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Balancing the torch on the edge of the bucket with one hand, he reached in with the other and picked out the sheep. Placing the sheep in one of the fields on the play-mat, he reached back into the bucket.
‘Here is another sheep.’
He stood it next to the first.
‘Here is a cow.’
He repeated the process, his torch beam picking out a brown cow, a group of chickens, a dapple-grey carthorse, two pink pigs. Each animal was arranged carefully on the play-mat, the chickens in the cobbled farmyard by the farmhouse, the pigs in the sty, the cow and the horse in different fields. He seemed to be enjoying the game. For the first time since Jessie had met him, she heard animation in his voice, saw a flicker of light in his eyes.
‘You like the farm animals?’ Jessie asked.
Sami met her gaze and smiled a tiny, tight smile – the first hint of a smile that she had seen.
‘Sami like animals,’ he murmured. He looked back to the play-mat. ‘All the animals are in the farm. The sheeps, the cow, the chickens, the horse, the pigs, are all in the farm.’
Jessie glanced into the bucket; there was a dark shape at the bottom.
‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘Here, look, you’ve missed one.’
At the bottom of the bucket was a donkey. A black plastic donkey. Reaching in, she retrieved it, held the donkey out to Sami.
He cringed away, his face a mask of terror. Only his shoulders moved, their rise and fall exaggerated, as though he was struggling to catch his breath.
‘The donkey is dead,’ he whispered, through pale lips.
He stared at the donkey, unblinking. Shadows ringed his eyes, dark smudges in the pallor of his face.
‘The donkey is fine,’ Jessie said, her voice deliberately higher in pitch, jolly. She placed the donkey on the play-mat, in the same field as the carthorse. ‘Look he’s fine. He’s in the field with the carthorse.’ She turned the donkey ninety degrees so that it and the carthorse were nose to nose. ‘They’re having a chat. What do you think they’re talking about, Sami?’
He had started to tremble, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
‘The donkey is burnt.’ Reaching out, he pushed the donkey on to its side with the tip of one finger. ‘The donkey is dead.’
‘No, Sami. The donkey is made from black plastic. It’s just a black plastic donkey.’
Sami shook his head. He rocked backwards and forwards on his haunches.
‘The donkey is burnt. The donkey is dead.’ He started searching frantically around him, eyes wide with fear. ‘Where is the blanket?’
Jessie wanted to touch him, to reach out and wrap her arms around him, keep him safe. But she couldn’t. Wasn’t allowed to. Modern political correctness made cuddling children – even distressed ones – forbidden. She had already taken a risk shutting the door.
‘Blanket? Why do you need a blanket, Sami?’
Ignoring the question, he delved into the dolls’ container, tossing dolls and pieces of equipment out on the carpet behind him.
‘Where is the blanket, where is the blanket, where is the blanket?’ he chanted in a singsong voice, almost under his breath. He found a pink doll’s blanket, a silky rabbit embroidered in one corner.
‘The girl knows.’
‘What does the girl know?’ Jessie asked softly.
‘Here is the blanket,’ Sami muttered.
Shuffling back across the carpet on his knees, he reached the play-mat. He laid the doll’s blanket over the donkey. Carefully, he tucked the blanket under the donkey, flipping it over so that the animal didn’t touch his skin, rolling the donkey up. He laid the roll of blanket containing the donkey on the carpet next to Jessie. Picking up the Maglite, he shone it on the roll.
‘The donkey is burnt. The donkey is dead.’
‘You think the donkey has been burnt? And the donkey is now dead?’
The little boy’s face looked suddenly old, lined with fear and sadness. ‘The donkey is dead.’
‘So you’ve covered it with the blanket?’
‘The torch can see. The donkey is burnt. The donkey is dead.’ Tears welled up in his eyes and a barely audible croak came from somewhere at the back of his throat. ‘The Shadowman came. The girl knows.’
8 (#ulink_3ba1f42f-1fe9-5ba7-9c4e-1b7eaac9dfa4)
Jessie found a parking space at the far end of Aldershot high street, shoved a couple of pounds in the machine and tacked the ticket to her windscreen. For a Tuesday afternoon, the high street was unexpectedly busy: shoppers, trussed up in padded coats, scarves and hats, gloved hands clutching bulging plastic bags, scurrying along, heads down against the chill wind cutting between the buildings.
She popped into Pret A Manger to grab a sandwich, ate it, sitting at a stool in the window, chewing but not tasting the malted granary bread, tuna and rocket – fuel rather than enjoyment. Back on the high street, she scanned the shops on either side of her, caught sight of the green triangular Early Learning Centre sign a hundred yards to her left.
