Murder Crime on Gallymay
Author: R R Haywood
Date: 2025-05-09 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Crime
Description: ★ Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, Amazon & Audible multi-million bestselling author RR Haywood ★ ★ Over 35 Kindle Bestsellers • One of the most downloaded authors in the UK ★ A detective on holiday. A murder he’s not supposed to solve. Welcome to Murder Crime On Gallymay. A brilliantly funny, character-driven crime mystery with a twist of black humour and just enough grit to bite. ** If you like murder mysteries that balance sharp wit, a compelling plot, and oddly loveable characters, then this one’s for you. Meet Jim Greene. An ordinary detective constable trying 'not' to solve a murder

MURDER CRIME ON

GALLYMAY

RR HAYWOOD

1899 INC LTD

ALSO BY RR HAYWOOD

WASHINGTON POST, WALL S TREET JOURNAL, AUDIBLE & AMAZON ALLSTAR

BESTSELLING AUTHOR , RR HAYWOOD. O NE OF THE TOP TEN MOST DOWNLOADED

INDIE AUTHORS IN THE UK WITH OVER FOUR MILLION BOOKS SOLD AND OVER 35

KINDLE BESTSELLERS.

DELIO. PHASE ONE

*WINNER OF “ BEST NEW BOOK” DISCOVER SCI-FI 2023

#1 Amazon & Audible bestseller

A single bed in a small room.

The centre of Piccadilly Circus.

A street in New York city outside of a 7-Eleven.

A young woman taken from her country.

A drug dealer who paid his debt.

A suicidal, washed-up cop.

The rest of the world now frozen.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

"Brilliant."

"A gripping story. Harrowing, and often hysterical."

"This book is very different to anything else out there - and brilliantly so."

"You'll fall so hard for these characters, you'll wish the world would freeze
just so you could stay with them forever."

FICTION LAND

*Nominated for Best Audio Book at the British Book Awards 2023

*Narrated by Gethin Anthony

*The #1 Most Requested Audio Book in the UK 2023

*Now Optioned For A TV Series

*#1 Amazon bestseller

#1 Audible bestseller

“Imagine John Wick wakes up in a city full of characters from novels –
that’s Fiction Land.”

Not many men get to start over.

John Croker did and left his old life behind – until crooks stole his delivery
van. No van means no pay, which means his niece doesn’t get the life-saving
operation she needs, and so in desperation, John uses the skills of his former
life one last time… That is until he dies and wakes up in Fiction Land. A city
occupied by characters from unfinished novels.

But the world around him doesn’t feel right, and when he starts asking
questions, the authorities soon take extreme measures to stop him finding
the truth about Fiction Land.

EXTRACTED SERIES

EXTRACTED

EXECUTED

EXTINCT

Blockbuster Time-Travel

#1 Amazon US

#1 Amazon UK

#1 Audible US & UK

Washington Post & Wall Street Journal Bestseller

In 2061, a young scientist invents a time machine to fix a tragedy in his past.

But his good intentions turn catastrophic when an early test reveals
something unexpected: the end of the world.

A desperate plan is formed. Recruit three heroes, ordinary humans capable of
extraordinary things, and change the future.

Safa Patel is an elite police officer, on duty when Downing Street comes under terrorist attack. As armed men storm through the breach, she dispatches them
all.

'Mad' Harry Madden is a legend of the Second World War. Not only did he
complete an impossible mission—to plant charges on a heavily defended
submarine base—but he also escaped with his life.

Ben Ryder is just an insurance investigator. But as a young man he witnessed a gang assaulting a woman and her child. He went to their rescue, and killed
all five.

Can these three heroes, extracted from their timelines at the point of death,
save the world?

THE CODE SERIES

The Worldship Humility

The Elfor Drop

The Elfor One

#1 Audible bestselling smash hit narrated by Colin Morgan

#1 Amazon bestselling Science-Fiction

“A rollicking, action packed space adventure…”

“Best read of the year!”

“An original and exceptionally entertaining book.”

“A beautifully written and humorous adventure.”

Sam, an airlock operative, is bored. Living in space should be full of
adventure, except it isn’t, and he fills his time hacking 3-D movie posters.

Petty thief Yasmine Dufont grew up in the lawless lower levels of the ship,
surrounded by violence and squalor, and now she wants out. She wants to
escape to the luxury of the Ab-Spa, where they eat real food instead of rats
and synth cubes.

Meanwhile, the sleek-hulled, unmanned Gagarin has come back from the ever-
continuing search for a new home. Nearly all hope is lost that a new planet
will ever be found, until the Gagarin returns with a code of information that
suggests a habitable planet has been found. This news should be shared with
the whole fleet, but a few rogue captains want to colonise it for themselves.

When Yasmine inadvertently steals the code, she and Sam become caught up
in a dangerous game of murder, corruption, political wrangling
and...porridge, with sex-addicted Detective Zhang Woo hot on their heels, his
own life at risk if he fails to get the code back.

THE UNDEAD SERIES

THE UK’s #1 Horror Series

Available on Amazon & Audible

“The Best Series Ever…”

The Undead. The First Seven Days

The Undead. The Second Week.

The Undead Day Fifteen.

The Undead Day Sixteen.

The Undead Day Seventeen

The Undead Day Eighteen

The Undead Day Nineteen

The Undead Day Twenty

The Undead Day Twenty-One

The Undead Twenty-Two

The Undead Twenty-Three: The Fort

The Undead Twenty-Four: Equilibrium

The Undead Twenty-Five: The Heat

The Undead Twenty-Six: Rye

The Undead Twenty-Seven: The Garden Centre

The Undead Twenty-Eight: Return To The Fort

The Undead Twenty-Nine: Hindhead Part 1

The Undead Thirty: Hindhead Part 2

The Undead Thirty-One: Winchester

The Undead Thirty-Two: The Battle For Winchester

The Undead Thirty-Three: The One True Race

Blood on the Floor

An Undead novel

Blood at the Premiere

An Undead novel

The Camping Shop

An Undead novella

A Town Called Discovery

The #1 Amazon & Audible Time Travel Thriller

A man falls from the sky. He has no memory.

What lies ahead are a series of tests. Each more brutal than the last, and if he
gets through them all, he might just reach A Town Called Discovery.

THE FOUR WORLDS OF BERTIE CAVENDISH

A rip-roaring multiverse time-travel crossover starring:

The Undead

Extracted.

A Town Called Discovery
and featuring

The Worldship Humility

*
www.rrhaywood.com

Find me on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/RRHaywood/

Find me on TikTok (The Writing Class for the Working Class)

https://www.tiktok.com/@rr.haywood

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

You Have Been Reading…

PROLOGUE

Real policing doesn’t look anything like on TV. And it isn’t anything like in the crime thriller books either. You know the ones. They’ve always got a ridiculously high-ranking officer like a Detective Chief Superintendent doing the work of a Detective Constable, whereas in reality any officer above a sergeant is a desk-bound manager who wouldn’t be able to find their handcuffs, let alone know how to use them. Nor are they ever accompanied by stoic, witless sidekick Detective Sergeants battling their own demons.

And why don’t they ever mention The Police and Criminal Evidence Act, known to us as PACE? Or Disclosure? Or the Continuity of Evidence? More cases have been lost at court over those three things than probably everything else put together.

Even if the books and TV shows get the roles correct in accordance with the rank structure, the rest is nearly always wrong. For instance–we don’t interrogate suspects in dark rooms or trick them into confessions by promising shorter sentences after a word with the judge. We don’t even need confessions most of the time. DNA and technological evidence convict most people.

The other thing is the sheer number of bodies popping up all over the place in those cosy detective shows or in the books. In the UK, homicides are committed by someone the victim knows or have had a close personal relationship with. Or they’re gang-related or connected to the supply of drugs. Stranger murders are still so rare they make the national news.

I’ll tell you what it’s really like.

An early morning dog walker finds the body of a middle-aged male on a remote country road and then tramples the scene in shock before figuring they’d better call the police.

The call taker types the job into the computer dispatch system which alerts the control room to a grade one incident–that being the discovery of a body.

The control staff then dispatch a response car. They arrive, and after turning their blue flashy lights off so they don’t drain the battery, they spot the tyre marks indicate the offending vehicle went over the verge and into the hedge and then reversed back over the body.

‘Yeah,’ the first attending officer says, ‘that looks iffy.’

That first attending officer sets a cordon up. Which means using physical tape to prevent anyone going near the scene. We actually put two cordons in place. The outer cordon that emergency service personnel can access, and the inner cordon which is to be accessed only by the forensics teams.

Once that is done, that first attending officer will then update the control room who alert the duty CID (Criminal Investigations Department) officer. (Most likely a Detective Constable or sometimes a Detective Sergeant.)

The duty CID officers will then attend the scene and get briefed by the first attending officer, at which point they agree that it does, indeed, look iffy, and they declare it as a crime scene.

What generally happens then in smaller police services outside of the cities is the duty CID DS and DC will head for the nearest divisional MIR (Major Incident Room) . And prep for the invasion of the Major Crime Team, which will be a team of Detective Constables, all of whom are under the supervision of the SIO (the Senior Investigation Officer).

The Major Crime Team, after robbing the local police canteen of tea and coffee, will then get briefed on what’s happened so far.

CSI (Crime Scene Investigators, aka Scenes of Crime Officers, aka SOCO, aka Forensics) will go straight to the scene. They will start by photographing the area, working from the perimeter to the body. If rain threatens, they’ll use pop-up tents for protection. Then comes the slow, meticulous recovery of evidence: tyre marks, grass samples, footprints, fingerprints, hair, skin, blood, fluids, or anything containing DNA. What CSI officers don’t do is chase / interrogate / fight suspects.

While CSI are getting underway, the Senior Investigating Officer will be in the Major Incident Room, designating roles.

One officer will act as the Exhibits Officer, securing, logging, and maintaining the continuity of all seized evidence. Another will be the Disclosure Officer, responsible for recording and organising all investigation materials, such as statements, notes, and documents for potential defence teams or court. Even a quickly scribbled note on a crumpled, torn piece of paper must be retained and revealed. One mistake here, and the case could collapse.

The Officer in the Case (OIC), usually the on-call local DC, liaises with the Major Crime Team because that first attending local DC will retain ownership of the case once they leave. Meanwhile, the SIO deploys officers to search local systems to identify the victim, which is often a mundane process because, like I said, stranger murders are very rare.

Let’s say our guy was the owner of a small local double-glazing company and had a recent domestic incident with his estranged wife during which they both made threats to kill the other by way of sending each other text messages, and then both reported the other for making those threats, which is how the local cops make the identification, being that both sides reported the other for making those threats. Which, in turn, brought them to the attention of the local police–which is what the Major Crime Team and local CID will find when they trawl the databases for recent or ongoing domestic-related reports. And it’s from those recent reports that the deceased becomes known as someone called Terry Jenkins.

Detective constables are then sent to inform the wife of the death while carefully observing her reaction. They note her car looks freshly cleaned, with a trace of grass on the wheel arch, suggesting recent off-road use. When questioned about her whereabouts, she panics, leading to her arrest on suspicion of murder. The vehicle is seized, and the local car wash is taped off so the drains can be examined for evidence.

The house is searched, and the wife is taken into custody in a dry cell (without a toilet so she can’t use water to erode any DNA). Then her clothes are seized, and DNA samples are collected. Meanwhile, officers interview the victim’s colleagues and neighbours, uncovering the truth: Terry Jenkins, heavily in debt, had a pregnant mistress (Laura) and an enraged wife (Sally). Sally discovered Terry had been spending lavishly on Laura while leaving their mortgage unpaid, further fuelling her anger. Terry’s attempt to sign his business over to Laura was the final straw.

With a suspect in custody, the SIO tasks the interview team to do the initial interview with Sally. Two detectives then take Sally to a modern interview room to do the said interview, which is filmed and transmitted live to the MIR, where more officers will watch the live interview and be ready to rush off and make enquiries should the SIO tasks them.

Nearly all murder suspects will have a solicitor present, and it’s also very common for the solicitor to tell their client to go ‘no comment’ during questioning.

Sally, however, claims she hated Terry and wished him dead but denies killing him. She says she went to bingo with a friend but won’t name them. Officers recover CCTV from the bingo hall and trace her companion Jenny, who initially stays silent but confesses under pressure that Sally dropped her off after a game of bingo and went to meet Terry about the divorce.

Meanwhile, forensic examination of Sally’s clothes reveals specks of blood, as does her car, despite being jet-washed. The evidence is enough to issue Sally with a Special Warning, requiring her to explain why that blood is present or risk the court drawing an adverse inference. The police also inform her they’re applying to ping her phone for location data.

Now imagine you are Sally.

You’ve read lots of crime books, right?

And you’ve watched lots of crime dramas, right?

Well. They ain’t nothing like this, because to Sally, it feels like the police know everything (which they mostly do), and in the face of that, nearly all suspects will break down.

Which is exactly what Sally does. She explains how she met Terry in a pub, and they had a drink and went for a drive to talk. Things got heated. He became threatening. She kicked him out on the country lane, and he started running at her and trying to grab her through the open window, at which point she panicked and accidentally ran him over.

At that point, for the SIO, the job is nearly over.

They’ve identified the victim: Terry Jenkins.

The scene: the country road.

The weapon: the car.

The offender: Sally.

The motive: domestic-related.

The rest is down to the local CID to manage, and by 1800 hours, the Major Incident Team are buggering off and promising they’ll pop back soon to replace the tea bags they used. (They never do.)

I know all of that because I am a Detective Constable working on the Major Crime Team for Hampshire Police. Or rather, that’s where I normally work when I am not using the Police Federation’s welfare holiday cottage on the remote Cornish island of Gallymay during the worst storm in the last century–and stumbling over a dead body in a country lane.

Seriously.

You couldn’t make this up.

ONE

Day One

Sunday, 26 th January

‘Bollocks.’

Is he dead?

I edge closer to check. Male. Fifties. Big build, paunchy. Greying hair. White skin. Deathly pallor. Neck looks broken. Tyre tracks across his back, over his white shirt. His legs and right arm are definitely broken. The eyes are open but lifeless.

Still. You never know. Life has a way of clinging on. I press my fingers to the neck to search for a pulse. Nothing.

Stiff face, but the legs aren’t. Rigor mortis takes about two hours to start, spreading from the face to the limbs before it fades again after 24 hours. By my very rough estimate, he’s been dead three to six hours. The time now is 08:13. Which means he died between 02:00 and 05:00.

Hit and run? They happen a lot. Especially on country lanes like this one. Someone going too fast. Maybe with a couple of drinks in them. They round a corner, hit a pedestrian and go into panic mode and drive off.

Except, I don’t think that happened here. The body has multiple sets of tyre marks going across the back of the shirt, which makes me think he’s been run over at least twice. There’s also a big, gaping hole in the otherwise thick hedge with more wheel tracks going over the verge, and then there’s the shoe twenty metres down the road, which matches the other shoe he’s wearing.

