The Family Business

by Hania Allen

Genres: Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The third gripping novel in the Polish detective series featuring DI Dania Gorska. In the north of Dundee, DI Dania Gorska is leading the search for a missing girl, with the police and volunteers combing the dramatic landscape in hope of finding the child. What they discover in a derelict hut in the hills isn't the girl, but is the remains of a body, chained to a wall. This body isn't the missing child but is identified as another young boy, Cameron Affleck, who disappeared many years before in a case that could never be solved. Dania contacts the boy's father, who still spends much time digging around the fields where his son was last seen, in hope of finding his body. Dania begins to unearth the old case, determined to discover Cameron's killer and looking for possible connections to the present-day missing child. But as she digs into the past, she realises that the Affleck family are hiding more than they let on and that there are some dark secrets that everyone wants to stay buried... Praise for Hania Allen ' Nicely nasty in all the right places. . . The story rattles along until bringing the curtain down with an unnerving twist' Craig Robertson 'A fresh new find for crime fans... the plot is intriguing, the characters are well drawn, and the end comes with an unnerving twist. Extremely readable ' Sunday Post ' Captivating characters and an intriguing plot. A great new find for crime fans' Lin Anderson 'Pitch-perfect . . . a witty, tense crime novel written in a highly readable style ' Russel D McLean

Release date: February 6, 2020

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 328

Sample

‘I’ve found something!’ the uniform shouted. ‘Over here!’

He straightened, transferring the stick to his left hand. They had been combing the fields since dawn, and it was now midday. And this was just the first of what would be many searches, if recent history was anything to go by. The sun was slamming down on his head, and temperatures were expected to touch the high twenties. He wiped his face with his hand. He was already regretting not bringing his cap.

‘Everyone stay where you are,’ Sergeant Munro said, as people started to move towards the uniform. He hurried over, stopping short as he saw something poking out of the grass.

‘It’s a shoe,’ the uniform said quietly. ‘A lassie’s shoe.’

The sergeant parted the blades of grass with his stick. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he murmured. ‘Aye, it’s hers, no question.’

The low-heeled court shoe was made of sparkly white material and had a plastic bow on the toe. It had last been worn by little Euna Montcrieff when she’d been a flower-girl bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding. She’d disappeared from the reception after the photos were taken.

The wedding, the day before, had been a huge affair in Redwood Manor, a newly built country-house hotel outside Inchture, a village that stretched back from the A90. When Euna had vanished from the group of children playing in the hotel’s garden, someone had immediately raised the alarm. A search of the hotel and grounds had revealed nothing. Which was why the uniforms, forensics officers and a large number of volunteers had got up at sunrise to search the grassland around the village.

Suddenly, a man broke from the group and ran towards them. He was tall, with a full head of brown hair falling over his forehead. ‘Is that my Euna?’ he shouted, emotion choking his words. ‘Is that my wee lass?’

The sergeant blocked the man’s path and threw his arms round him, holding him fast. ‘Please, Mr Montcrieff. Leave this to us. Forensics will deal with it,’ he added into Montcrieff’s ear, repeating the words as the man’s legs buckled and he collapsed on to the ground, his body racked with sobs.

Two uniforms came forward and gently helped Mr Montcrieff to his feet. Members of the press, who’d followed the sergeant’s instructions to keep out of the search area, now poured on to the field to take photos of the weeping man. Other uniforms leapt into action, ordering them away. The police photographer took several snaps from different angles, and then a forensics officer dropped the white shoe into a bag, and pushed a marker into the ground. Nothing was being left to chance: the position of the clothes might prove to be significant.

Marek Gorski stood with the other volunteers, head bowed, watching the scene. He felt a heartbreaking rush of pity for Euna’s father. This was the second kidnapping in a month. In the previous case, a child had been abducted, and her naked body abandoned with no attempt at concealment. That time also Marek had joined the volunteers, scouring the countryside for traces of her.

In his pocket was the photograph of Euna taken at the wedding. It showed a girl of eleven grinning into the camera. She had striking blue eyes, a pale complexion and long dark hair. The searchers had been handed this photo and instructed to familiarise themselves with the clothes, as the killer rapist’s modus operandi after the first abduction had been to scatter them in a long trail across the fields. At first, the police had thought this was intended to lead them directly to the victim, but they were disappointed. They had to rake the nearby fields before they stumbled across the body.

