by Carol Wyer
Neil tried to reason with Tony, whose look was more than a little intimidating. ‘I’ll be honest. There’s a little wriggle room in the date, but we can’t delay much longer. We need to get this up and running and making money as soon as possible. And I don’t need to remind you that the contract definitely states—’
‘I know what’s stated in the contract.’ Tony’s voice was a low growl. Fucking contract. He cursed agreeing to the tight deadline. If they didn’t meet it, he’d have to forfeit some of the payment – a hefty chunk – and he couldn’t afford that. ‘We’re working, aren’t we? It’s gone four on a shitty day and we’re all working. We’ll have it completed on time.’
Neil nodded although his face remained impassive. His phone rang and he excused himself to answer the call, leaving Tony to check on progress. The entire site was eight hectares – some twenty acres – in size, over half of which was already built upon. The remaining acres were to be developed. It was no mean feat, but had the weather been kinder, they’d have been much further along with the project.
There was a sudden commotion with arms flailing and shouts and hails from one of the men who’d been supervising the diggers.
‘Whoa! Stop!’
Bob, one of Tony’s longest-serving employees, cut his digger’s engine and yelled back at the man on the ground. Something serious had happened.
‘Fuck!’ said Tony. If they’d gone through a buried electric cable, there’d be hell to pay. He stomped forwards, boots sinking in the sucking mud.
The machines had fallen silent and Bob had clambered out from his cab and dropped to the ground to join the men. He spotted Tony and yelled. ‘Boss! Here.’
The commotion attracted Neil’s attention, and he ended his call and watched as Tony drew up to the workmen and knelt down. The rain pattered on his umbrella as he observed the scenario in front of him. Tony stood up again, shook his head and ran his hand through his hair before patting Bob on the back. He lifted his mobile to his ear. The men retreated from the spot and stood like sentinels, heads bowed, unwilling to look at what they’d uncovered.
Tony jogged back towards Neil, his voice becoming increasingly clear as he approached the man. ‘Yes. Immediately. Yes. The old Craft Centre and Farm in Uptown.’
Neil’s brow creased as the foreman slowed to a halt. ‘Well, what the hell’s going on now? Why’ve you all downed tools? That was my boss on the phone, wanting to know how far you’ve progressed, and he’s not best pleased at all the delay. You understand the importance of this. If you can’t meet the target date, we’ll have to invoke the clause in your contract.’
Tony threw the man a look of disgust. ‘It’s out of my hands. Invoke it or whatever you like, but we can’t excavate any more. We’ve unearthed a body. There’ll be no more digging, not today.’
‘I don’t care if Ben Lincoln has got a pair, we can’t afford them,’ said DI Natalie Ward, ignoring the look on her fifteen-year-old son’s face. ‘It’s not your birthday for another three months, and you already have a pair of perfectly good trainers.’
‘Da-ad,’ Josh whined.
‘No good dragging me into this,’ said David. ‘I’m not the main breadwinner any more.’
His words and the bitter edge that accompanied them cut into Natalie. If she didn’t handle this properly, they’d end up bickering – another pointless argument about money and careers – and she couldn’t face that again.
‘Look, if you still want them come your birthday, I’ll think about it then, but you know what you’re like, Josh. Nike Air Force or not, you’ll be bored of them in a few weeks and want something else. See how you feel in a month or two,’ she reasoned, trying to keep her tone light and not glance in her husband’s direction. He’d be no support, sitting as he had been for the last ten minutes, arms folded, eyebrows lowered and lip out. Christ! Some days, it was like living with three hormonal teenagers. All she needed was for thirteen-year-old Leigh to appear and start moaning about school or friends or the non-vegetarian casserole Natalie was preparing for dinner, and she’d be ready for a stint in the local asylum.
She lifted a hand to signal the end of the conversation and let Josh’s killer stare wash over her. It worked. He stomped off upstairs and slammed his bedroom door.
