The telephone call that Warren received just after lunch ensured that a day that had started badly, continued to get worse.
Sergeant Jan Adams, a specialist dog handler searching the surrounding area for more evidence, had made her gruesome discovery in Farley Woods in a natural dip about 250 metres to the east of where the first body had been found. It lay just outside of the initial cordon established by Grimshaw the morning that the unknown body had been found.
The search dog was a German shepherd, by the name of Barney, its handler a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense air, and the remains of a Scouse accent. The dog was quiet, sitting patiently as it had been trained to do, but his handler was fussing over it unnecessarily, distracting herself from the find. Warren couldn’t blame her. No amount of training or experience prepared you adequately for that sort of discovery.
‘In the dip, underneath that pile of leaves.’ The woman’s voice was thick. ‘He didn’t go in and disturb the scene.’
Warren nodded his thanks. Despite the chill air, he felt hot and light-headed. His facemask felt sweaty, and he struggled to breathe.
The trek through the trees had involved a slight incline. Warren would be the first to admit that he wasn’t as fit as he should be; that middle age had added a few pounds more than he would have liked around his midriff, but his heart shouldn’t be pounding in his chest, the blood roaring through his ears.
Was this how Tony Sutton had felt after his stroke? An image of his friend as he lay gasping, eyes rolling as his heart struggled to maintain a regular rhythm, flashed before Warren’s eyes.
He pushed himself forward, forcing his gaze towards the tiny pile of leaves. He tasted metal in his mouth.
He took another step. Warren had been a police officer for twenty years. In that time, he’d attended dozens of unexplained deaths. As a uniformed officer, he’d been the first on scene many times; as a senior detective he was usually called in after the first responders had assessed the scene. He’d witnessed everything from natural causes, to accidents, to suicides and brutal murders. All of them were seared in his memory. All of them had left their mark.
The death of a child or a baby was something different. Those were the ones that stayed with him the longest. Those were the ones that haunted his dreams and hung over him like a dark cloud for hours after he awoke.
A change in wind direction rustled the few leaves that remained on the trees and delivered the familiar smell to his nose, and he felt the bile rise in his throat.
He tried to take another step, but suddenly his legs wouldn’t work.
Behind him the handler was saying something to him, an urgent questioning note in her voice.
Another gust of wind whipped the pile of leaves, finally revealing the tiny form lying hidden beneath.
That was the last thing Warren remembered.
Shame, horror and embarrassment all competed for primacy as Warren perched on the rear tailgate of the dog handler’s van, his paper suit rolled down to his waist. The hot, sweet tea warmed his hands, the sugar hit chasing away his light-headedness.
‘Happens to the best of us, Sir.’
The dog handler’s tone had been kind but had done nothing to minimize Warren’s feeling of humiliation.
In two decades of front-line policing, he had never before compromised a crime scene. The facemask had caught most of the vomit, and the handler had caught his arm, stopping him from fainting directly into the dip. Nevertheless, he worried that he’d made the CSI’s job harder. Had his weakness destroyed valuable evidence?
The scrunch of gravel signalled the arrival of another vehicle. Warren looked up and groaned. Could the day get any worse?
John Grayson was dressed for an evening at the golf club.
Warren closed his eyes briefly. It was bad enough that he’d thrown up and passed out in front of the dog handler and CSI team, but now he was going to have to brief his superior on what had transpired.
‘I heard what happened,’ said Grayson, his tone awkward. ‘Happens to the best of us.’
If Warren heard that one more time … He nodded his thanks silently.
Grayson looked around. The lay-by and carriageway were now filled with more than a dozen vehicles, and a similar number of personnel, all studiously pretending to ignore the two men. He motioned toward his car. ‘Let’s talk.’
Warren drained the last of the tea and stood up.
‘Would you mind …’ Grayson nodded toward Warren’s paper suit, splattered as it was with mud and traces of sick. Warren removed the paper suit, and placed it in a biohazard waste bag, before joining Grayson.
The interior of the Mercedes was warm, comfortable and – most importantly – soundproof.
‘Warren, what’s going on?’ Grayson’s tone was kind, but firm.
‘Sorry. I had scrambled eggs for breakfast. Today was their use-by date …’
Grayson easily saw through the lie. ‘That’s not it, Warren.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m not daft. For the past year or more, you’ve been taking half-days here and half-days there, booking personal time. A week ago, you received a phone call about Susan and raced out of the office as white as a sheet, then took personal leave the next day …’
‘I’ve made up the time,’ protested Warren.
‘That’s not what this is about. You’re one of the hardest working officers I know. But like I said, I’m not daft. All this personal time, then today you are unexpectedly faced with … that scene, and you suddenly take ill.’
Grayson paused, before awkwardly reaching out a hand to Warren’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything. Your private life is your private life, but if you want to talk … I think I know what you’re going through, and I am willing to listen.’
Warren stared out of the window. Ever since he’d joined Middlesbury four years previously, his relationship with John Grayson had been complicated. On the surface, Grayson could be seen as venal and even lazy, more concerned with securing one last promotion before he retired, to ensure a bigger pension. Tony Sutton had never warmed to the man; he still suspected that Grayson’s commitment to maintaining Middlesbury CID’s unique position as a first-response unit was only as strong as his perception of its usefulness in advancing his career.
