The Man in the House Read online

  The Man in the House - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis & M. A. Comley 2019

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  The Man in the House is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The authors respectfully recognise the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the authors.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the authors’ written permission.

  The Man in the House

  Emmy Ellis

  M. A. Comley

  Prologue

  Flowers in the garden, one, two, three.

  A rose, a tulip, a forget-me-not for thee.

  Red nails, pink nails, or a purple hue.

  Taken away to keep… A part of you.

  He stood and watched, the sound of the nearby sea whooshing.

  They were there, the police, inside her house on the cliff top.

  Smaltern. A shitty little town.

  He thought about what he’d done and clutched the sewing kit to his chest. The threads had closed up what needed to be closed. They’d stopped her talking. Stopped her doing…that.

  The officer at the door had been staring down at his feet for a while, mind probably elsewhere, wishing he was in bed instead of on a doorstep in the middle of a cold winter’s night.

  It had gone well.

  Sad and angry that it had come to this, to what he’d had to do, he walked across the open-plan front gardens, keeping out of sight behind the hedges that separated the pavement from the lawns. At the end of the cul-de-sac, he turned the corner and strode away, slipping his kit into the pocket of his black trench coat. He bent his head, his fedora pulled low to shield his face.

  Callie had told him once not to behave like he was the only one to make all the decisions. But he’d had the last laugh with her.

  He’d become the man in the house.

  Chapter One

  Helena stared down at the bloodstain on the beige-patterned carpet.

  “DI Stratton!”

  She turned, holding back a sigh, telling herself not to be a bitch to him. That wasn’t who she was—or who she used to be anyway. She was allowing her past to define her, and she needed to chill the hell out and stop poking at her partner.

  DS Andy Mald stood there in all his late-fifties glory, glaring at her from behind his thick-lens glasses with their black frames. Sounded like someone had pissed on his parade.

  That’d be me again. Be nice now. It’s not his fault you have issues.

  His brown, grey-speckled fringe flopped over his forehead, and one of his shirt buttons was undone in the middle, probably in his rush to get down here. Hairs poked through, coming out to say hello.

  “Yes, Andy?” She gave the blood her attention again. The stain wasn’t right, as though someone had poured it there instead of it seeping from the body.

  “You didn’t call me out.” Andy came to stand beside her. Too close.

  She took a step away, breathing through her mouth. “Thought you’d rather be in bed.” This wasn’t what she needed, him getting up her arse because he hadn’t been included. Who the hell would want to be called out to a murder scene in the middle of the night if they didn’t have to?

  Him, obviously. Mr Know-It-All.

  Prat.

  Stop it…

  “Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you,” Andy snapped. “We’re meant to be partners. Half the time, you’re off on your own, like some lone vigilante. It doesn’t work that way. You have to make sure I’m with you, and you know that. Look at what happened when you did that before. You said it wouldn’t happen again, yet here we are…”

  Same rant, different day.

  Bloody cracked record.

  She tuned him out, otherwise she’d bite his head off, and that was becoming a regular occurrence lately.

  While he blethered on in the background, she studied the body. Female. Brunette. Twenties. Naked. A pretty thing, makeup perfect, although the blue on her eyelids was a bit nineteen-eighties. Maybe that look was coming back into fashion. Helena wouldn’t know. She hadn’t owned a makeup bag in years, and even then, she’d only worn mascara and a bit of foundation.

  She stared at the face of the woman on the floor.

  Her mouth.

  Oh God…

  “…and what about that time you kept information to yourself and didn’t tell the team? You can’t keep doing that either.”

  All right, so Andy was getting on her tits now. Much as she wanted to rein her temper in, she couldn’t.

  “Oh, be quiet, will you?” she said. “I’m trying to think.”

  “Rude, that’s what you are.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, mate.”

  He was right. She was rude. And bitter. And angry. She’d tried to like him, but honestly… How his wife had stuck around for as long as she had before she’d left him was beyond Helena. He was a nonstop complaint merchant.

  Remind you of anyone?

  Oh no, she didn’t need Marshall in her head. They’d been seeing each other for six months but had split up recently—his temper wasn’t something she could tolerate. Its appearance had become as constant as Andy nipping at her nerves, day in, day out.

  She was better off single so she could—

  “What’s there to think about?” Andy asked.

  She closed her eyes briefly. “What part of ‘be quiet’ didn’t you understand?”

  “Christ, you’re a mardy bitch.”

  I’m mardy because I’m sodding well stuck with you.

  “I ought to tell on you,” he said.

  She laughed. It was either that or clock him one. “Really? How old are you?”

  Helena stepped round to the other side of the body. Anything not to have him so near. He stank, and it reminded her of the past and what she was trying to heal from. Smelling him every day was becoming too much. She’d snap soon, and then where would she be? Hauled into Chief Yarworth’s office, having her arse chewed.

