Extract from DARK MIST

 Prologue

 Halfway up the hill trees circle the farmhouse, their thick trunks overgrown with ivy. A flock of crows scatters from the branches, their ghostly shapes reflecting in the puddles in the farmyard. A black and white dog is dozing in an open doorway, a strand of straw across the top of his head. Sheep mutter in the field. Occasionally one glances over the dry stone wall, eyes dull and yellow.

A deadly silence leaks through the insides of the house. On the kitchen table are two half emptied teacups, and one that hasn’t been touched. The man had been sitting at the kitchen table, his fat torso in a greasy, once-white vest, moaning about nothing specific because moaning has long since become a part of his being. The woman had been clearing the table, quietly dumping plates in soapy water, head hanging low between her shoulders, defeated by the latest outburst of a voice once loved.

The axe hit him first. Blood splashed over the table as the blade smashed his left arm. His soft groan of shock and disbelief still hangs in the atmosphere. The second hit was aimed at his other arm, but the blade sank into the thick flesh of his thigh, nearly missing his hipbone. As he made a faint attempt to lift his big pudding of a body, he gave two sharp coughs. The legs of his chair shrieked on the stone-flagged floor. Stumbling awkwardly aside, he stretched out one arm as though to avoid the third blow, but, his artery cut, blood was already forming a puddle on the floor, filling the gaps between the flag stones. It happened so quickly that the signals of his nerves never reached his brain. He didn’t feel the pain, he didn’t even feel the cold creeping into his soul. Staring at the ceiling he tried to understand, and wondered briefly what could have caused the anger.

For the briefest of moments the woman’s expression is puzzled. Noticing the footsteps, she turns with a smile. Then she freezes with horror, and perhaps an inkling of guilt. In the instant before the axe swings for the third time and hits her waist high, she let out a scream like the collective howl of a pack of wolves. Landing sideward on the man’s fallen chair, a second blow cuts through her belly, opening her intestines like the sudden eruption of a sleeping volcano. 

Unlike the man, her death comes slowly and painfully.

Her screams still echo against the walls, when, suddenly, the silence is disturbed. Floorboards creak like melting snow under rubber boots. Muffled music drift from upstairs, a small voice humming along, growing louder as the girl descends the narrow staircase. Hesitation in her steps. A variety of smells meet her just before she pushes open the door. Stewed beef and onions, and the sweetness of home bakery. Or perhaps it is something else, something she can’t fathom.

The man’s arm is still reaching out as though in hope he can turn the tide. His eyes, blank and empty, stare at her, his soul already gone.

The girl carefully steps aside, away from him and from the curved puddle of drying blood. As the silence of death screams through her head, she kneels down beside the woman, whispering her plea for the last time: ‘Mummy?’

PART ONE

1

JUNE

 They say you’ll always remember the first body. True. Every so often the slow motion images of his death pop up in my head like meerkats on alert, occasionally going on and on. A replay button pressed constantly.

In his mid twenties, tall and lean with strawberry blond hair, he was laying on the bonnet of a taxi, his head thrown backwards and his arms and legs spread out as though he was about to embrace the world. Blue jeans and a dazzling white short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned at the top, were highlighted in the headlights of passing cars. His eyelids fluttered and an odd smile crossed his face. Words were formed in the pockets of his brain, his body language almost telling the story of his life as it suddenly dawned on him that he would never be able to get up and walk away. Black shoes polished to a perfect shine, a thick silver chain around his neck, he looked as if he was on his way to a blind date. He would never meet her.

One second ago he was full of life and future, running across the road as if in a hurry, a happy smile on his face. He would have made it, if not for the dull blue van whose driver was chatting and laughing in a mobile phone. Brakes screeched. The side mirror crashed onto the side of his head. In an effort to regain his balance, his body spinned like a ballerina on stage. Another car. More brakes screeched. His body was scooped up and he landed on the bonnet of a taxi, which stood at the kerb, its front window crashed with the back of his head. The taxi driver sat turned backward, negotiating a fee with his passenger. He was lucky enough not to see it coming. His passenger had.