The discovery of the shoe heralded the start of what Marek knew would be a certain outcome. The clothes would be found, flung into thick grass. But the searchers might also find a clue that would lead them to the killer. So far, however, clues had been sadly lacking. Still, they might be lucky today. Either way, it was now a matter of time before they found Euna.

Marek gazed into the blue bowl of the sky, marvelling at the unprecedented July heat, the consequences of global warming, if the experts were to be believed. At least it wasn’t raining. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had so much as a shower. It was strange weather. First, the Beast from the East earlier in the year, and now this endless sunshine. He could hardly complain. The warmth leached into his bones, and the air was thick with the fragrance of hawthorn.

The sergeant signalled to them to continue. This was the part Marek dreaded and, judging by the slumped shoulders and general attitude of defeat, so did everyone else. Minutes later, another shoe was found, then the garland of flowers Euna had worn across her dress. He paused, his eyes closed, wondering if he could bring himself to continue.

There was a touch at his elbow. ‘You okay?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘Yes,’ he said wearily, trying a smile.

‘I’ve seen you before. You were one of the searchers when wee Fiona was taken.’

‘That’s right.’

She gave him a sympathetic nod, and moved on.

He caught the eye of a man in a red T-shirt and shorts. Jamie Reid had been a photographer at the Courier, specialising in landscape photography, but had left to go freelance. Marek, who worked as an investigative journalist, had kept up with him, meeting him and his wife for the odd drink. When the call had gone out for volunteers, it was Jamie who’d suggested to Marek that he might want to join the search. That was when Fiona had disappeared. Mercifully, Marek hadn’t been assigned to the group that had found the body.

Jamie caught him up. He was a cheerful Dundonian with lively brown eyes and a buzzcut. It had taken Marek a while to get used to his strong accent.

‘How you doing, pal?’ Jamie said. He had one of those soft voices you sometimes had to strain to hear.

‘I’ve been better, to be honest.’

He nodded towards the sergeant. The man was holding up a white dress. The skirt, which billowed out in layers of chiffon, was crumpled and dusty. ‘Not long now, I reckon,’ Jamie murmured. ‘She’s around here somewhere.’

Marek felt his stomach churn. What he wanted now was for them to find Euna so he could go home.

They’d reached the boundary wall when the sergeant called a halt. There were two more fields to be searched, but they needed a break. He told everyone to come back in half an hour’s time. Those people who still had an appetite drifted to the cars lining the street to eat their sandwiches.

‘I think we could both use a wee dram,’ Jamie said to Marek. ‘I’ve got a bottle of Scotch in the van.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll fall asleep if I drink in this heat.’

With a sad smile, Jamie left to find his Hyundai Starex.

Marek was turning away when he glimpsed something in the woodland. It was a doocot, half hidden in the trees, with a single araucaria standing guard. It was in the style of a lectern, stone-built with a tiled roof and openings in the wall to let the pigeons fly in and out. String courses had been added to keep out the rats. A Gothic arch framed a heavy wooden door.

He approached the sergeant. ‘Is it worth taking a look in there, do you think?’

The man, a round-faced giant with a thatch of ginger hair, peered into the trees. He was weighing up the chances of finding anything against tucking into his bacon sandwich and the flask of builder’s tea.

‘Aye, all right,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘But just a quick keek.’

That was all it would need, thought Marek. A quick keek and they’d soon know.

He wondered how he would feel if they found Euna inside. As a journalist, he’d seen his share of dead bodies, but they’d been adults, never an eleven-year-old girl. Mentally, he went through what he’d learnt from his detective sister, Dania, about what happens to a body after death. Euna had been taken in the afternoon of the previous day. So, less than twenty-four hours before. If she’d been killed an hour or so later, rigor would be well advanced. There was a two-to-three-day window before flesh flies appeared, so at least they’d be spared that.

They pushed through the trees to the doocot. The sergeant pulled at the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

‘Worth looking round the back?’ Marek said hopefully. ‘There might be another way in.’

The man rubbed his nose. ‘Ach, we may as well, now we’re here.’

The ground behind the doocot was thick with blackthorn, its powdered leaves wilting in the heat. The bushes were chest-high,
and purplish-blue with tiny sloes. Marek saw that the sergeant was reluctant to wade in. He himself was prepared to risk it, despite the near certainty of getting scratched. He pulled down the sleeves of his shirt and buttoned them securely before tackling the bushes.