  “She lives here?” he asked, pointing at the corpse.

  “Yes. Sole tenant. Callie Walker. Single. Works in Waitrose.”

  “SOCO been and gone?”

  “Um, no. You should know that. Didn’t your little desk sergeant buddy tell you?”

  “No.”

  So he wasn’t denying it that she slipped him info then. Andy fancied Sergeant Louise Baker, all six feet, blonde hair, and blue eyes of her. He bordered on being a ruddy pervert, always flirting and finding ways to brush past her. Helena cringed on Louise’s behalf every time he did it. If he went too far, she’d have to call him on it. Women being objectified pressed her buttons.

  And you know why that is.

  Car doors slamming gave her a reprieve. She walked from the living room, into the hallway, and stood at the open front door, ignoring the uniformed officer standing off to the side on the grass. SOCO had arrived, and after putting on their whites out on the plastic-sheet-covered path, she stepped aside so they could file past her. Zach Forde, the ME, pulled up to the kerb next, and she went to the pavement to give him the basics.

  “Hi,” she said, her heart doing that annoying thing it did whenever she saw him. Pattering too fast, bringing on butterflies
. Christ, she needed to pack it in, fancying him.

  “Hello, you,” he said. “What have we got?”

  “A woman. There’s blood, but even I can tell it isn’t from her—unless she’s got a wound I can’t see. There’s not a speck of it on her, just a pool on the carpet next to the body. She has a scarf round her neck—you know, the chiffon sort, got some bird or other all over it, might be a starling—so I can’t see if she’s been strangled.” Why had she mentioned the birds, for God’s sake? Babbling, that was what she’d been doing, like some young girl.

  If she wanted him to like her, that mascara and foundation needed to make an appearance. And she couldn’t let him like her. Not really. There was Marshall who’d get arsey, and then there was—

  Fuck it.

  “I’ll have a look in a minute,” Zach said. “But we can have a natter here until the photos have been taken, if you like?”

  She rubbed her arms. “It’s a bit nippy…”

  He held his hand out to his car.

  She nodded.

  They got inside, and it was still warm from when he’d driven here. She stared at the cul-de-sac, the road and pavement a weird mix of grey and amber from the streetlight standing behind a blackthorn tree with its birthday suit on. At three or so in the morning, it was quiet. A few neighbours nosed from behind partially open bedroom curtains, splashes of light behind them, their figures silhouettes.

  “How’s things?” Zach asked.

  She cringed. Why had she told him she’d split with Marshall?

  You know why.

  “Um, still not good.” She bit her lip.

  “Why don’t you just report him for bothering you then?”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Of course it is. It all went south, so you ended it. Simple, really. The fact he’s still hanging about…”

  She didn’t turn, didn’t need to see his face to know he was frowning. Jesus, she’d got herself into a right old mess, hadn’t she? She couldn’t even remember why she’d liked Marshall in the first place. He was a bit of a knob, if she were honest. Bold, brash, look at me I’m God’s gift. Maybe that had been the attraction in the beginning. A man like him wanting her after what she’d been through… Had that been the appeal? For her to feel desired, loved, not used just for sex?

  “He’ll go into one,” she said. “Like I told you, he’s got a temper. I don’t do men with tempers, you know that. It brings back memories.”

  “I understand that side of it, but how many people do you tell to leave men like him? How many people do you encourage to get restraining orders?”

  “I know, but they don’t always work, do they.” She sighed. “Some men don’t feel the law applies to them, and Marshall fits that bill. But I’ll do it—I’ll have a proper word with him.” At some point.

  “If you ask me, talking to him now isn’t even quick enough. Leave it too long, and he could do something to you.” He paused. “I’m here, you know.”

  She wasn’t sure how to take that. “In what way?”

  “In every way.”

  “I see.” Her heart rate escalated.

  “Do you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, you know now, so…” He cleared his throat.

  “Yes, I know.” She threaded a gloved hand through her hair. “We’re a right old pair, aren’t we?”

  “We are. I thought you’d have realised how I felt when I split with Kirsty.”

  “I didn’t like to presume.” Or hope.

  A rap on the passenger window jolted her, spoiling the moment, and she snapped her head round to look at who was there.

  Andy.

  She should have guessed he wouldn’t keep out of her air space for long.

  “Don’t let him bug you,” Zach said.

  “I can’t help it. He’s like vinegar on a burn.”

  Helena flicked her hand at Andy so he’d step back, then she got out and stood in front of him on the path. “What?” There she went, being a cow to him again. She hated herself for it.

  “SOCO have found something.”

  “Right.” She stared at him. “Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”

  “Guess.” He smiled like a kid.

  “You’re such a prat, man.”