In her early fifties, with swollen ankles and grey roots shining through dyed blond hair, she sat on the edge of the pavement with her head between her knees, traces of vomit on her skirt. Although she must have emptied her stomach in the gutter, she was still suffering from contractions that periodically made her gasp for air. The horror still etched on her face, she kept on staring at the young man.

His right ear was ripped off, so was half the side of his face. His lower jaw was missing. What was left of his teeth glistered in a mixture of blood and saliva that emerged from one corner of his mouth. Blood mixed with the soft rain that ran down the bonnet beneath him, forming pink streams, dripping in a puddle on the tarmac. His heart was still trying to keep him alive. An uneven battle. It was only a matter of time that he was to become the first dead body in my career.

For an instant, he stared straight into my face, as though about to tell me his last thoughts, his fears for the unknown, the unexpected twist in his life. One of his legs shuddered, the expression in his eyes already fading.

Pulled into an unexpected companionship I stood next to the taxi driver. There was nothing we could do. We just stood in silence, watching the young man dying. Someone tapped his poor passenger on her shoulder and murmured words of comfort. Traffic was slowing past us, white faces stared from behind weather beaten windows. A murder of crows quickly gathered on the pavement; horror mixed with excitement.

A distant siren grew louder. The dripping of blood slowed, then stopping entirely as the ambulance emerged from round the corner of the street. Blue lights flashed and bounced on the walls of surrounding buildings. Two green men hurried toward us, carrying equipment they wouldn’t need.

I don’t know why this memory suddenly pops up in my head. It happened a long time ago. Perhaps it is because I can hear liquid dripping. Blood?

A sudden wave of panic takes my breath away. I don’t remember where I am. Who I am. I can’t feel my legs. My hands fumble with cotton fabric. My tongue feels like an old newspaper saved for decades because on page twelve there is a picture of a small boy, grinning from ear to ear and holding a cheap trophy won in a school tournament.

I am floating on a turbulent sea of mixed memories and a dawning presence. The distant siren has died. The young man’s blood is dripping in the puddle and for a brief moment I feel relief because somehow he must have been brought back to life.

‘Mr Maynard? Can you hear me?’

I have to try hard to remember his name. Although it sounds familiar, I am pretty sure it wasn’t Maynard.

Footsteps stop beside me. My left arm hurts, someone is tying it with a belt. Stirring in protest I open my eyes. A dark woman with large dangling golden earrings along side her fleshy cheeks appears in sight. I can smell red peppers, onions and a touch of garlic in her breath. She tightens the belt around my arm. I try to scream, but it is like I am stuck in one of those nightmares when you want to cry for help but nothing comes out of your mouth.

Her big lips part in a smile revealing a wide row of white teeth. ‘Hello Mr Maynard! Good to see you’re awake.’

I remember now. His name was John Tilley. Maynard, Robbie Maynard, is mine.

‘How are you feeling, Mr Maynard?

My voice scratches like a nail on a school board. It rasps that I am good. A lie. I cannot feel my legs, my hips, my bottom or everything that’s supposed to be down there. I must be paralysed from my waist. A wheelchair springs to mind, followed by the alarming thought that I might have lost the ability to walk or drive, have sex or make love.

‘Would you like some water?’

I want to say that I would die for a cold pint but the words seem wrongly chosen. I keep quiet, try to nod. She understands. Squeezes a straw between my lips. Water from a plastic bottle that sits on the bedside cupboard. Tepid.

She’s a sadist. She pulls away the straw before I can take a second sip.

‘Later. You’d better have some rest now.’ 

The words are accompanied by a big smile and before I can say something, or object, she disappears through pale blue curtains that have rusty brown spots scattered on them. Many patients ago one of them must have left bloodstains, marking a territory.

Trying not to think of my legs, I feel myself drifting into a new dream. Or perhaps it is a memory floating past my brain. Just before I disappear in the clouds again, I hear quick footsteps. Soles squeaking on the lino. An irritated mutter: ‘Oh, that tap!’ Then the dripping stops.

This time it’s not the young man dying. This time the woman is already dead.

 2

MAY

 It is amazing how fast news travels amongst reporters keen to acquire the ultimate shoot or story. With their sixth sense for breaking news they always seem to know where the action is. In this day and age of mobile access around the whole world, they often arrive at crime scenes before the police do.