The way it’s all presented conjures an image in my mind, but it’s vague if he was running or walking or even standing still. Either way. A vehicle has driven into him at a fast enough speed to lift him out of his shoe and then drive him into the hedge, pinning the body between the front of the vehicle and the thick brambles. The vehicle reverses, then goes forward, over the deceased now slumped on the verge, who could still have been alive at that point. And then it reverses back over the body and drags it to this point, which accounts for the multiple tyre tracks.

And all of which makes this a murder scene.

‘Double bollocks.’

I look around, the wind howling past me. High hedges on both sides. Barren trees seen through the gaps. Dark greens. Dark browns. It looks as bleak as I feel. But no houses. No buildings at all, and no cameras either.

A sudden idea in mind. I turn and walk away. Stuff it. A dog walker can find the body and call it in. It’s not my problem. I don’t need the stress, and I certainly don’t want to lose a day of my leave, going into the local station to give a statement and my DNA and boot prints, seeing as I trampled the scene and touched the body. But then skin to skin contact doesn’t leave fingerprints, and there is only a remote possibility my DNA could be detected from my fingers touching his neck, and boots don’t really leave prints on dry, tarmacked roads either.

I tell myself it’s okay to walk away, and that it doesn’t make a difference. The same things will still happen whether it’s me or someone else that finds the body. And this is my first day of leave. I only arrived yesterday after what must have been the roughest ferry crossing in the history of the world. I spent most of it in the toilet before a nice Russian lady took pity on me and told me to sit in the middle of the ship where it apparently rolled and pitched less. She even gave me a mint. She said it would help. I think it was because my breath stank of puke. It was kind of her to help, though, and she was quite chatty up until she asked what I did for a living. After that she wasn’t so chatty. But that’s normal. Most people either get fidgety and silent when they realise they’re chatting to a detective or they start going on about the telly shows and books they watch and read. The Russian woman pretended she was busy on her phone.

My phone.

‘Damn it!’

I come to a stop with an inward tense and glare up at the clouds racing overhead, but it’s not them I’m staring at. It’s the satellites beyond them. Not that I can actually see the satellites, seeing as they’re in space. But they, however, can see me, and they might give a triangulated position to the Major Crime Team detective tasked with running pings to see who was in the area.

‘Hey. So, this guy walks up to the scene and turns straight back around. Oh, and by the way, he’s a copper.’

But that’s not the real reason I stop. Triangulation doesn’t give exact locations, for a start. They’re accurate but maybe not so much in rural areas like this. And this weather won’t help.

The real reason is the surge of guilt I’m feeling because I just walked away from a murdered person. Jesus. How jaded am I? What a rotten thing to do.

I turn around and head back to the body and stop a good fifty metres away. Close enough to keep line of sight but not close enough that I might contaminate the immediate scene– and being the diligent off-duty police officer that I am, I phone 999.

Which doesn’t connect because there’s zero signal.

‘Seriously?’ I mutter and wave my arm around, trying to find the magical one bar of reception, but it’s as empty as my life outside of work.

Ouch.

Yeah, I really need this break.

I restart my phone in some vain hope it’ll reconnect to a different mast.

Except there are obviously zero masts in this area.

But then I did choose to come here because the island of Gallymay sits out in the Celtic Sea, halfway between Wales and Cornwall, and is famous for being one of the most remote parts of England. A long, narrow rocky island that relies on tourism in the summer and commercial fishing (and not much else) in the winter. And the article on the Police Welfare page did say mobile phone and internet coverage was very sparse, especially in adverse weather conditions.

Hence the whole point of coming here.

But then I wasn’t expecting to find the body of a dead bloke.

Now what?

I look around, hoping to see a roof somewhere or a farm or maybe a smudge of smoke in the air indicating a cottage.

Nothing.

Just empty road bordered by thick hedges and muddy fields. And the dead guy, of course.

I think to wait for a passing car, but after fifteen minutes, I’m stamping my feet from the bitter wind while muttering that the lads in the office are going to love this.

There really is no choice, then. I’ll have to walk back to my digs and call it in.

I set off on the three-mile walk back to the Police Welfare cottage, cursing my rotten luck.

But then I will have something interesting to tell Cat and hopefully avoid the awkward silences we had during the last call. Every cloud has a silver lining, so they say.

By the time I reach the cottage, the wind is howling. I stand outside for a moment, staring out to sea. I didn’t see this view last night, or this morning, for that matter. It was too dark. But now I can, and it’s breathtaking. No city. No traffic. No buildings. No fumes.

I drink it in for a few seconds, then head inside to make the call.

‘You’ve called the emergency services. Which service do you require?’

‘Police, please,’ I say as hissing and crackling fill the line.

‘Which … you … require?’

‘Police! I need the police!’

A click. A pause. Another hiss, and another broken voice, ‘Devon and Cornwall police. Wh… your emergency?’

‘Hello. My name is Jim Greene. I’m on Gallymay island, and I–’

‘Hello? Sir? It’s a terrible line.’

‘I’m on Gallymay island! I’ve found a body.’

‘A body? Did you say you’ve found a body?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is the body?’

‘On the main road from this cottage. It’s called Cliffside Cottage. Find it on your mapping system. The body is about three miles from the cottage.’

‘The line is awful. Three miles from Cliffside Cottage? Is that correct?’

‘Yes, yes, answer yes,’ I say, reverting to radio speak so I’m heard. ‘Three miles.’

‘Are you a police officer? Coppers talk like that?’

‘Answer yes. Jim Greene. Hampshire.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Jim Greene. Hampshire.’

‘Hello? If you can hear me, go back to the body and wait for the police.’

‘Do I have to? I can stay here and do my statement?’

‘Sir! I’m struggling to hear you. Go back … body … for the …’

‘Okay!’

‘What?’

It drops out, and I stand for a minute, holding the receiver while wishing I could get the fire going and make a brew. I definitely can’t get the fire going, but I can make a brew, though.

I head upstairs to get my flask from my bag with a very brief flash of joy that I remembered to bring it. Ten minutes later, I’m heading out for the three-mile walk back to the body.

I get a stomp on and reach the body within 45 minutes. I’d hoped to find a cordon in place and cops already dealing with it, but there’s nothing. Just the body in the exact same place, and nobody else in view anywhere.

I sit down on the verge 50 metres away to get out of the wind and pour myself a cup of coffee. It reminds me of being a young, uniformed copper on scene duty.

Basingstoke is a busy town, but it’s surrounded by countryside, so we always had a good mix of urban and rural.

The coffee’s nice, though. Strong and bitter. Like me, really. I smile at my joke and again promise myself to snap out of it and be a better person, but I get bored of that pretty swiftly and drink more coffee and go for a piss in the hedge, then stamp my feet and swing my arms and wish I’d brought food with me. Maybe I should hire a car later. Do they even have car hire on the island? I need to find the supermarkets too and get some supplies in. There must be a local café that does an English breakfast. Oh, that sounds nice. A big breakfast in a café with the wind blowing outside.

I stop dribbling at hearing an approaching diesel engine. Police forces only ever use diesel engine vehicles for squad cars.

Except it isn’t a squad car.

A red and white Citroen 2CV comes around the corner instead.

Who cares. It’s still a car.

I lift my arm to wave and see an arm inside the car waving back at me in a yellow high-vis jacket, and I realise it’s a copper driving the car.

‘Yes!’ I say under my breath. I can leave my details and finally get on with my holiday. But the car keeps coming, getting closer to the body and the scene. ‘Hey! WHOA!’ I shout and wave. The car stops, and the driver shouts something. ‘Sorry, what?’ I call over the wind.

She waves and flaps a hand and does something. Then the car jumps forward, with me panicking that she’s only a few metres from the body, but it stalls and cuts out with a crunch of the handbrake before the door finally opens, and the copper gets out. A woman in a yellow high-vis police jacket, paint-spattered jogging bottoms and old, worn running shoes. ‘Hiya!’ she waves and starts forward, almost kicking the abandoned shoe left on the road; then, she spots it and bends to pick it up.

‘NO!’ I shout as she glances up at me and panics, the shoe still in her hand. ‘Just put it back down!’

‘Should I put it back down?’

‘Yes!’

‘Okay. Or I could put in my car?’

‘No! Put it … where it was.’

‘Righto!’ she says cheerily and plonks it back down, then seems to think and adjusts it as though trying to remember exactly where it was.

‘That’ll be fine!’ I call. She nods and again quickly repositions the shoe, then starts towards me, straight through the scene. ‘No, no! Go round.’ I yell again, and this time she stops like she’s on a frozen lake that is about to give way. Her arms out from her sides, a wide-eyed look of panic on her face. ‘The scene,’ I shout over.

‘Seen what?’

‘What?’

‘What?’ she asks.

I point to the verge on the far side. She gives a thumbs up and stomps over the scene instead of going back.

But whatever.

Not my problem.

‘Hiya!’ she says again. ‘Soz. The wind. Couldn’t hear you. You said you’ve seen something?’

‘No. I meant the scene,’ I say and point at the body.

‘Oh! The scene! I thought you meant like seen,’ she says, adopting a seafarer’s pose to stare yonder.

‘Anyway. Er, got your PNB? What are you guys using? Have you got tablets like EPNBs? Electronic pocket notebooks,’ I explain when she looks blank. ‘So I can leave my details.’

‘My what, what?’

‘Your notebook? Pocket notebook?’

‘Oh! Yes. I’ve got one of those. Er … bugger. It’s in the car. Hang on. Won’t be a sec.’

She runs back to her car and rummages around for a very long time before coming back with a puppy sketchpad and an old biro. ‘This’ll do, won’t it?’

I look at her paint-spattered joggers and trainers and figure she must have turned out from her home address and didn’t go to her local nick to get her gear.

‘Yeah. It’s fine. Just retain.’

‘Eh?’

‘Retain. For disclosure?’

‘Who?’

‘Disclosure. You need to keep the paper you’re using to write my name and details down for disclosure.’

‘Right!’ she says slowly as though pretending she understands. ‘Gotcha. So, er …?’ She looks at me again.

‘Do you want my name?’

‘Name!’ she says with a bright smile. Late twenties. Early thirties maybe. Mumsy. Dark, wavy hair and wearing a paint-covered I Heart Gallymay t-shirt under the police jacket. ‘I was painting Ella’s room,’ she says on spotting me looking.

‘Ella?’

‘My daughter.’

‘You on rest days, then? That sucks. Er, so yeah. My name is Jim Greene with an E.’

‘I know how to spell green, silly! It’s got two of them.’

‘At the end.’

‘Soz! Blushing. Such an idiot,’ she says with another smile and the aura of a harassed mum oozing off her. ‘Nice to meet you, Jim. I’m Tash. And you’re staying at Cliffside Cottage?’

‘Yep. Two weeks, then I’m back to Basingstoke.’

‘Ooh. The big city, eh?’

‘Well. Not really. It’s in Hampshire.’

‘Fancy. Tell you what. You write it all down for me.’

She hands me the puppy sketchpad, and I write my full name, date of birth, mobile number, email, and home address down and then add my collar number and that I’m based out of Winchester Police HQ, Hampshire Constabulary, for good measure.

‘Oh, you are a copper, then,’ she says when I hand it back. ‘The lady that called me said she thought you said that, but the wind, see, messes with the phones. Good job you called when you did because they’re all down now.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Er, right. I checked the body. He’s definitely dead, and I used one route in and out, which is from the angle of his right arm back straight along that way, three feet from the verge line. Pass that onto CSI. And tell them I touched the neck and right arm and right leg. That’s it. And er, yeah, shout me when they want my boot prints or DNA and, er … Are you okay?’ I ask as she looks over to the body with a double take and an expression of shock.

Which is when I notice the two big letters stitched in white on the black epaulettes on her police jacket.

SC

Which stands for Special Constable.

That being an unpaid, part-time volunteer. ‘Are the others on their way?’ I ask with a feeling of dread.

She blinks from the body to me. ‘Who?’

‘The others? The other police officers?’

‘We’re both here,’ she says weakly with a nod at the body. ‘That’s Sergeant Barry. He is the full-time copper here … There’s no one else coming. Just me.’

TWO

‘He’s a copper?’ I ask. ‘Hang on. There can’t just be one police officer on this island.’

‘Poor Barry. What do you think happened to him?’ she asks as I look over to the body and the very clear tyre marks going over the back of his white shirt.

‘I think he’s probably been run over.’

‘Like a car accident?’

‘Er, well. Hard to say, but hang on. Are there more coppers stationed on the island? It’s too big for just one officer. They’d never allow one person to work alone like that.’

‘Three,’ she says, sucking air and trying to compose herself.

‘Three? And they called you?’ I ask, then realise how rude that sounds. ‘Which is great! But er, the other two are where exactly?’

‘They went back.’

‘They went back? Back where?’

‘Dave was from Padstow originally, I think, but he’s stationed in Plymouth, and Jerry was a Devon lad from Exmouth.’

I know the island is covered by Devon and Cornwall police, and I know they’re a medium-sized force, roughly the same size as Hampshire, my own force. But Devon and Cornwall police are famous for covering a huge geographical area, from Devon right up on the border with Sussex and Somerset, all the way to Land’s End in Penzance. But what she just said indicates there’s some kind of rotation system in place. ‘Were they on attachment?’ I ask.

She nods again.

‘So there’s one full time officer,’ I say, pointing at Barry, ‘and two officers brought over on attachment? How long do they work here for?’

‘Six months. Most do it for promotion points.’

That makes sense.

‘Okay, so where’s the next two?’ I ask.

‘They haven’t come yet. They’re due this week, but …’ she falls silent and nods up, which I take to be motioning the wind above us, ‘the ferry can’t dock in the wind, so they cancel it.’

Shit.

‘Okay. I mean. So, they’ll be here when, do you think? Tomorrow?’

‘God, no. This weather is in for a week at least.’

‘A week! You mean no ferry for a week?’

‘At least.’

‘But. What the … Okay. So go back a sec. Barry is the island’s full-time resident police officer. Are there any other Special Constables?’

She shakes her head.

‘An inspector, then?’

She keeps shaking her head.

‘And you’ve been doing this for three months? So you’re not qualified for independent patrol. Is that right?’

‘I wondered why the lady called me,’ she says.

‘What lady?’

‘From the police,’ she says it like a civilian would say it. The police, because her mindset still doesn’t include herself as being part of it. ‘I said phone Barry, but it was all garbled cos of the wind.’

That makes sense now.

The control room staff couldn’t raise Barry, and without the other two regular officers on attachment here yet, they’d resorted to looking on the resource management records and seen Tash listed as an SC.

But that’s not good.

That’s not good at all.

‘They’ll just have to chopper someone in. Right. I’ll stay here. You … What?’ I ask on seeing her expression.

‘You think they can land a chopper in this?’ she asks.

‘Are you joking? Okay. Is there a fire station? Fire fighters can do scene guard, I guess, if … Oh god. What now?’

‘Barry,’ she says with a wince, thumbing behind her. ‘He’s the island fire fighter.’

‘Jesus,’ I mutter and shake my head. ‘Ambulance? Piss off! Seriously?’

She winces and thumbs behind her to Barry again. ‘He carries a stretcher in the back of his Land Rover.’

I take it all in, with that sinking feeling getting worse.

