Pick up the pieces then go home………

This is what I do. Reconstruct lives, events, relationships. Play at jigsaws until I know what each consisted of, put them together again and then I feel I actually know what happened. It isn’t always easy, attempting to rebuild, to imagine, to recreate the sometimes shattered, tattered and fragmented mess that some people decide to leave for us. Yet I always find a satisfaction, a pleasure almost, in knowing that what we term the loose ends are neatly typed, reported, filed and inevitably forgotten by officialdom. Not the families, the friends, oh no, I have to present my findings to help those who can inform, offer a measure of comfort. That's why I do my job - I need to know how they lived, all too often how they died, what people thought about them, how did they just go about their daily lived, but sadly, and most important of all, how did they end up dead.1

I interview, construct, deconstruct, converse with, interrogate, condole, empathise. I have a skill used all too frequently, strictly need to know basis, I can interview a relative, a colleague, a friend, a loved one, and I will build up my portrait. I will formulate my model until I finally know how, why and wherefore. I enjoy my chosen career, I’m careful, methodical and considerate of others’ feelings at all times I’m also tenacious, obsessed by detail, meticulous in my reports, some say anally retentive, controlling even, tell me any other way of doing my job. I’m good at what I do, I’m the best, and I’m cool, detatched, perennially uninvolved.2

Purely professional of course. At all times. That's what I am, a pure professional. Always. No case ever really gets to me. No one gets to me. I am immune, safe behind my wall, my own casing of respectable anonymity and professionalism. I thought I was hardened, I’ve seen all measures of inhumanity and imaginative depravity in my days, I’ve always protected myself, cloaked in my outer casing of it’s only a job, it isn’t my life. But it is, too late I discovered that’s all it is, a casing. So that is why, I suppose, this case did worm its parasitic way into my psyche, just a little. Not much, no more than I can handle. Apart from those dreams, those visitations, it’s not so much the shrieking, the screaming, even though the voice is mine, it’s my sheer and utter futility. In my dreams I am a voiceless ghost, powerless, redundant, an empty witness, the feeling of being utterly useless, that’s what burns in me more than anything else. I’m not used to being without control, unused to being superfluous. But night after interminable night I find myself unable to help, to assist, all I can do is stare blindly as the repetitive chaotic events unfold, always the same pursuit, loss, discovery, despair, and I can do nothing. And still those sludge green eyes bore into me, accusatory, questioning, demanding, demeaning. Why?3

The reports crackled, nothing new there, blandly stating that, as usual, the, neighbours hadn't seen any signs of life, their concern growing; no one had heard a human voice for several days, unusual in that house, even the cat seemed to have vanished. Silence, both cars parked outside, no lights at any time, nothing, emails unanswered, no one at work. Even though we may strive for anonymity, we have each to fit into our corporate jigsaw. Both quite successful, in a moderate way, both graduates in the public sector, both middle management.4

Minor sentences filed away, always vital to record everything, I am lucky to possess a strong memory and sense of recall; I scan for any tiny nuance. The tiniest fragment may prove useful as I am frequently reminding my colleague who usually just grunts in response, concentrating on his driving. It’s not his role to do the main body of thinking he tells me, smiling as he attempts to wind me up. I know that most of them call me anorak, geek, or nerd behind my back, mocking my passion for completion, but I also know they need me, they can’t play their parts without me, like it or not, they have to put up with me. But it isn’t always easy, for both of us.5

As we drew into the cul-de-sac, my colleague driving as ever, I noted the casual details, important later on. Detached, newish, house, claiming its size under false pretences. Double glazed widows, the wooden type with peeling paintwork, no weekends lavished on home improvements here by the looks of things. Smeared and dirty panes, they didn’t have a window cleaner obviously either. Two cars, hers? Smaller, a supermini. Further evidence of dirt, gravel and dust inside; cds casually strewn over the front seat, eclectic taste, rock standards, semi classical, indie and alternative artists. A large striped golf umbrella lay across the parcel shelf, neatly furled, dusty with neglect. Woollen gloves and scarves festered on the back seat, an old Argos catalogue, the detritus of someone who used their car as a means of transport and nothing else. No Sunday mornings spent in washing, waxing and polishing here.6