‘We could have afforded the trainers,’ David began.
She turned on him. ‘For crying out loud, David, you know how much debt we’re in. We’ve still got to clear this month’s credit card bill and the bloody mortgage.’
His bottom lip folded down further. She shoved the spoon into the casserole and tasted it. She couldn’t keep blaming David for the mess they were in; besides, one of them had to be around for the kids, as he often reminded her. She wasn’t always available when they needed her. At least he spent most of the time at home.
Josh was the older, tidier of their two offspring, and the one who normally could be relied upon to defuse the volatile situations that occurred more and more frequently since Leigh had turned thirteen. He wasn’t a bad kid and she’d love to be able to offer him a new pair of trainers, but facts were facts, and David’s work as a freelance translator barely pulled in enough to cover the food bills each week. If it weren’t for her job as a detective inspector with Samford Police Force, they’d be up shit creek.
She dropped the lid back on the dish and returned it to the oven. It was passable. Domestic goddess, she was not. ‘I could take on some overtime,’ she began.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Natalie. Don’t do this to me.’ David stood up in one swift movement.
‘Do what?’ she asked, but she already knew. David losing his position as a translator at the law firm where he’d worked for twenty years had been one of the worst things that could have happened. He’d not been able to find more work like it, and going freelance had been his only option. The problem was, in this digital age, his skills were less in demand, and finding a new position had proven impossible. He resented the fact that Natalie was their only hope of keeping a roof over their heads. His pride had taken a massive knock, and try as she might to tell him otherwise, that it didn’t matter, and that he was just as useful being a stay-at-home dad, they both knew the truth: it was eating away at him. David simply wasn’t good at taking the back seat.
‘Fancy a drink?’ she said by way of making peace.
‘It’s not even six o’clock yet.’
‘Go on. There’s some wine in the fridge. The casserole can wait. Josh won’t want to eat yet, and anyway, he needs to cool off for a bit. We’ll get him the bloody trainers as an early birthday present if you think that’s what he really wants.’
‘It’s about street cred, Nat. He needs that. Not easy for him to fit in.’
‘Yeah. I know.’ Her face softened. Josh was a great kid but one who had issues – he wore braces to straighten his teeth and recently had been getting a rough time from his classmates, who teased him relentlessly. Kids needed kudos to garner respect from friends, and for Josh it was the trendiest clothes, rather than gadgets or the latest smartphone, that gave him a feeling of self-worth. Natalie thought it was a pity he didn’t get any esteem for being clever – Josh was a bright lad.
David seemed satisfied with her response.
‘You want a glass of wine then?’ she asked again.
‘Okay. Just the one. I have a script to translate for a client who wanted it by yesterday.’ He stretched and yawned. It was the signal that the tension between them had passed.
She threw him a smile. The translation probably wasn’t the big deal he made it out to be, but she let David have his moment. He needed to feel he was valued.
She turned towards the fridge and drew out the chilled bottle of Chardonnay. As she did so, her mobile buzzed on the kitchen worktop. It was work.
David’s mouth set into a thin line and his expression changed. ‘You better get that,’ he said and withdrew from the kitchen.
‘David,’ she called, but it was too late. He’d retreated to his office. A heavy
beat started up from Josh’s room and vibrated down the stairs. He was listening to his music on full volume. She answered the phone with one finger in her other ear to block out the noise.
‘Natalie, it’s Aileen.’
The voice was musical with its soft, southern Irish lilt and it was difficult to imagine it belonged to its owner, Superintendent Aileen Melody. Aileen might have a gentle voice but she was one of the toughest policewomen Natalie knew: a ball-busting officer who had risen through the ranks at a meteoric speed thanks to her time with the London Met, working first with the vice squad and then heading units in anti-terrorism. If Aileen was calling her, it was bad news.
‘What is it, Aileen?’
‘I’m ringing you because you were involved in the Olivia Chester investigation.’