‘What do I do then?’ she asks with a terrified look. ‘You’re a copper.’

‘Yeah but … I’m not. I mean, this isn’t my force and …’ I trail off at her expression of worry that only worsens when she glances over to the body again.

‘I only did it for something to do,’ she says.

‘Do what?’ I ask, thinking for one horrible moment she means she ran Barry over.

‘Joined the Specials.’

‘Oh! God, I thought you meant … No, never mind. Okay. It’s fine. They’ll have contingency plans for this. There’s a big military base in Plymouth. Maybe the navy can help get someone across.’

‘I guess we should get him in the car, then?’ Tash says. ‘Oh, hang on. Is he bleeding? I’ll need some bin liners to cover the seats or something. I’ve got some in the boot actually.’

I blink for a second, thinking she must be joking, but she turns with an earnest expression that makes me realise she meant it. ‘We can’t put him in your car.’

‘Well, he can’t stay there. The badgers will have him in the night. Oh god. What if it’s the Gallygrog?’

‘The what?’ I ask as she looks around.

‘Has he been eaten?’

‘No! He’s been run over. What’s a Gallygrog?’

‘Nobody knows,’ she whispers with wide eyes. ‘They reckon it might have been an escaped panther or something.’

‘Literally every town in England thinks they have an escaped panther.’

‘Really?’ she asks in a normal voice. ‘Oh. Anyway. We can’t leave Barry here.’

‘We’re not stuffing him in your car either. He’s probably been murdered.’

‘Murdered? What like, murdered, murdered?’

‘He’s been run over several times.’

‘Isn’t that a hit and run?’

‘No. It’s a hit, then another hit, and then probably another hit before the run. It’s a crime scene.’

‘Right,’ she says slowly, with the same look of expectation that most people have towards someone in uniform at any disaster. Except I’m not the one in uniform. She is. Well. She’s got a police jacket on anyway.

‘Is there really nobody else?’ I ask.

She bites her lip and shakes her head, and I know that, without me, she will shove the body in the car and drive to god knows who to help out, thereby destroying any and all forensic evidence and any and all possible hope of ever convicting anyone.

Unless the murderer was filmed doing it.

Which is highly unlikely.

But then the guy is a copper. I mean. It’s not like you see on the telly or read about in crime books. Police officers don’t feel some inherent affinity towards each other, but he is a cop, and I’m a cop. And if I was murdered, I’d want the other cop to at least do his bloody job. Not only that, but not doing anything will mean being disciplined and possibly prosecuted for neglect of duty.

There really is no choice.

‘Okay,’ I say in a tone that immediately prompts a look of relief on her face. ‘We’ll have to get a log. Have you got one in the car?’

‘What do you want a log for? For like a fire or something?’

‘Logbook. Not a log. It’s called a scene logbook. We use them to record who is at the scene and actions we take and the times we do them.’

She shrugs and looks lost. But then why would a Special carry a scene log?

‘Okay, we’ll use your PNB,’ I say, then groan when I take the puppy sketchpad. ‘We’re going to need some tape.’

‘For the bin liners?’

‘Not Sellotape. I meant cordon tape. Has the words “police do not cross” on it. It’s blue. Sometimes red. Red or blue.’

‘Where do we get that from?’

‘In the police station with the other supplies.’

‘Right. Yeah. Do you know where in the police station exactly?’

‘How would I know that? Just look. I mean, there’s probably a kit room where you charge your radios and torches.’

‘In that room?’

‘Yeah. Normally somewhere like that. Hang on, I’ll write you a list; then, I’ll stay here with the log, which is the PNB, which is the, er, puppy pad thingy. But yeah, you go back and get what we need. Okay?’

‘Roger, ten-four,’ she says as I blink at her, expecting sarcasm or cynicism but seeing only earnestness.

‘And we need police tape,’ I continue. ‘Any will do. Red or blue. It doesn’t matter. If you really can’t find any, then look for hazmat tape. That’s the yellow one. We can use that at a push. And look for scene logbooks. And gloves and early evidence kits and evidence bags. All different sizes. Small. Medium. Large. Oh, hang on. Barry must have been CSI trained. He would have had a CSI kit. Try and find that. White suits. Camera. Tripod. Has Barry got a police vehicle? You said he has a Land Rover? Come back in that. It’s probably got kit in the back we can use.’

‘And it’s got the stretcher,’ she says.

‘Perfect.’

‘Yay,’ she says, holding her hand up for a high-five before clearing her throat and lowering it with an awkward wince.

‘We’ll just have to do the best we can. I’m worried about the weather, though, if it rains,’ I say.

‘Won’t rain. Not for another day or two anyway.’

‘Is that like an island thing? Can you like smell it or something?’

‘No! I saw the report before the internet went down.’

My turn to wince. But no rain is a good thing. ‘And try the phones when you get back to the nick.’ I think to ask if the radios will reach the mainland, but Devon and Cornwall use the same Airwaves radios as the rest of the country, which aren’t really radios at all. They work from cellular tech, the same as phones. And if all the masts and landlines are down, then the Airwaves system will be too.

That means we are really alone.

I run it all back over in my mind. Trying to think what we’ll need for a crude scene examination. Any defence lawyer down the line will love the fact things weren’t done by professional CSI teams, but if we stick to the principles of forensic recovery, we might be okay. Not that there’s any choice, but at least we can then hand a half-decent package over to the Devon and Cornwall Major Crime Team when they arrive. And I can always use this experience on my next promotion board.

‘You alright?’ Tash asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. ‘You got a weird little smile going on.’

‘I’m fine. Just thinking.’

‘Was it wind? I get gassy.’

I tear a sheet from the puppy sketchpad. ‘There’s the list.’

‘Right,’ she says slowly, looking at it like it’s a shopping list written in French. ‘So. Just thinking. Would it be easier if I stay with Barry, and you go and get what we need?’

‘I don’t know where the police station is.’

‘I’ll tell you.’

‘Or how to get in it?’

‘Oh, Barry never locks it.’

‘And the continuity of evidence is kept safe how?’

She looks at my mouth as I speak, then up to my eyes. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Never mind,’ I say, figuring the death of anyone you know is a hard thing to deal with. I take the puppy sketchpad and knock up a scene log as best I can from memory.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Tash.’

‘Your full name?’

‘Oh. Soz. Natasha Roskilly.’

En y ma in pu y s e c d us as a po t
no ok s e lo b D G E in t e ab c of
an fo l re d

Bri ci s of in n

At 0645 ho w i wa n o du an w i on
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Tow I c e k t e bo fo si s of li Rig no in
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ob v i s at t e s e su s c i oc r I
su c t e ma wa mu r du to si s of
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No si l on mo p o No wa to al po I le
t e bo at 0715 ho an re n to Cli Cot
an ca d 999 Ret d to bo at 0900 ho to wa
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S RO L ar d at 1015 ho S RO L
id fied t e bo as be Pol Ser t Bar

Squ S RO L t e ex ne t a no fu h
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ma n du to wi s o m No ra S RO L
is s i l in ba t a n an no sa t e fo
in n e t pa l

Dec o ma to le S RO L at t e s e wi
t e bo fo co n i w i I go to Gal m po
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1048 ho Log si d ov to S RO L

‘Right. I’ve signed the log over to you. Just do what you can. We don’t want anyone or anything else going within fifty metres of the body. Got all that? Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

‘I’ll be fine! I’ll sit with Barry and say my goodbyes.’

‘Yeah. Don’t do that.’

‘I won’t touch him.’

‘No. Literally don’t go anywhere near him. No closer than this now. Seriously. You’ll get fibres all over him.’

‘Ooh, what if the killer comes back? I didn’t bring my baton or spray. I’ve got some Nivea deodorant in the car. I can use that. I got it in my eyes once. Bloody hell, did that sting! They were red for a week.’

I look again to see if she’s joking, but she’s not. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah,’ she says with a nod. ‘Serial killers don’t go back to the scene, do they?’

‘Not a serial killer. Keys?’

‘In the car. And watch her. She stalls if you don’t keep the revs up. Should get it fixed. MOT was up last month, but the garage is booked up.’

I figure I can pretend to have not heard her say the MOT has expired, which therefore means it’s illegal to drive.

Either way. I get into the red and white Citroen, then get back out. ‘My bag is on the verge. There’s a flask of coffee in there. Help yourself.’

‘Oh bless! Thank you,’ she says with a big smile.

I get back in, then think for a second, and get back out. ‘Seriously. Don’t touch the body.’

‘Got it!’ she calls with a double thumbs up.

I get in and start the engine and start backing up, then stop and go forward and get back out again.

‘I said I won’t touch him!’ she yells.

‘No. You never told me where the police station is.’

THREE

Four miles later, I find the old police station opposite a shop window full of the creepiest-looking dolls I have ever seen.

Going into Gallymay police station is like stepping back in time. An old, tiled floor and institutional-pale-blue walls. Signs on the walls marked with Devon and Cornwall police headings. Health and safety and the bog-standard signs about maintaining security measures.

There’s even an old slide marker for the security setting, currently set at high–ironic, seeing as the front door wasn’t even locked.

I go into the front office on the other side of the counter. Two workstations either side. Each one with a computer terminal and a jotter pad on the heavily scuffed tabletop. Old swivel office chairs. Filing cabinets off to one side with references on the front. Two large plastic tubs on a shelf. Both empty, with new masking tape on the front, ready for the names of the new coppers to be written on.

Two more doors leading off. One marked ‘ E VIDENCE CUPBOARD’, which is slightly ajar, and the other marked:

SERGEANT BARRY SQUIRES

I try the handle, but it’s locked. Which is weird. I’ve never known a uniformed police sergeant to lock their office while leaving the bloody evidence cupboard door open. Most Detective Sergeants don’t even lock their offices.

I check the evidence cupboard, figuring perhaps it’s empty, which is why it’s standing open. But it isn’t empty. Admittedly, there are only two evidence bags inside, but one contains an old revolver, and the other has a sizeable amount of white powder, which, judging by the appearance, is probably cocaine.

‘Fuck me,’ I whisper, wondering where else you’d find a gun and a big bag of drugs in an unlocked room inside an unlocked police station.

I lock the door and stash the key on a shelf and head out into the main corridor, figuring the kit room must be somewhere around. Upstairs will be the kitchen and staff room and probably a toilet and shower.

I was right about the kit room, though. It’s the next room along, and the same as every other small-town cop-shop with radios on charge and the yellow metal containers fixed to the wall to hold the individually-issued incapacitant spray. I look for the Taser cabinet but can’t see one and figure they still haven’t fully rolled them out yet.

But what I need is over to the side. A metal shelving unit filled with plastic trays holding different-sized evidence bags.

I grab what I can, including a few early evidence kits and head out, then stop dead in the corridor from the sound of someone taking a very long piss before a toilet flushes and a door swings open, with a thickset, weathered guy crossing the corridor with a gruff mumble and a nod.

I rush after him to see a small custody suite with two cells and the guy shuffling into one before faceplanting on a mattress on the bench.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ I ask.

‘Aiden,’ he says in a sleepy voice as I look to the old custody desk to one side and an old brass plate used for taking ink fingerprints.

‘Mate, what are you doing in there? Aiden!’

‘Got nicked, obviously.’

‘You’ve been arrested? What for?’

‘Twatted that twat, didn’t I? But he won’t press charges. I never even broke his nose.’

‘Sorry, who?’

‘Jeb!’

I stand blinking like an idiot, holding the case. ‘But the cell’s open.’

He lifts a leg to fart. ‘Barry never locks it. You the new copper, then?’

‘No. I’m a detective.’

‘What they sending us a detective for?’ he asks, opening one eye to peer up at me. ‘For the eggs?’

‘Eggs? What eggs? I’m not. No. I’m … Whatever. Look, you can’t stay there. You need to go.’

‘Well, I can’t go home, can I?’

‘Why not?’

‘Cos my brother.’

‘What about him?’

‘I just said. I punched him.’

‘Go somewhere else. then.’

‘Where’s Sergeant Barry?’

‘He’s–’ I cut off, not knowing this guy or anything at all. ‘He’s busy. Go on. You need to leave.’

‘Fine,’ he says with a big huff and rolls off the bed to get himself up. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A mop of sandy hair and twinkling, soft green eyes. ‘I’ll drop some fish in when the wind’s dropped.’

‘What for?’

‘For the fine!’ he says as though I should know exactly why he’s dropping fish in when the wind has dropped.

‘You can’t fine someone in fish.’

‘Well, I ain’t got any money, have I? Jeb took it to get drunk, which is why I punched him.’

‘Jesus. Okay. Well. Just go. No charge. And no fish either.’

‘What about a nice cod?’

‘No!’

‘Crab? I don’t catch ’em myself, but I can do some swapsies for you.’

‘I don’t want anything. Seriously. Just go.’

‘You a vegan, then?’ he asks with a surprised look as he lets himself out of the unlocked cell. ‘Where you from?’

‘Basingstoke.’

‘Ah, figures. City boy.’

‘It’s really not a city. You know the way out?’

‘Do I?’ he asks with a laugh, then pulls up straight when I don’t smile. ‘Yeah, I do. Er. Right. Bye then, Detective, er …’

‘Greene. Jim Greene.’

‘Jim Greene, the vegan. Got it.’

‘I’m not a vegan!’ I call as he goes out the door to the front office. I shake my head again. You can’t lock someone up and leave them alone. What if they committed suicide or choked? That would be a death in custody. And the cell door was even unlocked. He could have had a wild time with the cocaine and the gun.

Bloody hell. It’s like the Wild West.

I head into the front office to look for more CSI kits as the main door opens. ‘Aiden. Seriously. You’ve got to go home,’ I call as a woman walks up to the counter and clears her throat.

‘I want to make a complaint,’ she says in a clipped voice. Middle-aged. Educated, well-dressed, if being poured into a pair of skinny jeans counts as well-dressed.

‘Sorry. I’m not–’

‘I want my husband removed,’ she says over me.

‘I’m not a police officer here.’

‘You’re not a police officer?’

‘Well. No. I am. I’m just … Listen, the station is closed. You’ll have to come back.’

‘Come back when? I came here this morning, but Aiden said Barry was out.’

‘Aiden said that?’

‘Well, yes. I called out, and Aiden told me to stop making a racket, but I need my husband out!’

I pause before replying. Figuring the path of least resistance will be to take some brief details to pacify her. ‘Okay. There’s no one available right now, but the new officers are due on the next ferry.’

‘Well, that won’t be for a week, at least. Not with this wind.’

‘Please don’t say that,’ I mutter and grab a pad and pen. ‘Name?’

‘Mrs Rutherford.’

‘First name?’

‘Dorothy.’

‘Address?’

‘Really?’

‘I’m not from here.’

‘It’s Rutherford Manor.’

‘Okay. Is that well known?’ I glance up at her frosty expression and figure it must be. ‘Right. Got it. Has your husband assaulted you?’

‘He called me a stuck-up cow,’ she says as the door opens, and Aiden comes back in.

‘How about a lobster, Jim? I can get a lobster.’

‘What? No!’

‘Jim?’ Mrs Rutherford asks.

‘Jim Greene. The new detective,’ Aiden says. ‘Vegan from the city.’

