They hadnt planned to leave, Roach said. When Hunter turned around, Roach was bathed in the light of the open fridge door, holding a half-empty milk bottle. This is turning into yoghurt. They would have thrown it away.
Hunter scratched his head. He ambled over to the window and looked out at the two lawns, green and lush, separated by a gravel path. There was an elaborate fountain in one corner of the garden, with a wide stone basin and a Grecian statue of a woman holding an urn, with a steel and glass summer house in the other. Hunter could see the bright fronds of plants.
Hunter looked downwards, at the floor and the walls, and then out at the garden again. He was about to say something when something drew his eye, a detail in the garden that didnt seem quite right. He looked closer, wondering what hed seen that had grabbed his attention, his eyes working faster than his mind, when he realised that it was the lawn itself. It was flat all the way along, green and even, but there was a patch near the back wall where it looked churned up, as if soil had been newly piled up on it.
What do you think to that? Hunter said, before turning around to see Roach kneeling down, examining the skirting and the wall. What is it?
Roach looked up, his brow furrowed, his cockiness gone. It looks like dried blood, he said. And theres some more on the wall.
Hunter followed his gaze; he saw it too. Just specks, and some faint brown smears on the white wall tiles, as if someone had tried to clean it away.
What do we do? Roach said.
Hunter pursed his lips, knowing that he was in a lawyers home, and lawyers can make trouble.
But blood was blood.
You can forget about your strawberries, Hunter said, and headed for the garden. As Roach joined him, Hunter lit a cigarette and made for the path that ran between the lawns.
Where are you going? Roach shouted.
Gardening, was the reply.
Hunter walked quickly down the path, towards the disturbed patch of grass at the end of the garden. He stopped next to the soil beds beside the high garden wall, just before the path wound round towards the summer house. Hunter pointed. Can you see that?
Roach looked and shrugged. Can I see what?
Soil, Hunter replied. On the grass, and there on the path. He pointed at some more dark patches. Someones been doing some digging round here.
Its a garden, Roach said. Its what people do.
Hunter ignored him and strode onto the soil beds, dragging his foot along the ground, his face stern with concentration. Then he stopped. He looked at Roach, and then pointed downwards.
Its looser here, he said. Crumblier, less dense. And theres soil on the lawn and the path. Perhaps they thought it would be rained away, but its been hot all week. Hunter pointed to an old wooden shed, painted green, on the other side of the garden. Get some spades.
Roach looked aghast. We cant rip up a barristers house just because weve found some old blood.
Is that because hes a barrister?
Yes, Roach answered, exasperated, because he can make trouble for us if we get it wrong.
Hunter drew on his cigarette. We can wait for the rest of the squad to arrive, and they can get the excavators in here because you saw spilled gravy.
Roach looked uncertain.
Or we could dig a hole and then fill it back in again, Hunter said.
Roach waved his hand to show that he had relented. Just the flower bed, he said, his voice wary, and then he walked over to the shed. When he returned, he was holding two spades. He rejoined Hunter by the soil bed and said, Someones been ripping that shed apart.
What do you mean?
Just that, Roach replied. All the slats from the back are gone.
Well dig first before we worry about vandals, Hunter said, and thrust the spade into the dirt.
It was hot work: after twenty minutes of digging their shirts were soaked and they had wiped dirty sweat trails across their foreheads. They were about two feet down when Roach cried out in disgust, What the fuck is all that?
Hunter looked down. There was movement in the soil. Flies started to appear out of the dirt, their tiny wings making a soft hum around Hunters head. Roach scraped again at the soil, and then Hunter heard the soft thud of spade on wood. He looked at Roach and saw that he had gone pale, his sleeve over his mouth.
It stinks, Roach muttered, and thats when Hunter caught the stench; it was one he recognised, like gone-off meat, beef left on a warm shelf.
Hunter grimaced and started to move the soil from whatever it was that Roachs spade had hit. Another swarm of flies buzzed around Hunters spade; as the soil was removed, the thudding sounds from his spade became louder, acquiring an echo. They looked at each other, both sensing that they were about to find something they didnt want to see.
