Black Fell

Book 4: Stone and Oliver

by Mari Hannah

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The truth can be hidden . . . but secrets always surface

The peace of Kielder Water is shattered when tourists open a barrel they found floating in the reservoir at dawn. Detectives Stone and Oliver are called to examine the skeletal remains inside.

The tourists are eliminated from the investigation, but that same day a second body is discovered - this one with skin. Have the police let the killer leave the scene?

While Stone investigates the remains, Oliver travels to Iceland to gather evidence and track down the tourists who have fled. Someone will do anything to protect the secrets of the past...

***
Praise for Black Fell:

'Black Fell is a gripping police procedural with lots of twists and turns. I couldn't put it down. Highly recommended.' Simon McCleave

'Not many crime writers can master authenticity, plot and character but Mari Hannah always delivers on all three. Black Fell is another cracking addition to the Stone and Oliver series and the back and forth relationship between the pair is so genuinely complex and endearing that you'd swear you'd met them in real life. Can't wait for the next instalment' TREVOR WOOD

'Of course there's a pacy plot, as we'd expect from Hannah, and of course a real authenticity in the police background, but more importantly we explore a cast of characters who have complexity, humour and depth' ANN CLEEVES
'Mari get's better and better. Black Fell is both twisty and absorbing, with a premise that delivers and then some!' VICTORIA SELMAN
'Terrific writing. Gripping and intricately plotted, compassionate, funny and wise.' KATE LONDON

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 416

Sample

The number was on speed dial. Detective Chief Inspector David Stone lifted his mobile to his ear, listening as it rang out at the other end, urging Frankie Oliver to pick up. He’d keep it simple. A call from Control. An unidentified victim. At this ungodly hour, that’s all his second-in-command needed to know. He had no intention of telling her that he’d been up half the night and was wide awake, cooking breakfast, when the call came in. She’d jump to the conclusion that he was still experiencing night sweats, reliving the murder of a close colleague, or that he had company, someone he’d met since transferring from the capital to his home force, retreating to the place where he grew up – a fresh start.

One of those was right.

As excuses go, he never talked about the first and had no time for the second.

‘Oliver.’ Frankie’s voice was deeper than normal, coming from that labyrinthine space we all disappear to when the lights go out; a place of safety in the dark waters of nothingness for the lucky ones, a world of frightening images and unresolved conflict for others. ‘Whoever you are, bugger off,’ she said. ‘I’m state zero.’ She meant off duty. ‘David, is that you?’

‘Who else were you expecting at five a.m.?’ He flipped his eggs. ‘Shake yourself, Frank. We’re on …’

She yawned. ‘Go back to bed, guv. You’re not the on-call SIO this weekend.’

‘I am now, which means you are too, so get a move on.’ He waited a beat, allowing her a moment to come round, himself enough time to slap the eggs onto buttered bread, adding another slice on top. He bit into the sandwich and tried her again. ‘Frank, are you properly awake?’

‘Barely. What’ve we got?’

He swallowed what was in his mouth. ‘A body floating in the drink.’

‘Again?’ It came out like a whine.

Frankie would be imagining the River Tyne, a drunk floating in the water, an unexplained death. She’d be asking herself had the victim fallen or were they pushed? Probably concluding that it would come to nothing, a waste of time and MIT resources, a regular occurrence they could do nothing about. David could hear her shifting around now, dragging herself from a warm bed, not yet ready to greet the day.

He could relate.

Another yawn. ‘Location?’

‘Kielder Water.’

‘Someone fall off The Osprey ferry?’

‘Not funny. I’ll collect you in half an hour. Unless the victim managed to fold themselves into a barrel and roll into the reservoir unaided, we have a murder on our hands.’

Frankie looked out through the windshield, eyes scanning a blanket of mist hanging over Northern Europe’s largest manmade reservoir. The water stretched out to the west for as far as she could see. It was what she couldn’t see that worried her. No sign of first responders, CSI vans or police vehicles in the south car park. No crime scene tape or personnel. No sign of life full stop, early morning fog preventing a view of the north shore.

David had been uncharacteristically quiet on the journey west. He’d given her little detail, beyond the fact that the barrel containing the corpse had been dragged from the water and broken into by an Icelandic tourist skinny-dipping at dawn. The thought of that pursuit, now or at any time of the year, made her shiver. The water was damned cold, even in a wetsuit. She’d learned to sail there with her father.