Natalie’s veins turned to ice at the mention of the case to which she’d been assigned in 2015. It had ended badly.
‘I’d like your expertise on this one.’
‘Have you found a body?’
Aileen’s silence told Natalie all she needed to know.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘An hour ago. It’s not a recent death. Pathologist thinks the body’s been in situ a couple of years or so. It’s a youngster.’
‘How old?’
‘Difficult to say at the moment.’
Natalie blinked back the memories of the last time she’d seen the body of a dead child and responded. ‘I’ll be there. I’m leaving now.’
As she collected her murder bag – the forensic kit she’d need for the crime scene – from the hallway, David wandered out of his office. His forehead was wrinkled with unasked questions and he observed her in silence as she picked up her coat and car keys.
‘The casserole will be ready in fifteen minutes.’
He nodded in response and as she opened the door, his lips parted as if he might speak. She slipped outside, mind on what lay ahead of her. Sensing his intention, she turned back briefly but David shut his mouth and closed the door after her. Whatever he’d wanted to say, it was too late now.
Natalie blipped open her car door and slid into the driver’s seat. She rested her palms on the cool leather steering wheel. A child. She had to get it right this time. It was more than her life was worth, to make the same mistake again.
Two
TUESDAY, 25 APRIL – EVENING
What had once been Uptown Craft Centre and Farm stood at the far end of a huge parking area – far larger than the car park at the cheap supermarket where Natalie did the weekly shop. The signage had long gone but the façade looked similar to garden centres she’d visited before: a brown brick building with an arched entrance.
The centre was on a busy main road leading from Samford – where Natalie worked – to Uptown, well known for its parks and annual music festival. This was her first visit to the town, and as Natalie drew closer, she became increasingly aware of her heartbeat, which was becoming erratic.
She manoeuvred into a spot close to the entrance, pulled on her wellington boots and strode towards the officers in front of the building, holding her ID out in front of her. They noted her name in the crime scene log and directed her to the side entrance that led through empty yards towards the rear of the centre. The rain was still tumbling from dark, evening skies, making inky black puddles on the concrete floor that Natalie splashed through. The centre had once been a mixture of a garden centre, arts and crafts centre, tearoom and small farm. In addition, there’d been a farm shop that sold local produce and a wide variety of gifts. The new owners, a business consortium, were expanding it and bringing in more farm shops and various attractions, including a blacksmith’s shop and a steam railway that would run through the grounds, ferrying passengers to various points on what was going to be more theme park than garden centre. Natalie left the yard and trudged onto the boggy earth behind two greenhouses. A skinny man in his fifties was standing beside the nearest greenhouse, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his hi-vis vest. His grey hair was flattened to his head and his eyes were sunken.
‘I’m Neil Linton,’ he said, holding out a slender hand. ‘Project manager. We found the body.’
She took his hand. It was smooth to the touch. ‘Have you given a statement, sir?’
He nodded miserably. ‘I have but I can’t leave. Not until I know. Officers said it was okay to wait.’
‘Know what, sir?’
‘That it’s human remains we uncovered.’
‘There’s nothing to be gained by staying here and we won’t be releasing any information until we’re able to, regardless of what the officers might have told you.’
The man’s shoulders slumped. ‘They didn’t exactly say. I hoped…’
She gave him a tight smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Can I wait for a while?’
‘I’d rather you went…’ His eyes caused her to pause. They were filled with pain; she’d seen the same pain in the eyes of parents – parents whose children she hadn’t been able to locate in time to save. ‘Stay if you must, but you’ll not learn anything tonight,’ she said gently. ‘You really would be better off returning home. We’ll contact you in due course.’
‘Just ten minutes. I feel I owe it to whoever is out there,’ Neil replied.
