and saw nothing out of place.
    Then his eyes caught the telltale glint of glass on the floor by the back door. Sharp daggers of glass from a window pane.
     It was the oldest trick in the burglar’s book: smash the glass, turn the key that’s been left conveniently in the lock, and
     in. He drew a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and put them on before trying the door. It opened smoothly. The place
     was unlocked and anyone could have walked in.
    This changed things. He went into the hall and called up the stairs to Rachel. She came running down, her footsteps silent
     on the stair carpet’s thick red pile.
    ‘There’s been a break-in. Someone’s smashed a pane in the back door and the place has been unlocked. Has anything been disturbed
     upstairs?’
    ‘Not that I can see. Everything’s shipshape, as the boss would say. But that doesn’t mean that nothing’s been taken. They
     might just be very tidy thieves.’
    Wesley thought for a moment. ‘There’s something I want to have a look at. Come with me and tell me what you think.’
    Rachel followed him into the drawing room, pleased that her opinion was appreciated. There were some in the job who didn’t
     think that a young policewoman had any opinions worth listening to at all.
    Wesley stood by the huge sofa and pointed at the rug. ‘Remind you of anything?’
    While Rachel was thinking, Wesley walked over to the door, and squatted down to examine what he had assumed to be a coffee
     stain on the wall. The cream paint had rubbed off slightly, revealing a former coat of greyish white beneath. Someone had
     scrubbed this area. And coffee didn’t leave a stain quite that shade of pale rusty brown. There had been a bloodstain here,
     a large one. Scrubbing had removed most of it, but there was still a telltale watery brown mark.
    Rachel walked over to join him. ‘It could be blood,’ she said. ‘And the rug. Pure wool, predominantly red – just like in the
     forensic report.’
    Wesley said nothing. He was looking intently at the wall. Just beside the stain a large bookcase stood on the strip of polished
     parquet flooring which edged the room. He looked at the other side of the