reading

Prologue

He hit the tree hard.

It knocked him off course, scrabbling for grip in the dark as his feet slid on the wet ground. But he stayed up, making it to the next trunk, pulling himself in tight. Fighting for breath; trying not to cough.

The night stretched away in every direction, crooked black shapes bleeding into one another. Shadow on shadow.

He felt sick.

He fought it down. His lungs were burning. He needed time to rest and think. But there was none.

He tried to control his breathing; to calm his banging head. He was shaking. The freezing air tore at his lungs, and he could taste blood on his teeth. His body hurt, the stab of damaged ribs, the arcing wound on his left shoulder leaking sticky wetness down his arm, the screaming pain from his shin. It felt like he’d been running for hours, ducking left and right through dense scrub, wanting to scream for help; knowing it would do more harm than good.

Get a fucking grip.

He wiped his eyes and stared into the gloom, sharp for any movement among the splinters of moonlight filtering down from above. Around him the sinister woods creaked, his attention flicking from one tiny sound to the next; an animal up in the canopy, the slurred rustle of wind in the trees. But still nothing to see except craggy shapes clawing at the night.

How far had he come? It felt like miles, but he might have been going in circles for all he knew.

His head shot round as the cracking noise came from his right; the sound of someone stepping on dry leaves. Someone else moving out there in the darkness.

Not far away.

His breath caught in his throat.

Keep still … stay down.

Another crack. Nearer this time.

Panic took over.

Then he was running again, into the blackness.

Where are you going?

He didn’t know.

He pushed harder, skidding across the greasy forest floor, looking for a way out.

And there they were.

Headlights, rounding a bend through the trees ahead, a way off, but worth the risk.

‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’

But his voice was weak. The car didn’t stop.

‘Hey!’ Louder. ‘Stop. Please!’

The headlights moved away.

Then he heard someone else running, somewhere behind him in the dark. Another person’s feet pounding the ground in time with his own, someone else’s breath coming in bursts.

Close.

Pete drove himself harder.

Don’t look round; just get to the road.

Then his ankle folded.

He crashed sideways, crying out. There was a white flash, then a ringing sound. He blinked hard. Get up! He tried to right himself, but his muscles had turned to mush, and he slumped back down.

For a second nothing happened as he stared into the darkness, blinking, confused. Had it all been a dream? Was he in bed, sleeping off a night on the sauce?

He tried to twist, felt agony erupt in his shin.

It’s real.

And suddenly there were hands on his throat, strong thumbs clamping his windpipe, choking him.

No!

Pete grabbed the wrists. Clasp and rotate, break the hold. But the grip on his neck tightened, and his vision filled with swirling patterns of red and black.

He forced his eyes open; saw his hands pawing at the arms stretching away. Felt the buzzing panic as his head began to go light.

He was six years old, standing on Brighton Pier, calling for his father to come and put money in one of the rides.

But as the whiteness seeped in, his assailant formed out of the confusion. An alien face, all angles and glassy green eyes. It came closer, its breathing rapid and rough. As if it enjoyed his pain.

What if this is the end?

Then the pain was gone, and the question gently dissolved.

1

There was a painting on the wall of Brian Sturridge’s office, its colours quiet greys and blues, its brass-leaf frame ragged and cracked. It depicted one child teaching another to read from a large, hard-backed tome. It was valueless; the artist unknown.

But, aside from his Mont Blanc fountain pen – a gift from his late father – the picture was the only object that had accompanied Sturridge throughout his thirty-year service, surviving two office relocations and three refurbishments, purely because it epitomised the founding principle of his work: to help or be helped, each party must collude in mutual pursuit of that aim.

And yet, although he would never capitalise on the lucrative potential of his vocation, and move beyond the stuffy confines of counselling within the Metropolitan Police Service, Sturridge found high-ranking officers testing his patience on an increasingly regular basis.

For example, the woman in front of him now.

According to her record, DCI Antonia Hawkins was accomplished, respected, and destined for greater professional heights. She was attractive, with a slim, athletic figure, incredible eyes and dark shoulder-length hair that framed an effortlessly graceful jawline. Attractive enough that, had he not already been down that road and lived to regret it, he might have been tempted. Plus she was young enough – now in her mid-thirties – to change the course of her life if she wished.

So why, when she referred herself for these sessions six months ago, had DCI Hawkins clearly done so with little or no intention of dealing with her considerable and deep-rooted personal issues?