‘I’ll bet you twenty quid that this is a wind-up,’ she said. ‘Too many happy pills. I can’t be doing with pagans, ancient rituals and traditions. It may not happen down south, but the summer solstice is notorious for crank callers up here. It brings out the weirdness in people. I mean, Icelanders believe in elves, right? You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty flaky.’

‘It sounded legit to me.’

Touchy – unlike him.

‘The caller was badly shaken.’

Frankie kept her thoughts to herself.

David dropped a gear, turning off the C road, a winding ribbon of grey tarmac that cut through Kielder Forest, a gateway to Scotland for some. The scenic route. David seemed preoccupied. Curious. He’d shown no sign of it when he left the MIR last night. Quite the opposite. He was in high spirits, heading to party, time to let his hair down. A few laughs, a few beers on someone else’s tab. She wondered if he was pissed off that she hadn’t gone too, a birthday date with an old school friend taking precedence. Somehow, she didn’t think so. If not that, then what had brought about such a dramatic change in his mood? She’d have a word with the lads when she returned to base, see if they could shed light on it.

‘You all right?’ She had to ask.

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Seriously? Take a look in the mirror. I’ve seen better-looking dead people.’

‘Yeah, well I didn’t get much sleep.’

‘Self-inflicted doesn’t qualify. You’ll get no sympathy from me.’

‘I don’t remember asking for any.’

‘What’s wrong? You had two lemonades last night? You know you can only handle one.’

‘Hilarious, Frank. You should do stand-up. My mind is on the job, which is where yours should be.’

A few moments passed without either of them speaking. Fine, have it your own way, Frankie thought, but didn’t say. She broke the silence with a work-related question. ‘Was the finder male or female?’

A monosyllabic reply. ‘Male.’

‘And the victim?’

‘Undetermined.’

She gave him the side-eye. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Let’s wait and see, eh? The finder only saw a skull before legging it.’

‘A skull?’

‘That’s how he described it.’

Frankie waited for more. It didn’t come. ‘Was it something I said, or did you get out of bed the wrong side?’

‘Ignore me. I’m knackered, that’s all.’

An hour and a half ago, he’d driven out to the coast to collect her from her apartment to save them taking two cars. She was waiting outside, on tenterhooks, her only thought to get to the crime scene as quickly as possible. He’d said little on the journey. Most probably didn’t want to prejudice her opinion before reaching their destination. That way, she’d view the body in isolation, with no preconceived ideas that might jeopardise the first few hours of a new enquiry.

Under a vast sky, they crossed Kielder Dam, heading north towards Hawkhope, a place they were both familiar with. It occurred to her that the recovery spot – the point at which the barrel was removed from the water – may not be a crime scene, merely a deposition site. Either way, they were to meet first responders at the location given by control room personnel, ordinarily a peaceful haven for deer and other wildlife, no place for death and destruction. Crime was zero here, violence practically unheard of. Till now.

At the north end of the dam, ignoring the entrance to the car park, David took a right fork towards an access road, authorised only to forestry vehicles. He braked suddenly, nearly putting Frankie through the windscreen. She shot forward, the seat belt digging into her shoulder. A warning would have been nice.

No apology.

With his right hand on the steering wheel, his left arm resting on the back of his seat, he reversed at speed, a short detour. In the car park, four vehicles stood empty, facing a vast expanse of water. Next to them, an angler was standing at the rear of a rusting van, taking a moment to appreciate the view. He was not the focus of David’s attention. His eyes were fixed on two identical Range Rovers, blood red with black contrasting roofs, parked side by side at the back of a toilet block, separated from other vehicles.

‘Glasgow plates,’ he said.

‘Correct …’ In her peripheral vision, Frankie caught site of a backpacker heading off at a pace, camera in hand. By the time she’d jumped out of the car, leaving the door wide open, he’d disappeared into the trees. She pulled out her mobile and made a call. ‘Mike 2151. I’m dealing with the body up at Kielder. Can you pass a message to those on scene? I just saw a young guy heading their way.’

Control: ‘He won’t get far, Sarge. Officers have been deployed at various locations. They’ve been given instructions to take the details of anyone they come across and turn them back—’

‘That’s reassuring. Might I suggest a sign to alert the public that the Lakeside Way is closed until further notice?’

The controller agreed to pass the message on.

Frankie asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone took a note of the vehicles parked at Hawkhope when they arrived?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Roger that.’

Hanging up, Frankie approached the angler. He was now bent over, rooting around in the rear of his van, a folding chair strapped across his shoulder, reminding her of her grand­-father. Unable to stand for long periods on arthritic pins, he had a chair just like it. He loved to fish. Since she was a kid, he’d taken her along for company at weekends and school ­holidays. A nice memory.

