When Birds Fall Silent by Shana Frost

Author:Shana Frost [Frost, Shana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shana Frost

Chapter Ten

Callan stood in Patricia’s bedroom with a scowl on his face and assessed the new crime scene. Everything lay in a mess, including the mattress.

The closed windows trapped the after-effects of death.

Sun beat through the glass, still high in the sky, making Callan’s skin prickle.

Who’d done this? And what was Fayola doing here?

Callan crouched to examine the dark blue carpet. The white canvas on the underside of the blue threads stuck out. Patricia had had it for a long time.

He bent lower, focusing on the bristles. Blobs of mud stuck to it. From a shoe?

Callan tugged at the scrubs he wore, the added layer unwelcome in this boiling room. The bloody things itched uncomfortably but were necessary – he’d never do anything to compromise a crime scene.

Feet covered in shoe covers, he found a couple more muddy crumbs between the door and the bed. They were so tiny, one could easily miss them. He didn’t find an impression of a foot, at least not with the naked eye.

He moved over to the window side but spotted no mud there.

Fayola Noah lay on the destroyed mattress; her skin had lost its radiance.

He needed the medical examiner to pronounce life extinct. The foam coating her cracked lips gave him an inkling as to what could be the cause of death. He reined himself in and focused on committing the scene to memory.

She wore a long skirt and suede boots, the heels dangling over the bed. She’d been a tall woman. Had she died here?

Callan scratched his chin. It was hard to tell.

He turned to the soles of her boots.

Ah, explains the mud.

There were a few mud splatters on the black suede at the heel of the foot as well. It had been raining yesterday and there were still a few puddles on the road. So Fayola had been outdoors.

The hem of her skirt had some splatters too, although they were negligible. Puddles – it had to be, or soggy mud. If it were pouring, her clothes would’ve been damp and her shoes muddier.

Callan rounded the bed to crouch next to Fayola’s face. She could’ve been sleeping, and she was – forever.

After a brief examination, he noted no rashes, spots, marks, or bruises on her skin. Her hair lay tucked in neat braids.

She probably didn’t fight back.

Callan sat on his heels. Why? Didn’t she have a chance?

If Fayola trusted her killer, they’d probably met up. And if she didn’t notice them, they’d acted with haste and precision.

Was she meeting her killer? It would be more sinister if she’d trusted the sod. Callan scrawled his observation on the notepad.

Done with his scrutinisation, he checked the top drawer by the bedside. It had a few of Patricia’s belongings: a journal, pen, accessories, and a full bottle of sleeping pills, all scattered around.

Where had the medical examiner got to?

A mess of items lay scattered on the bedside table. Someone had removed the lower drawer and flung it to the floor. Cards, trinkets and a smashed photo frame lay on the carpet, some shards of glass visible under the bed.

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