The other car, parked neatly in front of the garage presented a different image altogether; faster, male, turbo charged, blood red, gleaming with pride, wax and devotion. Cds neatly stacked in a custom built storage box, heavier rock music, metal, what some may describe as progressive, others pompous, I’m rather fond of it myself, or rather I was. A matching striped umbrella again lay furled neatly along the parcel shelf, strange, perhaps they were free gifts? No excess clutter here, no shoe grit, dust or dirt, the foot wells containing vacuumed mats, the dashboard gleaming and smear free. This car was clearly loved, this car was more than just a way of reaching a destination, this car represented something else.7

Garden, neat, without adventure. Rough lawn bordered by the usual incessant greenery, the type that grows uncontrollably and rapidly, beloved of unfriendly neighbours anxious to assert their right to privacy. Bark chippings scattered along the flower beds to prevent weeds failing to staunch nature fully as the green shoots determined to greet the sun poke confidently through. Scratched but varnished wooden door, frosted narrow glass panels, a voiceless dirty bell dumbly echoing through the rooms, summoning a smiling face. I doubt it. House number spotted brass, askew, one screw steadfastly gripping the wall, a last hope in a house of hopelessness. Dusty cream blinds lidding the spotted and smeared bay, pulled down to the sill, no clue as to what may lie within. Garage locked, no entry to the back garden then unless the rear gate opened. It wouldn't. I was hardly surprised.8

- Shall I shoulder it? Always eager to prove his superior strength and masculinity, my colleague.9

- No, I responded calmly, leave it for now. It can wait. Don’t want to give anybody inside a shock finding us on their back lawn.10

- You seriously think anybody inside this house is really gonna care? I mean, we wouldn’t have had the call if they didn’t think anything was seriously wrong, now would we?11

He can be maddeningly perceptive sometimes.12

No response to our repeated knocking, in spite of the continually increasing volume and strength. The habitual concerned neighbour all slightly anxious, yet thrilled to be involved appears, winding a tea cloth in his hands, smiling amicably at us, blinking behind neat rimless glasses. 13

-Er, Hello? Can I help you?14

-Do you know your neighbours well sir?15

I introduce us officially, he scans the documents, looks suitably impressed.16

- Well enough. Was when I hadn’t seen the cat for a few days or any sign of life I began to be worried. We normally saw them at least once or twice a day, y’know coming and going from work. But the cars haven’t moved, neither have the blinds. I wasn’t being nosey, but we, that is, me and the wife, thought there might be something wrong. So that’s when I pushed open the letterbox. Saw no sign of anyone, but I saw the mess, the wife told me I had to call you. All I could hear was their cat.17

-Who are they?18

-Youngish couple. Thirties, early. Professionals, pleasant. But they argue a lot lately. 19

Hesitation.20

-Go on. 21

-There was an incident. The distaste couched behind polite language.22

-An incident? What do you mean?23

-I gather there was another woman involved - an affair I suppose. Apparently he brought the woman home, thinking that she wouldn't be there but of course she was. I heard it rather than saw it. Upshot was he tried to run her over with the car- she just wouldn't get out of the way. Just stood there in front of that big red monster and she was tiny. You know, one of those women who have to buy smaller clothes. My wife always wishes she could be like that.24

He seemed to want me to know this - her physical size important, her vulnerability? 25

-Did you know them socially?26

-Barely spoke to her in all the years they lived here. Spoke to him far more, didn't really see her apart from when she was calling that cat of hers or fetching the wheelie in. He drove into her again and again you know, and she just stood there. She wouldn’t move, he had to give in, in the end. She just took it, just stood there. And all the time she's screaming all the names she knows at this other woman. Pretty inventive too, some of them. I had to go out, tell her what I thought. She turned on me then. Couldn’t believe it. She had such a guttermouth on her, she really did. You wouldn’t hear such things from the wife I can tell you.27

But all of this I must save until later, until he too must play his part in this casual comedy.28

He doesn’t have a key, no reason why he should. There's no one to give us permission. No one responds, no one answers. We too, peer through the letterbox and hear the tiny but distinctive mewing. I call to catch its attention. A small, black creature turns rapidly towards my voice, its eyes huge and terrified although it looks quite well fed and cared for. But still there is no one to let us in. We have no choice. Break in, our only option.29

Slit box view - kitchen, hallway, moss green carpet dotted with cat hair, bunches of groomed fur. Beech framed print askew on wall, literally hanging by a thread. I note the image, animal print, not cheap, a present perhaps? A majestic lynx, faux pencil sketch, well-known series, not really my taste, but his, definitely his, never hers. I would come to know all of this, know them as well as my own family- all tastes, secrets, likes, dislikes, loves, hates, foibles, all revealed to me. That's what I do.30