‘Sir, can I have a word?’

No answer.

She repeated the request.

‘Aye. Be with you in a minute.’ The accent was distinctly Northumbrian.

She watched his hands closely, unsure what to expect. In this area, some people were licensed to carry firearms. She was about to alert David when the man found what he was looking for, stood upright and swung round to face her. He was mid-sixties, short and stocky, a mop of grey hair poking out from beneath a flat cap. He was wearing hearing aids, she noticed.

She held up ID. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Oliver.’ She nodded at the fishing gear. ‘You coming or going?’

‘Coming …’ The angler leaned two rods against his vehicle, put down the bag, apologising for keeping her waiting. ‘I have a weekend permit if you’d like to see it.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’ She thumbed over her shoulder. ‘You may have noticed the patrol car as you drove in?’

‘Hard not to. Blue lights is not something we see around here much.’ He pushed his specs up onto the bridge of his nose, the better to see her. ‘The name’s Ron … Ronald, Harbottle. Has there been an accident?’

Frankie sidestepped the question. ‘Has anyone spoken to you this morning, sir?’

‘Only you. I arrived seconds before you did. Saw you drive in.’

‘Well, you might consider a new pitch today. The area is currently being sealed off. I’d hate for you to get settled and then have to move you on.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘I have another …’ She admonished him with a raised eyebrow, a nod towards the wheels of his van. ‘Do yourself a favour and get a new set of tyres. Those are illegal.’

He blushed. ‘I only live down the road, flower.’

She didn’t take offence. Like pet, flower was a term of endearment in these parts, not a put-down. ‘Mr Harbottle, most accidents occur within spitting distance of home. Bald tyres are lethal. Trust me. I’ve scraped more than my share of body parts off public highways since I became a police officer. I’d hate for the next one to be yours.’

‘I’ll get them sorted.’

The twinkle in his eye was all it took to dissuade her from making an issue of it. ‘Promise?’

‘You bet.’

‘Then I haven’t seen them.’

‘That’s very kind.’

‘On your way then.’

Relieved to have got off lightly, the old man threw his fishing gear in his vehicle and drove off to find another pitch. Frankie watched him cross the dam before turning her attention to the twin Range Rovers.

Peering in through the windows of the first one she came to, she noticed sweet wrappers, empty crisp packets and squashed beer cans abandoned in the footwell; on the rear seat, a discarded jumper, a clean pair of heavy-duty walking boots. Nothing unusual. The second vehicle was more revealing, a Hertz rental document on the dash in the name of Kristján Kristjánsson.

Icelandic?

Maybe.

Capturing the image on her phone, and another of both registration plates, a job she hoped someone else had already done, she returned to the car and gave David the low-down, including the name on the rental document.

‘Nice of him to stick around,’ he said.

‘He’s the one called it in?’

‘The very same.’ Handing her his mobile, David invited her to check out the audio link sent through by control room personnel, then drove out of the car park, retaking the un­authorised road, ignoring the No Entry sign. A red-and-white barrier, normally locked, was open, a uniformed officer standing guard, his patrol car pulled off the road, lights flashing. Winding his window down, Stone identified himself as the SIO. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Belling peninsula, sir.’

‘Don’t let anyone else through.’

The copper waved him on.

The scent of coniferous resin got stronger as they ventured further into the forest. Accessing the audio link Stone had given her, Frankie listened. Kristjánsson spoke excellent English. There was desperation in his voice. He stumbled over his words trying to describe what he’d found. He sounded young. Loaded too, she speculated, if he could afford to hire such a high-end vehicle. The lad was trying to console someone sobbing in the background. A girl. This was no crackpot celebrating the sun’s zenith. It was a distressed visitor to the county who probably wished he’d stayed at home.

The sun broke through as David parked the car. He got out and walked down a narrow path as directed by an officer in a standard-issue high-vis jacket, Frankie trailing along behind. The walk lifted the SIO’s spirits, the fresh air clearing his head as he picked his way forward, the ground beneath his feet rough and uneven, tree roots poking through in places, overhanging branches making the route more difficult.

‘David, look!’ Frankie pointed skyward. A magnificent bird of prey was circling overhead, wings fully extended, riding the air current, sharp eyes fixed to the surface of the water beneath. ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’

‘He’s hunting for breakfast.’

‘Wish I was. Put it this way, a bacon butty wouldn’t go amiss. I should have brought one from home.’

‘Yeah, you should. What kind of bagman are you?’