It was certainly true that Grayson spent an inordinate amount of time with top brass, either down at headquarters in Welwyn, or out on the golf course, rather than in his office in Middlesbury. He invariably delegated the role of Senior Investigating Officer to Warren, happy to leave most of the legwork to his DCI, whilst taking credit for the team’s considerable successes over the years. It was also true that he loved appearing on television and giving interviews to the press, his immaculate grooming closer to the media-loving prosecutors in the US than the typically more reticent officers running British policing.
But outside of work, Grayson had a kindness that few witnessed. The two men were far from drinking buddies; Warren didn’t know one end of a golf club from the other and his knowledge of fine whisky was non-existent, yet Warren would always be grateful for the care and understanding that Grayson had shown to him when his beloved grandmother had passed away. And he could never forget how the man had thrown open his home to Warren, Susan and her parents during the horrific Delgado affair years before.
And who else could Warren talk to? Tony Sutton had too many problems of his own for Warren to confide in him at the moment. They had yet to break their sad news to Granddad Jack and Susan’s parents. With his own parents long dead and no remaining relatives that he was close to, who could he speak with? It had been so long since Warren had heard from his brother, that he now thought of himself as an only child. Even the best man at his wedding now lived overseas, their once close relationship eroded by the passage of time.
‘We’ve been trying for a baby.’ His voice was thick, and he cleared his throat.
Grayson said nothing.
‘It hasn’t been easy, but a couple of months ago Susan finally fell pregnant.’
Warren continued to look out the window. Beside him, Grayson maintained his silence.
‘Twins.’
The car was silent.
‘Last week, Susan …’ His voice petered out.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Grayson quietly.
‘It’s OK. It’s just one of those things. That early in the pregnancy it’s a lottery still.’ He rubbed his eyes, still staring out at the trees beyond.
‘That doesn’t make it easier,’ said Grayson. There was a slight catch in his voice. ‘Refilwe and I … we had a couple of false starts before the boys came along,’ He paused. ‘You assume that when it finally works the pain will go away. You have your family now. Those first losses were just a bump on the road. You think that it’ll be like winning the World Cup; nobody ever remembers that you lost your first couple of games in the group matches.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s not. You’ll always wonder “what if?” What would they have been like? Would you have continued trying if you’d been successful the first time? Would you have had the kids you have now? How would life have been different?’
Warren turned in his seat. The sun had long since disappeared behind the trees, but he could see that Grayson’s eyes were shining in the shadows.
‘Have you been to see a counsellor about it yet?’ Grayson asked.
Warren shook his head. The doctors had given them leaflets about charities and support groups, but he’d been too busy.
‘You should.’ Grayson raised his hand to forestall any argument. ‘I didn’t want to go. I didn’t think I needed to, but Refilwe insisted.’ He smiled. ‘As always, she was right, and I was too stubborn to admit I was wrong. I’ll authorize any time that you need.’
‘Thank you,’ said Warren, meaning it.
After a short pause, Grayson cleared his throat.
‘We need to decide what to do with your caseload. I can arrange for someone else to take over the team, to give you and Susan some time.’
Warren shook his head again. ‘That won’t be necessary. At the moment, I want to keep on working.’ Even to Warren’s ears, his voice sounded weak and uncertain. It was true that his workload was mounting exponentially, with four unexplained deaths to deal with, at least two of them murders, but then that was what he had his team for.
The fact was, Warren’s instincts were telling him that all of the deaths were connected in some way. It looked as though Stevie Cullen’s murder was all but solved, given Annie’s confession, but he still wasn’t convinced that he had the full story. Yet again, Ray Dorridge had reared his ugly head. Today’s find again lay on ground adjacent to his land. It was too much of a coincidence, and Warren couldn’t let that drop until he was satisfied. He couldn’t just hand it over to someone else. He had to see this through to the end.
Grayson was silent for a few moments, before finally conceding. ‘Have a sleep on it. Tell me your decision tomorrow.’
Warren already knew what his decision would be.
Despite Warren’s protests, Grayson eventually pulled rank and sent him home for the day. Warren’s team needed to expand, and quickly. It would take some hours for the new personnel, based both in Middlesbury and down at Welwyn to be brought up to speed. Grayson would oversee that. Warren had until the following morning to decide if he wanted to remain as the SIO on the various investigations.
‘Go home and sleep on it,’ the Superintendent had advised.
Sleep on it. Not a chance.
Susan was still out, attending a school concert, when he arrived home. After cleaning his teeth to get rid of the taste of vomit, he’d taken a long, hot shower. Towelling himself off, he’d been dismayed to find that smell of death still lingered. Cleaning his teeth a second time, he got back in the shower, turning the temperature up still further and covering himself with liberal amounts of strongly scented lemon body wash.
The smell was still there when he emerged.
The clothes would have to go, he decided.
Placing his shirt and trousers in a black bin bag, he debated about whether to throw away his tie as well. It was a cheap one that had come pre-packed with the shirt, so he decided to ditch that also. After a moment, his socks and underwear joined it.
