John Layton, their Senior CSI.
She moved along the shoreline and then walked down to where the shingle turned to mud, watching Layton struggle across a patch of brown towards her. The CSI had an almost obsessive eye for detail and order which, when it came to crime scene management, proved invaluable. His obsession didn’t stretch to his appearance though. Sludge smeared his thigh-high waders and covered much of his clothing. There was even a splodge of sticky gloop atop his hat. Layton reached Savage and with one hand tilted the hat in greeting and then used his little finger to scratch his nose. The nose was Roman, shaped like a ski jump with the end chopped off, and the finger deposited a blob of muck right on the tip. Layton’s other hand held up a plastic evidence bag.
‘What the hell are you doing out there, John?’ Savage said. ‘If you’d slipped over you’d have been in a spot of bother.’
‘Going to do me for not running a risk assessment, are you?’ Layton said. ‘Only, if I hadn’t gone out there I might never have found this.’
Layton passed Savage the bag.
‘Right.’ Savage took the bag and peered at the contents. Water and mud sloshed around inside, but there was something else in there too, something wooden and bent in a J-shape. ‘What is it?’
‘Dirty habit. Mind you, somewhat out of fashion these days.’
‘A pipe.’ Savage could see now as she moved the object around in the bag. ‘But what’s it doing out there and how did you know to look?’
‘The boy’s mother said Jason used to play around the wreck.’ Layton waved a hand at the expanse of mud. ‘I knew he’d been digging bait down here, but to be quite honest I didn’t know where to start searching. It’s an impossible task, so I figured I’d just take a quick look at the old ship.’
‘And what could the pipe have to do with Jason’s disappearance?’
‘Somebody was digging out there. Although there’s been a couple of tides, the water hasn’t entirely removed the evidence. You can see spade marks.’
‘The pipe could belong to the bait digger.’
‘Or the pipe could belong to somebody who was out there when Jason was digging bait.’
‘And how the hell do we find out who that was?’
‘Our best bet might be over there.’ Layton pointed along the shore to where some sort of houseboat sat on the mud, a zigzagging gangway leading from the structure to the shore. ‘Whoever lives in that old thing would have a good view, wouldn’t they?’
I’m starting to write in my notebook again. Yes, again! The last time was way back in January and now it’s July. In June a cowboy president visited Britain and a concert for Nelson Mandela was held at Wembley Stadium. England were knocked out of the Euros after finishing bottom of their group. Still, the Seoul Olympics are just a couple of weeks away. Did I mention that I’m now thirteen years old?
Today is Saturday and the weather was fine so we all played football in the afternoon. Jason and Liam weren’t there though. Jason was sick in bed and Liam was doing extra work in the vegetable garden. I should say that Jason and Liam are my best friends. They’re both eleven and I’m thirteen. The age difference doesn’t bother me because the pair of them are bright and clever. Not like the other boys. To be honest, Father doesn’t like me to play with any of them, but given the situation there’s not much he can do about it. Mother doesn’t care one way or another. She’s usually too drunk to notice or off with one or another of the various men she likes to entertain.
When I say they’re my best friends, I suppose I mean my only friends. Although I go to school, the kids in my class don’t like me much. I guess I got off on the wrong foot when I busted this lad’s nose on the first day I was there. Ever since then most of them have steered clear. I’m not bothered and, besides, living out here I wouldn’t get to see any of them except in school time. I tend to keep my head down and try to stay out of trouble. Break times and lunchtimes I go to the library and study. At parents’ evening my form teacher told my mother and father she was concerned I was a bit of a loner, but other than that she said there was nothing to worry about.
Jason and Liam don’t go to school of course. They have their own private tutors who come in. There’s a psychologist too. Isobel. She’s supposedly an expert in child behaviour. She visits on a Wednesday and talks to the boys one-to-one. The older lads like her a lot. She’s very pretty and has long dark hair and a smile which makes them blush. Her breasts stick out and all the men apart from my father stare at her as if she’s Samantha Fox. I asked Jason what she does and he said she makes him look at abstract pictures and asks what he sees in the patterns. Gobbledygook, my father calls it. If he had his way he’d stop her from coming, but she’s part of some government scheme so he can’t do anything about her. Mother doesn’t like Isobel either, but that’s for different reasons. Recently Mother has been getting friendly with this man from the Home Office and I think she’s worried this man and Isobel might meet and hit it off. She needn’t fret. He comes on a Friday, usually in the evening, and I don’t think he’s interested in women like Isobel. To be honest, despite what he gets up to with Mother, I don’t think he’s much interested in women at all.
The Shepherd isn’t at home this morning. He’s in a high-ceilinged room in a barn on the moor. He rented the barn for a song and paid a year’s money in advance. The place is isolated. Nobody comes here. No one’s going to disturb him. For the Shepherd’s purpose the barn is perfect.
He breathes in, his nostrils assaulted by an odour of grease and oil. In front of him, on a workbench, an array of tools lie in neat rows. Pliers, hammers, wrenches, saws, screwdrivers, spanners, punches, clamps. Tools for making. Tools for breaking and holding. For cutting bits of metal, bending bits of metal, drilling bits of metal.
He stands back from the bench and turns to the centre of the room. There. A shiny creation of gleaming metal and stainless steel and cogs and wheels and rods which turn or slide round and round or back and forth.
God’s altar.
The Shepherd gasps. His creation is both beautiful and terrifying, the implications profoundly disturbing. Right now the sight is too much; he must escape the confines of the room. Fresh air is what he needs.
Outside he leans against a wall and slumps down, his shoulder snagging on the rough stone of the barn. He slips to the floor and sits there, exhausted. He lets out a long breath and the air clouds in front of him, the vapour drifting up into the brooding sky. Finally, after weeks of toil, his work is complete.
For a moment he lets his mind wander to the man with the skull. You see, he knows all about the man who buries things in the dirty earth.
The boy who digs in the grubby soil …
Yes, that’s what this is all about.
The Shepherd holds his hands out, clasping them together in prayer.
‘Please, God. Don’t forsake me now, give me the strength to carry out your wishes.’ As he says the words he feels a rush of adrenaline. There’s a part of him which fears what is to come, fears the eventual outcome, but he knows he has to fight against his demons in order to succeed.
And with God’s blessing he will.
He presses his back against the stone wall of the building