The most likely possibilities were that she agreed to these sessions as a way to avoid something worse, or that she recognised the need for them, without then being able to follow through. Either way, he was growing tired of the lip service she consistently paid his best efforts to help.

Every one of their subsequent weekly meetings had descended into cerebral tennis, with Sturridge attempting to coax her into debate, and Hawkins deftly skirting all the unpalatable subjects they most needed to discuss.

There were two main issues: habitual discomfort with human interaction, and the near-fatal knife attack that had almost killed her ten months ago. Historic difficulties with family and friends, the encompassing need to achieve, volatile personal relationships therefore destined to fail. Sturridge had ascertained all this during their first session. His problem, as often became the case, was getting the client to accept such inconvenient truths.

And the last few moments of silence suggested she wasn’t going to respond to his last question.

He asked it again. ‘How do you feel now … about the attack?’

Her gaze lingered on the painting for a second, having followed his there, before she turned slowly back to meet his eye.

Another pause, then, ‘It’s nice. Do you still paint?’

Her usual tactics: pleasantries aired only when the alternative was less comfortable, insight revealed purely to distract.

He sighed. ‘Not since college. It was my final piece.’

‘A pivotal moment?’

Sturridge nodded. ‘Something like that. Did the same thing happen to you?’

‘No.’ Her attention drifted away. ‘It was only ever going to be law enforcement. If I was good at anything else, I’d probably be doing it by now.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

Her expression gathered. ‘Maybe.’

‘Did the attack change the way you feel about your work?’

Hawkins studied the space between them before replying, her head tilting to the side. ‘I thought about leaving. Briefly, after it happened.’

Progress. ‘Why?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Because it had become personal … more than just a job.’

‘So why didn’t you? Leave.’

Hawkins shook her head, as if waking up from a daydream, and whatever spell had inspired her brief mood for revelation was gone.

She shrugged. ‘Never say never.’

2

Hawkins realised she was sucking her teeth as she slowed the car and turned off the main road. She stopped herself, quietly cursing Brian Sturridge and his pious bloody counselling sessions. Surely you were supposed to leave that sort of thing feeling less wound up than when you arrived. So why, after every stupid obligatory visit, did she come away feeling exhausted, as if she’d just been subjected to interrogation?

Probably because it was getting harder each time to skirt the steadily burgeoning elephant.

Eventually she’d have to talk about the attack.

But talking about it wasn’t something she’d been able to do in almost a year since it happened, not with family or friends, not even with Mike, and certainly not with a bored Met counsellor who spent more time thinking about her hemline than her mental health.

Part of her said there was nothing to be gained by baring her soul, anyway, having survived eleven near-fatal knife wounds inflicted by a psychopathic serial killer with a personal grudge. She hadn’t needed time away, once physical barriers had been overcome.

She had simply put her head down and got on with it, returning to lead a major case within weeks; the successful solution of which had earned her permanent promotion to DCI.

OK, so she had the odd nightmare.

Who didn’t?

Hers might have been recurring, and based on real events, but they had been less frequent recently, and opening up those memories might make things worse instead of better.

What she needed was to forget.

Over the summer, Hawkins had undergone laser surgery to remove the last traces of physical scarring. The treatment had worked so well that even she could no longer tell where the marks had been. But the mental abrasions were taking longer to erase. Her boyfriend Mike had borne the brunt of their effects, but the really rough patches were behind them now, and fortunately he was still around.

DI Mike Maguire, an African American New Yorker, was Hawkins’ closest ally on the force. Over the course of three or four investigations when they’d worked together, a few years ago, intuitive bonds had turned into emotional, then physical ties, before either of them had realised it was happening.

But the news hadn’t gone down well with Hawkins’ then fiancé.

Annoyingly, Mike had done the ‘decent’ thing, taking a secondment in Manchester for six months, giving the couple a chance to sort things out, but Paul hadn’t been able to forgive. He’d moved out a few months later, leaving Hawkins to buy him out of their mutual home; the two-bed semi in Ealing she still occupied.

Mike’s return last winter had led to the relationship being resumed. But she’d been attacked before things had a chance to develop, and one way or another they’d been dealing with the fallout ever since.

For a time afterwards, Hawkins had struggled with intimacy, but Mike’s patience and empathy had allowed trust to be rebuilt, and now their relationship was stable, if as fiery as ever. They’d been living together for almost a year.

Work, however, wanted something more formal.