Kitchen without personality; conventional wooden units, nondescript bland in beige, black/white tiled floor, edge of a microwave, fridge magnets the usual comic book characters, Gromit, Kenny, Simpsons, typical fare of thirtysomethings. No curtain at window, no blind, pots in shards decorating stainless steel sink. Bi-coloured floor spattered with cat biscuit crumbs- cat tray full, sawdust litter scattered haphazardly - two trays- two cats? No, just one tiny black bundle of fear.31

Words whispered through the letterbox offer mediocre comfort, there’s no response, cat alone, cat no longer loved, cat abandoned and bereft.32

Brisk conference, what is to be done? Any real choice? The door must succumb. Weight-trained shoulders brace, not mine, obviously. I do train, but I don’t advertise my prowess, unlike my colleague; he’s anxious to force it with a single push. I’d rather pick the lock, but he likes spectacle, so I smile indulgently and nod my head allowing him to once again demonstrate his superior masculinity. I’m cerebral, I admit; it’s the intellectual challenge I crave, not the blunt physicality of macho little men.33

-OK. Do it.34

He connects, contact. The flimsy lock instantly yields, no secure defences to protect this particular castle. Silence greets. Chaos. Violence. Damage evident. No sign of any human life whatsoever. Lonely cat flees, hides amid debris.35

Human voice, my own inane greeting. No response, unsurprisingly. What has happened here will not result in domestic bliss. I will not discover a happy and contented couple; I can imagine what I may find. I've been here before too many times. This shouldn’t be any different from the usual domestic as we blithely term it. That’s what I tell myself, that’s what I told myself, but this time I am mistaken. In all my years of intellectual reconstruction and dispassionate assumptions, I am wrong, for the first time I am connected.36

Of course I'm not alone. I know that when we locate what I am certain awaits, yet more officers, professionals, specialists, known only by their abbreviations will scuttle around, white protective suits concealing identities, individuals no more. They too will play their role in reconstructing like me what has occurred in the apparently pleasant unassuming detached house. Little do we know what really occurs beyond the accepted façade of middle class respectability. Unlike me, they will not be interested in the why, the wherefore, the reason, but only the how, when and where. The who is all too obvious here. 37

Our expanded gaze no longer confused by the parameters of the letterbox reveals anger, pain, intolerance and finally resignation. The ravaged kitchen drawers spilling bills, birthday cards, menus for pizza and Chinese takeaways; money off vouchers, waterfalls of unwanted household literature, that which we all hang on to for no reason whatsoever. Telling ourselves that just one day perhaps it will come in useful. Cutlery strewn crazily across the floor, yet incongruous, almost carefully placed to ensure security; the cat bowls, plenty of clean water, the food in the automatic pet feeder set at regular intervals. The two litter trays, one soiled, the other still fresh. Someone wanted the cat, at least, to be relatively comfortable.38

Neither of us is at ease, we're unsure; do we instantly summon assistance or continue searching, reluctant to call on others, wasting precious resources if the house is actually empty, though I very much doubt it. 39

Quick scan into the lounge, more chaos, upturned sofa, geometric patterns clashing loudly with the floor covering; ravaged pot plants soil spewing into the contents of the room. More violated drunken paintings suicidal in their hangings. Blind television gaping yawning shattered screen belly up, wire innards embracing the air; blinking video recorder whirring with pain, constantly rewinding, stopping, fast forwarding- a futile attempt to rewrite history, wishing it hadn't happened, wishing that normality could somehow restore itself, but a mere machine cannot dictate or rely on human behaviour.40

CDs trodden violently underfoot, Perspex covers embedded into the discs, no more music, they are mute now. Showers of birthday cards whispering greetings to an unknown woman splattered with further glass shards and minute spots of what was deep red blood now turning to rust. Books savagely hurled from shelves; pages flutter uselessly. No one will read them until friends, family, pass them on, charity, jumble, sales, fetes, who knows, who can foresee the future?41

Plaintive mew. The black cat cowers in the shell of a ravaged book unit, craving attention yet unwilling to embrace me. I utter an attempt at comfort, it's useless. The creature mistrusts, is unwilling to approach me, no matter what I might say.42