He was regretting his decision and thinking of turning back when he saw the window. It was grimy with age, and impossible to see anything through it.

‘Can you pass me your water bottle?’ he called to the sergeant.

A second later, a plastic bottle sailed towards him and hit his shoulder. Shielding his face from the thorns, he bent to pick it up.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured.

He dribbled water on to his handkerchief, and rubbed away at the dirt. Seconds later, the glass was as clear as it was going to be. He peered in but saw little in the gloom. His phone was in the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out and switched on the flashlight.

On the wall opposite were the pigeonholes, like huge hollow eyes. He played the beam over the floor, the light catching the calcified droppings, small stones, ragged plastic bags and other debris. It was as he was moving the beam into the corner that he saw something that nearly stopped his heart. There was a sudden rush of blood to his ears.

‘Well? Can you see anything?’ the sergeant called impatiently.

For a second, Marek was incapable of speaking. ‘Yes,’ he called back.

‘Is it her?’

‘I think you need to get in here and see for yourself.’

The sergeant muttered something under his breath. Marek heard him ploughing through the bushes, cursing as he tried to disentangle himself from the branches.

‘Over there,’ Marek said.

From where they were positioned, they couldn’t direct the beam into the corner. What they did see was the bottom half of tattered trousers, ending in a pair of mouldy leather shoes. Whoever this was, thought Marek, as the chill spread through his chest, it wasn’t Euna.

DI Dania Gorska was crouching over the figure, staring into what had once been a face. Although not an expert, she knew enough to realise that this child had been dead for years, possibly decades. The hair had disappeared, and all that remained of the soft tissue were patches of dried skin. There was a strong smell of mildew and mice.

She straightened, and stood back to let the photographer do her work.

‘I don’t suppose that’s a school uniform,’ DS Honor Randall said.

‘Hard to tell. There’s not much of it left. We’ll get a better idea once we examine him.’ Dania glanced around, dazzled by the harsh light from the arc lamp. Although it was cooler inside, she was sweating in her over-suit.

The photographer, a thin-faced woman with limp dark hair, took shots from different angles of the body and of the room. With a nod to the officers, she left the building. She would wait outside in case her services were needed again.

The two detectives approached the figure. Dania dropped to her knees and felt inside the pockets of the tattered jacket.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

She tried the breast and inside pockets, but only succeeded in pulling the material apart. Underneath the jacket were the remains of a shirt, chewed through in places. She imagined the rats crawling over the body, gnawing at the cotton in their attempts to get at the flesh. The material of the dark tie had rotted so much that it came away in her hand. She put her hands inside the trouser pockets, but all she could feel through the fabric were the thin leg bones. There was nothing to identify the body. The shoes looked like those a boy would wear, but that was all.

‘How do you think he died, boss?’ Honor said.

Dania motioned to the victim’s arms. ‘He was chained to the wall. So I’m guessing starvation.’ She gazed at the faded paisley-patterned rag lying next to the figure. ‘Whoever did this must have pushed the child’s handkerchief into his mouth to keep him quiet. It would have fallen out during the stages of putrefaction.’

Honor shook her head. ‘So no one heard the poor lad cry out.’ She paused. ‘Know what I’m thinking?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Why would you put chains in a doocot?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t always used as a doocot.’

‘I’m betting that whoever brought him here attached those chains to the wall.’

‘Planned it well in advance, you mean?’ Dania studied the chains. They weren’t the heavy-duty type found in agricultural equipment, but still strong enough to restrain an adult, never mind a child. ‘I’m inclined to agree. Not only did he put them in, he found manacles that fitted securely round a child’s wrist.’

‘He was well prepared.’

‘You know, Honor, when the call from the uniforms came in, my first thought was that we were going to find Euna Montcrieff.’

As soon as the notification that Euna was missing had come in to West Bell Street police station, the officers on duty had followed the UK’s Child Rescue Alert protocol. Messages had immediately gone out on local radio and television.

‘We need to get an ID,’ Dania said, peering at the yellowing skull spotted with pigeon droppings. ‘And also find out how long he’s been here.’

‘I guess this is one for CAHID.’

CAHID was Dundee University’s world-famous Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification. As well as running student courses in anatomy and forensic anthropology, it aided the police in their investigations. Dania had used their services before and was well aware of how lucky West Bell Street was to have them on their doorstep.