Slipping on a T-shirt, shorts and dressing gown, he walked outside to the bins, wincing at the sharp gravel under his bare feet.
On his way back inside, he spied his shoes by the front door.
He’d worn plastic booties over them at the scene, but the thin nylon had snagged and torn as he’d walked through the thick vegetation. Mud covered the soles and vomit splatted the leather uppers.
The shoes were only three months old; even after a hefty sales discount, they’d cost almost a hundred pounds. A scrub with a brush and some polish would have them looking as good as new.
They joined his clothes in the bin.
His third shower drained the hot water tank.
Susan had arrived home from the concert and tried to talk to him about his day, but Warren had avoided the conversation. How could he tell her what he’d seen? After all they’d been through, he couldn’t do that to her. He’d forced himself to eat the curry that she’d picked up from the garage on the way home, but he’d hardly tasted it.
Eventually, frustrated, she’d gone to bed. Warren had stayed downstairs flicking sightlessly through the TV channels, until he knew she’d be asleep. Or at least pretending.
The bedroom was pitch black; the blackout blind that they’d recently bought perfectly blocking the streetlight outside. Even the annoying red LED on his phone charger had been blotted out by a strategically placed T-shirt.
He’d cleaned his teeth again before climbing into bed, the strong mint mingling with the residual flavour of the curry, and the Belgian beer he’d finished in front of the TV.
Lying there, he tried to force his mind away from that brief glimpse of what lay beneath the leaves, trying to conjure up positive memories to replace the image seared into his brain. Nothing worked.
After what seemed like hours, he heard the tempo of Susan’s breathing change, as she finally fell asleep. Turning, he touched his phone. The screen lit up, painfully bright even on the night setting. A quarter past one.
Susan murmured something in her sleep, but otherwise didn’t stir.
Carefully opening the bedside drawer, he rummaged for his headphones. Loading up the BBC iPlayer radio app, he navigated to the list of archived ‘In Our Time’ episodes. Susan jokingly referred to the program as the insomnia killer. It was true; whilst the weekly show examined some fascinating topics, it also discussed some desperately dull and esoteric subjects that were all but guaranteed to grant Warren and Susan sleep when it eluded them.
Two hours later, Warren knew far more about a poet he’d never heard of, and an obscure battle that few remembered, but was no closer to sleep than when he’d started.
By three-thirty he gave up.
Moving as quietly as possible, he went to the bathroom, before heading downstairs, treading carefully in the dark.
Making himself a cup of coffee, he headed into the living room and sat on the sofa with his laptop, resolving to at least do something useful. It was becoming clear to him that he couldn’t work the case. He’d tell Grayson first thing.
Opening his email, he saw that he’d received another nagging missive from finance about last month’s expenditure. He sighed and opened up the attached spreadsheet.
‘Warren. Warren. WARREN!’
Susan’s voice jerked him awake. His laptop lay on the floor, the spreadsheet having finally done what Melvyn Bragg and guests had been unable to accomplish.
Susan looked down at him with concern. Her hair was tousled, and she was clad only in the T-shirt that she’d worn to bed. The living room clock read five-thirty.
‘You were having a nightmare. I could hear you shouting from upstairs.’
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. His mouth tasted of copper and stomach acid again.
She sat next to him, forcing him to look at her.
‘What happened yesterday? You have to tell me,’ she pleaded. ‘You haven’t said a word since you came back. The bathroom looks like a steam room, and that brand-new tube of toothpaste is half used. Why is there a bag of your clothes and that pair of nearly new shoes in the wheelie bin?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, resisting the urge to hold his sleeve against his nose, the smell of his dream lingering in the air.
She took his hand.
‘Tell me,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me about yesterday.’
But he couldn’t.
‘It was nothing. Just a bad day.’
‘Then what about the dream? Was it the usual one?’
Warren shook his head. The dream about his father – the dream he’d had since he was thirteen years old – rarely plagued him these days. Those demons had been largely exorcized after he’d learnt the truth about his father’s death; how he hadn’t killed himself through shame, leaving his family behind to deal with the fall-out.
‘Then what?’
‘I can’t remember,’ he lied. Even as he said it, fragments came back to him. He closed his eyes, but that just made them clearer.
The pile of leaves. The smell in the air, and the taste in his mouth were just as he’d remembered before he’d passed out the day before. It was as if he was watching a movie. But this time, the cast was different. The dog handler was gone; in her place stood Susan, staring down at the pile of leaves.
Despite his best efforts, he found himself joining her, looking down into the depression. A sudden gust of wind and the leaves were blown away, this time revealing not one tiny form, but two.
He clapped his hand over his mouth, trying not to vomit.
‘Warren, what is it?’ Susan’s voice dragged him back to reality.
He took a few deep breaths. ‘Serves me right for eating curry and watching late-night TV before bed.’ The lie sounded weak even to his ears.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t go in today,’ she suggested, squeezing his hand.
Warren shook his head. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’
At some point over the past couple of hours, he’d changed his mind again.
He couldn’t hand the investigation over to someone else.
Something tragic had taken place in those woods, and there was no way he could rest until he knew what had happened.