-Try not to tread on anything.43

-Bit difficult, it's a tip in here. What the hell happened?44

-Someone lost it, big time.45

-No kidding. Any sign of life?46

-Check upstairs?47

-On my way.48

-I'll follow.49

Onward we tread. Careful to avoid yet more debris, soil spillage, remnants of clothing, all reminders of an everyday life, an everyday life destroyed by someone’s hurricane of emotion and anger. At the top of the stairs the first door is ajar, revealing a pine wardrobe door hanging open, clothes strewn drunkenly along a small multi-gym. More shelves of books, oddly untouched, science-fiction, fantasy, economics, mock philosophy, perhaps the vandal didn't want to destroy his or her own beloved books.50

The bathroom. The destroyer again. Bath itself chequered soil and more broken glass. Beheaded bottles of cosmetics dribble their contents, multi-coloured confections spewing sickly sweet smells, expensive once, I should imagine, now sticky, mingle to form nauseous puddles of muddy goo, indistinguishable from each other. And there again the tell tale smears of browning blood spattering the fading lemon walls and dirty grey carpet tiles. Somebody had clearly been injured in this chaotic room, clumps of torn long blonde hair indicating the possible presence of a damaged woman.51

Small bedroom, converted to an office/study, oddly untouched again. Scanned sci-fi images festoon the walls, grinning behind clip frames. A male room, definitely male. They're all there, along with heavy metal heroes, guitars of various ilk, Gretsches and Fenders, accompanying the celluloid warriors. Darth Vader glowers menacingly over the silent unblinking computer monitor, thankfully mute, no testimony from the dark lord here. Superman flies his way through Metropolis, he couldn't save this world from destruction. No one could.52

Captains Kirk and Picard, Data, Dr. Who, Daleks, Obi-Wan and Luke Skywalker, heroes and villains, friends and enemies but never in their galactic universes have they witnessed such intensity of emotion or destruction.53

Another bedroom, door half open again, only one door remains closed to us. We know what we may find, but need support. A double bed upturned, mattress thrown to its side, duvet bundled at its base- a drunken reading lamp swings crazily from its side; an alarm clock ticks on, marking the passage of time, but no one here will consult it again.54

That single door remains defiantly closed to us. A brown varnished door, cheap, unpanelled, a dull silver handle smudged and dotted with more browning blood indicates that we have no choice but to enter, cautiously. But I know what awaits. I have seen it so many times.55

-Do we go in?56

-Do we have a choice?57

-I've called in for back up. On their way.58

-Knock first. Take care. Gloves? Don’t forget. Touch nothing.59

Firm knock. Call out. No response. Nor sound at all. Nothing. Grasping the now thankfully dry handle with my latex hands, colleague behind me I push it gently open. A reluctant squeak as the door brushes along the red carpet, no impediment as I peer inside the scarlet-lit gloom, inhale the all too familiar sweet stench and a scene of tranquillity squeezes my breath.60

The bodies lay, almost casually placed, a juxtaposition of death, faces wiped of emotion, upon the wooden double bed. Obviously they had once shared this bed, once loved, hated and finally died on it, in it. 61

His face turned to one side, rested weightily on his outstretched arm, reminiscent of Steerforth's death in the despised David Copperfield. Mouth slightly agape, the eyes closed now, hiding the utter shock he must have felt when she finally crumbled and dared, actually dared to kill him. It’s obvious even at this stage that she has killed him, the torn silver wraps indicate that she choose her way.62

Beside the woman lay packets of savaged tablets, an upturned wine glass, traces of chilled chardonnay still discernible. Utter peace caressed her features, no evidence whatsoever that she had suffered anything but blissful, self-induced release. No weapon to mar the tranquillity of her deathbed, just visible scars, bruised skin, and the slight smile of triumph.63

She was dressed respectably, no virgin white, but she had obviously been bothered about how they would find her, and how long after it had all happened. She didn't want the unattractive smell of decaying flesh to alert the apathetic neighbours, she wanted, in her own way to be her very own Juliet, for they had loved, once, but that was a long time ago, before it crashed around her, before he changed. 64

Around them the debris of lives wasted with bitterness - the futility of desperation, of someone who fought on despite the apathy, of one who didn't want to let go, of one who thought I love you meant for life.65

