The boss. DCI Martin White. They’d known each other since their first day at school.
‘This way, please, sir.’
The tent opening thrashed in the wind. Inside a huddle of officers stood around a table with several computers, and their papers scattered upwards as the flap fell back into place.
‘Duncan?’
A man looked up, his hands holding down the papers. He wore a green waxed jacket, his grey suit loosely buttoned underneath. His hair was cut close to his head, black peppered with white, and a broad platinum wedding ring glinted from the back of his hand.
‘Martin.’
Duncan wiped the rain from his forehead. The police team wasn’t huge for the area, it was inevitable that Martin would be in charge. Duncan had a brief image of Martin standing by his side in the registry office at Claire and Duncan’s wedding, leaning forwards in his shoes, discreetly scanning the room like some kind of security officer.
‘Thank you for coming back,’ said Martin. Their eyes met. ‘I expect this is a shock.’
Duncan didn’t reply and Martin dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘I’m sorry to be here in these circumstances. And I apologise for the disruption. But I’m sure you understand why this is necessary.’
Duncan’s eyes were drawn to the table. There was a shallow crate covered in a cloth.
He felt his body sway, unaccountably off balance. He clenched his hands and pushed them down his side, forcing himself to stay upright.
‘Cup of tea, sir?’ A younger man stepped forwards, offering Duncan a mug.
‘Do you think I want a fucking cup of tea?’ Duncan turned on the man, eyes flaring.
A blue light flickered from one of the computer screens and the wind sucked at the canvas over their heads. Silence had fallen on the tent.
‘I’m sorry. I …’ Duncan pushed his hand across his head, rubbing the bare skin, then smoothing down to the closely cropped hair at the back of his neck. His jaw moved and his eyes closed momentarily.
‘It’s alright, Duncan.’ Martin followed his friend’s gaze. He gestured to a chair. ‘Everyone here understands. Why don’t we sit down?’
Duncan shook his head. He stood still, his arms held stiffly by his side.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want …’ Duncan’s breath heaved in and out and his eyes were pulled once again to that crate.
Martin took a step closer.
‘Duncan, look at me. It’s okay. Look at me!’
Duncan lifted his eyes to Martin. It seemed to him there were just the two of them then, in that tent, all sense of the outside, the weather, the people, the cars on his drive, banished to the edges of his mind.
Then he took control of himself, responding to Martin’s unspoken signal.
‘What exactly have you found?’ He pushed the words out between his lips.
‘Human remains. A body has been found by the shore at the bottom of your land.’
Martin paused, as if unwilling to broach what came next.
‘What kind of body?’ Duncan said.
There was another pause.
‘Come on, man, you can’t not tell me!’
‘We’re not sure yet. I’m sorry, Duncan, that’s all I can tell you right now.’
Duncan made himself move, reaching out one hand to clutch the table, forcing himself to stay focused.
‘I don’t understand … I …’ His body swayed.
‘Duncan, are you alright?’
Martin took a step forwards.
‘Duncan—’
‘Hey, Becky. How are you this morning?’
I can hear a voice in the background, the clunk of crockery and a tray being set down on a table.
‘Are you up to a visitor around twelve?’ I ask.
‘Yes, please,’ says Becky.
She sounds happy. One of the things I’ve always loved about Becky is her cheeriness. Upbeat and optimistic, despite her circumstances.
‘Great. I’m in town anyway this morning to do some jobs. I’ll bring us some lunch, shall I? Fish from the chippie sound okay?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ she says. ‘It’ll just be me. See you then.’
The phone clicks and she’s gone.
Town is busy. It’s market day and the car park on the small square has been taken over by stalls and vans. Every street is filled with parked cars and the cobbles judder under my wheels then disappear as I turn into the customer car park of the veterinary surgery. I ease the car into a spot furthest away from the front door. One of the advantages of being the boss’s wife is I get to park for free whenever I need to. Through the glass doors I can see the reception desk, the familiar head of Sally bent over the screen. I walk out of the car park, dodging the bus shelter to head towards the main precinct and the estate agents behind the town hall.
‘Hi,’ I say to the young man leaning back on his chair behind the desk nearest to the door. ‘I have an appointment. Claire Henderson.’
My head swings over my shoulder, scanning the street outside. I will the man to speed up and he senses my agitation.
‘Sure. Hold on a minute,’ he says.
He tips forwards and pushes away, standing up to disappear into a conference room. When he comes back, I think how he doesn’t look much older than my Joe, a narrow blue tie swinging against his crisp white shirt. Except these days you’d never catch Joe in a white shirt, let alone a tie.
‘This way,’ he says.
I move too fast into the conference room.
‘Hello, there. Do sit down.’
This agent is older than the lad by the front door. Hungry-looking, like one of those midsized birds of prey hovering over a small animal by the roadside. He’s assessing me.
‘Mrs Henderson, how are you?’ He doesn’t stand up but reaches out a cold hand.
It’s one of those questions you’re not supposed to answer. I contemplate actually telling him. Do you really want to know? says the voice in my head.
‘I think I’ve found the perfect place for you,’ he says. ‘Not too far, like you asked. Though perhaps a little closer than you wanted, but there’s not a lot out there on the market at the moment. It’s near the reservoir with a bit of character and a fantastic view.’
He pulls out a one-page leaflet with a small flourish, pushing it under my nose. My eyes scan the paper and I have a brief impression of a rambling old cottage with a defunct hanging basket blocking the back door and a roof that sags in the middle. Character – that’s one way of putting it. Agent-speak for a house that’s small and run-down and probably expensive to heat. He taps on the rent.
‘It’s four hundred pounds a month.’
That is cheap for round here. The location is doable. It’s on the other side of the dam, so there would be a wall of concrete between me and