‘A rubbish one …’ Frankie grimaced. There was no chance of finding anything to eat around here this early in the day. Stone probably missed the Met with an eatery on every corner. ‘When we see what’s what, I’ll get one of the uniforms to nip into Falstone and collect some grub. My shout.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You’re always hungry.’

‘Not with a fry-up in my belly.’ David laughed, in a better place now. ‘It’s called thinking ahead. You should try it some time.’

Kristján pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts. His view was like the set of a TV cop show: crime scene tape; police vehicles and personnel; men and women in forensic suits crawling all over the place; about as far removed as it was possible to be from his idea of holiday heaven. Twenty minutes ago, a youngish woman had arrived in a private car, carrying a leather bag. A medical examiner, he assumed. She’d not spoken to him or any of his friends. Having identified herself to the cops, she’d disappeared behind a canvas privacy screen that had been erected close to the water’s edge.

She was still in there.

Surrounded by law enforcement from a foreign force, Kristján felt uncomfortable. Taking on the responsibility as designated spokesperson for his group this morning, as he had done last night, was something he didn’t want. He set off to join the others, picking his way through the trees with a sense of foreboding.

At the end of the path, Stone stopped at the edge of a clearing, a campsite where five small tents were arranged in a close-knit semicircle, all of them bottle green. Good camouflage in an area such as this. Beyond the encampment, the scenery was jaw-dropping, the sun reflecting off the water in places where the mist had lifted. Where it hadn’t, the water was gun-metal grey, a thin, delicate cloud suspended in mid-air above it.

David turned, scanning the scene.

Bags, walking shoes and litter mostly. Must have been quite a party. Beside the remains of a campfire, swimming trunks and towels hung on a makeshift clothes horse made of sticks. He counted nine Icelandic kids sitting on a felled tree trunk, stripped of its bark. Some were preoccupied with their mobiles, others eyeing the detectives. Two uniformed officers, one male, one female, assigned to look after the tourists were doing their best to engage them in conversation. The kids were bored, keen to be on their way.

That wouldn’t happen until they were questioned.

David was wondering which one was Kristjánsson when a tall male emerged through the trees, around six two, blond, athletic build, ice-blue eyes, a serious expression on his face. He dropped his head as the SIO caught his eye.

‘Hello, Kristján,’ David whispered.

‘You’re talking to yourself again,’ Frankie said.

‘Just weighing up our audience.’ They played this game often.

‘OK, which one is he?’

‘Light blue shorts, navy T-shirt, I’d bet my pension on it.’

‘Looks a bit shifty, don’t you think?’

‘He has no business being here. Wild camping is prohibited outside designated backpacking sites, as is swimming and setting fires, three rules that seem to have passed him by.’

‘Have you forgotten your youth? Hardly hanging offences, are they?’

‘You were the one said he looks shifty, Frank. I’m just offering an explanation as to why that might be. Ever seen a forest fire? There are millions of trees here. Imagine if they went up in flames.’

Before she could think of an answer, the most senior officer on site sauntered over towards her. Jardin had a supremely toned physique, three stripes on his epaulettes. On account of his prowess on the force footy team he had an unforgettable nickname. Smiling warmly, Frankie thumbed to her right.

‘This is my guv’nor, DCI Stone.’

The man in uniform proffered a hand. ‘Jardine, sir.’

‘Bex to his friends, guv. He takes a mean free-kick.’

David said, ‘Keep an eye on this lot till we get back.’

‘Sir.’

‘Where’s the body?’

Jardine pointed through the trees, the way Kristjánsson had arrived. ‘Walk west. Keep to the path, then bear left. The pathologist is there already.’

Home Office pathologist Beth Collingwood emerged from behind a white screen, a volley of camera shots going on behind her. Removing her nitrile gloves, pulling a mask clear of her face, the cap from her head, she acknowledged the murder detectives with a smile and an upward tip of her chin. She was a small woman, hair streaked with purple highlights. To look at her, you’d never know that she was at the very top of her profession, revered by everyone on the force, with qualifications that would make most academics’ eyes bleed.

Hers were sharp, her expression difficult to read.

‘Guv …’ Frankie drew David’s attention to a deep gouge in the ground at the water’s edge where a heavy object had been dragged ashore. The channel ended where the CSI screen began. ‘The container can’t have been in the water long,’ she said. ‘At this time of year, it would have been spotted before now. In an hour or two, this place will be swarming – and not just with midges. It’s a mecca for tree huggers.’

‘You have something against environmentalists?’