As I park my car in front of the yellow and black police tape, I nod at an officer with a fluorescent jacket over his uniform. Hands folded on his back, he is concentrating on his job, which means as much as keep the press and members of the public from the crime scene.

‘Morning Sir.’ His voice is as vacant as his expression.

‘Good morning, Giffey.’

Glancing past me, a tiny smile breaks through. 

‘Here we go,’ he mumbles between his teeth, his voice laden with a mixture of relief and cynicism. The reporters have spotted me. They come running like a colony of hungry seagulls preparing for a fight over one slice of food.

‘Sir? Inspector? A word please?’

It is early days. Their attempts to get a statement at this stage are pointless. Since the message came through, I know as much that a woman’s body has been found and that the circumstances of her death are to be treated as suspicious.

‘Detective inspector?’

Tall and skinny with spiky blonde hair Frank Devon has recognised me. Grabbing a microphone from the pocket of his jacket, his long legs bring him forward faster than his colleagues and rivals.

‘Not now, Frankie.’

‘Come on, Maynard. What can you tell us about the Car Park Murder?’ Kimberley Naylor emerges from his long shadow.

Smiling sweetly at me, she shows a cute pair of dimples in her freckled cheeks. Short and sexy, full breasts and curved hips, all proportions seem slightly overdone, but that’s part of the attraction. Dressed in jeans and a yellow vest, arms bare, she is a reporter with a vivid imagination. Inevitably, the headline ‘Car Park Murder’ must be hers. No doubt it will appear on the front pages of most newspapers.

‘The Car Park Murder?’

Without acknowledging my sarcasm, she opens her mouth, but as her next question forms in her head, she is pushed aside by an older and more experienced reporter.

‘Do give us something, Mr Maynard.’

Gerald Hill is the proverbial nail on any policeman’s coffin. We’ve met a couple of times and the least I can say is that we share a mutual dislike towards one another. Still with the ruthlessness of a true rival he must once have been an old-fashioned Fleet Street reporter competing after scoops with likewise colleagues. Having been deported, it seems, to the far southwest, all that is left of his ambitions is a mixture of frustration and suppressed anger.

‘There will be a press conference later today,’ I say curtly.   

‘O, come on, Maynard, think of our deadlines.’ Kim Naylor’s clear voice speaks for all of them.

For the briefest of moments our eyes meet. ‘I’m sorry, Kim. I know as little as you lot.’

I duck under the yellow and black tape, which is at one end attached to a streetlamp and at the other end to a concrete pillar behind which shopping trolleys are parked. The no-go area covers about eighty percent of the car park from the supermarket. With a bit of bad luck the car park will remain closed off today, unless the manager can persuade my superiors to pull back the police tapes a couple of yards.

‘Maynard?’ Frank Devon won’t let go. There is something in his voice that makes me slow my paces. As far as I can like a reporter professionally, I kind of like him. Unsurprisingly he knows it well enough to take advantage of it.

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry Frank. Not now.’

From the corner of my eyes I see another car arrive, parking next to mine. Frank mutters something obscene, no offence, letting me know I have clearly disappointed him. He too has recognized DCI Jason Guthrie. For a second he seems unsure whether to take off towards my superior along side his colleagues, or try one more go at me. Deciding to take his chance with me, he stands still, gazing at me expectantly, a crooked smile across his face. His voice low and with a hint of secretive excitement, he says rapidly: ‘They say it is a woman’s body. Murdered. Strangled.’

Against my better judgement I nod, acknowledging his persistence to drag information out of me. At the same time I feel clumsy and childish. The damage is done. Without realising I have just confirmed his scoop.

He grins, pointing two fingers to his temple. ‘Thank you, sir. I expect you have no identity yet? Anything?’

‘No.’

‘All right.’ He turns to join his colleagues who are nagging DCI Jason Guthrie. Unlike me, the DCI loves being in the spotlights. I secretly believe he finds it the most attractive part of his job. In that respect he has nothing to fear from me: I am not one to get great pleasure of showing my face in the papers or on TV.

A metal barred fence borders the car park and about two meters wide stretch of rocky soil, ending abruptly into an almost vertical drop on to the beach below, or, at high tides, the sea.

