Page 38 of Witness 8

‘No scorch marks around the entry wounds. No pressure bruising from the barrel of the pistol. Same on the chest wound. He stood back, aimed and fired,’ she said.

‘Jackson doesn’t know how to shoot,’ said Lake. ‘You can get lucky with one shot. Not three. Not when you’re drawing down on a real-life, moving, breathing, defenseless human being.’

‘It looks like an execution. Someone who knew what they were doing.’

‘Not much of a defense,’ said Lake.

‘It’s a start,’ said Bloch.

Together, they scanned the downstairs rooms again, then made their way to the upper floor. There were four well-proportioned bedrooms spread over two floors. A bathroom, a main bedroom with its own bathroom and a small guest room on the second floor that had been converted into a dressing room. Two more bedrooms on the third, both with adjoining bathrooms.

Nothing out of place.

Everything looked neat and tidy. Even the bed.

‘Has Alan Blakemore spent the night here since the murder?’ asked Lake.

‘No,’ said Bloch. ‘There was a story in thePost. He came back to the city to ID the body, checked into a hotel, flew back out to Madrid the next day.’

Lake nodded, and they set about checking the drawers and closets in the main bedroom.

Bloch peered out of the window. The light from the chandelier threw her reflection onto the glass. She unlocked thewindow, pulled it up and stuck her head out. The smells of the city came to her. The smell of rain in the air, sewage too. The street was mostly in darkness. The residents were now at home in their beds.

Lake joined her.

‘Listen,’ said Bloch.

Stilling his breathing, Lake remained motionless, his ear cocked. The only sounds were distant rolls of tires on the avenue at the end of the street and the low hum of the city.

‘I don’t hear anything.’

‘Exactly,’ said Bloch. Reaching into her pants pocket, she came out with a handful of change. She aimed it at the trash can resting against the lamp post next door. The quarters hit the can with a crash and rattled and danced into the gutter. A few stray coins bounced off the hood of the police car parked outside. Detective Neeson got out of the car, looked around.

Bloch watched the lights come on in the bedrooms of the houses opposite. She leaned out of the window further. Lake did the same.

Only when they leaned forward did they spot the young woman across the street staring up at the window. She had long dark hair, tied up in a ponytail. A pink sweater and blue jeans.

Bloch met her gaze.

The young woman didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

She just stared.

A key part of being a detective is developing a sense of people. Being able to read expressions, body language, changes in tone of voice. Bloch wasn’t good at reading people. Never had been, and never would be. Her brain operated on a different level. Numbers. Facts. Science. Logic. People were unreliable, and therefore a slight mystery to her.

As she stared at the young woman across the street, Bloch felt something stir inside her. Whatever hormones and chemicalsthe central nervous system needed to deal with a threat – they were swirling around Bloch’s body right now. This wasn’t the emotional part of her mind – this was the old, dormant, lizard part of her brain. The survival instinct.

The young woman looked away, continued to walk up the street, away from the house. She didn’t run. She walked slowly, like she was out for a stroll.

‘Who was that?’ asked Lake.

Bloch shook her head.

Front doors opened, windows opened and people gazed out into the street to see what the noise had been.

‘The neighbors are on edge,’ said Lake, ‘but I guess this is the kind of street where folks pay attention to noises in the night. There’s a lot of rich folks here who don’t want to get robbed.’

They both came back inside, and Lake closed the window.