Settled Blood by Mari Hannah Page B

had only agreed to talk because his wife and new
baby son deserved a bigger house, a new car, a holiday, none of which he could possibly provide having got into debt playing online poker. So when Martin offered ‘fast-track promotion’
he’d grabbed it with both hands.
    Doddle.
    End of problem.
    Except Martin was now history, leaving Robson out on a limb, having to explain his behaviour, distrusted by his mates and the one boss he had any time for. His colleagues were good people. They
didn’t deserve a grass in their midst, making their difficult job even more so. No matter how he dressed it up, he had to admit he’d made a complete mess of things. Borrowing heavily
against his house in order to keep his wife from finding out had been the worst decision he’d ever made. And now it was payback time.
    Daniels had every reason to be pissed off, but she’d taken it really well.
    Jesus! She’d even offered to help.
    ‘When you’re on the bottom,’ she’d said, ‘the only way is up.’
    Wasn’t that the truth?
    Checking the statement over, Robson pushed it across his desk, asking Raine to read it through and sign the caption at the bottom certifying its accuracy. But the lad hadn’t heard him, or
if he had he was too preoccupied with goings on outside the cottage to respond. Robson looked out of the window too. He could see nothing of interest, just miles and miles of boring bloody
countryside and an angry grey sky to the south.
    ‘Mr Raine?’
    Raine gave his attention.
    Robson pointed at the statement. The big lad leaned over the desk. After a moment of scanning the document, he scribbled his name on a line marked with a blue cross. Then he stood up and asked
if he could go; the beast in the field beyond required his attention.
    ‘We might need to talk to you again, sir.’ Robson thanked the lad for coming forward and smiled at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. ‘You’re not
planning on going away on a holiday anytime soon, are you?’
    The lad seemed baffled by the question.
    Robson tapped the statement. ‘This could be very important or entirely innocent, but we’ll definitely check it out. You did right coming in.’
    Raine put on his cap and turned to go.
    ‘Just one more thing,’ Robson said before the witness reached the door. ‘The man you saw? He was definitely helping the girl, not dragging her?’
    ‘Could’ve been doing either.’ Raine thought for a moment. ‘It was hard to tell. I was a good way off, wouldn’t like to say for sure.’

22
    D r Matthew West swivelled his chair round so he was facing the window, his phone held between cheek and shoulder as he waited for Daniels to pick up. His office was on the
second floor of the forensic science laboratory where he’d worked as a Civil Servant for the past twenty-three years. He’d never had any other job since leaving university with a
first-class Honours in Chemistry. Hadn’t wanted one either. He was happy doing exactly what he was good at: crime-scene examination and analysis. Trace evidence cases, to be more precise.
He’d already worked his way up to department head and was now so respected in his field of expertise he’d even published articles and books on the subject.
    He had ambitions to go further.
    Matt looked round his laboratory. Colleagues in white coats, some with masks on, some not, sat pensively at their stations poring over microscopic particles of glass, paint and explosives,
pausing occasionally to detail physical and chemical properties, or to consult one of several databases when identification proved difficult. The report on Matt’s computer screen was but one
page long, a detailed analysis of trace evidence taken from the heel of a shoe worn by Amy Grainger on the day she died. Analysis he fully expected to present at court at a later date, to defend
orally under cross-examination no doubt.
    He was proud to be an expert witness.
    The ringing tone ceased in Matt’s