‘Just telling it like it is …’ Frankie didn’t move her head, only her eyes. ‘Did you leave your sense of humour at home? You know I don’t do prickly before eleven a.m.’.

‘No squabbling, you two.’ Beth was used to their banter. It was what kept the detectives sane. ‘You should be happy on this glorious morning.’ She extended her arm, inviting them to take in the magnificent view neither seemed to have noticed. ‘Not a bad place to start your working day, is it?’

‘Yeah, shame we’re not on a jolly,’ Frankie bit back. ‘Last time I was here, I was snoozing on a blanket, not a million miles from this very spot. A good book, a cold flask of Pimm’s, pork pies and my mum’s homemade brownies in a picnic basket.’ She tipped her head toward her boss. ‘If that were the case today, Mr Grumpy might even crack a smile.’

Collingwood laughed.

David didn’t.

He moved away.

‘What’s up with him?’ Beth asked Frankie. ‘Even at this early hour, he usually has his head in gear. I get the impression that the unfolding narrative isn’t the only thing on his mind. Any ideas?’

A shrug. ‘I’ve given up trying to second-guess what’s happening on planet Stone.’

Beth waited for more.

Frankie held her tongue, less puzzled by her guv’nor’s mood. He’d encouraged her to speak her mind. To ignore his rank. Maybe she’d overstepped the mark in front of the pathologist. DS Jane Vincent was the reason he couldn’t sleep, his motivation for taking a demotion to return to the north-east when he was the golden boy in the Met. He hid his grief most days. When he couldn’t, Frankie backed off, allowing him time and space to get over it. He was better now than when they first met, though not yet over it.

The murder of a loved one never left you.

Frankie liked and trusted Beth implicitly, but her guv’nor’s business, professional or personal, wasn’t open for discussion. He was strong and dependable, yet vulnerable at the same time; sensitive and apt to retreat into a cave she knew little of. He deserved her loyalty. ‘We’re supposed to have the weekend off,’ she said by way of explanation.

‘Ah, maybe he had plans—’

‘He never has plans.’

‘Harsh.’

‘But true. Actually, that’s not fair. David and Ben have taken up golf recently, a bit of male bonding going on there, I reckon. It’ll be good for them to spend more time together.’ Ben was David’s nephew, a young man he’d taken in, acting as surrogate father to the lad at her suggestion. His father, David’s brother, had died in a car crash, a dark time for both of them. Frankie changed the subject, a glance at the crime scene tent. ‘I take it the skull is human?’

Collingwood answered with a nod.

‘Male or female?’

‘Oh, please …’ Beth gave her a pointed look, faking irritation. ‘As a formidable DS, you know better than to ask for an educated guess as this stage of an enquiry.’

‘Oh, go on. Can’t you make an exception, just the once?’ Stone asked as he walked towards them. ‘As you heard so eloquently from my 2ic, I need cheering up this morning.’

Beth hesitated. ‘If you quote me—’

‘He won’t,’ Frankie cut in.

David gave a three-fingered salute. ‘Scout’s honour.’

A smile from Beth – she liked him.

Frankie? This morning, David wasn’t so sure.

Collingwood caved. ‘I can only see a skull covered in soil deposits, so I can’t say for certain, though I’m ninety-nine per cent sure the victim is male. If that changes, I’ll let you know.’

David was aware that the ridge along the brow was more prominent in males than in females.

‘You won’t want to hear this,’ Beth added, ‘but from what I saw, there’s no muscle or tissue left on the bones. Skeletonisation took place some time ago.’

‘How long?’ Frankie asked.

‘Decomposition is determined by environmental factors. Depends on whether the body was left out in the open air, in water, in shade or full sun, if it was buried in sand or soil and dug up later. Just because it turned up here in a sealed barrel, you can’t assume it hasn’t been in the ground. I suspect it has …’ Her grimace was as good as an apology. ‘In which case, the only given here is we’re talking years, not months – more than a decade, possibly several.’

Frankie locked eyes with David.

He didn’t comment.

His attention was on the woods where ghostly figures in forensic suits were combing the area looking for anything of evidentiary value. Given what Beth had told them, on this occasion they were not seeking a murder weapon. The best they could hope for was the print of a tyre or shoe, a fag end or piece of gum discarded by whoever dumped the container. This case was complicated and he was struggling to get his head around it. How had the body in the barrel arrived in this place? Who’d put it there and why Kielder?

A protracted enquiry was on the cards.