‘I’m not a vegan!’

‘A Londoner!’ Mrs Rutherford says with a complete change of attitude. ‘Oh, you must come for dinner, darling, and meet Gregory.’

‘Gregory?’

‘Yes. Mr Rutherford.’

‘You just said you wanted him removed.’

‘Gosh, no! Don’t be silly, darling. He only called me a stuck-up cow. Anyway. Shall we say tomorrow, at eight? Ooh, and did you say you can get a lobster, Aiden?’

‘Lobster it is!’ Aiden says with a grin.

‘No!’

He nods and disappears as Mrs Rutherford gives me a big grin and heads out after him. ‘Smart casual, Detective Greene. Which isn’t walking clothes,’ she adds primly. ‘Gregory will be excited.’

‘What the shit,’ I say into the silence and head back out to the Citroen while wondering where Barry kept his police Land Rover. But it’s not parked up, and it’s nowhere in sight either.

I get in the Citroen and drive around the block but don’t see it, and eventually, after making a quick stop at the supermarket, I head back to the body.

FOUR

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‘Now what?’ Tash asks as we both stand up, and I realise how long that took and how much light we’ve lost already. ‘Actually. Bugger. I need to get Ella from school.’

I nod, figuring she doesn’t really need to be here for the next part, which will be even worse than undressing him. ‘Do you know how to book evidence into the station?’

She shakes her head. ‘I can put it in the cupboard.’

‘Okay, take it back into the evidence room and sign each bag for continuity, then come back here. We’ll book it in later. You sure you don’t know where Barry keeps his car?’

‘It’s always at the station or at his house. And I went past his house on the way here. Want me to ask Sam?’

‘No,’ I say quickly and very firmly. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone.’

She drives off, and a moment later, I’m cursing my own stupidity. Because even the island must have a doctor. And every doctor has body bags. And stretchers. And a doctor could have examined the body in situ far better than me. I can’t even call Tash. I can’t do anything. No wonder I never got promoted. What a twat.

My belly gurgles again, and I release the wind I’d been holding in with a groan of relief.

Cat reckoned I was getting IBS from being so stressed about the whole promotion thing. It took over a week of fighting angry receptionists to see the GP, but they said it’s just IBS and to take Buscopan and stop drinking coffee, but basically, stop being stressed.

Which is impossible.

Whatever. I need to stop ranting and just get it done. Then I can get back to my holiday and eat my own body weight in bad food.

I grab one of the early evidence kits and record the seal number across the opening in the log, then pop the seal, and take the kit over to the body.

Next comes the really grim bit, but you do only get one chance to do things right with things like this, so I get on with it and use a swab to rub around the tip of his penis for trace DNA in case he’s been inside someone else. He’s not circumcised, which means easing the foreskin back, and I can only hope I’m doing it right. Pathologists do this in mortuaries. Not DCs on holiday in windy lanes.

Then I groan and realise I’ve got to do his backside, but I’ve already rolled him over, which means rolling him onto his front again and then gagging at the leakage of bodily fluids coming out of his anus.

I swab those stains and then use another for his anus while muttering about how you don’t see Idris Elba swabbing arses on telly while getting cramps from IBS because he’s only had a flask of instant coffee and not eaten all day.

Tash comes back while I’m midway through. But then I frown on realising I haven’t heard her car shooting forward and turn to see George, the guy who took me to the cottage last night, standing over me, giving me a very strange look while I poke a thin stick up a dead man’s bum.

FIVE

‘Alright, nips. Dead, is he?’ George asks while standing over me swabbing Barry’s bum.

I nod. Feeling strangely caught out. I didn’t really see him clearly when he took me from the ferry to the holiday cottage last night. He looks older. Maybe sixty, but lean and weathered, thick lines on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes, and a grey beard. The same green eyes as Tash and a strong jaw. His bearing and manner immediately make me think he’s probably ex-military too. And he’s not flinched at the sight of a naked dead man. Plus, he knows I’m a police officer.

‘Wondered where he was,’ he adds in that strong Cornish accent. ‘Normally have a game on Sundays.’

‘Game?’

‘Crib.’

‘Oh. Er, yeah. He’s dead. Sorry. It’s George, isn’t it?’

He nods once.

‘Was this road we came along last night, George?’

‘It was.’

‘And did you go back along this road?’

‘Aye.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘Nope.’

That helps narrow the timing down. It was fully night by the time we docked. The ferry took longer than planned due to the winds. I walked off the boat and stood for a few minutes in the howling wind, trying to decide if I should just go home right now and give up trying to be a better me.

‘Have nice holiday,’ the Russian woman said as she walked past me pulling a smart, little carry case and got into the back of a waiting high-end SUV with blacked-out windows. I looked around for a taxi, but the only vehicle in sight was an old, blue Land Rover parked up at the far side with George inside reading a newspaper.

‘You’re not a taxi by chance, are you?’ I asked after he wound the window down.

‘I am now, nips,’ he said with a wink. The vehicle wasn’t fitted with a meter, and it wasn’t displaying a Licenced Hackney Carriage plate either, which made it illegal both for him to operate as a taxi and for me to pay him to do so.

But it was cold and dark and raining, and I didn’t give a shit, so I got in, and we bounced along country roads, with my belly still feeling like it was on board the Titanic.

We eventually pulled up outside an old, thatched cottage. Or to be more precise, Cliffside Cottage. At which point I realised he hadn’t asked me where we were going, and I hadn’t said. ‘Were you there to pick me up, then?’

‘Aye. You’re the copper who hired it for two weeks.’

That made me feel better that I hadn’t used an unlicenced taxi. I still offered him some money–which would have been a gift and not payment for services. But he declined and drove off as I found the keys under a plant pot where I’d been told to look in the confirmation email, but then he stopped and reversed and wound the window down again. ‘Do you know how to start a fire?’

‘Eh?’

‘Wood out the back. Kindling in the larder. Matches in the drawer. Don’t smother it.’

‘Right. Got it. I think I’ll be okay.’

He looks over at the hedge, then at the shoe, then back to me with a frown. ‘So why you fingering his arse then if he’s been run over?’

‘I’m swabbing his ar… rectum. I’m not fingering it.’

‘You do that for all road traffic deaths, then?’

‘No. Did you know him?’

‘I just said we were meant to be playing crib.’

‘Only you don’t seem very shocked.’

His green eyes lock onto mine when I say that. ‘I seen plenty of dead bodies in worse state than Barry, nips.’

I go to reply but cut off from seeing Tash pull up behind George’s Land Rover and her kid jumping out with a shout, ‘Uncle George!’

‘No! No, no, no! He’s naked, and I’m still swabbing!’

‘You what?’ Tash shouts.

‘He’s swabbing Barry’s bum,’ George says as he strides out to catch Ella leaping into his arms as I pull the swab out to snap the head off, into the solution.

‘I’ve got the bin liners, though,’ Tash says, holding up a roll of yellow refuse bags.

‘Why are they yellow?’

‘The clinic had loads sent over by mistake and was literally giving them away,’ Tash says.

‘I got a cupboard full,’ George adds as I look to Ella, then over to Tash.

‘Tash, she can’t be here. He’s naked and, you know, dead,’ I mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tash says with a wince. ‘You said don’t tell anyone, and I couldn’t get someone else to look after Ella without them asking why.’

‘Why is Uncle Barry nudey?’ Ella asks.

‘Is he related to you?’ I ask.

‘No! Christ, Jim. She’s five. Everyone’s an uncle or an aunt to her. Oh, but George is actually my uncle, though.’

‘Is Uncle Barry dead?’

‘He is,’ George says calmly.

‘Oh,’ Ella says, as though it’s the most normal thing ever.

‘Shouldn’t you maybe put her in the car?’ I ask.

‘It’s life, nips. Kids can handle more than you think if it’s done calm and natural. Eh, Ella? Uncle Barry’s dead, but that’s just his body down there. His soul and his spirit has got free.’

If anything, though, I think George’s presence helps Tash’s nerves, so we add him to the log and, between us, wrap Barry in yellow bin bags until he’s trussed up like a big, yellow mummy.

‘He looks like a big, yellow mummy,’ Ella says.

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ George says as we all stare from Ella to the body while the wind howls around us. ‘What we doing with him? In my car?’

‘Is that alright?’ I ask.

‘Just offered, didn’t I?’ George says gruffly and squats to grab Barry’s legs. I go for the shoulders, with Tash helping in the middle, and even little Ella pushing at Barry’s bum as we manhandle him into the back of George’s Land Rover.

‘Thank god for that,’ Tash says with a gasp as she turns to sit on the back ledge and rests her elbow on Barry’s plastic-wrapped feet. ‘Are we done now? Can we go?’

I look around with a sigh and shake my head, knowing what I need to do while only wanting to just go and dump the body off and get some food.

‘You only get one chance,’ I murmur. That’s the reality with crime scenes. You do only ever get one chance. We’ve already lost continuity by the fact I had to walk back to my cottage to call the police.

Which already means this investigation is facing an uphill battle, so I have to at least try my best to get this next phase right.

I take the tweezers I bought from the supermarket and get down on my belly next to the tyre prints left on the road and spend ten minutes plucking tiny chunks of rubber from the road to put in a paper envelope, which then gets sealed in a bag. Some items can’t go directly into a plastic bag. Plastic sweats and rubber melts.

It gets dark while I work. It’s still afternoon, but the mid-winter sun sets early. Even this far south. George and Tash get their engines on, and I use the headlights to get the fibres from the hedge and bag them. Then some samples of grass and twigs and branches and some of the mud from the verge. All of which gets bagged and recorded.

It gets colder, and the wind gets worse. My belly grumbles, and I hate every bloody second of it, but I know what can go wrong in court.

I know how defence barristers pick things apart so guilty people can walk free.

I tell myself to think about Cat and promotion and going back with a tale to tell and the evidence of competency I can use on my next board.

Then, eventually, I’ve done everything I can.

‘Okay. So, I’ve got tyre samples. Hedge samples. The piece of shirt that was stuck on a thorn,’ I call over to Tash and George while Ella does some colouring on the puppy pad PNB logbook in Tash’s car. ‘Grass samples. Mud samples. Can you think of anything else?’

‘Air?’ Tash asks as again I look for a joke but see that earnest expression instead.

‘Bloody air, you daft cow,’ George says with a roll of his eyes but with a soft tone. ‘How’s he meant to sample the air?’

Tash just shrugs like she’s used to it, which makes me realise they know each other very well.

‘That’ll have to do, then. Has the island got a mortuary?’ I ask.

‘Doc’s got one at the clinic,’ George says.

‘Okay. I’ll go with George back to town. Tash, did you drop the exhibits off at the police station?’

‘It was locked,’ she says.

‘Shit!’ I say and fish the key from my pocket. ‘I forgot to give you the key.’

‘Why’d you lock it for?’ Tash asks.

‘Cos of the massive bag of cocaine and the gun in the evidence room,’ I say, handing her the key. ‘We’ll drop the body off and meet you at the nick. I mean. Is that okay, George?’

‘Who else is gonna do it?’ he asks.

1812 ho

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ca y t e bo to Ge r ’s Lan Rov I do ’t t i k
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RO L ’s Cit It’s to s a l Plu S RO L
b o h he 5 ye ol da t El a to t e s e I
ad d ag t t i bu S RO L s a d s e ha
no ot c i d an s e co no as so e el
fo fe of al n t e lo co n to t e mu r

I no in d to fin co s o g fo t e bo an t e
bo t e p o r in Gal m po s a n an ke
t in t e p o s to co c t e ma n an Dev
an Cor l po

SIX

I clamber into the front of the Land Rover and rub the stress from my face while feeling the relief from sitting down in the warm cab after hours spent doing fingertip searches in the biting wind. I don’t even know if I got enough rubber samples from the road to use for analysis or if I got the mud and grass samples correctly. And what about the body and stripping him down and taking the intimate samples? Was that done right?

God no. I doubt any of it was done right, but the question is– will it stand up in court?

Will I be able to argue continuity and that to the best of my ability, I preserved the evidence?

But the gaps, though.

The gaps of time between me finding the body and then returning to it after going back to call the police. All of that has to be disclosed under the rules of disclosure, which means that even if we do match samples to a potential suspect, any defence barrister worth their salt will say ‘My client found the body and checked it over; that’s why their DNA is all over it’.

We couldn’t even ask why they didn’t call the police because we would have disclosed that the first attending police officer had to walk three miles to use a landline, which then also went down.

‘I’ve done the best I can,’ I say, then realise it came out loud as George grunts and looks at me.

‘All anyone can do, nips. Looked like you knew what you were doing, though.’

I shrug and sigh and sag all at once. ‘The major crime team can sort it when they get over.’

He grunts again and pulls away. ‘Won’t be for a while.’

‘Oh god. Don’t say that. How long is a while? Tash said this storm might last a week.’

‘Aye. Week at least when this wind sets in. We’re right on the edge of the Atlantic and the Celtic Sea. It’s a weird weather front. Always has been.’

‘What do they do in an emergency, then?’

‘Nothing,’ he says with blunt honesty.

‘No choppers? No lifeboats?’

‘Ferry’ll dock way before a chopper can risk it. Lifeboats? Maybe if something was sinking, and there’s a significant risk of life being lost. Those guys will turn out in anything.’

That gives me hope.

‘But Barry’s dead, nips. You can’t risk a lifeboat crew for a dead man. That ain’t right. We’ll just have to cope.’

‘He’s been bloody murdered, though! Someone ran him into that hedge, then pulled back, and ran over him again.’

He tuts with a dark expression but stays silent while I rub my face again. ‘What were you, then? I ask him. ‘A fisherman or something?’

‘For a bit. Navy too.’

That explains the calm aura and the way he projects a worldly experience beyond just this one island. ‘Barry was in the Marines, wasn’t he?’

‘He was.’

It does make sense for an ex Royal Marine Commando to be posted as the island’s only permanent police officer. Royal Marines are tough as old boots.

‘Lot of lads on the island join up,’ George adds into the silence. I glance over as he stares forward at the road ahead. ‘It’s either fishing or the Navy. Mind, most do a few years, then come back to fishing anyway. Unless they marry and settle in England.’

I snort a blast of air when he says England, as though this island isn’t a part of it. Then I realise George’s age would put him about right to have served during the Falklands Conflict, which makes sense then about what he said about seeing bodies. The Royal Navy saw a lot of action in the Falklands. He seems to sense my thoughts and glances at me, but he stays silent.

We reach the town. Following Tash to the centre, but she flashes her hazards and turns right at the supermarket I got my CSI kit from, that being the tweezers and tape.

We carry straight on up to the next junction and stop outside of another building:

GALLYMAY CLINIC

‘Want me to get the doc out?’ George asks.

‘No. I’ll go. You stay here.’

I drop out and grimace at the biting wind and rush for the door and into a foyer, then into the reception and waiting area. The walls covered in standard NHS posters, and a young woman with headphones hoovering the carpet while a stern-faced older woman behind the counter tugs her coat on. ‘Closed,’ she snaps angrily as I approach. ‘Call tomorrow at eight-thirty.’

