It’s the first time we have returned to the house since our discovery three weeks ago. I didn’t know if I was ready to go back inside, but to my relief, the police have taken that decision out of our hands.
I’m clutching Finn’s hand so tightly I’m worried I might break his fingers. But I’m scared that by letting go, the tornado that swept us off our feet might come back and finish us off. Ahead of us are police officers, CSI investigators, photographers, camera operators and forensic teams. Away from here we’ve had to deal with the endless questions from friends and turned down unrelenting requests for interviews with journalists and TV shows. It’s all just too much.
Finn and I don’t say anything. We simply stand here and take in the crime scene. Large white perimeter boards and fencing hide the house itself from public view. Even the garden is mostly out of sight. From where we are standing up against the police tape, I can just about see an orange mechanical digger. I assume that’s for the garden.
Sonny sneezes in his sleep and brings us out of our contemplative quiet. Our baby is strapped to his father’s chest in a grey wraparound sling. He is tiny and it dwarfs him. Finn turns to look at me, as if expecting me to be the first to say something. But I’m at a loss as to how to express myself now that we’re here. There’s no rulebook for a
scenario like this. He squeezes my hand back more gently, as if it might offer me some comfort. It doesn’t. A phone pings and I realise it’s mine. The screen reveals it’s a message from Debbie that simply reads Be strong, followed by a heart emoji. I text back thanking her.
My pulse thrums as a uniformed police officer checks with his superiors that we are who we say we are. He pays me more attention than Finn, likely taking in the faint remains of the bruising scattered across my face and arms from my ladder fall.
He lifts up the blue and white tape, allowing us to enter this cordoned-off section of the road. We are greeted by DS Mark Goodwin, who has been keeping us up to speed with developments and invites us to join him inside a blue tent erected in a corner of the garden. We are alerted to a faint buzzing sound in the sky and all three of us glance upwards. It’s a drone circling the property.
‘Is that one of yours?’ Finn asks.
‘No, that one is most likely press or the public,’ he replies. ‘It’s annoying but, legally, there’s nothing we can do.’
Inside the tent are plastic seats and tables, plus tea and coffee caddies. ‘Our CSI team take their breaks in here,’ he continues and beckons us to sit. As if on cue, two figures appear, dressed head-to-toe in white polythene suits, two pairs of gloves on each hand, plus foot and head coverings. Only when they strip off their protective suits and bin them can I tell they’re male. They sit down and talk as they tuck into pre-packaged sandwiches like it’s an ordinary day at the office.
Mark, as DS Goodwin asks us to call him, is friendly but professional and seems sympathetic to our situation. He’s taller and broader than Finn, likely around our age but with a salt-and-pepper beard. He is what my mum would refer to as ‘a safe pair of hands’.
‘As I explained to you on the phone, I can’t take you inside the house because it’s an ongoing investigation,’ he begins. ‘But as you were keen to try and understand what’s been happening, my senior investigating officer has said I can at least play you video footage we have recorded as we’ve worked. I know the press is keen for any new angles on the story but we prefer to control the narrative where possible, and I’d appreciate it if you kept what you’re going to see to yourselves. I should also remind you of the extensive search going on in there. Our team of officers are specially trained to be absolutely thorough, so this might be upsetting.’
Finn and I nod and DS Goodwin removes his phone from his pocket. He keeps his hands on the device as if we’re readying ourselves to snatch it away from him. The footage begins at the front door and, from what I can see, the porch remains the same. But the entrance hall now has virtually no floor, just gaping holes with planks of wood to walk across. The wall between the dining room and the lounge no longer exists and I can’t recall whether we took it out or if it’s something they’ve done. In the upstairs bedroom where I found the message etched into the skirting board, there are little yellow plastic markers scattered about the floor, each of them numbered. I shudder as to how many children were hurt in a room we planned for our nursery.
There are several sheets of paper taped to the walls containing plans of the house and someone is also measuring a wall. ‘We use structural engineers to measure the inside and outside to see if they are the same length and width,’ DS Goodwin says. ‘It saves having to tear them down.’ Small favours, I think.
It continues like this from room to room until I become desensitised to the chaos. There are more drilled holes in the lounge floor and walls; DS Goodwin explains it’s so they can insert endoscopic cameras to search inside for remains.
Our new plasterboard looks as if it’s been used as a firing range.
I’m momentarily distracted by an itch under the plaster cast that covers my wrist and forearm. Three silver metal pins are poking out, keeping four separate fractures in place as they heal. I’ve already undergone two operations and I hope to have the cast removed within the month.
The camera snakes its way up the staircase and along the landing. It points upwards and, for the first time, I’m aware that several sections of ceiling have been taken down. I can now see directly to the underside of the roof. A cold shiver runs through me when I recall the moment the first suitcase opened to reveal the mummified body of a child.
I reach out to stroke my sleeping baby’s head as he leans on Finn’s chest, but withdraw it sharply before I make contact. If Finn notices, he says nothing.