‘David?’ Beth spoke again. ‘I’d like to have the body moved to the morgue in its container. That way, if any of the skeleton is intact, it’ll stay that way. If I try to extract it here … Well, without going into the whys and wherefores, I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.’

He eyed the canvas screen behind her. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘Be my guest, for all the good it’ll do you.’

The oak barrel looked vintage, the type with metal hoops traditionally used by distilleries and wine merchants. It lay on its side, a jagged gash around eight inches long and six across at one end. Frankie crouched down beside it. Using her Maglite torch, she peered in. Beth was right in her description. A dirty skull was all the detective could see: a forehead, eye sockets, adult teeth, the jawbone slightly ajar, giving the appearance that the man in there – if it was a man – was laughing.

Or screaming.

She stood up, handing David the torch. ‘No wonder Kristjánsson was spooked.’

He took her place, taking a few moments to examine the perforation in the wooden casket. As with every case, their questions would fall into the categories of: who, what, why, when and how? Cause of death was up to Beth. Given the time lapse since, they all knew identification could take a while, discovering how the body ended up at the reservoir even longer. Only then could they turn their thoughts to potential offenders, motive, opportunity, method and means.

Having seen enough, David exited the screen.

Collingwood hadn’t moved an inch.

He rolled his eyes. ‘I assume you’re done here?’

‘Yes. OK to get it shifted?’

‘I’m in your hands.’

‘You never want to be in my hands,’ she joked.

‘How long till you start the PM?’

‘I’ll take care of my side of it today. Can’t estimate when I might get hold of an anthropologist. I’ll update you as soon as I hear.’

A nod from David.

As Beth stepped away to make the necessary arrangements, a text pinged on his mobile. He accessed the screen, then put the phone away as Frankie arrived at his shoulder.

‘That barrel is old, guv. It must’ve taken some force to punch a hole in it. There’s no sign of a tool being used, an axe for example.’

‘Speak to Kristjánsson, find out what he used to smash it open and whether anyone witnessed him do it.’

Beth turned, held up a finger and spoke into her mobile. ‘Hold the line, I need a quick word with the SIO.’ She covered the handset. ‘I’m told your boy used a rock, David. It was photographed and bagged. His camera too, and a wet towel. They were lying on the ground when I got here.’

‘That’s good to know.’ He thanked her.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ Frankie said.

David hesitated. She wasn’t going to like what he said next. ‘Grab Kristjánsson and his party. Get the interviews underway. I’ll head off and get the ball rolling—’

‘That’s beneath your paygrade, isn’t it? Can’t you call Abbott? It’s his job to set up the incident room and put the team on alert.’ When David didn’t shift his position, she spread her arms, affronted. ‘That’s it, I’m on my own?’

‘You’re good for it.’

‘Boss, you heard Beth. Until she’s completed the post-mortem, we have zero to go on. We’re hardly on the clock – and those kids aren’t going to take us anywhere with this one, are they?’

‘They still need questioning.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘All of them, Frank. If we don’t do it now, what’s to stop them hopping on a plane out of here.’

She wasn’t buying his explanation. ‘Fine, I get it. You want me out of your hair.’

‘That’s not the case.’

‘No?’

‘Bright wants to see me.’

‘What for?’

‘Don’t know, didn’t ask.’

‘I listened to the local news this morning. There was nothing going on that would involve us, nothing as important as a murder investigation anyway.’

‘If the head of CID says jump, you ask how high.’

‘I know that,’ she said. ‘Only there are ten of them and one of me. I’ll need help.’

‘I’ll send someone with a bacon butty, how’s that?’

Her shoulders dropped.

He laughed. ‘Now whose sense of humour has gone AWOL? Look, there’s no point dragging those kids any further than we have to. Hexham nick will do nicely. I’ll have Abbott meet you there. You’ve heard of car share, right? When you’re done, cadge a lift with him. We’ll regroup at Middle Earth.’ It was the nickname for Middle Engine Lane, Northern Area Command HQ, their base. ‘I want names, addresses, travel plans and copies of passports, minimum. You know what to do.’

Kristján looked up as the Senior Investigating Officer reached the encampment, then walked off at a fast pace in the direction of the Lakeside Way, leaving the female cop he’d arrived with, standing alone, a face like thunder. She watched him disappear through the trees, hands on hips. As if sensing Kristján’s gaze, she turned and made her way towards him. He’d taken steps to get rid of certain items, anything and everything British police might view as suspicious. He’d have to be careful now.

Whatever Bright wanted with David, Frankie had no time to dwell on it. She had to keep the area locked down, s