Deformed gold earrings, savagely twisted from their circular destiny to grotesque, obscene distortions, evidence of yet another fight. Shattered pictures, glass shards jaggedly displaying the emotions behind their destruction, clothes haphazardly strewn around them. Inverted laundry baskets, spilling the guts of yet more anger, socks adrift from partners, shirts without buttons, trousers rent in two. And hastily bundled under the debris lies the truth; a small pair of stiffened brown blood soaked pants, the waistband perilously clutching onto the main body of fabric by mere threads66

I’ve seen far worse than this; it’s oddly peaceful, only the tell tale smell, the large red brown stain on one pillow and the neatly arced rust droplets decorating the wall above the bed reveals the truth of what has occurred here. Knowingly we exchange glances, nod our heads, then replace that gesture with somewhat rueful shakes, a sense of waste predominates both of our thoughts.67

I reconstruct. I rebuild. I work out how and why things happen. I am a professional. I take pride in my work. It doesn't affect me. I'm used to doing this. So why do I feel the tears prick at my lids then track mutely down my cheeks? I’m thankful my colleague has returned downstairs, it’s the last thing I would ever wish for him to witness, I can’t believe my show of emotion, it’s totally out of character. I know that there are some who believe that I am entirely devoid of any human feeling, and indeed, I pride myself on my habitual lack of involvement, but this? 68

The man appears almost peaceful in death; his eyes are closed, he seems to have been carefully positioned in an attitude of natural sleep, although the slightly open mouth reveals the element of surprise he must have felt when she struck at him. His pillow is soaked dirty brown, coating one side of his head, clumping his hair. He is tall, long limbed, physically a healthy man in his thirties, well nourished, his hair a muddy brown. Only the scratched bare chest, unbuttoned black jeans and hastily pulled to boxer shorts reveal his final intentions. In contrast she is tiny, far smaller than I had imagined, almost bird like and barely taller than a child. Her hands and wrists seem far too fragile to have wielded such destruction, yet she found the strength from within, what must have driven her to this? Long blonde hair frames her face, she too seems unnaturally peaceful, and a slow smile is frozen on her features, she seems almost glad to have embraced this end, because this was her choice. Oddly, a slender whitegrey feather is clutched in her stiffened fingers, its tip trailing to a tiny deceptive hammer, blood spotted, brain spattered.69

It seems simple enough, murder and suicide. Yes, simple enough. My job, as ever must be to discover what has led these two people to their end, what, and most importantly of all, why. This is what I do. This is what I’ve always done. But first they must be photographed, examined, inspected, removed, cleaned and stored until we are satisfied. Their privacy invaded, their secrets revealed, all manner of facts sifted and sorted, by me. I need to know, I have to discover, unravel and reveal it all, not for public knowledge, I owe them that, merely a faithful recreation, if only for those they leave behind. 70

But for now I can do little but wait for the backup to arrive, the white suited professionals, my role deferred until they have logged everything, the bodies removed, the evidence catalogued. A plaintive mewling strikes me back from my musing, the cat, it cannot remain here, it must be captured and removed to an animal charity; I care about animal welfare, I don’t want to hear of it fleeing through a carelessly open door to become a stray, unloved and destroyed. I don’t really have time for this, but I make time, if only to save one small insignificant life in this house of death.71

Some ten minutes later, I have located a cat basket and successfully caged the terrified creature much to the amusement of my colleague. Nursing a bloodied handkerchief, I grin balefully at him.72

- Yes? I don’t see what’s so funny?73

- It’s you, I’m sorry. I don’t know why you have to bother to save a bloody cat.74

- I just feel I have to. Something in this house has to have a chance to live. 75

- Fair enough. What are you gonna do with it though?76

- Phone a local animal home I expect, it deserves a chance, poor thing.77

- Hmm.78

He never understands my sentimentality regarding animals, few do, but after all that small creature has witnessed, it should know a measure of peace in its life, even if it has drawn my blood.79

More time passes, the cat now safely stowed in the car and we sit as the teams arrive. Neighbours silently watch from behind their neat curtains as the familiar blue and white tapes are stretched across the garden proclaiming to everyone in their middle class security that this is most definitely a crime scene, and that they will soon play their own parts, provide their statements, share their secrets, divulge any relevant information all of which will be carefully noted, typed and filed.80

Medics, socos, the white suited automatons descend; they’ll spend hours poring over the smallest of details, professional and efficient, like me. I know where I must start my journey, it is here, in this shabbily modest house, but not yet.81