Natalie nodded her assent and left the lit grounds. She crossed the field, training her torch on the earth, all the while rain driving into her face and mud sucking her feet into the sticky ground. She didn’t care about either. All she wanted to do was get the next few minutes over with. Several officers were standing close to a makeshift tent. Again, she showed her ID to a pale-faced policeman, who opened the tent flap. Crossing the field, she’d tried to calm her thoughts, focusing on tested techniques of imagining a still lake, a sunset, cows chewing cud – each and every one of the things her psychiatrist had advised after the Olivia Chester case. She’d learnt many relaxation techniques and ways of coping, but today they failed her. She was about to witness something she’d hoped she’d never see again in her life: a dead child.
The floodlights shone brightly inside the tent, making her squint for a moment. She blinked and made out Mike Sullivan, in charge of the forensic unit, who was talking to a man she presumed was the pathologist. Natalie had known Mike for most of her career – some twenty years – and he was a close friend of her husband’s, having shared digs with him at university. There was nothing Mike enjoyed more than reminiscing about their good old days – all night parties and endless fun. For him the world had since spiralled out of control, and those hedonistic days were a thing of the past. His wife, Nicole, had recently separated from him, taking his young daughter, Thea, with her. On the surface he seemed unaffected by their departure, but Natalie had noticed small changes – weight loss and dark bags under his eyes – that suggested otherwise. Natalie joined the men and fought back a guttural sound that rose involuntarily in her throat.
The body was so small, three feet from crown to heel. It had been wrapped in some material – sackcloth or similar – and was now exposed, a dried-out, tiny corpse with skin tightly stretched over visible bones. The skull was small – no larger than Natalie’s cupped hands. The jaw was open, revealing even, white teeth that would never be hidden under a pillow for the Tooth Fairy to discover. The sight was a sucker punch to Natalie’s solar plexus and she drew short breaths, trying hard to conceal her dismay from her colleagues. She knew Mike felt the same. He’d be thinking of his own daughter, and the sight of this child had brought out the Papa Bear in him. He clenched his fists like he wanted to do serious harm to whoever had done this. He looked up and threw her a brief smile. It was like an anchor in a storm and she clung to it, returned it and regained composure.
‘This is Ben Hargreaves,’ said Mike, indicating the pathologist and shifting his position so she could move next to him. She slid beside him, feeling the warmth rise from his solid body. ‘He’s transferred from Birmingham. Ben, this is DI Natalie Ward.’
‘Hi,’ said Natali
e, glad to have somebody else to focus on rather than the child on the ground. Ben glanced briefly in her direction and gave a mumbled grunt of acknowledgement before returning his attention to the corpse in front of him. Silence fell. Mike threw her a look then shrugged. Maybe the man was as shell-shocked as they were.
‘Ben thinks the body’s been here for up to two or three years. It might be less time. It’s clay soil in this area, so it’s probably better preserved than if it had been left in ordinary soil. The clay acts as a barrier against insect activity. That, coupled with the fact it was wrapped in this,’ he said, looking at the material underneath the body, ‘will have affected the rate of decomposition.’
Ben stood up and adjusted his glasses. He was a good six inches taller than Natalie, who was five foot nine. She noticed a wedding band on his finger. ‘That’s right. I can’t see any obvious marks on the body, no fractured bones, no cracks or holes, and nothing obvious to help me determine cause of death. All I can say is, looking at the eruption of teeth, and size of the skeleton, I’d hazard a guess that the child was between four and seven years old. Those look like milk teeth. I’ll be able to be clearer about that once we’ve had the chance to analyse the bones.’
‘Can you tell us the sex?’
Ben shook his head, his long, dark hair glistening wet from the rain. ‘Not immediately. It’s difficult to ascertain until after puberty because sexual dimorphism – the differences between males and females – is slight in children. Your forensic anthropologist will need to examine bone size and look at the pelvis to identify the sex of this child. I can’t give you a definite answer although, as you can see, there are some lengthy strands of blonde hair attached to the remaining skin on the scalp, which could suggest we’re looking at the body of a girl.’