‘We can make a start looking through Missing Persons but, until we know the post-mortem interval, we may end up chasing our tail.’ She got to her feet. ‘I think we’re finished here. We need to hand over to Forensics.’

Outside, they struggled out of their over-suits and slippers, watching the forensics officers file in to secure and catalogue the scene. Through the trees, Dania caught a glimpse of the blue-and-white police tape that cordoned off the area. The volunteers searching for Euna Montcrieff had long since dispersed and headed back down the A90 to Dundee, leaving the uniforms to continue the hunt. The sergeant had informed Dania that they’d found the clothes. They would be on their way to the lab to be tested for traces of the killer.

Since none had been detected on the clothes of the previous victim, Dania doubted any would be detected on Euna’s. She didn’t envy DI Owen McFadden, who’d been assigned by Jackie Ireland, the station’s chief inspector and the senior investigating officer, to take the lead on the killer rapist investigation. Given the gravity of the case, almost everyone at the station was assisting him.

Honor leant against the araucaria. ‘Looks quiet.’

‘So does a graveyard.’

‘Inchture. Been here before?’

‘My first time.’

‘It was in the papers earlier this year. Something about a new housing development. The locals didn’t seem too keen. Do you think the owner will bill us?’ Honor added, motioning to the broken door hanging on one hinge.

‘I’m not sure there is an owner. Isn’t this public land?’

‘Something we’ll have to check. I’ll get on it as soon as we’re back.’

‘If there is an owner, there’s one question I’d like to ask him.’

‘Only one, boss?’

‘For starters, anyway.’

Honor glanced at her. ‘What is it?’

‘We had to break that down,’ Dania said, gazing at the door. ‘But someone chained the lad up. And locked him in.’ She turned away and stared into the distance to where the uniforms were sweeping the parched fields. ‘So where’s the key?’

‘What can you tell from the clothes, Kimmie?’ Dania said impatiently. ‘I know you were working on this yesterday evening. I was passing the building and saw your lights on.’

Kimmie, a dark-haired Australian, was the station’s chief forensics officer. The two women had developed an excellent working relationship and consequently, as Kimmie herself was fond of saying, they were more than the sum of their parts. Despite her ridiculously high workload, she was always relentlessly cheerful.

‘I’ve got Euna Montcrieff’s clothes to look at,’ she said, in a strong Australian accent. ‘But I thought I’d get ahead with yours first.’ She grinned. ‘It’s impossible to get bored shitless in this job.’

‘Thanks for fitting me in. I appreciate it.’

‘No worries. You caught me at a generous moment.’ She looked enquiringly at Dania. ‘Interesting that Euna’s clothes were found close to where you found your chained lad. Do you think there’s a connection?’

‘I doubt it. Whoever chained that boy up did it years ago. It’s not our killer rapist. He’s been hunting for less than a month.’

‘I wonder if the location’s significant.’

‘Do you know Inchture?’

‘I drove through it once. I thought it would be one of those sleepy villages – you know the kind, full of newlyweds and nearly-deads. But it’s not like that. There are some lovely old houses. Maybe whoever owns the doocot lives in one of them.’

‘We’ve started questioning the locals.’ Dania turned her attention to the large plastic sheet on the table. ‘So, what have you got for me?’

The chained boy’s clothes were laid out as neatly as possible given their state: jacket, trousers and shirt above, and socks and pants below. The shoes and pieces of tie lay beside the paisley-patterned handkerchief. Everything was dirty and ragged, and the shoes and outer clothes were stained with grey pigeon droppings.

‘First off,’ Kimmie said, ‘these are smart, good-quality clothes.’

‘Navy-blue jacket and black trousers. Honor thought they might be a school uniform.’

‘They look like the type of clothes that have been around for years, so I couldn’t give you an estimate of when they were made. I’ll write it up for you once I’ve had a chance to examine the fabric in detail.’

‘The shoes look like they were expensive.’

‘The word here is “were”,’ Kimmie said, fingering the mouldy, dried-out leather. ‘The laces were so shredded, I’m afraid they fell apart. Not something a young boy would wear to meet his mates,’ she added. ‘So I’m with Honor here. My money’s on a school uniform. But there’s something that might help you pin it down.’ She lifted the middle section of the tie, and carried it to the adjacent bench.

‘This little beaut is my new stereomicroscope,’ she said, laying the tie on the plate. ‘As the name suggests, there are two different viewing angles. Means you get a three-D image.’ She stood back. ‘Have a look.’