When they had finished, Roach climbed out of the hole and looked down. Its the same wood as on the shed, he said.
Hunter took a deep breath. Their digging had exposed wooden planks, painted green, wedged into the hole. The planks had supported the soil, and the hollow sounds that came from beneath told Hunter that there was a cavity.
Whos going to look first? Roach asked.
It might be a dog, Hunter said.
Roach shook his head. Thats more than a dog.
Hunter grimaced and then lay down on his chest so that he could reach into the hole. He moved the remnants of dirt from the end of the planks with his fingers, breathing through his mouth all the time to avoid the stink of whatever was in there and shaking his head to swat away the flies. He managed to ease his fingers under one of the pieces of wood and pulled at it, until he felt it move and was able to shove it to one side. Sunlight streamed into the hole and he heard Roach step away quickly before his lunch splashed onto the path nearby. Hunter clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, the smell making him gag.
The sunlight caught a body, naked, a woman with long dark hair.
Hunter pulled at another plank, and then one more, laying them on the lawn next to the hole, and then he stood up, taking deep breaths.
Roach turned back to the hole. Fuck me, he whispered, wiping his mouth.
In the hole was a woman, crammed into the space, curled up on her side, her face green, her dark hair over her face, with blood on her shoulders and dirt on her bare legs. The hole was small, barely enough space to contain her, not enough room to stretch out.
As Hunter looked, he noticed something else. He lay on the floor again, just to have a closer look, and then he struggled to his feet. He looked at Roach. Its worse than that, he said, his face pale.
How can it be worse? Roach said.
Look at her hands, Hunter said, his face ashen. Can you see her fingers, all bloodied and shredded?
Roach didnt answer, quiet now.
Hunter pulled the boards towards them and turned them over. Look at the underside. Roach looked. There are scratchmarks.
I see them, replied Roach.
Hunter turned to Roach. Do you know what that means?
Roach nodded slowly, his face pale too.
She was buried alive.
Chapter OnePresent Day
Roach nodded slowly, his face pale too.
She was buried alive.
Chapter OnePresent Day
Standing at the door, I stretched and gazed at the view outside my cottage. Clear skies and rolling Lancashire fields. I could see the grey of Turners Fold in the valley below me, but the sunlight turned the tired old cotton town into quaint Victoriana, the canal twinkling soft blue, bringing the summer barges from nearby Blackley as it wound its way towards Yorkshire.
Turners Fold was my home, had always been that wayor so it seemed. Id spent a few years in London as a reporter at one of the nationals, a small-town boy lost in the bright lights, but home kept calling me, and so when the rush of the city wore me down, I headed back north. I used to enjoy walking the London streets, feeling the bump of the crowd, just another anonymous face, but the excitement faded in the end. It didnt take me long to pick up the northern rhythms again, the slower pace, the bluntness of the people, the lack of any real noise. And I liked it that way. It seemed simpler somehow, not as much of a race.
The summers made the move worthwhile. The heat didnt hang between the buildings like it did in London, trapped by exhaust fumes, the only respite being a trip to a park, packed out by tourists.
The tourists dont visit Turners Fold, so it felt like I had the hills to myself, a private view of gentle slopes and snaking ribbons of drystone walls, the town just a blip in the landscape.
But it has character, this tough little town of millstone grit. My mind flashed back to the London rush, the wrestle onto the underground, and I smiled as the breeze ruffled my hair and I felt the first warmth of the day, ready for a perfect June afternoon. I heard a noise behind me, the shuffle of slippers on the stone step. I didnt need to look round. I felt sleepy lips brush my neck as Laura wrapped her arms around my waist.
I thought you were staying in bed, I said.
I want to take Bobby to school, she replied, her voice hoarse from sleep. Early shift next week, so I wont get a chance then, and I need to start revising.
Sergeant McGanity. It has a good ring to it, I said.
But I need to get through the exams first, she said. What are you doing, Jack?
Just enjoying the view.