‘Nasty one, sir.’ Small and rather plump, with dark short-cropped hair, a round face and a mouth like a rose bud, PC Jennet Tregenna is waiting for me at the end of the car park.

Perched between the fence and the edge of the cliff a square canvas tent is erected to protect from weather conditions and prying eyes a woman’s body, partly wrapped in thick black plastic. A couple of yet unidentifiable figures dressed in white Tyvek suits are examining the body and the surrounding area, taking photographs and working with pairs of tweezers to scrutinize every piece of soil and debris, carefully placing them in evidence bags.

‘What do we know so far, Jennet?’

She shrugs. ‘Nothing much, Sir. A woman. About fifty years old. No identification.’

One of the white men becomes familiar suddenly when he gets up and stretches his back muscles. Andy Jamieson, the pathologist. In his early sixties his narrow face is almost as pale of those of the bodies he examines. Smoothing his blue latex gloves across his palms, he nods briefly. ‘Robbie.’

‘Morning Andy.’

There is sympathy in his eyes. ‘Your first major case, hey?’

I shrug. ‘Yeah.’

While I wait, rather than ask what he can tell me at this early stage of what will officially become a murder enquiry, I look at one of the forensic workers. Kneeled on the ground is Andrea Burke, red clothes shining through her white suit. As she turns briefly, a flash of sun is mirrored in her red-rimmed glasses.

‘What do we have, Andy?’ I ask.

The pathologist looks down thoughtfully, as if unsure whether the body is indeed that of a dead woman. Before he can reply Andrea Burke answers with an ironic smile: ‘We have a body. Sir.’

The single last word comes out as an aftermath, almost as an insult. I try ignoring her, which is not easy. We have one of those relationships that cannot be described. She is neither a friend nor an enemy. She just seems to react in either way whenever we meet.

According to Tregenna we don’t get on because Andrea is a beautiful woman in a man’s job, who acts like a man and curses like one. Some of our colleagues think she’s a lesbian, which may be part of the problem.

Jamieson smiles, shaking his head pedantically, opening his lips as if he is about to whistle. ‘A white female. Late forties or early fifties. Grey hair, dyed dark. Blue grey eyes. Dressed. A lavender skirt and white blouse, a string of pearls and a golden ring with a small amethyst. No wedding ring.’ He pauses. ‘And some bruises in her neck.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘You know I cannot confirm that until I’ve carried out the full post mortem examination, Robbie.’

‘Yes, but what’s your assumption so far?’

Jamieson chuckles teasingly. ‘Looks like she’s strangled with some sort of thin rope. Nylon, I presume.’

‘Any ID?’

‘Not yet.’

Andrea Burke is rubbing her gloved hands together as if her hands have grown cold. ‘No handbag. She’s not wearing a coat. A hankie in one hand. No pockets.’ Her voice is serious and professional, averse now from any mockery. 

‘No sign of identification so far, Robbie.’ Jamieson stretches his back again, hands on his hips. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can say at this moment.’

It is not enough. ‘When?’

Although I know the question is almost impossible for him to answer, I ask it anyway. I can’t wait for the post mortem report. This is my case and I want to get started with something to build on. Any snippet of information will help kick off the investigation. I can’t afford to blow my first murder case because precious time is wasted.

At least Jamieson understands. ‘Difficult to say, in these circumstances, the body being in a plastic bag, in the sun.’ He pauses for effect.

Behind him Andrea purses her red lips, using her body language to let him know that in her opinion he went too far.

Jamieson shrugs. ‘You’ll have to wait for the official report, Robbie.’ As he turns, he starts peeling his gloves from his hands. ‘My wild guess is longer than 24 hours.’

 3

MAY

Forensic specialists are still examining the body and surrounding area, taking photographs and video’s, bagging and labelling items for future examination. Much to the annoyance of the supermarket manager the car park remains closed for most of the day.

Possible witnesses are being questioned; statements added into HOLMES, a computer system that is programmed to filter and sort until, ideally, one name pops up. I wish it were that simple.

Lauren Gardiner and her two sons are on top of my list of people who I’d like to interview personally. They are waiting in one of the interview rooms at the police station.