Dania peered through the eyepieces.

‘You may need to move the material around,’ Kimmie said.

‘No, I can see it. Could that be a shield?’

‘I’m guessing it’s a school crest. It’s hard to get the detail because much of the stitching is missing. Can you see the shape of a cross in the centre?’

‘Only because you’ve told me that’s what it is.’ Dania lifted her head. ‘Can you magnify it?’

‘Sure. And I can try different wavelengths of light. Why don’t you leave it with me and I’ll get photos for you?’

‘When can you do that?’

Kimmie pulled a face. ‘End of the day?’

‘I owe you one.’

‘You owe me a few, actually,’ Kimmie said good-naturedly. ‘Now come and take a gander at these,’ she added, steering Dania towards the back of the room. ‘It took us a while to get them off the wall – everything was rusted to extinction.’

On another table were four sets of chains and two manacles. ‘These are lavatory chains,’ Kimmie said. ‘You don’t see them now, except in old houses. They’re not too sturdy, which is why whoever put this poor kid in there doubled them up. They were brazed to plates, which were attached to the stone wall in the usual way, by drilling holes and screwing them in. It was a pretty neat job.’

‘What sort of equipment do you use to braze metal?’

‘You’re joining two metals together, so you need flux and a filler, which usually comes in the form of rods. And you need a high temperature to melt the filler.’

‘A gas cylinder?’

‘Yeah. And for a job as small as this, I’m guessing a hand-held torch.’

‘And the manacles?’

‘I think they were made especially for the boy. You don’t need a key. You push this hinged bit down. If his arms hadn’t been
forced so far apart, he’d have been able to get out of them easily. Again, it’s a neat job.’

‘I don’t suppose you could get fingerprints off the manacles?’

‘The thought crossed my mind. I did try, but there’s nothing there.’

Dania played with the manacle, imagining the poor lad’s frustration at not being able to reach it and free himself.

‘So what are you thinking, Dania?’

‘I’m wondering what kind of a man we’re dealing with here.’ She laid the chain on the sheet. ‘Did he come back now and again, for example?’

Kimmie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would he?’

‘To watch his victim slowly dying of hunger.’

As Dania entered the packed incident room, she caught sight of a prematurely balding, broad-shouldered man standing in front of the main touchscreen. Owen McFadden was gazing, thoughtful-eyed, at the photographs of the first abducted girl, taken when she was alive. Below were the photos taken after death. Her naked body and clothes had been abandoned in and around the woodland near Birkhill, out of sight of habitation. And nowhere near any CCTV or traffic cameras.

The file on Euna Montcrieff, the second abducted girl, had already been uploaded. Owen tapped the screen and images of her clothes appeared, along with a map of their location. Dania had to admit that, since the introduction of the touchscreens, their lives had been made considerably easier. The DIs now had desks in the newly enlarged incident room, which suited her greatly, as she could work more closely with Honor and Hamish Downie.

Honor had been her second-in-command since Dania’s arrival in Dundee two years earlier, and was a highly popular officer at
West Bell Street. Her dark hair changed with the seasons, cut short one month, then left to grow wild, then cropped again. Currently, it was at that midway stage, neither short nor long. She was chewing toffee, because when she was at her desk she could rarely go five minutes without putting a piece into her mouth. Dania often marvelled at how the girl managed to maintain her slim figure.

‘Where’s Hamish?’ Dania said, dropping her bag on her chair.

‘Still out at Inchture, boss, questioning the locals about the doocot. I don’t hold out much hope, myself.’

‘Why not?’

‘That lad has been in there for years. Assuming anyone knew anything then, they’ll have moved away by now.’

Dania studied the girl. ‘That’s not my experience of rural communities. They tend to stay in the same location, they’re close-knit, and everyone knows everyone’s business. And they remember things that happened decades ago.’

‘I can tell you listen to The Archers,’ Honor said, smiling. ‘Ah, here’s our boy now.’

A solidly built man strode in and took the desk opposite. Born and bred in Dundee, Hamish Downie had returned the previous year from a stint in Glasgow where – as he put it – he’d shown those Weegies how it was done. He’d settled back into Dundee life as though he’d never left, speaking in an accent that was part Glaswegian, part Dundonian. Dania, who had difficulty with some Scottish accents, would occasionally take Honor aside and ask for a translation. As the muscle in the team, Hamish’s contribution was particularly valued. What endeared him to Dania was that he was fiercely protective of the women in the squad, both in the office and in the field. The three of them worked well together, which gave Dania an immense sense of relief. At her previous post in London’s Metropolitan Police, she’d been forced to listen to the endless childish squabbling, and watched how officers tried to undermine each other to win a promotion. Apart from an incident shortly after her arrival, nothing like that had happened in Dundee. She and Owen McFadden were the same rank, but they were constantly helping each other out.