Mental wellbeing was the Met’s latest byword. The commissioner had signed off a new initiative called Time to Change, a network of services designed to assist officers who experienced traumatic events in the course of duty. For a few months after the attack, Hawkins had been dealing with the upshot from their last major case, and her body healing from the assault. But, as soon as the furore died down, and she was declared physically fit, she’d been summoned by the Mental Health Team for assessment.

Hawkins had ‘not received’ the first letter sent home, and ignored the next, but they were nothing if not determined. An MHT officer had appeared in her office two weeks later to arrange their first meeting.

She had politely informed him that no help was required; everything was fixed. She could cope.

Thanks anyway.

But that had simply pushed them into official channels. DCS Vaughn called her the following day, drawing her attention to the small print in her job description. Basically, she was obliged to attend.

The terms and conditions of her permanent promotion to DCI stated that routine psychological assessments would be conducted biannually, and as required should she be involved in a potentially distressing incident. If she didn’t go, she was in breach of contract, and could be removed from duty henceforth.

She had arrived at the first session defiant, expecting to go through a few motions, tick the relevant boxes; get signed off by appointment number three. Now, six months later, it looked like there was only one way to end her unhappy relationship with the counsellor.

One of these days, she’d have to open up.

Hawkins pushed the thought away as she approached the biggest house on the estate, pausing to let two unfamiliar but expensive-looking Audis pull off the drive. Their presence, along with lingering daylight, emphasised a recent but welcome trend. In the last few weeks, a lighter than usual workload meant that for the first time in years, Hawkins had been able to do shifts vaguely resembling her contracted hours. This, combined with weekly counselling sessions at five in Brent Park, which sat conveniently between work in Hendon and her Ealing home, meant she’d be closing the front door behind her by half six. And for someone who normally rolled in with takeaway food somewhere between eight and ten p.m., that almost qualified as a day off.

Hawkins steered her Alfa Giulietta, a recent purchase inspired by Mike’s love of Italian cars, around the final curve on to her sweeping cul-de-sac. Increasingly she’d been missing the convenience and freedom of having her own transport, but had also wanted something with charisma, so she’d persuaded Maguire to take her around the local forecourts. He’d driven her straight to the Alfa Romeo dealer, and within the hour her search had been over: a top-spec deep blue metallic model with climate control and satnav. She’d written the deposit cheque sitting in the soft leather driver’s seat, silently admitting to herself that, for a Yank, Mike actually had taste. She’d fallen for the looks straight away, and even if the reviews said it was nowhere near the best in its class, compared to the maltreated buckets you normally got from the Met’s selection of pool cars, it was a sodding limousine.

It was a shame that recently she’d been a lot more in tune with the car than with the man who’d advised her to buy it. But tonight was going to be different, if her plan worked.

Hawkins glanced at the passenger footwell, where two bottles of wine were being propped up by the ingredients for an authentic Italian carbonara, and a small but sinful New York cheesecake. Romantic dinner for two, a few glasses of Chablis, and amour might just be on the cards.

Her optimism climbed as the parking area beside the house came into view. Mike’s Range Rover wasn’t there, which meant she could have preparations for the meal well underway by the time he got back from the gym. But the mood stalled when she slowed to turn in, and caught sight of the empty car parked outside on the street.

Siobhan’s tasteless white Nissan Qashqai only ever turned up here for one of two equally sporadic reasons: an obligatory invitation to a family event from their mother, or by complete surprise. Today its appearance was unexpected.

Which meant Siobhan wanted something.

3

Hawkins spun. ‘You fucking what?’

‘Shhhh!’ Siobhan hissed, closing the kitchen door and turning back to glare at her younger sister. ‘The kids will hear you.’

‘Sorry,’ Hawkins lowered her voice, as a loud thump from the living room emphasised the fact that the hurricane tag-team were now completely unsupervised. They both waited a beat, in case the bang was to precede tears, but a moment later the ruckus resumed.

Hawkins turned back. ‘Say that again.’

Siobhan hated being spoken to that way, but the fact she was here for a favour meant no rebuke followed the frown. ‘I can’t go to Mum’s.’

Hawkins bit her tongue. She always called it Mum’s, as if their father didn’t exist. ‘Why not?’

Siobhan looked out of the window for a moment, huffed before answering. ‘Because I haven’t told them.’

‘Well,’ Hawkins eyed the phone handset on the bench between them, ‘there’s an easy way to fix that, isn’t there?’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Siobhan blazed.

Hawkins let her hang, feigning consideration. ‘How come you moved out, anyway? Surely if you’ve got the kids, he should be tapping up his siblings.’

‘I needed to get out. I just can’t be there at the moment.’