Laura rested her head on my shoulder and let her hair fall onto my chest. She had grown it over the winter, dark and sleek, past her shoulders now. I looked down and smiled. Cotton pyjamas and fluffy slippers.
What about later? she asked.
Im not sure, I replied. I might take a look at the coroners court, see if theres an inquest.
Morbid, she said, and gave me a playful squeeze.
Where theres grief, theres news, I said. And the Crawler has been quiet as well, so the paper needs to be filled somehow.
Laura grimaced at that. Blackley had been plagued for a couple of years by a peeping Tom, loitering outside houses in a balaclava, taking photographs. Some thought that he had even gone into peoples homes. There had been no attack yet, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time, and so the local press had attached a tag and criticised the police. The name made for great headlines, and sales went up whenever his name went on display.
He has lean patches, Laura said. The surveillance must take time.
So no suspect yet?
Laura gave me a jab in the ribs. You know I wouldnt tell you anyway.
I turned around, moved her hair from her face and kissed her, tasting sleep on her lips, stale and warm. I hate a discreet copper.
Lauras green eyes shone up at me, her dimples flickering in her cheeks. Ive learnt to avoid trouble, because it follows you around, she said, and then she slipped out from under my arm to go back into the house.
I listened as she grabbed Bobby when he skipped past, his yelp turning to a giggle. He was seven now, getting taller, his face longer, the nursery cheeks gone. It seemed like the morning was just about perfect. Wed settled for drifting along, now the buzz of new love had worn off, and there were more carefree mornings like this: Laura happy, Bobby laughing. He was Lauras son from her now-defunct marriage, but he was starting to feel like my own, and I knew how much he brightened up the house, except for those fortnightly trips to see his father, when the house seemed too quiet.
My thoughts drifted back to work. Im a freelance reporter, and I write the court stories, because crime keeps the local newspaper happy. People like to know what other people are doing.
But if I was going to get the stories, I knew I had to go to court. It was enthusiasm I was lacking, not work, because it was harder to get paid these days. The recession had hit the local papers hard, with estate agents and car showrooms no longer paying for the double-page adverts and people increasingly turning to the internet. The paper needed me to fill the pages, but wanted to pay less and less for each story, and so it felt like I had to run faster just to stay in the same place.
I turned to go inside and was about to shut the door, when I heard a noise. I paused and listened. It was the steady click-click of high heels.
I was curious. There were no other houses near mine, and the shoes didnt sound like they were made for walking. Unexpected visitors made me wary. Working the crime stories can upset peoplenames spread through the local rag, reputations ruined. The truth doesnt matter when court hearings are written up. The only thing that matters is whether someone in court said it.
The clicks got closer, and then she appeared in the gateway in front of me.
She was middle aged, bingo-blonde, dressed in a long, black leather coat, too hot for the weather, and high-heeled ankle boots.
You look like youre a long way from wherever you need to be, I said.
She took a few deep breaths, the hill climb taking it out of her, her hands on her knees. She stubbed out a cigarette on the floor.
There are no buses up here, she said, and then she straightened herself. Her breasts tried to burst out of her jumper, her cleavage ravaged by lines and too much sun, and her thighs were squeezed into a strip of cloth three decades too young for her.
Before I could say anything, she looked at me and asked, Are you Jack Garrett? Her accent was local, but it sounded like she was trying to soften it.
Youve come to my door, I replied, wary. You go first.
She paused at first, seemed edgy, and then she said, My name is Susie Bingham, and Im looking for Jack Garrett.
Why?
Ive got a story for him.
I nodded politely, but I wasnt excited yet. The promise of hot news was the line I heard most, but usually it turned out to be some neighbour dispute, or a problem with a boss, someone using the press to win a private fight. Sex, violence and fame sell the nationals, the papers wanting the headline, the grabline, not the story. Local papers are different. Delayed roadworks and court stories fill those pages.
But I had learnt one other thing: it pays to listen first before I turn people away, because just as many people dont realise how good a story can be, who see a rough-cut diamond as cheap quartz.