‘Hi. Sorry. I’m not a patient. Is the doctor here, please?’

‘If you’re not a patient, what you want the doc for?’ she demands in a way that makes me bridle instantly, but I stay calm and offer a smile while pulling my warrant card and badge out.

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘What’s that, then?’ she asks with a sneer at the badge.

‘I just said I’m a police officer.’

‘You one of the new ones, are you? You can register tomorrow. We’re closed!’ she snaps the words out while already turning away.

‘I just said I am not a patient. I need the doctor for–’

‘And I said come back in the morning!’ she cuts over me with a rising voice.

I feel the urge inside to raise my voice, but twenty years in the police has taught me people like this thrive on escalation. So I stay calm and polite but very firm.

‘Shout at me like that again, and I will arrest you you for obstruction. Do you understand? I need to see your doctor. Immediately.’

She blanches and looks at me with disgust while flushing with anger, but something keeps her mouth closed, and she storms off out the back.

‘Fuck, mate. So cool.’

I look over to the cleaner staring at me in awe with her headphones around her neck. ‘She’s such a bitch.’

A side door slams open with the receptionist glaring at me before storming out.

‘Come in!’ a voice calls.

I go through the door to see a handsome, young Indian man next to a computer monitor playing a YouTube video showing sea birds flying over a craggy cliff and open books all over his desk showing more species of birds.

‘Is this a vets? Are you a vet? Sorry, I thought you were a doctor.’

‘I’m a doctor, mate,’ he says in a northern English accent. Handsome, with a strong jaw, slim build, and no more than thirty. ‘She’s a nightmare, innit? She’s always slamming my door.’

‘The receptionist?’

‘Terrified, mate. I’d get rid of her, but I don’t think I’m allowed to fire people.’

‘Right. Er,’ I blink at the surreal conversation, ‘sorry. I’m Jim Greene.’

‘Hello, Jim,’ he says, holding a hand out as I clock his casual jeans and jumper and the metal pin badge of a magpie on his chest. Then I double take at the name on his NHS badge on his desk. Stanley Patel.

He smiles knowingly, no doubt having had the same reaction before. ‘What’s the trouble then, Jim Greene? You not feeling well or sommit?’

‘Eh? No. Sorry. I’m a detective.’

‘They sending a detective here, are they? Is it for the eggs?’ he asks with sudden interest.

‘Eggs?’

‘I told Barry the eggs are big business.’

‘What? No. Er, I’m on holiday actually. I’m a detective. From Hampshire. And er, sorry, but Barry’s dead.’

‘Barry’s dead?’ Stanley asks with genuine shock.

‘I think he’s been murdered.’

‘Murdered? How?’

‘Run over. I mean like repeatedly,’ I say as the doctor grimaces. ‘I found the body, but there’s only Natasha, the special, so you know, just trying to help out. I found the body actually.’

He grimaces again and nods slowly. ‘Poor Barry.’

‘Did you know him very well?’

‘Not really. I only been here for like six months. I came in the summer. Actually, I met Barry my first week. Tourist died of a heart attack.’

‘Blimey. What was he like?’

‘I don’t know, mate. He was dead.’

‘Not the tourist. Barry.’

‘Oh! Cholesterol and blood pressure were a bit high, and he was carrying too much weight .’

‘Right. Yeah. I, er, I meant like as a person? But it’s cool. Listen, I’ve examined the scene and got samples and seized all of his clothes. I think that’s it until the police can get over. So, er, I think we just need cold storage for him. He’s outside in George’s Land Rover.’

‘Did George run him over?’

‘No. He just helped out. At least, I hope he didn’t because we’ve literally lost all forensic evidence if he did, seeing as George helped me wrap him up and put him in his car, which gives perfect plausibility for any cross-contamination of evidence. Actually, George would have gone back on that road last night. Bollocks! What if George ran him over? But then, what could I do? I was on my own with no comms. But then, what if George turned up knowing he’d run Barry over to then put himself at the scene legally?’

‘Am I supposed to answer any of these?’ Stanley asks.

‘I’m thinking out loud. Whatever. It’s done now. There was literally nothing else I could do. This isn’t even my force. So you’ve got a mortuary, then?’

‘Drive into the car park, round the back. I’ll meet you there.’

I go back out, with the cleaner kicking the hoover to switch it off. ‘You the new rozzer, then?’ she asks.

‘No. I’m on holiday.’

‘But you just flashed your badge at Karen and was all like I’m the goddam FBI.’

‘I really didn’t do that, and she’s not actually called Karen, is she?’

She nods with wide eyes. ‘No. She’s Janice. But she’s an actual Karen.’

‘Blimey. Right. Er, nice to meet you,’ I say while turning to go.

‘Lauren.’

‘What is?’

‘I am!’

‘Right. Lauren. Er, bye then.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jim Greene.’

‘So like, Detective Jim Greene?’

‘Well. Yeah, but not here. I’m on holiday. Listen, I’ve got to go.’

‘What for?’

‘What the? Cos I have to. I’ve got to. Haven’t you got to clean?’

‘Can I join the police?’

‘I guess. Just apply.’

‘Can I be a detective?’

‘Sure. Why not. Gotta go. Bye, Lauren!’

‘Can I say you said I could on the application?’

‘Yep! Go for it.’

‘Yes!’ she says and kicks the hoover on as I run outside to see George behind the wheel and curse myself for not factoring him as a suspect before. Actually, come to think about it, the front of the Land Rover is quite high, and that piece of shirt was quite high in the hedge.

Double bollocks.

‘Round the back?’ George asks.

I nod and climb in and bite my lip as we drive round the back to see Stanley Patel coming out of the building in a bright red, fur-lined, thick winter coat, waving towards another detached unit off to one side.

We pull up, and I jump out as Stanley goes inside and switches the lights on, and I stop in the door at the sight of a large, modern, purpose-built mortuary with over a dozen cold storage sliding body lockers behind stainless steel doors. ‘What the …? Why so many?’

‘I know, right?’ Stanley says, nodding at me. ‘I was like that when I saw it. I said what’s it for?’

‘And?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘I dunno. Janice said she couldn’t understand my accent. I emailed the health authority, but they didn’t reply.’

‘She couldn’t understand your accent?’

‘I’m from Yorkshire. It’s strong, innit?’

‘No,’ I tell him.

‘Alright, doc,’ George says from behind me.

‘George. You alright, mate?’ Stanley says. ‘Sorry about Barry, like. You two were mates, weren’t you?’

George nods but doesn’t offer anything else as I slip into discreet scrutinising mode to study his reactions and nuances and what he does and doesn’t say.

At which point, I remember none of this is my bloody business, and I just need to get the body in here, then book the property in, then I can sod off back to my cottage and play Bear Grylls with the fire. And eat. I am starving.

‘Right. Sorry, doc, but we wrapped him in bin liners. We didn’t have a body bag.’

‘I’ve got loads. You should have come got me. I could have brought them down and helped.’

I blink at him. Taken aback by hearing a doctor volunteering to do something for the police. Which they never do. Not that doctors are bad people. But they are rather full of their own self-importance.

We go outside and, between us, carry Barry into the mortuary and onto a sliding locker tray.

‘I haven’t tagged him yet. Have you got body labels?’ I ask. Stanley takes one from the ample supplies as I clock the storage rooms and stacks of body bags and figure somebody must have messed up with the budgets and allocated more money than was needed. You’d be amazed how often things like that happen. Wastage in public service is insane sometimes, while other parts are screaming out for help.

Bar S U S DO no k o n

Bod ID b S 6896 RO L

Tag p a d b D G E

I tear the bags to get at Barry’s left wrist and attach the label and finally stand back as Stanley pushes him into the locker.

‘When did you last see him?’ I ask the doctor.

‘Over 28 days. And I couldn’t do it anyway if you think he’s been murdered.’

‘Do what?’ George asks.

‘Issue a certificate of death,’ I explain.

‘But I can do the death certificate, though,’ Stanley says as George frowns.

‘A death certificate declares life is extinct,’ I explain. ‘But the certificate of death explains how the person died.’

‘You said he was run over,’ George says.

‘Yeah, but you can’t just put that. The pathologist needs to perform a PM and determine the actual cause of death,’ I say.

‘You need to chase up the egg dealers?’ Stanley says seriously.

‘Why does everyone keep saying eggs?’

‘He means the birds,’ George says.

‘Birds?’ I ask.

‘Rare sea birds nest here,’ George says.

‘Egg dealers wouldn’t kill a cop, would they?’ I ask.

‘I’m telling you, bro, big business, innit?’ Stanley says.

‘Okay. Well. I’ll let the SIO know when they take over.’

We head outside while I clock casual glances to the front of George’s Land Rover to look for signs of impact or contact with a verge or a hedge, but it’s too dark to see anything.

‘You want the cop-shop then, nips?’ George asks.

‘I can walk. It’s only around the corner.’

‘No bother,’ he says, nodding at me to get in.

‘Right. Nice to meet you, Doctor Patel.’

‘Stan,’ he says. ‘And let me know if you get bored. I’ll show you one of the hides.’

I get in, thinking the last thing I want to do on my holiday is to spend time in a freezing cold, hide-watching birds.

Luckily, the cop-shop is literally around the corner. We arrive to see Tash’s car outside.

We go inside, to the public area, and I roll my eyes as George walks straight through the unlocked door, into the police station. ‘Tash?’

‘I’m here,’ she says, coming down the stairs with three mugs. ‘Thought I’d get a brew on.’

It’s a welcome sight.

I say thank you for the tea and hunt around for the seized items register while hoping the station hasn’t digitised yet. Every evidence room has to have a seized items register. It used to be a book with carbon sheets inside. You write down what goes in, with the ID ref numbers and the bag seal numbers that match the exhibit list, and then you update if it goes back out and who is taking it and where. It’s very strictly controlled and one of the Ps every trainee copper is taught to respect and do correctly at all times because you will get prosecuted if you fuck it up. Property. Prisoners. Pocket notebook. Paperwork.

Okay. Get this done; then, I can bugger off and eat.

‘Drink your tea while it’s hot, Jim,’ Tash says. ‘I took a guess at one sugar. Barry always said police issue tea was white with one.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, also not wanting to explain I have skimmed milk and sweetener now since the whole IBS stress thing.

‘You needed that then,’ Tash says with a smile when I down it in nearly one gulp. ‘You want another one?’

‘No. I’d better get this done. Just need the seized property register. Unless Barry said they’ve switched over to the digital records?’

‘I doubt it. Barry hates the blasted things,’ George says with a dry snort as Tash frowns, then holds a finger up.

‘Hang on,’ she says and darts over to a metal cabinet filled with lots of thin drawers and yanks the top one open. ‘This it?’

‘It is!’ I say, taking it with relief to see it’s the same as we used to use.

‘Yes! Got something right for the first time today,’ she says.

‘Yay, mummy!’ Ella says, clapping her hands.

‘I know! Mummy has been a right pain in Detective Greene’s bottom all day.’

‘No. It’s fine,’ I say, but it comes out awkward and weird. I wince inwardly and slump down in a chair and start stacking the bags in the right order to record the numbers and start writing them down in the register as a thought occurs to me. ‘Did Barry always keep his office locked?’ I ask with a glance to the door and make a mental note that his property didn’t contain his phone, warrant card, or any keys.

‘Not that I noticed,’ Tash says, getting up to try the door. ‘Eh. It’s locked. Mind, though, I’ve only been coming here a few weeks. Maybe he did it cos he thought there’s no other coppers on duty. You know. Cos of the changeover and the new ones not being here yet.’

‘But he left the evidence room unlocked? With a gun and drugs in it?’

She shrugs and flaps her hands out, showing she doesn’t know.

‘Was that normally left open? The evidence cupboard.’

‘Nah, Barry always closed the door. Swings open a bit if it’s left unlatched. Key was always in the door, though.’

I stifle the curse wanting to come out of my mouth and go back to recording the evidence in the seized items register.

‘She had dinner, has she?’ George asks after a moment.

‘No, I was gonna pop into the square actually. You want anything?’ Tash says.

‘I’ll walk round with you,’ George says. ‘You alright here, nips?’

‘Be fine, mate,’ I say.

I clock Tash tugging her thick, yellow police jacket on over her paint-spattered joggers and top and want to say she either needs to be in full, proper uniform or take the bloody thing off and wear a civvy coat.

But again, I don’t because it’s not my force and not my station, so I stay quiet.

‘Won’t be long,’ she says. I nod back and watch them go out, then listen to the outer door closing and wait for the Land Rover to start, but it doesn’t, and instead I hear Ella’s voice getting quieter as they walk off down the road.

A thought in mind. I look out the front window. No sign of them or anyone else.

I run into the kit room and grab one of the big torches on charge and run back through the station and out the front, to George’s Land Rover left parked up.

A quick check up and down the street with another wince at the scary dolls in the window, and I go to the front of the Land Rover and switch the torch on, expecting a beam of light like a lighthouse from the size of the thing. But a feeble light comes out instead.

Whatever.

It’ll have to do.

I shine it over the front grille of the vehicle. Looking for signs of impact. It’s an old Landy with the front metal bumper full of dings and divots, but nothing that looks particularly new.

I check the bonnet, thinking if Barry rode the top, he might have dented it, but nothing obvious. No cracks in the windscreen either.

I check the wheel arches.

Fresh grass, still green.

Shit.

Mud too. Within the thick grooves of the off-road tyres and spattered against the underside of the wheel arches on both sides.

No time to lose.

I run inside and grab the tweezers and another few paper envelopes and small evidence bags and go back outside to take grass and mud samples from both sides while wondering how the hell I’m supposed to book them into the police station right in front of Tash and her Uncle George.

Maybe I can keep them with me and maintain a secret record. The SIO would understand the need for that.

A skid followed near on instantly by a loud bang and breaking glass makes me flinch. Then loud shouting. Angry male voices.

Not my problem.

The shouting gets angrier and louder. Which still isn’t my problem. I start back towards the station, then wince when I hear Tash’s raised voice being carried by the wind. She’s with George. It’s not my patch. It’s not even my force.

But she’s got Ella with her, and whoever is shouting sounds angry.

I hear another bang and louder yells. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ I start walking while tucking the evidence bags into my jacket and shiver from the biting wind as the shouting gets even worse. Either that or I can just hear it clearer.

I get past the pub to see a few punters outside holding pints and cigarettes and staring at two cars in the road near to the entrance to the square. The front of a souped-up boy-racer Ford Fiesta with fresh damage from hitting the driver’s side of a silver-coloured Volvo. Glass on the road, and from a single glance, it looks like the Fiesta has failed to stop at the stop line on the junction and come out and into the Volvo. Two men shouting next to the cars. One older. One younger. Tash in the middle, yelling at them to calm down, with Ella in her arms, and George at her side. Then I spot the younger man bring a baseball bat up from his side and lash out at the Volvo as everyone else starts yelling.

I run faster. Fearing one of them might strike Tash and Ella, and it’s like being back in uniform in Basingstoke city centre again, running towards a brawl. I did it for years, and the training kicks in quickly.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I call out, knowing the instinct is to yell POLICE! But all that does is inflame people. Go low and escalate up. Don’t go in high and have nowhere to go. I keep my tone balanced and calm and slow from a run to simply walking in. ‘Hey! Put that down, mate. No. Come on. Don’t do that. That’s not very good, is it? There’s a kid right there.’