Hawkins rubbed her neck as she heard the cat flap go, and Admiral Kirk, her overweight rescue cat, waddled in. He took one look at Siobhan and turned on the spot, disappearing back into the garden.

‘Anyway,’ Hawkins continued, ‘there isn’t room. Five people into one bathroom doesn’t go.’

Siobhan’s brow fell.

‘You remember Mike,’ Hawkins prodded. ‘Tall black guy, talks with an American accent. Came to Dad’s birthday.’

Nothing.

‘Tell me you remember Dad.’

‘Oh shut up,’ Siobhan snapped. ‘I know who Mike is; I just didn’t know he was … here.’

‘He’s been here for almost a year.’ She snorted. ‘Isn’t it funny how much more interested you become in people’s lives when you want to gatecrash them?’

There was a lull in hostilities, which as usual Hawkins spent wondering how sisters almost similar enough in appearance to be twins could so effectively rub each other up the wrong way.

At last she asked, ‘What happened, anyway?’

Siobhan slumped, waving the details away. ‘It’s over. Things haven’t been right for ages. He’s just so …’

‘Boring?’ Hawkins felt her eyebrows rise. ‘I did tell you.’

‘No.’ Her sister looked suddenly wounded.

‘Obsessed with work, then. I told you that, too.’

‘It’s not his work. He’s just so …’ It took her a moment to find the appropriate word, ‘… average.’

Hawkins frowned. ‘I thought that’s what you liked about him.’

Siobhan fake-laughed. ‘It’s what Mum liked about him. I didn’t get much of a say.’

‘So buy him a sodding sports car.’

‘Enough!’ Siobhan’s shoulders hunched, hands tensing. ‘It’s done, OK? I can’t go to Mum’s; I can’t go home. And no one else has room for the three of us.’

‘I don’t have room.’

‘Don’t make me beg.’

‘Rent something nearby; I’ll help with the kids.’

‘There’s no money. We spent it all on the house.’

‘You have a job.’

‘Not any more. Malcolm got promoted, so I left. I promise it won’t be for long.’

Hawkins almost stamped a heel. ‘No.’

‘Please, Antonia.’ And there they were: the piteous eyes Hawkins hadn’t seen since Siobhan, at eight years old, was so desperate for a pony that she’d temporarily mortgaged her frosty exterior. Mum had been so taken aback that Dad’s Christmas bonus for that year went on Toby, a pretty piebald colt, who’d endured two winters of neglect before being stolen, and practically two more before a re-frozen Siobhan realised he’d gone.

Hawkins crossed her arms and exhaled. ‘So run this by me again. I get to put you all up for free; endure this chaos day and night and, as a bonus, I get to lie to Mum and Dad about the whole thing?’

‘We’ll be no trouble. The kids can sleep in with me.’

‘You’re damn right they can.’

Siobhan gave a timid half-nod. ‘Just till I arrange something more permanent.’

Hawkins shook her head. ‘Two weeks, no longer.’

6

Rachel pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders, shifting from one leg to the other, rubbing her calves together. She yanked the zip up to her chin, trying to ignore the ad board on the lamp post next to her as it flapped noisily in the wind.

‘Fuck offfff,’ she growled at the weather, wishing she’d worn stockings under her micro skirt. Earlier on it had been a decent day, but since the sun had gone down it had turned fucking freezing. No wonder she was the only girl out tonight.

And to cap it all, business was shit.

She looked over at the bright lights of the KFC drive-through, at the cars creeping round from hatch to hatch, fighting the urge to jack it in for the night, thinking about what her best mate, Usha, always said.

Never eat before making your first sale.

If she gave in now, next thing she’d be home in front of the telly, arguing with her little brother; answering a million questions from Mum about where she’d been and why she never ate at home any more.

Sometimes it was torture working right opposite a fast food place; she spent the whole fucking time hungry. But this was the best pitch in Leyton, and most of her trade came from drivers who pulled in for dinner and watched her standing around on the corner while they ate.

Rachel turned back to the road, thinking about the college course she could almost afford: the one that would get her a job in beauty or fashion; one that didn’t involve haggling with hairy old men about the price if they didn’t wear a condom. If she worked hard and got promoted, she’d be able to rent somewhere of her own, a room, maybe a flat.

Being trapped at Mum’s with Trevor made her sick. All she could think about were the nights a few years ago when Niall was at Dad’s, and Mum still worked at the pub. The nights Trevor would insist on them watching TV together, sliding closer and closer, pulling her on to his lap.