  Pissed off with his games and him in general—and her wreck of a life—she walked back up the path and into the house, changing her booties for a fresh pair, her gloves, too. In the living room, she approached a SOCO who knelt beside the sofa. “What have you got, Tom?”

  He jerked his head for her to come closer.

  She crouched and peered down into the shadows at the carpet beneath a square end table. “What the hell?”

  Pink gardening gloves with roses on them had been laid on the floor, red fake nails pressed to the ends. Four lines of what appeared to be blood-soaked salt created the semblance of two arms. She kicked herself for not having spotted it herself when she’d first arrived.

  “Okay…” She held off a shudder.

  “Bit weird, isn’t it?” Tom said.

  “And the rest.” She stood and nodded at the gloves. “No clue what that’s meant to mean.”

  She stepped back ready to walk away and trod on something.

  “My toe, Stratton,” Andy said.

  Helena closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She faced him and smiled tightly. “Sorry, but if you weren’t right up my jacksy, I wouldn’t have stepped on you, would I?”

  “Blimey, what the hell’s got your goat? You need Kalms or something, woman,” he said, shaking his head.

  No amount of over-the-counter stress relief would help her in this moment. They weren’t suited as a partnership. They rubbed each other up the wrong way. She needed a new right-hand man or she’d end up in the clink for stringing him up by his balls.

  “And you need Right Guard or something,” she whispered. There. She’d said it. Got it out in the open.

  “Oi, there’s no need for that,” he said, bristling.

  “Oh, there is, believe me. Buy it. Use it. Or I’m going to have to tell on you.”

  His cheeks flared red. “That’s a bit below the belt. I can take most shit from you, but not that.”

  “No, no, please don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I’m not being mean.” For once. “It’s something you need to sort. Seriously. People have noticed. They’ve mentioned it. Do you want to be called in for a chat with the chief? That’s where it’s going to end up if you don’t do something about your…problem.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  She walked away, guilt pinching her gut. She couldn’t bear the smell of him. It brought back memories. Reminded her of him and—

  Don’t.

  Zach came in then, suited up, and she’d never been more pleased to see him. The overhead light brightened his blond hair, and he smiled at her in that way he shouldn’t.

  Not while we’re at work.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing to the gardening gloves, “is one weird-arse present left for us.”

  He peered over. “Oh. Lovely.” Then he glanced at the body. “I hope those nails on the gloves aren’t hers.”

  A shiver prickled up her spine. “Her hands are underneath her so…”

  “Am I good to start work?” Zach asked Tom.

  “Yes, she’s been photographed.”

  “Thanks.”

  He walked over to the body. Helena followed and, if her sense of smell was spot on, so did Andy. She blushed at what she’d said to him. She should have delivered it in a better way—and in private. Tom had undoubtedly heard her. Maybe she’d done them all a favour by opening her mouth, but still, she should have had more tact. Him poking at her meant she’d retaliated in turn. She should know better. Should have pulled him aside. The fact he was an annoying git shouldn’t have influenced her to speak out.

  Christ.

  Turning to Andy, she said quietly, “Listen,
about what I said…”

  “I’m going to go home,” he said. “I’m not needed here.”

  “Right.” Fucking hell…

  He left the living room, and she almost chased after him. To say what, though? The damage was done. She consoled herself with the fact that everyone on the team had complained to her about him.

  I shouldn’t have been such a bitch.

  “Bollocks,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling.

  “Helena?”

  She blew out a breath and joined Zach. The victim’s hands were out by her sides now, the ends destroyed from having the nails ripped off. She had to be a fresh one—no rigor mortis—unless she’d been killed way before now and it had already come and gone.

  “Um, that’s…not nice,” she said, then called over to Tom, “They are fake nails on the gloves, aren’t they?”

  “Seems like it.”

  So unless Callie Walker’s nails were in the house somewhere, her killer had taken them.

  Zach took Callie’s scarf off.

  “Oh.” Helena winced. “So she was strangled.”

  The slim line of livid purple bruising on her neck appeared to have been made by a rope or something of that nature. Her tongue wasn’t sticking out, though, which didn’t mean anything because… Helena didn’t want to look at Walker’s mouth again. The first time she’d seen it had been gut-churning.

  Lips sewn together with thick, red cotton was enough to put anyone off taking a second glance.

  She imagined the killer stuffing the tongue back inside so he could use the needle on her lips. And wished she hadn’t. Her skin went clammy, and she gritted her teeth to divert her attention away from her thoughts.

  “Yes, strangulation,” Zach said. “That would be my first impression, based on petechiae on her cheeks and the burst blood vessels in her eyes, but it could be something else entirely. PMs come in handy for that sort of thing.”

  She laughed a bit. “Sarcastic sod.”

  Zach leant over Walker and checked inside her ears. “No blood there.” He lifted her head to look at the back. “No trauma. I’d say you’re right—that blood isn’t from a wound.”