Lee Weeks - Dead of Winter

‘It’s felt. I’ll get it bagged up and sent your way before we start digging. Did the gym company say they’d cleaned it yet?’

‘Yes. It’s been sent out again so no chance of DNA from it. Do you think there’s a chance there’s a body under the basement?’

‘Could be. We’re still looking for the kid in the Arsenal shirt. We’ve put cameras down the drains, no extra vermin activity. No lumpy stuff that could be flesh. Pitch pipes too; they’re old — at least fifty years — and they’re blistered so if there were any chunks of flesh larger than a couple of inches square they would have got snagged.’

‘Is it freezing out there?’ Robbo reached over for the cafetière as he smiled to himself. The cafetière was wrapped in a leopard-print body warmer: a present from his wife: tongue in cheek, homage to his feminine side. He found it really useful; it kept his coffee hot for an hour.

‘We’ve got heaters in the mobile unit out the front. We can make tea. But yes. . it’s bloody freezing. I’m sure I’ll be used to it by the time I finish here — either that or it’ll be spring. It’s a massive house.’

‘You can ask for a bigger team if you need to pace it up.’

‘No. I need to keep control of who’s dismantling what. There are four of us — that’s enough. If you’re interested you could come and take a look and lend a hand, though?’

‘Wouldn’t want to get in your way.’

‘Very considerate.’

Robbo never left Fletcher House except to get in his car and drive home. In all the years Sandford had known Robbo he’d watched his agoraphobia grow. Without his realizing it Robbo was no longer able to work away from his desk.

Sandford hung up and looked at the piece of plastic again; a fine blond hair was caught between it and the staple. He went across to the collection of samples he had on the floor and picked out one of the small brown bags with a see-though square section in its front; on it he wrote: piece of plastic from ceiling cornice, bedroom 1.

He opened the crime scene log and drew a diagram of the master bedroom and where he’d found the scrap of plastic. He rang his wife.

‘No, definitely won’t be home tonight, love. I’ll try and make it tomorrow for a few hours. Sorry. . happy birthday, love. . yes. . I’ll be thinking of you. Kiss the kids for me and you too of course. Love you.’

Ebony sat beside Harding as she threw the Audi sports car around the unfamiliar roads on the drive out of London towards the Sussex countryside. The snow grew sparser on the roads as they neared the coast. Some of the fields had a hint of patchy green.

‘Thank you for coming, Doctor.’

‘It’s not a problem. We’ll run through the case notes and crime scene diagrams when we get there. I’ll be interested to see any similarities with Blackdown Barn that come to mind. Did you speak to the owners of Rose Cottage when you got the key?’

‘Yes. I met Mr Dalson, the owner, at the Tube station. He was on his way to work. He told me they inherited the cottage from an aunt. When they inherited it, it came with a list of people who regularly hired it for set times in the year. Chrissie Newton had come the year before for the first time. She was lucky, one of the regulars dropped out and she took their May 15th to the 21st slot.’

‘What’s happened to it now?’

‘No one’s booked it since. He told me that they had only visited the cottage a handful of times since it happened. They just haven’t decided what to do with it. They’ve thought about selling it but want to keep it in the family. I think he was hoping if they waited long enough they wouldn’t remember what happened there. Did you come to the cottage at the time, Doctor?’

‘Yes.’

Ebony watched the town quickly disappear and the countryside take over. They were headed on the Hastings Road towards Camber. Camber was a broad sandy beach popular with people coming from the city. Ebony had been there once before on an outing from one of the children’s homes she stayed in. Two and a half hours crowded into a hot minibus and then let loose for a fabulous day of sand and sea and freedom. She and Micky had spent the day jumping the waves and building sand castles. She would always remember the smell of the sea as they got nearer to it and the excitement she felt. She could smell it now.

‘Did you know Carmichael, Doctor?’

‘Not well.’

‘Did you like him?’

Harding lifted her hands from the steering wheel in a shrug gesture: ‘I had no thoughts either way.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘I met Louise once, that’s all. Carmichael was lucky to get her. She was beautiful, bright. She was an heiress from some major margarine company. Although the money didn’t come till she was thirty. She wasn’t born with a silver spoon. But she could have picked anyone.’

‘You think she made a mistake?’

‘I think she had her work cut out. Carmichael wasn’t a man without a past.’

They drove down the secluded lane off Lydd Road, close to the long stretch of sandy beach. The cottage was the last one on the left. A man was working in the garden. He stopped what he was doing, pinning a rose back against the stone front of the house and waited as Harding parked up outside. Ebony got out of the car and took out her warrant card to show him.

‘We won’t disturb you — we just want to take a look inside.’

‘No problem.’ He smiled. ‘I just look after the outside. You have keys?’ Ebony nodded.

He was a posh gardener type with wild unruly hair and a cheeky smile. Harding went back to the car for her bag.

‘Have you been looking after this garden for a long time?’

‘About thirteen years. I look after the gardens of all the holiday cottages on this lane.’

‘So you know the history of this place? Were you around when the incident happened here?’

He nodded. ‘Sort of. . I had just started working but I was actually on holiday that week. I came back to it.’

‘What’s happened to the property since then?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing really. After it happened I rebuilt this wall to the left of the gate. It got knocked by one of the vehicles. Apart from that, nothing’s changed. Except no one comes here now.’

Ebony opened up the file she was carrying and turned the pages. ‘Doesn’t mention the wall being knocked down in the report.’

He shrugged, shook his head. ‘Someone knocked down the corner of the gatepost. I presumed it was when they were reversing, trying get round — it’s a tight spot.’

‘So you rebuilt this section?’ Ebony pointed to the pillar and the edge of the stone wall.

‘Tidied it up more than rebuilt.’

She bent down to get a better look. ‘Where was it knocked down, the middle?’

‘No. . at the top.’

‘Can I have a number for you, in case I need to ask you any questions?’

‘Sure. .’ He smiled. He went to his Land Rover, which was parked up the lane at another house, and brought her back a card.

‘Sorry it’s a bit muddy.’ He grinned as he tried to wipe the thumbprint from the surface with the cuff of his jacket. ‘I did tell someone at the time about the wall. . but they didn’t seem that interested.’

‘Thanks. .’ Ebony took the card. She looked up from reading his card: Marty Readman, landscape gardener, to see him staring at her. She looked away fast as she felt the heat come to her face. She wished she didn’t find it difficult to talk to good-looking men. Harding was waiting for her. As Ebony unlocked the door and opened it the low winter sun flooded inside and set the dust spinning. They stood in the doorway. Ahead of them were the stairs to the upstairs floor. To the right were the living rooms.