One time she had tried to shop the arsehole, but he denied it, and Mum had believed him because she’d made a few things up in the past, shoplifted here and there.

At least he’d stopped.

So Mum and Trevor could go fuck themselves. The thought of getting out was the only thing that kept her going these days.

It would mean leaving Niall behind, which was hard, but he’d be OK. Trevor wasn’t into boys; she knew that much for sure. And anyway, once she had a place and he was old enough, Niall could move in with her.

She lit a cigarette, cupping her hand round the flame, eyeing the few cars parked up outside KFC. The crappy Ford was empty, and she’d get nothing from the people carrier where a guy was trying to silence two screaming children, or the smartly dressed woman in the Audi, glaring at her over the steering wheel between bites.

Rachel took another drag and walked towards the bridge. Trade might not be as steady there, but punters were more likely to stop because it was dark under the arches.

She reached the junction and started to cross. But a horn blared as she stepped off the pavement. She stumbled backwards, landing on her bum as a car swerved past and roared away.

Rachel sat for a moment, breathing hard, making sure she hadn’t broken a heel before struggling back to her feet. Her half-finished cigarette lay on the ground but she ignored it, and was brushing the gravel off her hands when another car pulled off the main road and stopped, its passenger window sliding down.

A quiet voice came from inside, difficult to hear over the noise of passing traffic. ‘I s … saw what happened. Are you OK?’

‘Yeah.’ Rachel rubbed her backside. She took a step forwards and bent down to look inside, but all she saw was the dark shape of a man in the driver’s seat. ‘It was probably my fault anyway.’

‘No … he d … didn’t signal.’

‘Whatever.’ Rachel straightened, expecting him to drive away, but there was a pause, then …

‘Can I … g … give you a lift somewhere?’

A punter after all.

‘Sure.’ She leaned on the sill, already back in work mode. ‘Where did you have in mind?’

‘I … I don’t know.’ The guy edged backwards in his seat, which was always a positive sign. Often the bolshie blokes just wanted to humiliate you, but the nervy ones stared at you like confused puppies for all of the two minutes it took them to finish. This guy looked harmless. It would be an easy fifty; quarter of an hour tops.

‘I’m Ruby,’ she said, trying to relax him. ‘What’s your name?’

He scratched at his chin, obviously a first-timer. ‘R … Rupert. I can d … drive you … wherever you want.’

‘Great.’ Rachel opened the door and slid into the seat as the interior light came on, letting her skirt ride up, checking things out while he was distracted. His clothes weren’t expensive, like the car, but everything looked clean; another good omen. There was no cash on show, nothing except a hip flask in the cup holder, but then the richer ones never waved it about. More often it was the flash bastards with sports cars who were broke.

She closed the door. ‘We’ll have to head for Walthamstow if you fancy a hotel. They know all the girls around here.’

The interior light faded, but she could see his eyes darting this way and that. He was breathing hard, looking in his mirror at the traffic on the main road, probably checking for cops.

‘Which …’ he stammered, ‘which … way is it?’

‘Well that depends on what you can afford.’ She placed a hand on his thigh. ‘And what you want.’

He tensed, blinking hard, looking at her hand on his leg. ‘I d … don’t … understand.’

‘Hey,’ she soothed, ‘I’ll be gentle.’

‘N … no. This isn’t … right. Not right at all.’

Rachel frowned. Did he really not get what was going on?

‘Sorry, mister.’ She withdrew. ‘I don’t really need a lift.’

‘Oh.’ He breathed. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Sorry,’ Rachel repeated, opening the door and stumbling out. She closed it and stood back as the car pulled away.

Watched its tail lights disappear along Dunton Road.

7

The Range Rover’s headlights rocked and jolted as Mike turned off the service road, bouncing over the speed bumps at the entrance to the car park, pulling up beside the SOCO truck and a few other vehicles parked neatly on the far side. Two uniformed officers stood beside a police-liveried Astra at the back, its sidelights and roof-mounted LEDs casting eerie beams out into the black air.

Maguire killed the engine. ‘What a way to spend your night.’

Hawkins grabbed the empty Burger King bags as they climbed out, taking a small detour to deposit them in a bin before following Mike across the shingle surface, stray leaves crunching beneath her wellington boots. She caught up as they met two uniformed officers at the wood’s’ edge.

‘Hi.’ She showed her warrant card. ‘Do all these vehicles belong to our people?’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector,’ the taller constable replied with a West Country tinge. ‘Car park was empty before we got here with the SOCO team.’