The guy holding the bat turns towards me as I call out, and I move in with a calm expression while gripping the stick and placing an open palm to his chest to gently guide him back. ‘You okay? You hurt? Did you hit your head?’

‘What the fuck,’ he says, flaring up.

‘Is that blood?’ I ask, peering at his face. ‘Did you get knocked out?’

‘Eh? What? No, I …’ he frowns and rubs his nose, giving me a chance to slip the bat out of his hand. ‘Is it bleeding?’ he asks.

‘It’s crap light, mate. Come over a bit so I can see,’ I guide him over to the side, sensing the rage easing down with each step. ‘Okay, head back. Let me see.’

‘What, you like a doctor or something?’

‘Nah, he’s the new detective, Stevie,’ a voice says as I glance over to see Lauren, the cleaner, staring at me while holding a pint. ‘I finished work,’ she says with a guilty look.

‘Alright. You’re fine. You good? You okay? I ask Steve, smiling gently and nodding at him until he does the same. ‘How about you, mate?’ I call over to the other guy.

‘I was until that twat ran into me!’

‘Don’t you call me a twat!’ Steve yells.

‘Alright. Pack it in now,’ I say with the bat held down at my side, tucked into my leg. ‘Tash, you want to take Ella away, yeah? Not really the place for her.’

‘Ooh,’ Tash says as though only then realising she’s holding Ella.

‘Steve hit Mike’s car,’ Ella tells me. ‘With that bat,’ she adds, pointing at it.

‘Well. There’s our star witness,’ I say, getting a couple of chuckles as the tension eases considerably.

‘Here. Let me have her,’ George says, taking Ella off to one side.

‘He didn’t even stop!’ Mike says, flapping a hand at his car, then over to Steve. ‘You didn’t even stop!’

‘I didn’t see you!’ Steve calls back.

‘It’s a stop line! You have to stop,’ Mike yells, getting himself wound up again. ‘You the new copper here? Tell him you have to stop at a stop line!’

‘He’s a detective actually!’ Lauren yells. ‘He let Aiden off with a lobster.’

‘I bloody didn’t!’

‘Why we getting a detective? Is it for the eggs?’ Mike asks. Older than Steve. Mid-thirties and driving a Volvo, whereas Steve has a boy-racer hatchback with a big bore exhaust and is younger, with tattoos on his neck.

‘I’m not stationed here. I’m on … Whatever,’ I say.

‘And where’s Barry?’ Mike asks, cutting over me.

‘Busy,’ I say very firmly before Tash or George can say anything.

‘Saw Jim in the docs,’ Lauren tells everyone. ‘He put mardy Janice right in her place. He was like I’m the motherfucking FBI, bitch. Shut the fuck up,’ she mimics a deep American voice while pointing finger-guns in the air.

‘Okay. No. I didn’t say that, Lauren.’

‘What’s he doing in the docs, then?’ someone else asks.

‘Probably inviting Stan up for dinner at the Rutherfords’ tomorrow,’ someone else says. ‘Aiden was after a lobster for them.’

‘I don’t want a bloody lobster!’ I say. ‘Right. Whatever. It’s just a car accident. Let your insurance deal with it.’

Silence.

From both sides. Guilty faces too. Still from both sides.

‘God, seriously?’ I ask with a groan, knowing exactly what that silence means as they both start grimacing awkwardly.

‘Garage is booked up for months,’ Mike says.

‘What’s that got to do with your insurance?’ I ask.

‘Er, call yourself a detective?’ Mike snorts.

‘He is a detective, you prick!’ Lauren shouts at him.

‘Then he’d know not having an MOT invalidates the insurance,’ Mike fires back.

‘He’s not a traffic cop,’ Lauren yells.

‘Right. It’s fine, and I don’t need defending, Lauren. But thank you. And yes, you’re right. No MOT means the insurance won’t be valid. But really, guys? It’s a buckled door and a buckled bumper.’

‘And a broken window,’ Mike says.

‘And a broken window,’ I add.

‘And he hit my wing mirror with the bat, and that’s criminal damage. That’s nothing to do with my MOT.’

‘Okay. Yes, that’s technically correct.’

‘Right. I want him arrested then!’ Mike says.

‘I’m not arresting anyone.’

‘He caused criminal damage to my car!’

I start to say that I’m on holiday, then stop and narrow my eyes and remember an old trick we used to use in uniform. ‘Okay. Fine. Steve will get nicked when the proper police arrive when the ferry comes back on.’

‘Eh?’ Steve says as Mike gives him a smug grin.

‘And I’m sure Steve will then make a counter-allegation that you were driving without an MOT or insurance,’ I add.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I will!’ Steve says.

‘At which point, I am sure Mike will then make a counter-counter-allegation that Steve was also driving without an MOT or insurance. Which will result in both of you getting banned from driving. Or, Steve can promise to fix the damage to Mike’s car, including the wing mirror, and the police can record it as a civil resolution. I’d take that offer, Steve,’ I say, figuring that out of the two of them and despite swinging the bat about, he’s been the quickest to calm. ‘Get your car and go home, mate.’

‘Alright. Yeah. Cheers,’ he says and runs over to get in and reverse. ‘I’ll come see you, Mike.’

‘Whatever, you twat,’ Mike says but without the venom in his voice as I remember I left the evidence room wide open and all the seized items on the desk, in an unlocked police station.

‘Shit! Gotta go. Tash, get the number plates to write it up. And someone sweep the glass up!’

I run off through the crowd as Aiden comes out of the pub, a big, swinging sign hanging over the doors, showing an island painted in the sea, underneath a black bird with orange legs and an orange beak. The name of the pub painted at the top: The Gallymay Arms.

‘Alright, Jim!’ he shouts. ‘I got a nice, big lobster for you, mate.’

‘I don’t want a bloody lobster!’

‘Make your mind up,’ he says as I run off past the supermarket and up the road, past the spooky dolls and into the station, then back out with a curse to grab the feeble lighthouse torch I left on George’s car, then again back inside to the front office and everything where I left it.

‘What the hell,’ I say into the silence, then look down with a groan to see I’m still holding Steve’s wooden baseball bat.

SEVEN

‘Good, aren’t they?’ Tash says as we sit around the main table in the front office and eat fish and chips straight from the paper.

They are nice, though, and after the day we’ve had, they hit the spot.

We used to do this in uniform when I was on shift as a response driver. Especially on a late shift in the winter. We’d all sit in the canteen with the TV on in the background.

Or, if we’d had a long shift, we’d come in like we’re doing now and just pile into the nearest office to eat hot food straight from the wrapper still in our outdoor clothes.

That’s what we do now, and I finish booking the property in while savouring the salty chips and the crispy batter on the fish.

‘Do they meet your high city standards?’ Tash asks in a posh accent.

I smile over the table. ‘I’m from Basingstoke. You got the indexes?

‘Er?’ she asks with a comical, puzzled look.

‘Number plates. For the RTC.’

‘Oooh. For the old RCT RTI thingymabob,’ she says, and she pulls the cuff back on her sleeve to show me the number plates written on the back of her hand. ‘Which one is which?’

‘Which one what?’

‘The top is young Steve’s,’ George says. ‘Mike’s got the newer car.’

‘I didn’t think of that,’ Tash admits with an apologetic wince. ‘You writing them up, then? I thought you said they can sort it out between them.’

‘I did. But we still need to record it.’

‘Why?’

‘In case one of them dies.’

‘From a little shunt?’

‘How do we know Steve or Mike didn’t hit their heads and go home and have a brain injury? Then later we’re both getting prosecuted for failing to record an accident. Or, what if one of them makes a complaint to the new police when they arrive, but there’s no record. It just looks bad, and it’s unprofessional.’

She pulls a face and shares a glance with George as I check my watch.

‘Okay, so it’s now 2007 hours. What do we reckon? Half an hour ago for the accident?’

‘It was seven twenty-five,’ Tash says. ‘I checked cos I was worried the chippie might close.’

‘Perfect. What’s Steve’s surname?’

‘Roskilly.’

‘Eh? Is he related?’

‘Like a way distant cousin or something,’ Tash says with a mouthful of fish.

‘Two Roskilly families on the island. Ours and the others,’ George says.

‘What about Mike?’

‘He’s a new Evans. Family came over from Wales a hundred years back or so,’ George says in a tone that implies Mike isn’t a proper islander.

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Gal m po s a n ‘Blimey,’ Tash says, sliding the puppy sketchpad over to read through my notes while I stack the property into the evidence room. ‘Here, George. See the way Jim is lining out the rest of the page? Barry told me they have to do that so nobody can say they added things to their notes later. Clever, isn’t it? And the way you word it all, Jim. That’s proper smart.’

‘It’s just normal,’ I call. Moving the cocaine and gun to the far depths of a shelf, out of sight, then stacking the newer items in front of them.

‘And you were like so cool with them both. Honestly. Did you see him, George? He got that bat out of Steve’s hand without the idiot even realising. Steve wouldn’t have hit anyone with it, though, Jim. He’s a daft plank, but he’s not mean like that. He got bullied, so he overreacts a bit.’

‘It’s an offensive weapon.’

‘No, he does play rounders with it,’ Tash says.

‘Still an offensive weapon,’ I say, coming out of the evidence room. ‘You hold anything with intent, and it becomes an offensive weapon.’

‘Eh? Get off. What, so this bit of fish is an offensive weapon, is it?’ she asks, holding up a chunk of battered cod.

‘Yep.’

She starts laughing, clearly thinking I’m joking.

‘It’s all about Mens Rea. You know. Like intent. What do you intend to do with that fish?’

‘Eat it.’

‘Then it’s not an offensive weapon. But say you intended to throw it at me, and you intended, or were reckless as to whether it would cause injury, then it becomes an offensive weapon under The Offensive Weapons Act 2019. But you’d have to be in a public place. Anyway. Right. Er, I think that’s me done. I’ll put the evidence room key in the key cabinet, but the police station must stay locked now. It can’t be left open, and you can’t let anyone else in until the Major Crime Team or the new coppers get here,’ I say with a glance to George. ‘Including your family.’

‘Okay,’ Tash says, suddenly looking worried as she bites into the chunk of fish she was brandishing. ‘So what now?’

‘Just keep trying the mainland and, once you get through, tell them what’s happened.’

‘But what about Barry?’

‘He’s in the mortuary.’

‘So like, that’s it?’

I nod and shrug. ‘There’s nothing more we can do now. Thanks for the fish and chips and the tea, though.’

‘That’s alright,’ she says in a small voice. ‘So you going back, then? To the cottage?’

‘Where else would I go?’

‘I dunno. Thought maybe you’d stay in town or something. I mean. What do I do?’

‘Nothing. Don’t do anything. Take the police jacket off and don’t book yourself on duty by being in uniform.’

‘What if something happens?’

‘Things happen all the time when there’s no police. People just figure it out.’

‘What if they don’t?’

‘Then they don’t. I don’t work here, Tash.’

‘He’s got no jurisdiction,’ George tells her.

‘Er, well. That’s not technically true. Every copper in England and Wales has their powers in England and Wales. Not sure about Scotland. I don’t think they have PACE. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Which is literally the police bible. So yeah. You know. I’m still a police officer here, but I’m not in this force, and this isn’t my station,’ I add quickly, reading their expressions and figuring I didn’t just help myself at all.

‘The lad’s done his bit, I suppose,’ George says with a sigh. ‘I’ll give him a lift back.’

Tash nods. Looking lost and deeply worried. ‘Will you come with me to tell Sam?’

‘Soon as I get back,’ George says.

‘Shit!’ I snap and clench my eyes closed and realise I’m still not done because 99% of murders are domestic related, which means that until we can prove otherwise, every partner is almost a suspect from the get-go. And leaving it to George and Tash to tell Barry’s wife loses the opportunity to read her real-time instant reactions and judge the situation fully.

But then this isn’t my investigation, and it’s not my responsibility.

But then how would I feel if someone else decided they’d rather go and sit in front of a fire and listen to the wind instead of telling my wife that I’d been murdered.

Not that I’m married. But say Cat and I got back together, which I’m hopeful that we will. I mean, she even said it was just a break. ‘I don’t know, Jim. I just need a break from it. From you. We’re just … We’re not happy, are we? We’re not going anywhere.’

I tried to say things would be better when I got promoted.

But how?

How would that change things?

I frown while thinking about it. Not fully understanding the connection to my own life. But what I do know is that, firstly, I could never forgive myself for not going to tell Barry’s wife, even if she isn’t a suspect. Which I doubt she is. But just for the decent courtesy of it.

And second, I’ve just realised that doing all of this will earn me lots of brownie points for the promotion board.

‘Jim? You alright? You’ve gone all weird again,’ Tash says as I blink to see them both on their feet, staring at me while Ella snags some of her mum’s chips.

‘Change of plan,’ I announce. ‘I’ll go with Tash to tell Sam.’

EIGHT

‘Where’d that come from?’ Tash asks as we get in her Citroen. ‘You were all set to go home.’

‘I just thought. You know.’

‘What?’

‘That I should do it.’

She frowns over at me as we pull away.

‘And, you know,’ I say slowly, motioning with my hands.

‘What?’ she asks, shooting me another look. ‘Go on. Spit it out.’

‘What if Sam killed him.’

‘Oh. My. God,’ she says, stamping on the brake, with me heaving into the seatbelt. ‘You think Sam did it?’

‘No! I’m just saying we have to be prepared to conduct every viable line of enquiry to gather all available evidence, and that means, you know, speaking to the next of kin.’

‘Wow. Bloody hell. I’m surprised you didn’t think my Uncle George did it.’

I shake my head, as if such a thought never crossed my mind.

‘Jim!’

‘I never said anything.’

‘You didn’t have to. George? Uncle George?’

‘No! I didn’t. He didn’t. Of course not. Jesus, Tash.’

‘They were mates. Like proper old mates.’

‘I know. George said they played crib together. But things happen.’

‘Jim Greene!’

‘Tash, seriously? You must have read stuff in the papers and online. Hang on, do you even get the papers over here?’

‘Yes! But maybe the day after they’ve been printed. Or even longer if the ferry’s taken off. But I like reading all that true crime stuff online.’

‘Well. There you go, then. You can’t discount anything.’

‘Apart from my Uncle George.’

‘I never said he did it. I just said we can’t rule anything out until we know more. That’s how investigations work.’

‘What about me then?’

I pull a face as if such a thought never crossed my mind.

‘Jim bloody Greene!’

‘Okay. Stop doing that. And no. I don’t think you killed him.’

‘Really? Why not?’

‘I just don’t.’

‘Why not? Cos I’m a woman? Or cos I’m a feeble, overweight single mother, so I couldn’t possibly commit murder, no? Only a guy, then.’

‘Pete’s sake. Okay. Did you do it?’

‘No!’

‘There you go, then.’

‘But I could have done. Eh? I could have done. So. You just add me to the suspect list like everyone else.’

