associated with and wouldn’t risk falling on that person’s wrong side.”
She stood next to him and surveyed the apartment. It was open plan. The hallway was small yet long. A few pictures on the walls. Horrible wallpaper, but still looked modern. From what she could see from where she was standing, the kitchen was fitted with new units, and the color scheme was black. The living room appeared to be right in front of them. It, too, had a black theme. She was just about to take a few steps forward when her partner’s arm stopped her. He held it out across her chest. She gave him a look, at first thinking he was trying to cop a feel of her breasts, but then she noticed him staring at the ground.
“Dirty footprints,” he mumbled.
“Big ones, too,” she retorted.
They looked at the footprints for a long while and attempted to piece together the scene. From where they were standing, it looked as if there had been a struggle. The door being kicked in was an obvious sign of something violent.
“Somebody kicked this door in and took her away. I count two sets of footprints belonging to two different people. But the interesting thing here is the overlap,” DI Craig said, taking a knee and examining the floor closely.
“The overlap?” DCI Amy Francis asked, doing the same thing.
He turned his head slightly and looked at her. “You see those prints? The tread on the sole of the feet?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Well, I see two distinct tread marks. One with an arching pattern, probably belongs to some trainers, while the other has a bold and thick accent on its marks, most likely belonging to industrial boots. Maybe steel toecaps.”
Amy nodded. “Yeah, right there! I see it.”
“You see how the dirty footprints stop in the hallway and then do a 180, overlap, and leave?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Notice anything different?”
She pondered the question for a long while and then saw what he saw. “Oh, shit! There’s now three different sets of footprints. Flat shoes. No treads.”
He stood up and reached for his cell phone. “Exactly. Looks like they came in here, two of them, and took our witness. Either she knows something or did something to piss someone off.”
She watched him dial a number and put the cell to his ear.
“Hey, it’s DI Craig. We’re at the house, but our person of interest isn’t here. Seems as if we’ve stumbled on some sort of crime scene. The door was kicked in when we arrived, and we have multiple footprints in the hallway, suggesting she might have been kidnapped. We need lab coats down here and a few Met Rapid Response just in case we get some company.”
He snapped the flip phone shut and looked at his partner. “Who said being a detective wasn’t exciting?”
They both smiled and waited for backup.
Twenty-Four
Demi could feel the anger rising through her. It was making her shake. She had never felt this angry before. She’d come close once. She remembered it well. She was seven, and her father was beating her mother. She could hear it from her bedroom. The muffled sounds of her mother’s screams. The contented laughter that he was sounding off every time he hit her mum. It drove her insane. She wanted to get out of bed and find a sharp object. Any object, as long as it was pointed. She imagined going into her parents’ bedroom and sticking the sharp object in her father’s jugular. She could practically feel the arterial blood gushing over her as she stuck him repeatedly.
But that was all in her head. She never stuck him with anything. In fact, the bastard died of lung cancer ten years later. Demi was a young woman by then. She’d grown apart from her mother, but she still felt some sort of victory over his death. Especially since he’d never smoked, so dying from the smoker’s disease was a bonus.
But the anger she was feeling now was rampant. And if she had a sharp object at hand, she would be prepared to use it. The anger was
She stood next to him and surveyed the apartment. It was open plan. The hallway was small yet long. A few pictures on the walls. Horrible wallpaper, but still looked modern. From what she could see from where she was standing, the kitchen was fitted with new units, and the color scheme was black. The living room appeared to be right in front of them. It, too, had a black theme. She was just about to take a few steps forward when her partner’s arm stopped her. He held it out across her chest. She gave him a look, at first thinking he was trying to cop a feel of her breasts, but then she noticed him staring at the ground.
“Dirty footprints,” he mumbled.
“Big ones, too,” she retorted.
They looked at the footprints for a long while and attempted to piece together the scene. From where they were standing, it looked as if there had been a struggle. The door being kicked in was an obvious sign of something violent.
“Somebody kicked this door in and took her away. I count two sets of footprints belonging to two different people. But the interesting thing here is the overlap,” DI Craig said, taking a knee and examining the floor closely.
“The overlap?” DCI Amy Francis asked, doing the same thing.
He turned his head slightly and looked at her. “You see those prints? The tread on the sole of the feet?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, I see it.”
“Well, I see two distinct tread marks. One with an arching pattern, probably belongs to some trainers, while the other has a bold and thick accent on its marks, most likely belonging to industrial boots. Maybe steel toecaps.”
Amy nodded. “Yeah, right there! I see it.”
“You see how the dirty footprints stop in the hallway and then do a 180, overlap, and leave?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Notice anything different?”
She pondered the question for a long while and then saw what he saw. “Oh, shit! There’s now three different sets of footprints. Flat shoes. No treads.”
He stood up and reached for his cell phone. “Exactly. Looks like they came in here, two of them, and took our witness. Either she knows something or did something to piss someone off.”
She watched him dial a number and put the cell to his ear.
“Hey, it’s DI Craig. We’re at the house, but our person of interest isn’t here. Seems as if we’ve stumbled on some sort of crime scene. The door was kicked in when we arrived, and we have multiple footprints in the hallway, suggesting she might have been kidnapped. We need lab coats down here and a few Met Rapid Response just in case we get some company.”
He snapped the flip phone shut and looked at his partner. “Who said being a detective wasn’t exciting?”
They both smiled and waited for backup.
Twenty-Four
Demi could feel the anger rising through her. It was making her shake. She had never felt this angry before. She’d come close once. She remembered it well. She was seven, and her father was beating her mother. She could hear it from her bedroom. The muffled sounds of her mother’s screams. The contented laughter that he was sounding off every time he hit her mum. It drove her insane. She wanted to get out of bed and find a sharp object. Any object, as long as it was pointed. She imagined going into her parents’ bedroom and sticking the sharp object in her father’s jugular. She could practically feel the arterial blood gushing over her as she stuck him repeatedly.
But that was all in her head. She never stuck him with anything. In fact, the bastard died of lung cancer ten years later. Demi was a young woman by then. She’d grown apart from her mother, but she still felt some sort of victory over his death. Especially since he’d never smoked, so dying from the smoker’s disease was a bonus.
But the anger she was feeling now was rampant. And if she had a sharp object at hand, she would be prepared to use it. The anger was
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