‘Early in the noughties they started to turn a profit. A small one, barely enough to keep two small kids in nappies, but by the end of that decade they were making a healthy profit, which has increased year on year since.’
‘Give me the numbers,’ Stacey urged.
‘The most recent set of audited accounts filed just last week detail a year-end profit of £1.2 million.’
Stacey’s mouth fell open.
‘Yeah, my thoughts exactly,’ he said.
There was a lot of money to be had from turning people straight.
FORTY-THREE
It was almost one by the time Bryant pulled into the driveway of The Willows in Harvington.
The potholes had Kim jumping up from the seat.
‘Sorry,’ Bryant said every time he hit a particularly deep one. She was pleased it was only around thirty metres long. At the end of it was a single-storey barn conversion with a garage on the left-hand side. Kim had the strange sense that the property should have been breathtakingly stunning. But it wasn’t. The overall sense was of neglect. Weeds peeped through the gravel driveway and all along the base of the property. Small squares of cardboard had blown around the drive from the overfull recycling bin. Four empty whisky bottles were visible on the top. To her knowledge, the bins were collected every fortnight, so unless they’d missed one, that was more than a nightcap being consumed in Scotch.
A plant pot outside the front door, holding some kind of fuchsia, was being swallowed by weeds, and as Kim approached, she saw that it was also a makeshift ashtray.
In front of the garage was a black Ford Kuga which she assumed to belong to the owner.
‘Ah, shit, no,’ she said, spying the kiddie seat in the back of the car. She thought of little Amy Laing. Another child without a parent.
As she turned, Kim noticed the fence leading off the garage and travelling the length of the property. She could see the return of the fence signalling the total of their outside space.
She took a few steps down and saw that the back fence separated the barn from a similarly renovated property no more than twenty metres away. The left fence separated the barn from a two-storey farmhouse that had probably once owned both barns.
The right side of the fence led back down to the road and a wooded area right opposite.
Even back at the front door she could hear the traffic thundering past on the main road.
Kim had the strangest feeling of this being the dream on paper but not reality.
She approached the front door between Keats’s vehicle and Mitch’s Transit, then took the protective slippers from the officer at the door, while Bryant introduced them both for the log.
The front door took her into a cramped space with a wooden bench and a coat rack. A row of wellies told her this was a type of boot room.
‘Oh good God,’ Kim said as the stench of blood reached her and directed her to the left into a small lounge that had been smothered with throws, cushions and rugs.
‘Stop for lunch on the way, Inspector?’ Keats asked, his voice tinged with irritation.
‘Yeah, had a three course at the Beefeater on the way. Steak was a bit dry but hey ho. Now what have we got?’
Keats stepped aside to reveal a man dressed in jeans and a white shirt, drenched with blood.
‘Meet Liam Sachs, thirty-two years old, husband and father.’
The man’s left hand was hanging loose in his lap. A deep red gash cut across the wrist. The blood had run out and left lines over his jeans, down the front of the chair and onto the carpet. His right hand was resting on his right leg, and a kitchen knife had fallen to the floor.
His hair was a straw blonde colour, a little long around his handsome face. Lifeless blue eyes stared straight at her.
In front of him was a laptop in the open position. The whole thing was covered in blood.
‘Okay, Keats, go,’ Kim said, wondering as to the reason for the call. On first inspection this looked like a genuine suicide.
‘Look closely at the wrist, Inspector,’ he instructed.