‘Good.’ She peered at the forest. ‘So where’s the party?’

‘Over there, ma’am, straight through the trees.’

Hawkins followed the line of his outstretched arm, eyes straining to penetrate the blue glare from the cars. Then she saw what he was pointing at: floodlights ahead of them through the woods, the lamps’ intensity tempered by the cluster of shapes stabbing at the darkness between. ‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Tanya Goddard.’

Hawkins nodded. Goddard was deputy forensic pathologist at the Home Office, which meant her boss, Gerald Pritchard, was either on holiday or otherwise engaged. The man rarely missed a murder scene, so it was likely to be the former, although Hawkins wasn’t going to complain. Pritchard’s wandering eye often distracted her from properly assessing a crime scene, making Tanya a welcome substitute.

‘Has the landowner been informed?’ she asked.

‘Yes, ma’am. He’s the farmer, lives on site, whacking great place just north of here. He already knew about the discovery, from the people who found the corpse, but the SOCO team called ahead and cleared it on their way over. He knows you’ll want to speak with him, but he’ll stay out of our way till he’s needed.’

‘Fine.’ She turned back. ‘How do we get to the scene?’

‘As the crow flies, I’m afraid, but you can’t use the pathway; orders from the forensic team. They need to sweep the access routes for traces, but they’ll do that when it gets light.’ He held out a torch.

She took it. ‘Is there a proper cordon on the way?’

‘Absolutely. All be sorted in the next half-hour.’

‘Good.’ She looked at Mike. ‘Shall we?’

‘Right behind you, Chief.’

Hawkins thanked the uniforms, flicked on the torch, and led off. They passed through a break in the railway sleepers acting as the car park’s perimeter, and headed into the trees, keeping clear of the path.

Mike stayed close behind, fending off the hanging branches that Hawkins’ more modest height allowed her to duck. Thanks to recent rain, progress across the slippery, uneven ground was slow, giving Hawkins time to get her bearings.

According to the navigation software they’d used, this was White Post Wood, a medium-sized copse on the edge of Belhus Woods Country Park, near South Ockendon. The relative countryside they’d negotiated in the final part of their seventy-minute drive from Ealing seemed distinctly un-Londonesque, yet even here there was a faint background hum from the M25, less than two miles to the east, while they were a similar distance north of the Thames.

Qualified Met turf.

The fact that most murder investigations took place in more urban environments meant Hawkins’ career rarely brought her to such places, although its rural attributes made an interesting, if challenging, change. She edged her way down a small drop strewn with exposed tree roots, trusting her weight to the sturdiest-looking branch within reach, telling Mike to watch his step.

She righted herself at the bottom, checking ahead. They were nearing the edge of the trees, beyond which four free-standing spotlights formed a circle five yards in diameter, pointing down into a central zone. In their glare, stark against the surrounding blackness, several figures in white overalls were working away at ground level with tools and evidence bags. Among them another anti-contamination suit moved from point to point, camera flash sparking in the wider dark.

According to several texted updates on their journey there, the scene itself was still relatively fresh, having first been exposed ninety minutes ago. Purely by chance, the SOCO team had been fifteen minutes away on a burglary and arson job in Rainham when the call had come in. They’d downed tools and driven straight over, using the hour before Hawkins’ arrival to begin excavating the gruesome discovery.

The last message Hawkins received from the team said that the body had been found by two civilians – buried beneath the surface of this field. A lack of decomposition on the hand that had initially been exposed indicated it hadn’t long been there.

As well as liberating the corpse from its makeshift grave, they were now in a race against time to establish the victim’s identity. The faster that happened, the sooner they could move on to determining motive, which should lead straight to a shortlist of likely suspects.

Or so theory went.

Muted conversations became audible as they emerged from the trees, and Hawkins shielded her eyes against the dazzling spotlights, trying to make an assessment of their environs.

Above them, a three-quarter moon hung in the cloudless sky, casting a soft grey light across land that fell gently away from the medium-sized field they had just entered. Woods framed one side of a plot whose remaining edges were bordered by sturdy-looking fences, beyond which further clumps of trees broke up other sectioned off areas of land. A few dimly lit windows in the distance probably belonged to the farmhouse that the uniformed officer had mentioned, and chill winds swept across the open ground between, lending an unexpectedly icy blast that suggested winter wasn’t far off. The air was noticeably cleaner than just a few miles to the west, and every breath felt like it had been sharpened to test her lungs’ resilience.

