Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

But it was a hope that faded every hour.

When Lyn didn't return from her run, her husband Marcus had set out to look for her. He admitted later he wasn't unduly worried to start with. At that point, before Sally Palmer's name had been released, his main concern was that his wife might have decided to try a different route and become lost. It had happened before, and as he followed the track towards the lake, it was with a degree of irritation that he called her name. Lyn knew he had a busy day, and now her stupid insistence on an early-morning run was making him late.

He still wasn't too anxious as he crossed the reedbeds and cut into the woods. When he found a dead mallard tied to the standing stone, his first reaction was anger at the senseless cruelty. He'd lived all his life in the country and had no time for sentiment where animals were concerned, but neither did he like casual sadism. Only as he thought of it in those terms did the first chill of fear begin to enter his mind. He told himself that the dead bird couldn't possibly have any connection with Lyn being late. But once there, the fear was impossible to dislodge.

It continued to grow, fed by his echoing shouts that rang unanswered in the trees. By the time he began making his way out of the woods he was fighting to remain calm. Hurrying back towards the lake, he told himself she would probably be waiting for him back at home. And then he saw something that blew away his false hopes like so much dust.

Half-hidden by a tree root was Lyn's stopwatch.

He picked it up, took in the broken strap and cracked face. Fear now giving way to panic, he looked around for some other sign of her. There was nothing. Or, at least, nothing he recognized as such. He saw the thick wooden stake hammered into the ground nearby without realizing its significance. It would be several hours before the police forensic team confirmed it as the remains of a snare, and several more before splashes of Lyn's blood were identified on the path.

But of Lyn herself, there was no trace.

It seemed like most of the village turned out to help with the search. At another time, or in different circumstances, it might have been thought that Lyn Metcalf could have left of her own accord. Oh, she and Marcus seemed happy enough, it was generally agreed. But you could never tell. Coming when it did, though, on the heels of the murder of another woman, her disappearance immediately took on a far more sinister aspect. And while the police concentrated their efforts on the woods and area where she'd gone running, virtually everyone who was fit and able wanted to help find her.

It was a beautiful summer evening. As the sun lowered in the sky and swallows dipped and swooped, the atmosphere could almost have been festive, a rare sense of communal unity and resolve. But no-one could forget for long the reason for them being there. And with that came another unpalatable fact.

Whoever had done this was one of Manham's own.

It was no longer possible to blame an outsider. Not any more. It could hardly be an accident, and certainly no coincidence, that the two women came from the same village. No-one could believe that an outsider would have either stayed around after killing Sally Palmer, or come back to claim a second victim. Which meant that whoever had hacked one woman to death and strung wire across a path to snare another had to be local. There was a chance it was someone from a neighbouring village, but that begged the question of why Manham had been the site for both attacks. The other possibility was both more likely and more frightening: that not only did we know the two women, we also knew the animal responsible.

That realization was still taking root as people set out to look for Lyn Metcalf. And although it hadn't yet begun to flower, it was already beginning to put up shoots. It revealed itself as a slight distance in the way people responded to each other. Everyone knew of murders where the killer had taken part in the search. Where they had publicly expressed revulsion and sympathy, even shed reptilian tears, when all the while the victim's blood was barely dry on their hands, the final screams and entreaties locked away to fester in their heart. And even as Manham showed its solidarity as a community, kicking aside long grass and peering under bushes, suspicion was already undermining it from within.

I'd joined the search myself as soon as I finished evening surgery. Its epicentre was the police trailer set up as near to the woods where Marcus Metcalf had found his wife's stopwatch as the road allowed. It was on the outskirts of the village, and cars were pulled into the hedgerows for quarter of a mile either side of it. Some people had just struck off by themselves, but the majority had come here, drawn by the glut of activity. There were a few journalists, but only from the local press. At that point the nationals still hadn't picked up on the story, or perhaps felt that one woman murdered and another abducted wasn't particularly newsworthy. That would soon change, but for the moment Manham was still able to go about its business with relative anonymity.

The police had set up a table to help co-ordinate the public search. It was as much a PR exercise as anything; giving the community a sense that it was doing something and making sure the volunteers didn't get in the way of the professional teams. But the countryside around Manham was so wild that it would be impossible to cover all of it anyway. It could soak up searchers like a sponge without ever giving up its secrets.

I saw Marcus Metcalf standing with a group of men, yet slightly apart from them. He had the undefined muscle bulk of a manual worker, and a face that, under normal circumstances, was pleasant and cheerful under a shock of blond hair. Now he looked haggard, a pallor yellowing his tanned features. With him was Scarsdale, the reverend finally finding a situation that suited the severity of his features. I'd considered going over to express… what? Sympathy? Condolences? But the hollowness of anything I could say, and memory of how little I'd appreciated the awkward utterances of near strangers myself, prevented me. Instead, leaving him to the reverend's ministrations, I went straight to the table to be told where to go.

It was a decision I would come to regret.

I spent an unproductive few hours trudging across a boggy field as part of a group that included Rupert Sutton, who seemed glad of the excuse to be out without his domineering mother. His bulk made it hard work for him to keep up with the rest of us, but he persevered, breathing heavily through his mouth as we slowly made our way across the uneven landscape, trying to skirt the wetter patches of ground. Once he slipped and stumbled to his knees. His perspiring body gave off an animal whiff of exertion as I helped him up.

'Bugger,' he panted, his face colouring with embarrassment as he stared at the mud coating his hands like black gloves. His voice was surprisingly light, almost girlish. 'Bugger,' he kept repeating, blinking furiously.

Other than that, few people spoke. When the growing dusk made it impractical to search any longer we abandoned the attempt and made our way back. The general mood was as sombre as the darkening landscape. I knew many of the searchers would stop off at the Black Lamb, seeking company more than alcohol. I almost went straight home. But I didn't feel like being alone any more than anyone else did that night. I parked outside the pub and went in.

Apart from the church, the Lamb was the oldest building in the village, and one of the few in Manham that had a traditional thatched roof. Anywhere else in the Broads it would have been smartened into twee respectability, but with only the locals to please no real attempt had been made to halt its slow decay. The reeds on its thatch were slowly mouldering, while the unpainted plaster of its walls was cracked and stained.