eyes.
That afternoon, I thought, nothing happened.
You don't know anything.
Nothing happened.
Then I clicked off the light and went downstairs.
Chapter Ten
Monday 29th August
The weirdest part of not sleeping, in Currie's considerable experience, was when you looked back on yesterday morning and realised you'd actually been awake since then. It always felt like those things must have happened at least a week ago, and perhaps even to someone else. Just after midday, he walked down to the department's press room, finding it hard to believe that a hazy but continuous chain of events connected him to a breakfast he'd eaten nearly thirty hours earlier.
And one of those events seemed like a nightmare, even though he'd been awake at the time. Yesterday evening: standing in Julie Sadler's bedroom, looking down at her small, wasted body, while crime-scene cameras flashed around him.
The image of her lying there still haunted him, even more so than Alison Wilcox's body had. In the tilt of Julie Sadler's head, he saw an accusation; in her outstretched fingers - frozen in the act of straining - he sensed outrage. It was as though she'd screamed questions out as she lay there, slowly dying, and the ghosts of those words still hung in the air, a challenge to anyone that dared enter.
Why didn't you save me?
Why did nobody care enough to come?
The sorrow he'd felt in that tiny bedroom was so overwhelming it bordered on profound. It was the closest he'd ever come to tears while attending a crime scene, despite the absence of mutilation or even blood. What had been done to this girl - to all of them - was an affront.
Currie looked around the press room as he entered. It was heaving today. The seats, split into two columns by a central aisle, were all taken, while more reporters were packed in at the back and down the sides by the arched windows. Television cameras were perched on wheeled tripods, or shoulders. The polished floor was a snaking mess of cables.
The scent of blood, he thought.
Swann was already sitting at the top table. Currie walked over, cutting through the solid heat of all these hostile people, and took a seat beside his partner, placing his notes down in front. Along with the official microphones, the table was strewn with small, rectangular handhelds, which appeared to have been thrown there almost as an afterthought. The desperate, haphazard sprawl of them symbolised everything he disliked about these press conferences.
'Good afternoon,' he said, not looking up. 'I'm Detective Sam Currie. Thank you all for coming. I'll be reading a short statement and after that there'll be time for a small number of questions.'
He heard the quick, swishing click of cameras, and a couple of lights flashed across him. The memory of Julie Sadler's house rose up again. Sweat prickled on his forehead. He looked up.
'At five p.m. yesterday evening,' he said, 'officers were called to an address in the Buxton area of the city. Upon entering the property, the body of a young woman was discovered inside. We are treating her death as suspicious. At this time, we will not be releasing or confirming the woman's name to the media.'
None of which, he thought, will deter any of you bastards.
'We are in the process of talking to the woman's friends and family, and the investigation is progressing along a number of different lines. We ask for the media's co-operation in this matter, and will make a further announcement as soon as possible. I'll now hand you over to my colleague, Detective James Swann.' He glanced sideways. 'James?'
Swann nodded and turned to the crowd.
'I'll take any questions you might have.'
There was a predictable flurry, both of hands and camera flashes, but Currie allowed himself to relax a little.
He had a certain amount of respect for the press, in that they could be useful, but after Alison Wilcox had been killed the media had teased out the connection to the two earlier murders and Currie had found himself
That afternoon, I thought, nothing happened.
You don't know anything.
Nothing happened.
Then I clicked off the light and went downstairs.
Chapter Ten
Monday 29th August
The weirdest part of not sleeping, in Currie's considerable experience, was when you looked back on yesterday morning and realised you'd actually been awake since then. It always felt like those things must have happened at least a week ago, and perhaps even to someone else. Just after midday, he walked down to the department's press room, finding it hard to believe that a hazy but continuous chain of events connected him to a breakfast he'd eaten nearly thirty hours earlier.
And one of those events seemed like a nightmare, even though he'd been awake at the time. Yesterday evening: standing in Julie Sadler's bedroom, looking down at her small, wasted body, while crime-scene cameras flashed around him.
The image of her lying there still haunted him, even more so than Alison Wilcox's body had. In the tilt of Julie Sadler's head, he saw an accusation; in her outstretched fingers - frozen in the act of straining - he sensed outrage. It was as though she'd screamed questions out as she lay there, slowly dying, and the ghosts of those words still hung in the air, a challenge to anyone that dared enter.
Why didn't you save me?
Why did nobody care enough to come?
The sorrow he'd felt in that tiny bedroom was so overwhelming it bordered on profound. It was the closest he'd ever come to tears while attending a crime scene, despite the absence of mutilation or even blood. What had been done to this girl - to all of them - was an affront.
Currie looked around the press room as he entered. It was heaving today. The seats, split into two columns by a central aisle, were all taken, while more reporters were packed in at the back and down the sides by the arched windows. Television cameras were perched on wheeled tripods, or shoulders. The polished floor was a snaking mess of cables.
The scent of blood, he thought.
Swann was already sitting at the top table. Currie walked over, cutting through the solid heat of all these hostile people, and took a seat beside his partner, placing his notes down in front. Along with the official microphones, the table was strewn with small, rectangular handhelds, which appeared to have been thrown there almost as an afterthought. The desperate, haphazard sprawl of them symbolised everything he disliked about these press conferences.
'Good afternoon,' he said, not looking up. 'I'm Detective Sam Currie. Thank you all for coming. I'll be reading a short statement and after that there'll be time for a small number of questions.'
He heard the quick, swishing click of cameras, and a couple of lights flashed across him. The memory of Julie Sadler's house rose up again. Sweat prickled on his forehead. He looked up.
'At five p.m. yesterday evening,' he said, 'officers were called to an address in the Buxton area of the city. Upon entering the property, the body of a young woman was discovered inside. We are treating her death as suspicious. At this time, we will not be releasing or confirming the woman's name to the media.'
None of which, he thought, will deter any of you bastards.
'We are in the process of talking to the woman's friends and family, and the investigation is progressing along a number of different lines. We ask for the media's co-operation in this matter, and will make a further announcement as soon as possible. I'll now hand you over to my colleague, Detective James Swann.' He glanced sideways. 'James?'
Swann nodded and turned to the crowd.
'I'll take any questions you might have.'
There was a predictable flurry, both of hands and camera flashes, but Currie allowed himself to relax a little.
He had a certain amount of respect for the press, in that they could be useful, but after Alison Wilcox had been killed the media had teased out the connection to the two earlier murders and Currie had found himself
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