‘Chief Inspector.’ Tanya Goddard arrived beside them, removing a pair of soiled nitrile gloves, to greet Hawkins and then Maguire with a controlled handshake each. Goddard was a stocky woman in her late forties, whose conversation rarely strayed beyond her forensic profession, and never left the area altogether. Hawkins hadn’t worked with her much, but a spotless reputation and a reported lack of kids, partners or friends backed up the implication she lived for her work.

‘No Gerry tonight?’ Hawkins asked.

‘Sadly not,’ Tanya said without expression. ‘He’s been off since yesterday afternoon.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘His wife died on Thursday. A brain aneurysm nobody saw coming. She was forty-eight.’

‘Oh.’ Hawkins fished for the right words.

But Goddard had already moved on. ‘Grab some overalls and I’ll show you what we’ve got.’ She waited while they collected white suits and overshoes from the supplies officer, a humourless man called Chad, whose demeanour as he handed them over was so woeful that he might as well have been asked to hand out the family silver.

‘Follow me,’ Goddard instructed once they’d suited up. ‘Stay in the marked areas.’ She wheeled round and stalked away with the detectives in tow, all three treading carefully inside the narrow taped access route.

Hawkins switched to breathing through her mouth as the familiar tang of recent death filled the air; turning to study the small crater slowly forming in the centre of the spotlit area, where forensic officers were painstakingly excavating their grisly find. The two men positioned nearest the cavity were working away with small trowels, picking at the edges as if carving a sculpture into the earth. Each trowel load was deposited carefully into white trays held by secondary officers, who sifted the contents before placing them into one of two large plastic barrels further out.

The hole itself was two feet in diameter; and almost the same in depth. Slowly emerging from its base, Hawkins could see an adult male head and shoulders, greying skin patched with soil, the rest of the body still buried in the surrounding dirt. The corpse lay on its right side, arms folded neatly across the chest, right hand resting on top of the naked left shoulder.

Goddard stopped them a few feet from the hole. ‘Here he is: Homo-Depositus, IC1 male, mid-twenties, found two hours ago by a couple of civvies doing some metal detecting. They’re at the farmhouse with the owner.’ She waved down the hill before turning back to the grave. ‘You’re lucky he’s still recognisable, actually, having been buried instead of just dumped. Everyone loves a free dinner,’ she nodded at the treeline, ‘especially the local wildlife.’

Mike peered at the body. ‘We got a name?’

‘Not yet,’ the pathologist said. ‘Obviously we’re still to see below shoulder height, but assuming the killer has any sense, they’ll have removed all clothing to minimise traces of DNA. If we find a wallet or other personal effects down there, it’ll be a bonus.’

‘Absolutely,’ Hawkins agreed. ‘You said metal detectors found him, but I can’t see any piercings or rings. What did they pick up?’

Goddard sighed. ‘We’re not sure yet, but there’s a hefty scar on the left shoulder, so he may have some surgical steel in there. I’ll be able to say for certain following autopsy.’

‘How about cause of death?’

‘Again, it’s difficult to say, but if I had to guess I’d go with strangulation. The pattern of bruising on the neck is consistent.’

Mike said, ‘Lone attacker?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Goddard told him. ‘One finisher-off, perhaps, but I can’t say yet how many people were involved in getting him to that point.’

‘How long has he been down there?’ Hawkins asked.

‘Well,’ Goddard’s head rocked from side to side, ‘there are residual signs of rigor mortis. So given the lack of blistering and skin decay … I’d say between eighteen and thirty-six hours, and that he was buried shortly after death.’ She saw Hawkins’ mouth open and answered the question before it arrived. ‘Definitely dead before he went in, that’s clear from the lack of tracheal ingress. If he was buried alive, he’d have inhaled dirt, as a reflex if nothing else.’

Hawkins nodded. ‘OK. What about digging the grave?’

‘Tricky to say.’ The deputy pathologist cocked her head. ‘For a lone male of average strength and size, working flat out in dry conditions with soil of this type … a couple of hours at least.’

‘Which suggests premeditation.’ Maguire picked up Hawkins’ train of thought. ‘Our perp ain’t gonna risk digging out here for two hours straight with the body propped against the nearest tree, in case he’s interrupted.’

‘What if he had assistance?’ Hawkins challenged.

Goddard thought for a moment. ‘A second person would speed things up, obviously, but any more than two working simultaneously on a hole this size would be tripping over each other.’