In her late twenties, Lauren Gardiner is tall and slender. Red curls cascade on her shoulders, brushing them with every movement. She is nervous and fidgety. Her pale blue eyes are restless and every so often the chews her bottom lip. Dressed for a day on the beach, she’s wearing a long cotton skirt and a matching blouse so thin that I can see the top of her bikini underneath. Her sons, identical ten-year-old twins, sit on either side of her. When I enter the interview room, she reaches out for their hands, seeking reassurance herself rather than offering it.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs Gardiner.’ I offer a smile, which is not returned.

‘I want to go home.’ Her bottom lip is trembling. She’s close to tears.

Tregenna is one of those persons with such a huge lack of self-confidence about her own appearance that she instantly despises any other woman who is more attractive than her, which is, basically every woman under the age of forty who can make a man smile. Lauren Gardiner’s quiet natural beauty and charm make Tregenna’s face a mask of defiance and cloud her opinion.

I sit opposite Lauren Gardiner; Tregenna takes the seat beside me. With a body language that speaks volumes, she has already made up her mind: whatever Lauren Gardiner says, Tregenna will think she is suspicious the least, if not guilty. The boys are quiet, clearly impressed by everything that has happened. They sit in silence, eyes wide open, gazing around as though absorbing every detail to tell their friends afterwards. Other than their pale blue eyes, there is little resemblance with their mother: hair black and straight, their skin wears a touch of Mediterranean genes.

‘This won’t take long, Mrs Gardiner.’

Her blouse is open at the top, revealing the smooth skin of her neck, reddened by the sun and freckles as far as I can see.

I open a new green manila folder, finding in it little else than a printed and signed statement and a couple of sheets with some hastily scribbled notes, some of which with red questions marks.

‘Is everything all right, Mrs Gardiner?’

Looking up suddenly, I catch her stare at one of her sons, whose face is blushing. Frowning she rests her fingertips on his forehead, checking his temperature as well as to reassure him that she too wants to go home.

Tregenna stirs, taking in a sharp breath. I know she is keen to get on with it. The statements are printed and signed. She can’t see the point in talking with Lauren and the boys again. In a way she is right, but creating an atmosphere, which relaxes witnesses, is just the way I like to work. ‘Can I get you anything, Mrs Gardiner? Coffee, tea, some sandwiches perhaps?’

I can see thoughts drifting across her face like shadows of clouds. Surprise, hesitation, a near acceptance until she remembers that she wants to go home, leave the horror of the day behind at the police station. The boy on her left-hand side stirs. Shyly clutching her hand, he cast me a hopeful look and whispers: ‘I’m hungry, Mum.’

His brother is not as shy. ‘You promised we’d go to MacDonald’s, Mum!’ His thin voice sounds like an accusation.

Embarrassed, her eyes avoid mine. ‘We’ve had some tea, thank you, inspector,’ she replies stiffly.

‘I’d like a Coke.’

‘Gordon! Please!’

‘Me too. I’m thirsty, Mum!’

‘No, please.’ Blushing, she wants to please everybody at the same time. 'I’m sorry if my sons seem to be rude.’

Waving away the apology I gesture at Tregenna to find some drinks for the boys. It is the least I can do. Instead of spending a day on the beach, riding the waves on their surfboards, they are now trapped in a web of bureaucracy.

Gordon and Stuart Gardiner seem happy with a can of coke and a Mars bar each. It releases somewhat of the tension, which I am grateful for.

‘I can assure you, Mrs Gardiner, this won’t take long. But I’d like you and your sons to answer some questions.’

‘We’ve answered questions already, inspector, we’ve told you everything we know.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Glancing at the windowless, bare grey walks, she straightens her back and is suddenly angry. ‘Inspector, do we have to sit in this awful room? As if we are suspects?’

‘Of course you are not suspects,’ I say gently. ‘And you’re right, this is hardly the atmosphere for the three of you. Especially on a glorious day like this.’

She’s slightly taken aback. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be rude. It’s just that …’ she stops, finishing the sentence with a gesture of her hands.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Gardiner, I understand. It is indeed a beautiful day and I understand the three of you rather want to spend it on the beach.’

