First response

 

The uniformed officer on the door straightens up and nods as Ray approaches. "Sir."

 

Control has asked Ray to attend the flat in Granton without giving much in the way of detail. Sudden death. Looked like suicide, but there was a kid involved. He eyes the young PC. "What've we got?"

 

"Not sure yet. Looks like the mother finally overdid it with the pills and the booze. The FLO's on the way. Paramedics are still inside, looking after the daughter until she arrives."

 

Ray gets a sinking feeling, low in his stomach. "How old?"

 

"Nine." The officer looks down. "She's the one who called 999."

 

"Christ." He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "What about the mother? She known to us?"

 

He nods. "Aye, minor stuff though. Drunk and disorderly, couple of shoplifting offences. We're trying to get hold of her social worker now."

 

"Right. Well, better get in there." Ray nods at the younger man and opens the door. He looks around once before entering the communal hallway. It is still quiet, no media presence yet. They don’t attend suicides as a rule, but if there's a child involved…

 

His stomach does a slow roll again. "Better get some support out here. And chase up that social worker," he calls over his shoulder.

 

He can see the open door and makes his way to it. The battered door across the hallway looks like it belongs to some jakey out trying to score a drink or three. It's closed, and Ray is thankful for that, at least. No nosy neighbour to phone the media in the hope of making a few quid off the back of a young girl's misery.

 

He tries not to grimace as he steps inside the flat, feeling the carpet trying to stick to his shoes. A few steps and he is in the living room. There is a body on the couch, and a paramedic is packing equipment up. He looks up as Ray enters the room.

 

"Dead before we got here," he says. "We went through the motions, but…" He see-saws one hand, still wrapped in nitrile rubber and lowers his voice. "More for the girl's sake. Sally's with her now, through there." He inclines his head in the direction of the kitchenette.

 

Ray is about to kneel next to the body. He recalls the sticky carpet near the door and thinks better of it at the last moment. "Cause of death?"

 

The paramedic shrugs. "Need to speak to the ME for that. Off the record, I'd say drugs and booze. Looks like cardiac arrest to me."

 

"Thanks." Ray nods.

 

Up close, the woman is younger than his first guess – mid-twenties, he thinks. The booze has aged her, fine lines already creasing her skin. Bottle-yellow hair frames features that have become slack in death. He sees the pill-bottle, and the can that lies on its side. It is the central point of a dark fan of spilled cider that is already drying. Easy to draw the same conclusions, but he wants to try and keep an open mind.

 

He shakes his head. What a waste of life, he thinks. He wonders if they’ve contacted the social worker yet. He takes a deep breath and heads into the kitchenette.

 

He looks around, the neatness and order contrasting with the untidy nature of the living room. A muffin tray with a dozen depressions sits in the drainer, drying. He takes in the drainer, notes the cake tray that sits there, drying. There are a dozen depressions in it. Another paramedic – Sally, he thinks – is leaning against the worktop. She looks tired. The young girl perches on a stool, very still.

 

Ray gives her a slight nod of acknowledgment and crouches in front of the girl. "Hi," he says. "My name's Ray."

 

She’s staring at the floor. He has to strain to hear her response. "Megan."

 

"Hi, Megan. How're you doing?"

 

"Mum won't wake up," she says. Her voice is steady, calm. Shock, he thinks. He glances at Sally, mouths the word. She nods back.

 

"Well, we're here to help you now," he says, keeping his voice low.

 

"How?"

 

Her response surprises Ray. He takes a second to form his reply, make sure the words sound right. "Well, we need to look after your mum, and you as well, make sure you're looked after."

 

She mumbles something that Ray misses. "Sorry honey, what was that?"

 

She raises her head and spits words at him. "She's dead, isn't she?"

 

Ray rocks back at the bitterness in her voice. It isn't a question; she knows the truth already and is looking to confirm it.

 

He takes a deep breath. "Yes, Megan. I'm sorry."

 

The girl makes a complicated gesture that he can't quite place. "Suppose you'll be getting the social worker then. Take me into care." Again, the same gesture, but this time he identifies it: she has shrugged.

 

"We need to make sure you're safe," he says, his mind speeding up. He glances at Sally and sees the paramedic has picked up on the girl's behaviour.

 

"Okay." Ray’s senses are on high alert now. What has gone on between this girl and her mother? "Do you have anyone else we can call? A granny? An aunt?"

 

The girl shakes her head, almost uninterested. "No. Not that I've met. Don't think Mum got on with them. Don't know if they're even still alive."

 

Ray winces inside at the matter-of-fact delivery. The girl is an enigma to him, cold and unemotional. He is sure there is something lurking below the façade she projects that will unlock the night's events. His problem is to get at it. He decides to adopt a similar, brusque approach, see if he can crack the girl's shell.

 

"Right, Megan, the social worker should be on her way now. We'll get you settled with her, see what arrangements we can make. We can talk later." He sits back, watching her.