‘There is no suspect list.’

‘There is! George is on it, and Sam. And god only knows who else.’

‘Okay. Right,’ I say, shifting to face her in the car as we sit in the middle of the road just up from the police station. Not that there are any other cars. ‘You went white as a sheet when you saw the body was Barry.’

‘It was Barry!’

‘I know. I’m just saying why I don’t think it was you.’

‘Oh! Okay. Right. Continuity on, then. Did you get my continuity joke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you laugh?’

‘Haha. I’m laughing. And you got shitty as anything about undressing Barry, and if you’d killed him, you’d be jumping all over the body to transfer fibres and DNA.’

‘Hmmm,’ she says with a narrow-eyed look. ‘But what if I wanted you to think that?’

‘Think what?’

‘That I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to touch the body.’

‘I don’t know how to answer that. Whatever. I just don’t think you did it. But maybe you did. I don’t know. Maybe the SIO will find evidence, and in a few months, I’ll get an email saying the bloody special constable did it, you twat. Thanks for fucking our crime scene up.’

She bursts out laughing while grinding the gears to get the car going again. ‘George didn’t, though.’

‘He took me home on that road,’ I say as she shoots me another look. ‘Where did he go after that?’

‘Home.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Cos he always does.’

‘But you don’t know for fact that he went home. Or if he went out again.’

She goes to reply, then blows air, and shakes her head. ‘No.’

‘They ever argue?’

‘Jim!’

‘Alright. Sorry. I can’t help it. You’re right, though. It’s not my job.’

‘I didn’t mean that, and no, they didn’t. But. You know. Everyone argues and falls out. We’re humans.’

‘Anything recent?’

‘No! And George wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t do that.’

I nod and think about the grass and mud in the wheel arches and how something as solid as a Land Rover might not even dent or buckle from impacting a human body.

‘Why aren’t you telling me not to tell him he might be a suspect?’ she asks.

‘Would it make a difference if I did?’

She frowns and thinks for a moment. ‘He’s my uncle. But I want to do well at this. I said to Barry I’m just starting as a Special, but see, when Ella’s older, maybe I could do it properly and go for the training and be a proper copper, like here on the island.’

I watch her talk as we drive through the quiet town.

‘Barry said it’s extra hard policing the place where you know everyone, and sometimes you have to choose. You know. Between work or family. And I love my Uncle George, and I know he wouldn’t do anything to anyone, so that’s why I won’t tell him what you said, because there’s no point cos he wouldn’t have done it.’

‘Fair enough. Good reasoning actually.’

‘Yeah? Did I do something right, Detective Greene from the city?’

‘Basingstoke. Why was George at the ferry last night?’

‘Cos he owns the holiday cottage, you daft twazzock, and he knew the ferry was late in because of the storm, and Llewelyn’s the only taxi in winter, and he knocks off earlier on a Friday and has fish and chips and a pint at The Chuff. So George was there to pick you up.’

She chats on as we trundle on in a car with no MOT, which, as it turns out, also means no insurance.

‘We’re here,’ she says a moment later, slowing the car as we approach the entrance to a short drive leading to a detached, stone-built cottage a few minutes out of town.

‘This is Barry’s house? Nice. Is it a section house?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Do the police provide it?’

‘What, this? No! Him and Sam renovated the whole thing. And it’s listed. The coppers live in digs over the station.’

‘Alright,’ I say with a sigh at the grim task ahead. ‘Sam will know you, but let me do the talking initially. And don’t freak out if I ask weird questions or act a bit thick. And if I go silent, don’t fill the gap. Sometimes we do that on purpose.’

‘Okay. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Lots. But let’s just get it done. Anyone else live there? They got kids?’

‘What? Sam and Barry? No. They did try once, but it never went anywhere,’ she says as an outside light over the front door comes on.

I get out, spotting someone moving inside through an opaque window a second or so before the front door swings open, with an overweight man in his early sixties stepping out with an expression of concern.

‘Hi. My name is Jim Greene, and I’m a —’

‘Tash?’ he interrupts, frowning between us.

‘Sorry, sir. Er, is Samantha here, please?’ I ask.

‘What?’ His face scrunches up. ‘Where’s Barry? Tash, have you seen Barry?’

Tash stays silent, her expression stuck somewhere between dread and awkwardness.

‘Tash?’ he repeats, his tone sharper now.

‘Sir,’ I interject, stepping in. ‘I’m really sorry, but we need to speak to Samantha. It’s urgent.’

He stares at me like I’ve just sprouted another head.

‘Samantha? Barry’s wife,’ I clarify.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he snaps.

I falter, glancing at Tash standing silently but with wide eyes. ‘Have we got the wrong house? Does Barry Squires live here?’ I ask the man.

‘Yes, of course! Who the hell are you? And where’s Barry?’

‘Hang on,’ I say, holding up a hand as my brain scrambles. ‘Sir, please. Is Sam home?’

‘Are we in the bloody twilight zone?’ he snaps.

‘What?’ I ask, feeling utterly lost.

‘What?’ he fires back, clearly no less confused.

I rub my nose, trying to think. ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘I’m Sam, you bloody idiot!’

My stomach drops. ‘Wait. You’re Barry’s wife?’

The stupidity of the words hit me the same instance they leave my mouth, and I know I’ll wake up in the night, reliving this moment for years to come. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean … I’m not …’

‘What the hell is this!?’ Sam demands as that feeling of sinking gets stronger. ‘Yes. Police Sergeant Barry Squires is gay. As am I. Harbour Master Samual Squires. Barry’s husband. Now, who the hell are you?’

‘Oh god. Jesus. No, but I thought she meant Samantha. So I was like … And I just assumed which is like so wrong.’

‘Stop talking!’ he snaps, waving me to be quiet. ‘Tash? Where’s Barry? The phones are down, and he hasn’t been home since last night.’

‘Sir. Please. Can we come in?’ I ask.

‘No! She can, but you can sod off. I don’t even know who you are.’

‘My name is Jim Greene. I’m a–’

‘I don’t care. Go away, Jim Greene.’

‘Sir!’

‘I said go away. Tash! What’s going on?’

‘Sir, please! My name is Jim Greene.’

‘You said that!’

‘Sorry. Yes. It’s been a long day. I’m a detective. Not here. I work with Hampshire, but … whatever. I’m a detective, and I’d really like to come inside.’

I show him my warrant card and badge as he starts to frown with the first sign of worry creeping in. ‘What the hell going’s on?’

‘Can we come inside?’

‘No! What’s going on?’

‘Sir. Please, I–’

‘TASH!’

‘Barry’s dead!’ I snap the words, cutting Sam off mid-shout and watch as he reels back a step and blinks at me. ‘Tash, take him inside.’

She brushes past, taking Sam’s arm to lead him inside. He tries to stop and speak and looks at me.

‘Come on, Sam. Let’s go in,’ Tash says, leading him away as I rub my face again while filling with self-loathing for messing it up so badly. Then I remember Tash’s reaction when I said we had to check if Barry had been anally raped or engaged in sexual activity and how that must have sounded. The thought makes me groan and hate every bloody pissing awful second of this. I wish I’d never come here. I wish I’d turned around and gone back to the cottage and ignored the body and enjoyed my holiday in blissful ignorance.

Except I didn’t do that, and I’m here, and now I have no choice but to see it through. I draw air and head inside the cosy cottage.

The air stinks of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Tash takes Sam into the open-plan living room ahead while I duck my head into the kitchen. An overflowing ashtray next to a nearly empty bottle of red wine. More empty bottles stacked in neat lines, looking ready to be taken out for recycling. Not just wine either. Two empty vodka bottles.

Looks tidy, though. No signs of disarray or disturbance. In the hallway, I pause to glance at the pictures on the walls. Old sea charts and old warships. Then I spot a framed photograph of a warship moored in what looks like The Falklands. They’re of the right age to have served in that conflict. Next to that, a portrait photograph of a young and handsome Barry Squires standing in Royal Marine dress uniform next to another man in a Naval officer’s uniform. It takes me a moment to realise that it’s Sam.

They served together. That must have been how they met. It was still unlawful to be homosexual in the British armed forces until 1999, and these pictures look way before that.

I head into the living room to see Sam and Tash on the sofa. Sam holding an empty glass stained with red wine that, I’m guessing, he just gulped in shock. In the light, I can see his teeth look stained with red wine.

That’s not good. I need Sam to be clear-headed, and the last thing someone needs when in shock is alcohol. That’s a dangerous mix. Even more so seeing that Sam looks like he’s obese, and he’s got those split veins on his cheeks and across his nose. He doesn’t look well at all. In normal circumstances, we’d have an ambulance on standby when we’re delivering a death message to someone like this.

I move to an armchair and sit down as he looks over at me. ‘Who are you?’ he demands with a tone and an expression of angry confusion.

‘My name is Jim Greene.’

‘Stop saying that! I mean who are you, and what are you doing here?’

‘Jim’s on holiday, Sam,’ Tash says softly. ‘He’s a detective from the city.’

‘Just Basingstoke.’

‘And he found … I mean …’ she winces and looks at me, clearly worried about what she can or cannot say.

‘I found Barry’s body, Sam.’

‘His body?’ Sam asks, still reeling from the shock. ‘Good god. But … but why are you here?’

That’s an odd question.

The first instinct is to ask what happened or how did they die? Not why are you here?

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say with a pained expression. ‘When did you last see Barry?’

He hesitates and looks to Tash, then seems to shake his head and blink all in a show of emotion and shock. ‘Barry’s dead?’ he whispers. ‘But … I’m confused. Why are you here?’ he asks again.

‘I felt it right to come and tell you myself,’ I reply as Sam stares at me. Clearly shocked. But there’s another energy too. A vibe. His eyes. I don’t know. He looks thoughtful. But I need to be careful. It’s easy to read into things when emotions are this tense.

‘Did you say you’re a detective?’ he asks as though struggling to process it all and again glances to Tash. ‘Why is there a detective here?’

He still hasn’t asked what happened or where.

‘I am a detective, Sam. But ignore that. I’m just a police officer on holiday. I found Barry’s body, and because of the storm, I couldn’t call anyone; then, Tash came and said there’s no other police, so you know, I’m just helping out really.’

He nods slowly and blinks several times. Still confused. Still struggling to process it. Maybe a bit drunk too.

‘Jim’s been amazing,’ Tash tells Sam. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without him.’

‘You should have come and got me,’ Sam tells her. ‘I could have helped.’

He still hasn’t asked how or where it happened. ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ I say with a look around to deflect the energy a little. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘They renovated it. I said that,’ Tash says as I shoot her a very fast look, and she winces. ‘You, er, you did it up, didn’t you, Sam? Tell Jim how bad it was?’

Oh god, that was awkward.

‘Eh?’ Sam asks, looking at her. ‘I can’t believe it. Barry’s dead?’

He’s stalling for time to think. He’s a smart guy. An ex-Navy officer and the island’s harbour master. He wouldn’t keep repeating it like that. Military veterans that saw conflict don’t have the same reactions as everyone else.

‘And you found him?’ Sam asks.

I nod and stay silent.

‘Where?’ he finally asks.

‘Not far from where I am staying. I don’t know the road names.’

‘On the Main Road,’ Tash says, then winces again when I shoot her a hard look. She needs to stop interrupting.

Sam nods as I read the tiny nuances, and for a second, it’s almost as though he was expecting the news.

‘Sam. I am so sorry, but I need to ask some basic routine questions. Is that okay? It’s what we do in every situation like this. You know, for the forms.’

‘You said you’re just helping out.’

‘I am. Yes. Until Devon and Cornwall police can get here.’

‘But you’re from Hampshire. How can you fill the forms out? They’re all computerised. You don’t have an account with D and C.’

He is sharp, and his tone is still projecting anger.

‘You’re right, but I can still create an old-fashioned record,’ I say and waggle my pen with a gesture intended to try and appease him.

‘What record? For what?’ he demands. ‘Tash. What is this? Who is this man?’ he asks suddenly as though back to being confused and bewildered. ‘Barry’s dead?’ he whispers, shaking his head. His non-verbals are all over the place.

‘I am sorry, Sam.’

‘Mr Squires,’ he snaps back instantly, giving me a glare.

‘Mr Squires. Of course. My apologies,’ I say without any outward reaction. ‘But it’s very routine to just go over some basic stuff so I can make a report at the police station. It’s the coroner, you see. Or to be honest, it’s actually the coroner’s officer. The coroner doesn’t ever make any enquiries themselves. But seeing as Barry was a police officer, they’ll want it done right, and you, being an ex-Navy man, will understand that. And you’re the harbour master now? Here, on the island, is it?’

I gabble on purpose to reflect a chatty, non-invasive manner.

‘I am. Yes.’

‘Been doing it long?’

‘Started when I left the Navy.’

‘Were you in the Navy long?’

‘Twenty-four years.’

‘And you were an officer?’

He snorts bitterly. ‘Lieutenant commander.’

I frown. Not getting his reaction.

‘I’m gay, detective,’ he snaps. ‘The Navy didn’t like queers. They stopped my advance when I reached lieutenant commander because I came out.’

‘Right,’ I say politely. ‘Again, my apologies. I’m not familiar with Navy ranks.’

‘But you are familiar with casual homophobia, it appears,’ he says with a pompous sneer as he lifts his empty wine glass and tuts.

‘I know this is a shock, and I’m sorry for what happened at your front door.’

‘Why are you even here? Tash could have told me.’

‘Sam,’ Tash says softly.

‘I’m not stupid, Tash. I’ve been living with a copper for the last thirty years. Detectives only go when they suspect people. Is that what this is?’

‘He just said he found Barry’s body, Sam. And I’ve only just started training. I didn’t know what to do!’

‘You should have called me!’

‘There’re no phones, Sam,’ she says as I realise Sam still hasn’t asked how Barry died or what happened. I give him a moment to huff and snort and shake his head as he flits between shock and anger.

‘Apologies, sir. But please. Going back to the routine questions.’

‘What about them?’ he demands.

‘I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But when did you last see Barry?’

He blasts air and shakes his head. Looking irritated and frustrated, and it’s still hard to read him. His signals are difficult. He’s a man of authority and used to commanding others.

‘Last night. Barry and I had dinner, and then he went out.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘I don’t know! I don’t keep a record.’

‘Sir?’ I prompt, opening the puppy sketchpad.

‘What the hell is that? Is this some kind of fucking joke to you?’

‘No. Absolutely not. But it’s all I had at the scene.’

‘Scene? What scene? What do you mean scene?’

‘Last night, Mr Squires? What time did Barry go out?’

‘I don’t bloody know!’

‘Try and remember, sir. It’s important.’

He snorts again. Using anger to deflect and buy himself time to think. ‘Eight maybe. Or nine.’

‘Eight? Or nine?’

‘Yes!’

‘Which one, sir? Closer to eight or closer to nine?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Did you watch something on television?’

‘What the hell does that matter?’

‘Try and think, sir. What was on television because that would give us a more accurate time.’

He flaps his hands out and shakes his head at Tash as though I’m wasting his time. ‘Okay. Whatever. Nine then.’

‘9 p.m.?’