Drumming her fingertips on the edge of the table, Tregenna clearly has had enough. She knows me well enough to let me go on, but she cannot control her need to express her impatience and annoyance. She is ambitious – and she has a lot to learn.

‘Do you know … who she is?’ Lauren hesitates, her tension easing a little.

‘At this moment, we have no ID yet, which makes it very difficult for the investigation.’

‘And if we had, we wouldn’t tell you at this point,’ Tregenna adds wryly. To avoid further delay, she presses the red button on a recorder. ‘We will record this conversation, madam.’ In her voice is a tone that however I may, she most certainly won’t accept any further interruptions. ‘Procedure.’

I look at the notes in front of me. ‘What time did you arrive at the car park, Mrs Gardiner?’

She shrugs. ‘I can’t remember exactly. Somewhere between eight and nine.’

‘Do you go there very often?’ Tregenna’s voice is curt and to the point, with an undertone that reeks of an accusation, which makes Lauren Gardiner frown uncertainly.

‘Sometimes. Not regularly.’

‘Did you see anything that struck you as odd?’

‘No. It was early, quiet. I can’t remember having seen anyone else.’ She pauses, then adds with a hint of annoyance: ‘I would have told you instantly if I had noticed something.’

‘Hmm. So the body … was already there?’ I ask.

‘It must have been, yes.’ Her eyes show a mixture of concern and alert as she looks at the boys, at the same time she realises that they have already seen, experienced, a lot more than they should have.

The boys are still wearing Bermuda’s and T-shirts over their wetsuits. Gordon, in green, is sprawled on his chair, his feet dangling just above the floor. One hand is in his pocket; I can see his fingers fidgeting under the cotton fabric. There is something provocative his manner, which is reflected in his eyes.

‘Was the package already there, Stuart?’

‘Yes Sir.’ The boy’s voice is soft and timid, the horror of the memory etched inside his head.

‘There was a man,’ Gordon interferes suddenly. ‘A man and a dog.’

The mother blushes as though caught with a terrible lie. ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry inspector, I forgot all about him! He came out of the supermarket after me. His dog was waiting outside.’ She stops and frowns. ‘But I’m sure that he came nowhere near the … the fence.’

I feel Tregenna stir beside me. She knows too that neither Lauren, nor the boys mentioned a dog in their first statement.

‘Did you know the man?’ I ask casually.

‘No.’ Shaking her head, one of the ceiling lights suddenly sets her hair alight like it is on fire. For some reason I have difficulty to concentrate on the case. All I can think of is burying my face in those red curls.

‘Can you describe him?’ Tregenna interrupts.

Lauren stares blankly at her. The feeling of antipathy is mutual. ‘Sixties? Seventies? His hair was white. And he was tall. That’s all, I am afraid.’ She looks guilty.

‘Not to worry. If he’s a regular customer of the supermarket, we will find him. What can you tell us about his dog?’

The boy in the green shirt replies. ‘Black and white. A spaniel.’

‘Well done, you’re Gordon, am I right?’ Intercepting her surprised look, I am aware that Tregenna has not connected Gordon with his green T-shirt; Stuart’s is yellow.

‘Did you notice anything else, Gordon?’ The boy inclines his head to look at his brother. Something unspoken is discussed in their shared brains. I sense there’s something they’re not telling me.

‘No sir.’

‘What about you, Stuart?’

‘No sir. Nothing.’

‘Was there anything else at the other side of the fence?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe there was something else on the ground. Like possessions. A handbag. A purse. Money.’

It won’t be the first time that a trespasser takes something vital away from a crime scene, deliberate or by accident. It can be because something valuable to grab is always tempting. In general people feel that stealing from a dead person is somehow not illegal. A ten-year old boy won’t be much different.

The mother makes a gesture with both hands. Her face wears an expression that reminds me of a lioness desperately defending her cubs. Wary. On alert. Ready to defend no matter what.

‘Are you suggesting my sons have stolen something, inspector?’ 

Angry, she is even more beautiful. Desirable.

‘I am not suggesting anything, mars Gardiner.’

‘We haven’t stolen anything, Sir.’ Stuart’s voice is loud and clear.