 

The flash of emotion in her eyes – panic? fear? – brings no joy to him, only a grim satisfaction. He has found a way in. Now he needs to probe deeper, before the girl clams up.

 

"Or do you want to talk now?" He throws it out as a lifeline to her. "We could have a wee cup of tea if you'd like?"

 

She looks up and he sees something in her face, a swirl of feeling that she is trying to keep hidden. "And a cake?" she says, her eyes flicking to the worktop.

 

He smiles at her. "Aye, why not." He senses movement behind and is thankful that the newcomer remains silent. "Should I put the kettle on?"

 

She shrugs, much more relaxed this time. "If you want. Or I could make it. Mum said I make a good cup of tea."

 

Ray notes the use of past tense. "I'm sure you do," he says. "But let me do it. Need to look after you tonight, don't we?" He has his own reasons for wanting to move.

 

The kettle is already full and warm to the touch. He flicks the switch and glances around, keeping his expression relaxed.

 

The Family Liaison Officer is stood in the doorway, watching him. He knows her, has worked with her a couple of times before. He snaps his fingers as though a thought has occurred to him. "Why doesn't Sophie here make the tea," he says, hoping he has remembered her name. The tight grin he receives in return doesn't give anything away, but she plays along.

 

"Might as well," she says, her voice warm and homely. She turns her smile on the girl. "Right love, you mentioned cakes?"

 

The girl manages a smile and points at an old ice cream tub pushed to the back of the worktop. "In there," she says. "I baked them earlier."

 

Ray watches as the girl's eyes flick to the tub as Sophie opens it. There are a half-dozen cakes inside, topped with white icing.

 

A terrible thought starts to bubble deep in his brain. He says, "They look good, Megan," and takes a step closer. His eyes note the smears of red icing on the underside of the lid, and his jaw tightens.

 

"Ah, you know what," he says, "I need to make a call first." He pulls his phone from his jacket pocket as evidence. "I'll be outside; back in a few." He makes eye contact with the FLO and she gives a slight nod.

 

Outside, she says, "You're treading close to the line in there, Ray. A paramedic does not a responsible adult make." Her voice is tight. "What's got you so worked up?"

 

Ray frowns. "I'm not sure – yet. But there's more to this than a simple suicide."

 

She snorts. "Suicide is never simple."

 

He dips his head once in acknowledgment. "Something feels wrong," he said. He turns to the uniformed officer on the door. "Any word on the ME yet? And the PF?"

 

"ME's on his way. We’ve informed the Fiscal's office, but I can't say whether they're sending anyone."

 

“Hmm.” Ray bows his head. Thoughts are spinning through his mind, colliding with each other. The bottle of pills morphs into a can of cheap cider, which in turn becomes a frosted cupcake. The comforts of home baking jar with the dead woman’s obvious addictions. It is the missing fragment, the one that lurks on the edge of vision that troubles him. He knows there is more to this than meets the eye. What complex relationship between the mother and the daughter lies hidden? He’s not sure, but a terrible idea is beginning to form.

 

“Sophie, does the girl seem – I don’t know, strange? – to you?”

 

Her forehead creases. She says, “Aye, a bit. Although you can never tell with kids.” Ray nods, encouraging her to go on.

 

“But this girl…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know, it’s almost too much like you’d read in the training manual. It’s too smooth. All the reactions you’d expect at the right times, but they feel, wrong?” Her voice raises at the end, indicating the question.

 

Ray’s words are measured when he speaks, giving voice to the idea coalescing in his mind. “She’s acting out how we’d expect her to be. And I have a nasty idea why.”

 

Sophie’s face drops; her expression says his words have punched her in the stomach. “Ah, Jesus, you don’t think the mother was…”

 

But Ray is already heading back inside. He shakes his head at her words. His shoulders sag with the weight of responsibility he bears. He turns to Sophie. “It’s the cakes,” he says, his words heavy. “That’s the key.” He notes the way her eyes narrow, and adds, “There were two batches of cakes. Check out the container - there are smears of red icing on the inside of the lid. Some were white; the others were red. We know where the white ones are, but what about the red? There’s a baking tray in the drainer that’s just been washed. Twelve holes; there’re only six cakes.”

 

“Oh Christ.” She pales as the truth dawns on her.

 

Ray’s expression is grim. “I’d bet my pension the ME will find traces of cake in her stomach. I think the girl poisoned her mother with doctored cake.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Bloody clever. What are the odds she used her mother’s own medication to try and hide it?”

 

Sophie looks sick. “That’s nasty,” she says. “Premeditated. And why? What would drive her to do something like that?”

 

“Ray blows air out through puffed cheeks. “Not our job to find out,” he says. “We can leave all that – thank God – to the shrinks.”

 

“What the hell do we do now?” It is a rhetorical question; she knows what Ray must do.

 

“What we’re supposed to,” he says in response. He takes a deep breath and turns back to the door. He is preparing himself to walk back into the flat and arrest the girl for murder.