There had been something about the animals in that farm that had resonated with Sami, both good and bad. In the two sessions she’d had with him, he hadn’t smiled once. The animals had achieved the hint of a smile at least, if only a fleeting one. They had also delivered the opposite: abject terror. From today’s observations, she believed that they might provide her with a way to access his mind; a door, ajar a fraction now, that she could perhaps push open. Particularly if she could recreate the farm, the timing and sequence in which he received the animals in the more controlled environment of her office at Bradley Court.
The Early Learning Centre was empty: the rush to stock up on large multicoloured plastic objects for kiddies’ Christmas presents had clearly not yet begun. A blonde sales girl, early twenties, was standing behind the counter, texting on her iPhone.
She glanced up and smiled. ‘Let me know if I can help you.’
Jessie returned the smile. ‘Thank you.’
The shelves bore a bewildering array of toys in all shapes, sizes and colours: dressing-up and pretend play, dolls and doll houses, vehicles and construction, art, music and creative play, a whole range of beach toys, incongruous given the single-digit temperatures outside and the chill rain that had begun hammering the shop’s plate-glass window.
‘The baby toys are on special, if you’re interested.’ The shop assistant had finished her text.
‘Oh, no, thank you. Actually, I’m looking for a farm.’
‘Action figures and play-sets … at the back,’ she continued, when Jessie couldn’t catch sight of the sign. ‘Follow me.’
At the back of the store were boxes of every conceivable kind of play-set: dinosaurs, pony club, police, army – tiny green plastic warriors in jungle camouflage – schools, hospitals and farms.
‘This farm is wonderful.’ The sales girl held up a large vinyl box. ‘The actual box unzips down the sides … look … and flattens out to become the play-mat.’ She rotated it so that Jessie could see. ‘It’s got a farmyard, fields and even a pond, printed on both sides. There are ducks inside to go on the pond. And it comes with a plastic farmhouse, a tractor and all the other farm animals.’
But were any of the animals black? Could she ask the question without sounding committable? Did she have a choice?
‘It looks perfect.’ Jessie paused. ‘Are, uh, are any of the animals black?’ she asked in a voice so quiet that even she could barely hear herself over the patter of rain against the plate-glass window.
‘Excuse me?’ The sales girl eyed her, unsure whether to take the question seriously.
‘Are any of the animals black?’ she repeated. ‘I, uh …’ How to explain this so she didn’t sound insane. The truth was far too complex. ‘My nephew likes black animals. His … his cousin – my sister’s boy, not my brother’s … this farm is for my brother’s son. He has a black plastic donkey that Sami … that Sam loves, so I wanted to make sure that at least one of the animals was black. He, uh, he likes black animals …’ she tailed off.
The sales girl didn’t look convinced, not that Jessie could blame her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But you can always buy extra.’ With a tilt of her head, she indicated a row of narrow shelves, stacked one on top of each other, bearing small plastic toy animals of every description. ‘I know they’re a bit expensive, but they’re Schleich.’ She paused. ‘Hand-painted in Germany,’ she continued, ‘each one unique,’ when it was obvious that Jessie had never heard of Schleich.
‘Perfect, thank you. I’ll take the farm set and I’ll have a look at the Schleich animals.’
While the sales girl wandered back to the cash desk and her mobile, Jessie chose two from the Schleich set, a jet-black cow and a black-and-white collie dog, looking carefully through the dogs until she found one that had just a couple of small white patches on its body. How would Sami react to an animal that was mostly, but not entirely black? Would it engender the same horror in him as a wholly black animal?
She put the rest of the dogs back, ordering them one behind the other, so that, from the front of the shelf where customers stood to choose, they were perfectly aligned. She glanced at the other animals. They were in disarray, as if a tribe of kids had come in and trashed them, which they probably had. Looking at the mess in front of her, she felt the familiar crackle of electricity travel across her skin, a tightness around her throat.
Laying the cow and the collie on the floor beside her, she rearranged the horses, one behind the other in the same manner as the dogs, the foals, the goats, the sheep. She was so absorbed in the task that she didn’t hear the sales girl approach.
‘I can do that.’
Jessie started. ‘Oh, hi. It’s OK, I’m nearly finished.’
‘I can do that,’ she repeated, an edge to her tone. ‘It’s my job.’
‘I’ve only got the ducks to do and then I’m finished,’ Jessie said firmly. The electric suit was spitting against her skin, a pulsing tension that she had to assuage. She was aware that the sales girl must think she was a nutter. Would give anything to be able to walk away, leaving the ducks in a mess. Perhaps she should tell the sales girl that she was a psychologist.
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ The sales girl retreated in angry, clicking steps, casting back over her shoulder, ‘As you’ve only got the ducks left to do.’