Maguire carried on. ‘So whether it’s one guy or more, the smart bucks say they dig the hole up front, which means they can sell any old jazz about archaeology or environmental research if anyone starts asking questions, and go dig someplace else. They probably made the grave a while back, boarded it up, covered it with mud and leaves. Unless someone treads right on it, which ain’t likely out here, no one finds it, which means they could have back-up holes all over.’

Hawkins accepted his logic, looking around, speaking more to herself than anyone. ‘It’s actually a good location. A short walk from the car park on a quiet road, but hidden from that side by the forest, plus it’s near enough this edge of the trees to be obscured, while still getting some natural light from the moon, so our digger wouldn’t have needed a torch. And any potential passers-by would be visible in advance across the open fields, or given away by their headlights upon arrival. Either way, whether he’s digging the hole or dumping the corpse, the killer gets sufficient warning and a selection of escape routes, so he can scarper if he’s disturbed.’

‘Right,’ Maguire said. ‘Only risk is if he’s seen but not approached, and someone’s waiting for him to come back.’

Hawkins made a mental note to check if the farmer or his people had seen anything, and ask how often ramblers crossed this land. It was likely the killer would have worked under cover of darkness, of course, but there was still a chance he could have been seen, and that the observer hadn’t found it weird enough to report at the time. And in all fairness, who would raise an eyebrow to somebody digging a hole on a farm? Probably just the farmer or one of his staff.

She turned back to Goddard. ‘So where was he killed?’

‘Interestingly there’s evidence to suggest right here,’ the pathologist glanced down at the grave, ‘or somewhere similar, at least. The victim has minor gouging and scratches on his hands and forearms but nowhere else, indicating that he was still clothed during the chase. We’ve also got more serious bruising to the shoulders and upper arms, all consistent with moving at speed through dense foliage like this in the dark, navigating more by touch than sight.’

Hawkins interrupted. ‘So let’s say the killer plans the whole thing and digs this hole in advance. That way the body won’t be exposed for long, plus he can get to know the area and its exit routes well enough to have a good chance of escape if he’s seen dumping it. Somehow he gets his victim to woodland, either here or somewhere like it, and attacks. The victim breaks free and runs, but he’s chased through the trees and strangled before being moved here and buried in the prefabricated grave.’

‘It’s plausible,’ Goddard said. ‘We’ll wait for daylight before we go poking around the woods for evidence of a chase, or any previous bouts of violence, but if it did happen here and the victim had trouble negotiating the trees, chances are his killer did, too. We’ll sweep for footprints in softer mud, and traces of torn clothing on the trees, plus any signs of the body being dragged to this location, although it’s always possible he was carried. If we’re really lucky, we might even get some blood. We’ll look at the access routes for tyre and footwear imprints, as well, although most of the surrounding roads are tarmacked.’

Hawkins nodded. ‘How soon can you get him in for autopsy?’

‘Freeing the body undamaged is the slow part.’ Goddard checked her watch. ‘But if I call in a few favours, we should have him back to the lab pretty soon, so if all goes smoothly I’ll have some answers for you before breakfast.’

Hawkins thanked her and asked to be informed when the autopsy was due to begin. Goddard agreed and went to check on her team.

‘OK.’ Hawkins turned to Mike. ‘So we’ve got a lone male who appears to have been murdered in this vicinity, following a chase through the forest. Given the lack of vehicles in the car park when our team arrived, the most likely premise is that victim and killer drove here together, with the murderer taking that vehicle away with him afterwards. The less probable alternative is that the chase started on foot not far from here.’ She waved at the landscape. ‘Get whoever’s on duty to start mapping out the area. Mark any buildings, residential or otherwise, and we’ll go door to door in the morning. Hopefully there won’t be many in surroundings like these. Restrict the search to a two-mile radius at this stage; this terrain is rough, so the chase probably won’t have been long. We can always widen it later.’

Maguire nodded. ‘How ’bout the press?’

‘Issue an appeal for witnesses; anyone who might have seen the grave being dug, or anything of the chase itself. Also, assuming there’s no ID buried down there, and unless someone’s registered him missing, we need to get this guy cleaned up and photographed. Run his prints, too – I want to know who he is.

‘More importantly,’ she turned back towards the car, ‘let’s get our chat with the metal detectors and the farmer done quickly. We need to be up even earlier than normal tomorrow.’

She saw Mike’s questioning glance, and added, ‘I’m glad you’ve already forgotten, but we’ve got a fight on our hands for the bathroom.’

THE KEEPER

Alastair Gunn

THE KEEPER

PENGUIN BOOKS

Prologue

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