wide, carpeted stairway. Moments later they were entering the apartment, Frankie flicking on lights as they moved down the hallway, peering into each room.
‘Let’s do a quick sweep first, then go through each room properly,’ Devon suggested, and Frankie nodded.
The place had clearly been let part-furnished; in the big, open-plan living and dining area the walls, one an expanse of exposed red brick, were bare of pictures, and no curtains hung at the floor-to-ceiling windows, but a huge, denim-blue suede sofa and low white coffee table remained in the centre of the expanse of polished oakwood flooring, and in the stylish, battleship grey kitchen three tall bar stools with red leather seats were lined up against the breakfast bar.
The bathroom had a walk-in double shower and shiny chrome fittings, and in a bedroom which had clearly been used as a home office a desk sat against one wall, opposite a large empty bookcase.
‘So this last room must be the master bedroom,’ Frankie muttered, as he pushed open the final door.
‘HOLY SHIT!’
‘What the …?’
The two men gasped simultaneously, Frankie reflexively grabbing onto Devon’s forearm, as a faint metallic tang hit their nostrils and they stared uncomprehendingly at the scene in front of them.
‘Is that … is that what I think it is? Sorry,’ Frankie stuttered, and slowly released Devon’s arm.
Devon was still staring, suddenly feeling a creeping, cold sensation like an icy hand running over his skin. The room was large and bright, light streaming in from French windows through which he could see a balcony or terrace, enclosed by glass walls. He stared out into the sunshine for a moment, then slowly, reluctantly, dragged his gaze back to … to what? Was this … was this what he thought it was too? Could it be? The bedroom looked like a scene from a horror film. White walls, streaked with sweeping brownish-red stains; a jagged, brown river trailing across the carpet; a dark, dry pool on the mattress. His stomach lurched, and he cast his eyes around the room, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It was. It couldn’t be anything else. He turned to Frankie, who was standing stock-still, white-faced, transfixed.
‘It’s blood,’ he whispered. ‘Blood. Pints of it. Everywhere. What the hell has happened in this room?’
Chapter 11
‘Cereal? Oh … hang on, no milk. Sorry, Eva …’
Eva, who’d just plonked herself down at the kitchen table, waved a hand dismissively.
‘Just black coffee for now, honestly. We’ll go out in a bit and get you stocked up. Take Albert for a stroll. He was rather too full of energy this morning when he barrelled into my room and tried to lick me to death, he needs to walk some of it off. And I don’t really do breakfast anyway, you should know that.’
She grinned at me, flicking her long red hair back over her shoulders, and winked one of her greeny-brown eyes.
‘Yeah, I remember, sorry,’ I said, smiling back at her, then turned to put the kettle on and find a clean mug. I had forgotten, briefly, the events of the previous few days clearly turning my brain to mush. For most of the years I’d known her, Eva had been strictly a black-coffee-and-cigarettes-only-before-midday kind of girl. The cigarettes had vanished in recent times, but the coffee habit remained.
In the end, she hadn’t arrived until nearly midnight the previous night, two cancelled trains and then long delays on the one that did arrive making her journey from London a long and tedious one. Restless and unable to settle down to work or even watch television, I’d filled the waiting time by doing something that in retrospect I slightly regretted – I’d paid my neighbours a visit. Unable to stop thinking about what the police had said about my immediate neighbours thinking I’d moved into our house alone, I’d checked the time – just before nine, so late but not too late to knock on a stranger’s door, I hoped – pulled on a jacket and headed out, knocking first on the door of the house to the right, where I’d occasionally seen and waved to an older woman when our arrivals and departures had coincided. She opened the door slowly, peering around it with a frown, her face relaxing as she recognized me.
‘Hi, I’m Gemma – I live next door?’
She nodded, pushing a loose strand of hair back off her forehead. She looked about sixty, long greying hair pulled back into a low ponytail.