Jessie rested her head against the wall. She felt close to tears. I’m a psychologist who could give most of my patients a run for their money in the fucked-up stakes. Finishing quickly, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The animals were lined in perfect rows, parade ground squared-away. She felt calm; her pulse back to normal. Collecting the Schleichs from the floor beside her, she carried them to the cash desk, laid them on top of the farm box.
‘They didn’t look tidy,’ Jessie murmured.
The sales girl wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘Gift wrap?’
‘No. No, thank you.’
The rain had turned to damp sleet and the sky had darkened to charcoal, as if, while she’d been in the shop, someone had dimmed the ceiling light. Thunder grumbled on the edge of town. Pulling her hood up, Jessie stepped on to the pavement. She was pretty sure that the sales girl would be on her mobile phone the second she was out of sight, texting, ‘You’d never guess what …’ to a friend.
Head down, she jogged up the street, wet sleet sloshing against her hood. She was nearly back to her own car when she caught sight of a red Golf GTI parked crookedly, half on the pavement, a hand-scrawled ‘Military Police’ notice propped on the dashboard. Stopping, she looked around. She was beyond the shops, where they petered to small office buildings. Behind her was a modern brick building with a large black front door bearing a brass lion’s head knocker that would have looked more in place gracing the entrance to a stately home. A rectangular plaque beside the door bore engravings that she couldn’t read from this distance. Turning back to the Golf, she was debating whether to leave a note tucked under the wiper.
‘Are you checking my car for neatness?’
She started, turned. Callan was right behind her, a look of amusement in those watchful amber eyes. He was wearing jeans and the same navy hoodie she’d seen him in yesterday, a black waterproof, undone, covering the hoodie.
‘You failed miserably,’ she said. ‘The coke can and crisp packets in the footwell aren’t going to win you any prizes.’
‘I’ll try harder next time, Doctor.’ His tone was teasing. Pulling the keys from his pocket, he unlocked the car. ‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’
‘Don’t I need to be a hooker to travel in a car like this?’
The ghost of a smile on his lips.
Jessie smiled back sweetly. ‘No, thank you. I’ve got my own car. Parked legally. Paid for.’ She indicated the sticker in his window. ‘Isn’t that called abuse of position?’
‘I was late for an appointment.’ He caught her questioning look. ‘Admin. Nothing exciting.’ His gaze slid away from hers. ‘I couldn’t find a space. There have to be some perks to the job.’ He walked around to the driver’s side, pulled open the door. ‘Four p.m. I’ll meet you at ten to, Provost Barracks main entrance.’
She nodded. ‘I remember. I’ll be there.’
‘Don’t be late.’ A shift in his voice – humour to tension.
‘I won’t.’
Standing on the pavement, she watched him pull on to the road and accelerate away, tyres churning up a plume of wet sleet from the tarmac. She started to walk back to her own car, then stopped. On impulse, she crossed the pavement to the brass plaque. A small business accounting firm occupied the ground and first floor, an IT business the second. At the bottom of the list, third floor, Mr John Rushton-Booth, Consultant Neurologist.
9 (#ulink_0c52d0c3-17a8-56f3-ad66-1f6a71d2b67b)
Jeanette Bass-Cooper looked hard at the detective inspector. She prided herself on being open-minded, but even she had limits. He looked as if he had been dragged out of some Soho rock club at 4 a.m., beer still in hand, and teleported down here to the seaside, kicking and screaming, blinking those disconcerting mismatched eyes against the daylight, smoky and feeble as it was.
His partner, on the other hand, the detective sergeant – Workman, Jeanette thought she’d said – was his antithesis. Shapeless black wash-and-wear trousers skimming solid ankles, chunky lace-ups that wouldn’t be out of place on a 1930s nanny, mousy hair cut into a low-maintenance bob. But she seemed sensible at least. Reliable.
Detective Inspector Bobby ‘Marilyn’ Simmons – Marilyn after Manson, he would hasten to add if questioned on the nickname his colleagues had bestowed on him the first day he joined the force, a nickname that had dogged him ever since – looked at the short, boxy woman in front of him in her black dress and high-heeled patent boots and felt the beginnings of a headache. The words ‘mutton’ and ‘lamb’ flashed into his mind. But at least she seemed intelligent, could string a sentence together that contained no swear words, a rare skill in the world he occupied.
A wind had picked up, whipping the water of the harbour into a frothy, gunmetal soup, cutting straight through his leather jacket. Hauling up his collar, he hunkered down, wishing that he’d brought a scarf, put on a windproof fleece, anything more sensible than his battered biker.