Gordon says nothing. His eyes are kept down in an attempt to look bored.

‘Maybe there was a coin, or even a folded bank note. I can see that you might have thought that there was no connection between … the finds. But we can’t be sure and that’s why forensics will have to examine everything.’

‘There was nothing beside her, sir,’ Gordon replies in a firm voice.

‘Ok. I understand that you were just wandering on the car park while your mother was in the supermarket.’

‘We just wanted to look at the beach.’

‘And at the surf.’

Gordon clears his throat. ‘At first we didn’t even see what … it was.’

‘Right.’ I lean forward to make them understand that this is important. ‘Which one of you climbed over the fence?’

‘That was me, sir.’

‘What made you do that, Gordon?’

‘I don’t know sir.’

‘OK. Now look, Gordon, you climbed over the fence and kneeled down. Did you touch it? Did you open the plastic to see what was in it?’

Shifting on his chair, his face is pale suddenly, his eyes huge as he relives the horror of his discovery. ‘I think so, sir.

‘Was the plastic open?’

‘For a bit, yes.’

‘Inspector.’ His mother looks concerned, torn between an instinctive worry about her cubs and her willingness to help the police.

Gordon sits up straight and gazes at me with a look that is suddenly almost that of an adult. ‘I just lifted a piece of the plastic and the wind caught it and then I saw … it.’

Moving his bottom to the back of the chair, he swings his legs rapidly. Tears blink in his eyes and his mother opens her mouth to warn me not to push it too far. I hesitate. She’s right. Time for them to go home. Or to the beach.

Tregenna thinks otherwise. ‘Did you have any idea what was in it?’

‘Of course not!’

‘We were … just curious,’ Gordon’s voice is low and his eyes flicker towards his mother.

‘And you, Stuart, were you curious too?’ Tregenna presses on.

‘I never touched it! Never! I didn’t even climb over the fence.’

I gesture at Tregenna. There is no need to press them any further. They were just unlucky to be at the wrong place in the wrong time.

‘We will need your fingerprints. If you aren’t telling the truth now, we will find out.’ I try to joke. They are not amused. The mother cast me a pitiful glance.

‘I did not touch anything!’ Stuart insists, pointing accusingly at Tregenna with his index finger.

Still feeling that there is something they are not telling me, I try one more time. ‘And you’re sure you didn’t touch anything else than the plastic, Gordon?’

Gordon moves restlessly. ‘No! I already told you! Soon as I saw it … the body I mean, I stood back. I didn’t want to touch … anything.’ He rubs his hands as if it suddenly occurs to him that they may be contaminated.

‘Listen inspector, my boys will have to come to terms with this … dreadful thing. I mean, they’re only ten years old and you are dealing with us as if we are criminals. We’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve got nothing to do with it.’

After this emotional plea I pick up my pen, roll it between my fingers, meeting the raw fury in her eyes. ‘You are right, Mrs Gardiner, it must be harsh on you.’

I feel ashamed somehow. I forgot that the boys are nothing more than kids. Instead I treated them as adults, as possible witnesses, perhaps even as suspects.

I don’t know much about children. My marriage with Natalie ended before we ever considered having them. Suddenly it strikes me that I may have missed out on something valuable.

Avoiding those unsettling pale blue eyes, I get up, gathering my papers.

‘Officer Tregenna will help you with the fingerprints, Mrs Gardiner. After that, you’re free to go.’

‘Thank you, inspector.’

I find a simple white card in my pocket and she takes it between thumb and forefinger, unsure whether to accept or drop it on the table. Clearly she wants to erase from her memory everything that happened today. Keeping my card will prove that it wasn’t just a nightmare.

‘Please don’t hesitate to call if any of you remembers anything. Anything at all that can help us with the investigation. Just give us a ring, please Mrs Gardiner.’

The boys seem more relaxed now, smiling and grinning at one another. They may seem okay at the moment, but deep inside the shock of the discovery is lurking, waiting to break out. Lauren Gardiner will need all her energy to deal with that, to help them when fear and anxiety break out, to be there to listen and to comfort.

She nods but I can see on her face that she has no intention whatsoever of calling the police station.

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© Copyright Carla Vermaat