Honor unwrapped another toffee. ‘I was telling DI Gorska how you volunteered to be the one to traipse around Inchture,’ she said to Hamish.

‘Volunteered? Pish. You ordered me to do it,’ he said, trying not to smile, and failing. ‘I don’t know why I always end up with the legwork.’

‘You’ve got the best-looking legs.’

Hamish scrunched a piece of paper into a ball and threw it at her. She ducked and tossed him a toffee.

‘So what did you learn at Inchture?’ Dania said.

He picked up the toffee and examined it. ‘I ken it had to be done, but it was a waste of time,’ he said stiffly. ‘No one could tell me anything. They were more interested in the search for Euna. Some of the locals are neighbours of the Montcrieffs and had been at the wedding.’

‘Did anyone know who owns the doocot?’

‘Half of them didn’t even know there was a doocot. Aye, and of the ones who did, half thought it was a public building, and the other half thought someone owned it but they couldn’t tell me who.’ He paused. ‘But no one could remember ever going inside.’

‘And did they know of a boy who went missing years ago?’

He shook his head. ‘On that point, they were quick to say they knew nothing.’

‘Do you think they’re closing ranks?’

‘Hard to say, ma’am.’

‘Once we get a firm ID, you can go back there.’

‘Oh, joy.’ He smiled. ‘Although it beats sitting on my bahookie.’

‘And you can take DS Randall with you.’

Honor nodded in resignation. ‘By the way, boss, have you seen the DCI?’ she said suddenly.

‘Not this morning.’

‘She’s holding a press conference in a few minutes.’

Dania was glad it was her superior who was briefing the press. Since the killer rapist had risen to prominence, Dundee had fallen into a state of paralysis. With a second kidnapping, the fear level was such that girls were rarely allowed anywhere unsupervised. That a young girl had been abducted from a wedding reception, possibly in full view of other children, was a scenario that no one could have imagined. Which was why the killer had succeeded in getting away with it.

Honor was uploading images of the chained boy. ‘Okay,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘that’s the lot.’

The touchscreen they were using for the chained-boy case was at the back of the room. Honor pressed a key on the hand-held and the screen burst into life. The photographic images from the doocot appeared, followed by those of the victim’s clothes.

‘Kimmie’s promised us close-ups of the tie by end of play today,’ Dania said. ‘We think there’s a school crest.’

‘On it. I’ll make a list of schools in the area.’

Dania smiled to herself. Honor was a great asset. She never said, ‘Why?’ She said, ‘Why not?’ It was an attitude that would ensure her rise up the ranks of the police force.

‘Right, if anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be at CAHID,’ Dania said.

Honor looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Going to see Harry?’

‘I’m here to see Professor Harry Lombard,’ Dania said to the mousy-haired receptionist.

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘He is. DI Dania Gorska.’

‘I’ll let him know you’ve arrived,’ she said, picking up the phone.

A minute later, Harry Lombard walked briskly down the corridor. He was in his short-sleeved blue tunic. Dania had worked with him on one of her major cases the year before. At the time, she’d been drawn to him romantically but nothing had come of it. Instead, he’d formed a liaison with Kimmie. Dania had often wondered how that was going but her hints to Kimmie were met with a glum silence, and she could only conclude that the affair had fizzled out.

‘DI Gorska,’ Harry said, pumping her hand. ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ he added enthusiastically.

Heat rushed through her as she looked into the familiar warm brown eyes. ‘Thanks for taking this on, Professor. I know you’re busy.’

‘Never too busy to help the police.’ He smiled shyly. ‘So, shall we make a start?’

‘Please lead the way.’

He walked with her along the corridors, chatting about nothing in particular, until they reached what she recognised as the specimen room. He opened the door, and stood back politely to let her pass.

The low-ceilinged room held several trolleys, each with a large Anglepoise clamped to one end. On the nearest trolley, a skeleton had been carefully arranged, its hands rotated outwards, palms upwards and thumbs pointing away. Dania remembered this as the st. . .