‘DS Workman. Take Ms Bass-Cooper to the Command Vehicle to get her out of the cold. Switch the engine on to get the blowers going. I don’t want our one witness freezing to death before we’ve drained her of information. Take a written statement while you’re there.’
As DS Workman led Jeanette Bass-Cooper back up the garden towards the gaggle of police vehicles haphazardly parked on the gravel drive, Marilyn turned and strode across the crispy, frostbitten grass towards the narrow strip of pebbles that Bass-Cooper had termed a beach. Not one he fancied sunbathing on.
Looking out across the water to Itchenor, he felt a shot of déjà vu. He had worked on another murder last spring, around the bay in Bosham, a small village of expensive detached houses like the one behind him. Murder in this part of West Sussex was so rare that it had made the national newspapers. A house-sitter, stabbed to death in her bedroom in the middle of the night; her sister, brother-in-law and elderly father in adjacent bedrooms who had heard nothing. It had him stumped for close to a fortnight, until he had found out that the sixty-year-old owner of the house, who had been on holiday with his wife at the time, had a penchant for swinging. Over the telephone from Florida he had explained to Marilyn that he had ‘absolutely no idea’ how photographs of himself, posing naked on a sandy beach, came to be posted on a swingers’ website under the moniker, ‘The Director of Fun’. It turned out that the murderer was a fellow swinger, a fifty-five-year-old woman who thought she was dispatching the director’s wife.
This case, Marilyn feared, would be tougher to crack.
The forensics teams, dressed in their identical navy-blue waterproof onesies, looked, on fleeting glance, like a group of harbour day-trippers – only the masks covering their mouths and noses dispelling that image. They had got here quickly and erected a forensic tent over the body – what remained of it at least. Marilyn didn’t fancy the tent’s chances if this wind picked up. The occasional white flash of the forensics’ camera crew lit it up from the inside, giving him some uncomfortable memories of last night. A nightclub in Portsmouth. He was too old to stay out until 3 a.m., should get sensible, get himself a girlfriend knocking forty, rather than Cindy, virtually half his age and beautiful, but sharp as a blunt instrument.
‘So what have we got?’
Tony Burrows, the lead Crime Scene Investigator pulled his hood back, slid a latex-gloved hand over his bald spot, fingertips grazing the dark hair that ringed his scalp. He reminded Marilyn of a Benedictine monk, the impression emphasized by his short legs and softly rounded stomach. ‘Male.’
Marilyn waited. When no more information was forthcoming, ‘Yup. And …?’
‘That’s about it, at the moment. The body is not what could be termed fresh kill, and we only have half of it.’
Marilyn winced. Despite his chosen profession, he didn’t have a strong stomach, had failed, even after nearly twenty years in Surrey and Sussex Major Crimes, to fully acclimatize to the visceral assault on the senses that dead bodies rendered.
‘Where is the other half?’
‘Anybody’s guess. But the cut is clean, if messy. Chops—’ Burrows made a vertical hacking motion with his hand – ‘rather than tears or rips. An axe, perhaps? A butcher’s chopper, maybe. The body is very badly decomposed, most of the skin and a good part of the flesh missing, as you can see, so identifying the cause may be difficult.’
Marilyn’s eyes hung closed for a moment. ‘Do you think he was dumped here?’
‘Could have been. There’d be no traces left if someone had carried the body down the garden and tossed it on to the beach. Not given how long this Doe has been dead for. Unless he was stored somewhere else and then dumped recently.’ He paused, massaged the dome of his head, eyes raised to the grey sky in thought. ‘But that’s unlikely. Our victim has been exposed to the elements for some time, I think, by the looks of him. Dr Ghoshal will be able to tell you more once he gets him on the slab.’
Marilyn nodded. Cupping his hands in front of his face, he blew into them, stomped his feet to get the circulation going. The house had been vacant for four months, Ms Bass-Cooper had said. His mind turning inwards in thought, he moved away from Tony Burrows and his team, buzzing like flies around the corpse, followed the curve of shingle to the rotten wooden fence that signalled the extent of the garden. Leaning against a wooden upright, he gazed out across the water. Yachts and motor cruisers bobbed at anchor, straining against their moorings in the swell. Though he’d lived in Chichester for almost all of his working life, the best part of twenty years, he wasn’t a sailor – struggled to envision anything less appealing than squatting in a damp little boat being pushed around by the wind. But having lived and worked near the sea for so long, he knew something about tides.
Where was the other half of that body? Had it been dumped in another part of the harbour and taken in a different direction by the tide? Or was it being stored in the killer’s freezer, a sick kind of trophy? Trophy-taking was a common feature when the victim and murderer were strangers: the killer wanting to keep the victim, the moment of death, clear in his or her memory, the trophy a physical tool to aid that process.
