Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

glass door and peer in, holding my torch against the window to light the kitchen. The scene is no better inside. Piles of dirty crockery fill the worktops, soiled washing is slung on the floor in front of the old washing machine and the table is littered with bottles. Lots of bottles – Vodka mainly. Jesus. Where is she and what state is she in?

I hammer on the door, jumping as a large dog begins barking behind the garden fence to my left. The neighbour’s door opens and I back up against the fence in case whoever it is peers over. I stay silent, not wanting to get into a conversation.

‘Shut the fuck up, Rex,’ the voice says.

It’s Desperate Derek. Greasy-haired, shifty-eyed, adorned with tacky bling and always too free with his hands. Great at sorting out a dodgy car deal though. The dog ignores him and emits a deep growl level with my feet.

‘Who’s there? Make yourself known or I’m calling the police.’

Shit. ‘It’s Sarah. I’ve come to see Mum but she’s not answering the door. Have you got a key?’

‘Hello, Sarah. Lovely to hear your voice.’ His change of tone makes me cringe. ‘Hang on.’ The footsteps recede and return then a hand appears over the fence dangling a key. ‘Let me have it back tomorrow. Your mum likes me to keep it in case she locks herself out.’

I take the key and mutter my thanks then enter the kitchen and switch on the light. The first thing I notice is the smell. Rotting food, unwashed clothes and something else. Mice? I shudder.

‘Mum?’ I stand and listen but there’s no sound. Not even the TV is on.

The soles of my shoes stick to the floor as I cross the room. I push open the lounge door and groan. From the light of the kitchen, I can see Mum lying on the sofa, flat on her back with her mouth open – her hair hanging in a lank, unwashed curtain down the side of the cushion and her hand resting on a tumbler of clear liquid on the floor. I step closer, wrapping my coat about me so she won’t see the blood on my clothes.

‘Mum!’ My voice is loud in the quiet room.

She opens one eye then the other and stares at me before pulling herself into a sitting position and wiping a line of drool from the side of her mouth. ‘What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting a visit.’

‘Clearly. I don’t need to ask you how you’ve been. I can see for myself. This place is a shit-hole.’

‘Nice to see you too,’ she mutters. She reaches for the remote control and flicks the television on. A police drama fills the screen and I swallow and look away.

‘Is there any food in the house?’ I hate the thought of eating in this filthy place but I’m starving.

‘Help yourself.’ She waves an arm in the direction of the kitchen and flops down again.

After opening several cupboards I resign myself to eating a bowl of stale porridge made with water, but at least there’s sugar. I rinse a saucepan and while it heats I wash the crockery in the sink. I’ll tackle the other stuff tomorrow. I eat the porridge then go upstairs to my old bedroom.

I’m relieved to find Mum hasn’t made any effort to clear my things out. All my old clothes are still in the wardrobe and there are worn shoes slung in a corner. I even find some toiletries in the cupboard. I strip off my blood-stained clothes and bundle them up, ready to wash, put on my old, fleecy pyjamas and kick my shoes under the bed. As I lie back on the fusty pillows it’s as if I’ve never been away and I’m back to the long days of working my butt off at the supermarket, trying my best to get promoted to management but being overlooked by people with irrelevant university degrees and posh voices. Back to falling into bed exhausted and frustrated. Any minute now my dad, John, will burst in, demanding I make him a cup of tea after his day at work, telling me I’m lazy and don’t deserve a roof over my head.

I close my eyes and think instead of Robert, his warm kisses and promises, his lies and betrayal. His hands too. Swinging at me. Pushing me … Pushing me too far.

Chapter 5

February | DI Paton

As Paton passed by the open door of the Detective Chief Inspector’s office he heard his name being called. Damn. He was already late and his small team were waiting for him.

‘Sir?’

‘Sit down, Dave.’

Oh, no. Had the DCI heard about the disaster over the blood spatter evidence? This wouldn’t help Paton’s already fragile relationship with the chief and his team would rip him to shreds when they found out. It was an unwritten rule that the person making the biggest blunder of the week had to buy cakes for everyone.

‘I need to update you.’

Paton relaxed slightly.

‘The Major Incident Team is looking at this case so we can expect a visit shortly from Detective Superintendent Metcalf from Inverness. He’s been assigned as the Senior Investigating Officer.’

Paton tried not to let his disappointment show. He knew there were teams across Scotland that were called in to these cases, but he’d been hoping he’d be able to lead the enquiry at a local level. He’d wanted the SIO role for a long time but years of helping Wendy through her recurring depression and being around for Tommy had meant he hadn’t been able to dedicate himself to his job as much as he would have liked.

‘Don’t look so disheartened. I’m making you Deputy SIO so you can manage the day-to-day enquiries if Metcalf is absent. I have to ask you this, though.’ The Chief Inspector leaned across his desk and lowered his voice. ‘Are you able to take this on? I know you’ve got commitments at home and Tommy to think about.’ The