‘Yes!’ he snaps, louder and angrier as I think back to Aiden being in custody this morning. Which meant Barry probably arrested Aiden after he left here.

‘Why did Barry go out?’ I ask.

‘Christ! What is this?’

‘It’s routine, sir. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard, but it’s what police officers have to do.’

‘Don’t patronise me! I know what you have to do.’

‘Sure. Of course. Then you understand I have to ask.’

‘No. I understand you want to ask.’

‘Sam,’ I say patiently.

‘Sir,’ he says with forced patience like he’s addressing a junior rating.

‘Sir. I understand your anger, and it is valid, given the news you’ve just received. But you were in the military, and you are the harbour master. There are procedures and policies in place that I must follow.’

He flushes red. Clearly not liking my tone and the angle I took, but he calms and nods. ‘He had to go to work. He knew the phones would be down because of the wind, and he insists there is always someone on duty for the evening shift.’

‘So that was normal then? Barry didn’t go out to respond to something? Not a call or a job on the radio?’

‘The radios had been down all day. They don’t work at the best of times,’ Sam says with another blast of air, and there it is again. That vibe of something else. A look in his eyes.

‘Was Barry okay when he left?’ I ask.

‘What’s that supposed to bloody mean?’ Sam snaps, glaring at me, but I don’t drop my eyes this time. I hold my gaze and keep my voice level.

‘Sir?’ I prompt.

‘He was fine!’ Sam says, rolling his eyes as he looks away with a quick flash of worry.

He still hasn’t asked what happened. Then I remember not seeing a car on the drive. Barry’s police Land Rover is missing. But where is Sam’s car?

‘Thank you. That’s really helpful,’ I say as I write the notes down.

‘Do you want a cuppa, Sam? Tash asks him. ‘Shall I get the kettle on? Jim? Is that alright?’

‘There’s a bottle on the side. Bring that in, would you?’ Sam says.

‘I don’t think drinking wine will help right now,’ I say.

‘And I don’t think you have any authority in my house, Detective!’

‘Where’s your car, Sam?’ I ask, holding a hand out to signal Tash to stay where she is.

‘My what?’ he asks with a different look on his face.

‘Your car, sir. Where is it? I didn’t see one on the drive. I’m assuming you have one.’

‘No. I don’t, Detective. I’m disqualified. Drink driving. Happy now, Jim?’

‘That was Sam’s old car earlier that Steve drove into,’ Tash whispers.

‘The Volvo?’ I ask as she nods.

‘Is it damaged? I was going to buy it back,’ Sam mutters.

‘How long were you disqualified for?’ I ask.

He sighs again. ‘Twelve months. Look it up, Detective. It expires in a few weeks.’

‘You got a twelve month ban and sold your car?’

‘Sorry? Is that unlawful?’

‘Not at all. Just unusual. Most people keep it to use again.’

Another tut. Another eyeroll. Another scathing response. ‘Barry insisted I sell it so I wouldn’t be tempted to drive the damn thing.’

That makes sense.

‘Thank you. Do you know where Barry’s car is?’

‘His car? No! Why? What is this? Why am I being bloody interrogated!? My husband is dead! He hasn’t been home, so I went into the station. It was open, but Aiden hadn’t seen him since last night, and then you turn up, asking all these questions!’

Something isn’t right here. He still hasn’t asked how. I’ve never delivered a death message where the person didn’t ask. Unless, of course, they already knew.

Jesus. This is straying into grounds-to-arrest territory. The law is very clear that you can’t keep questioning someone if you think they’ve committed an offence without allowing them access to their rights.

What a mess. I can’t nick him. Where would I take him? To Gallymay custody suite? Is that even a designated police station under PACE?

I figure it must be because an isolated island would need a custody suite.

But then I’m not a custody sergeant, and PACE states a detained person must be booked into the care of a custody officer, who must be at least the rank of sergeant, and PACE also forbids that the custody officer is involved in the investigation.

‘Sam, love. Jim said you can’t have any wine. Come on. Have a cuppa.’

‘I’ve just lost my husband. I think some allowance can be shown!’ Sam snaps as I blink and remember studying for my sergeant’s exams and how PACE makes allowances for everything.

PACE forbids that the custody officer is involved in the investigation. Unless there are no other officers available.

That means I can arrest Sam.

What the hell am I thinking?! I can’t arrest him.

This isn’t even my force, and he’s entitled to a lawyer being present during interview. Does the island even have a lawyer? Plus, he’s half drunk and literally looking like he might have a heart attack at any moment. What if he dies in custody? Oh god. My arse wouldn’t touch the ground. I’d be solely responsible for his death, and a death in custody is every cop’s worst fear.

Hang on. Go back and think it through.

Why do I need to arrest him anyway?

He’s exhibiting evasive behaviour, and 99% of murders are done by the partner. That means I need to get a first account from him in a recorded interview.

I also need to search the house. There might be evidence relating to the offence in here. But I can’t search the house unless I arrest Sam and make use of post-arrest search powers.

Unless I gain consent to search the house from Sam.

Sam, however, is being very difficult already, and any barrister would later argue that any consent was given under duress, which would render the search to be unlawful, which, in turn, means anything found during the search would not be admissible as evidence.

Shit, shit, and double shit.

There really is no choice, then.

I’ve got to nick him and do this properly.

I think all of that within a few seconds and then give it one more try in the hope Sam will suddenly be cooperative. ‘Sorry, Sam. You said you saw Aiden? When was that?’

‘What?’ he asks, turning away from Tash.

‘Aiden. You said you saw him?’

‘Yes! I saw Aiden. Look. This is getting stupid. I’ve just lost my husband and–’

‘Where did you see Aiden?’

‘I just said!’

‘You didn’t. You only said you’ve seen Aiden. Not where or when.’

‘What is this? Am I under suspicion?’

‘It’s getting that way.’

Tash blanches. Sam does the same and blinks at me as I stand up and activate the video recorder on my iPhone and hand it to Tash. ‘Keep recording us, please. Mr Squires. I’m sorry. I really am, but I think it’s best if we continue this at the station.’

‘What?’ he asks in a shocked whisper.

‘Mr Squires. I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I have just said to you?’

He tries to stand up, but his legs give way, and he sinks back down and stares up in horror.

‘Jim,’ Tash whispers, looking equally horrified as I spot her hands shaking holding the phone.

‘The reason for the arrest is for a prompt and effective investigation and to prevent loss or damage to evidence. All of that will be repeated at the police station. I know this is shocking, but this is happening, Sam, and I need you to cooperate.’

‘No,’ he says weakly.

‘Stand up. Come on,’ I reach down to take his arm. He stands up in shock, shaking his head and looking at me as though this can’t be happening.

‘He’s on medication,’ he blurts.

‘Not now,’ I say, lifting a hand to cut him off.

‘But, but … You’re not even from here.’

‘Every copper in England and Wales has jurisdiction, Sam,’ Tash explains.

‘But I … Okay! No. Please, Detective. We can talk. I’m sorry. I was just shocked.’

‘We’ll talk at the station.’

‘It’s not your fucking station!’ he snaps, trying to pull his arm free from my grip. ‘Get off! I’m the bloody harbour master!’

‘Tash, go to the car and get the handcuffs, please.’

‘Okay. No! No need for that,’ he says, forcing himself to calm quickly as Tash winces, and I breathe a sigh of relief because I really doubt Tash has any handcuffs in the car. I don’t even know if she’s been issued with any yet.

She gives me a look from behind the phone and looks nearly as shocked as Sam, but there really is no choice. This isn’t a crime book .

We have to do it this way.

Even if it does mess my holiday up.

NINE

2030 ho

Dec o ma b D Gre to at d t e ho ad s
of Bar S U S to pa t e me g of de

2048 ho

Ar i at ho ad s of Bar Squ Spe wi

Sam S U S fo r Lt Com d Roy Nav

Cur t ha r ma r fo Gal m an hu n of t e
de ed Bar S U S

New pa d on t e do t (I mi k y t o h Sam
wo be Sam h an no Sam Tha is m er fo
no c a f g ) Sam ap ed s o k at fir an wa
s o n to fu h in t e lo Ob e v Sam un
infl e of al l Ob e v 1 bo l of re wi op in
ki h Em y g a s in t e lo The s o k ap ed
to le n qu l Sam di no as “w a ha n ” or se
in m i ab Bar s de He on as “w e ”

Bar wa fo

In m ex en t i is od Le w gi fo s o k an
t a Sam be a pe n of re ab fir es
ex en in le s i an co n wo re
di t But Sam t e be ob r ve Defl c
ro e qu on wi an Wo l no gi c e op
an r to ti he la sa Bar un p e s Sam
w e as w e Sam ha se Aid Sam se mo
p e c i wi de d to k o w I wa p e n
an w S RO L ha no ca d fo hi w e s e
fo Bar s bo

Re s a l g o d to su c Sam S U S fo
co t g o n du to t i ma r an t e la of
in s in w a s e fic y ha n to Bar to ca
t e de

2129 ho

Sam S U S ar t on su c o of mu r

Ca t o gi Ar e t ne s ex ne fo p o p an
e c e in t a n an to p e n lo da to
ev ce Sam s o k Las o t on Sin ha d
re r to le ar us Cal qu l an be
co l Tra p d to Gal m s a n in S

RO L ’s ow ve l On ro S U S s a d

“Wha t e he is t i Hav I be ar t ”

2148 ho

Ar i d at Gal m po s a n S U S wa d
t o g t e f o t o c in t e s a l cu d su

Pap cu d re d fo in d a r The we
co l an fil e in to t e be of m ab i s

Com r re d ar p e r bu un to ac s t e
co t s te

TEN

RESTRICTED

CUSTODY DETENTION LOG

22 05

I ex ne to Sam S U S t a al g I am t e
in t a n o c I am al t e cu d o c an
t e f e wi be en n hi ne an hi ri t ar
me in ac d e wi t e la I di sa I am no
co c to t e in t a n bu t a co s
ma r an I to it ba Sam ho r go ag ed
an ca d me a “co l p i k” se l ti

22 10

I to Sam t a it wa no l p o d e fo t e
ar t o c to ex n in t e p e n an he g
of t e de ed pe n w t e we in cu d an
t a I in d to do t i I t e f e as m el w
t e de ed pe n wa in cu d I t e ex ne to
m el in t e p e n an he g of t e de ed
pe n t e ci m n e t a le to t e ar t an
de t o of Sam Squ

22 15

I in m Sam S U S t a I un s d w a ha
be sa an I wa a t is hi de t o

S U S re d wi “Is t i fo re Ser u y Yo
li l ju s o to yo l Wha t e fu is
ha n Tas p e Tel t i id to s o I ca
ex n w I wa ca ”

I t e wa d S U S t a he s o d wa un we
co n a ta re d in v e be sa g
an h re n to t e in t a n

22 19

I ca o d S U S an as if he un s o it He
sa no I ex ne it He s a d “Yo ar a b o y t a

Of co I un s d it ”

22 23

I s a d to S U S t a ev de ed pe n ha
ri t w e t e ar b o h in po cu d I
ex ne he ha t e ri t to ha so e in m of
hi ar t an I as hi if he wa d an
in m of hi ar t Squ re d “Who t e he
wo I te The ar no p o s My go Are yo ev
se u Tas is he se u Is he si Ser u y Is he
ac l a co r How do yo k o hes no so
me l il id ”

I as d S U S t a I wa no a me l il id

An I no t a he wa co c an t a we wo no
be ab to in m so e of hi ar t un s t e e t
li c o en to wa to or un t e p o s we
ba

22 28

I s a d to S U S t a he ha t e ri t to s e to a
so to on t e p o an wo he li to do t a

Squ s o d “The ar no p o s yo b o y id ”

I ac t t a I s a d he ha t e ri t to ha a
so to p e n S U S s a d “Is t i ac l
ha n My hu n is de an I am in he An
t i is t ev yo s a n Its Bar ’s ” I as ag if

S U S wa d t e so to S U S se to ge
up bu t e go an y an Tas ha to ca hi
do w i I he t e iPh

“Yes I wa a b o y so to ” S U S s a d

I as if t e we an so to on t e is d

“Ooh t e is on Mr DU R ” S RO L
s a d “Thi hes re d t o h ”

I as if Mr DU R wa a c i n so to S

RO L s a d t a s e di no k o bu t a he
he s w e pe di an w e t e bu an se ho
an s u

Fro t a I to it t a Mr DU R wa no a
c i n so to How t e p o s ar no wo n

The on op is to t e f e fin Mr DU R an
b i g hi in s a n in pe n

“He is li e g y ” S RO L s a d

“Yo re y ar a co l p i k ” S U S s a d to me

22 40

I as S U S if he ha an me l co t o t a

I ne to be aw of w i he wa in cu d

S U S s a d “Yes Ac u l I ha a he
co t o An I am an al li Ive go me t a I
ha to ta an Ive be to to av s es l
si i n an t i is ve fu n s es l so I de d
yo re e me ri t no ”

I sa we wo re t fo Dr PA to at d an
as s S U S

22 52

I ex ne to S U S t a t e in t a n o c
wo be se h hi ho “Wha fo ” S U S
as me I ex ne t a it wa s a d in su an
in t a n bu t a ri t no I wa ac g as t e
cu d o c an wa co r fo hi we r an
t a t e in t a n o c wo ex n it la “Are
yo ac l s iz r i ” S U S as me

I sa I wa no

23 00

S U S re ed to ha ov al hi p o r an
re hi s o an hi be

“My b o y t o r wi fa do ” Squ s a d

I sa he s o d ho t e up

Pro t re d f o po t

One ha k h e

One co f o a bo l of re wi

Bel re d

Sho p a d o t e of ce nu r on

23 10

Ex a n to S U S t a un no l ci m n e a
sa l of D A an hi fin e p t wo be ta bu
du to no k o n w e ev t g wa t i wo be
do la S U S s a d “Tas Lov Yo ve go to
s o t i mo Go an ge DU R p e

Ser u y Get hi he ”

23 20

I ex ne to S U S t a he co no go an re in
ce nu r on an t a we wo b i g hi a ho d i k
an t e re t t e at d e of Mr DU R an

Dr PA I al ex ne t a I co nt fin t e ce
ke so t e do wo nt be lo d bu he wa t
al d to ju wa o t or an h “Yo fu n mo ”

S U S s a d an wa d in ce on an sa on t e
be I co se hi be e t e wa s ar ba

“Yo ar Yo ar a co l mo An w a t e he
ha n to Bar Wh wo ’t an te me ”

Not t a wa t e fir ti S U S as w a
ha ha n to Bar S U S

23 33

One mu of ho te p o d to S U S b S

RO L I t e re te S RO L to lo an
b i g Mr DU R an Dr PA to t e po
s a n

She sa “Its li ha el Jim The l be in t e
ji y ja s ”

I sa we ne to b i g t e But no in t e ji y
ja s

“I wi I wa in m ji y ja s ” S RO L
s a d “Nah I do t we an re y I s e nu Do
yo ”

I ex ne it wa no ap p a to an r t a se
as t e de ed pe n S U S wa li l five fe
aw in an op ce s a n hi he at us

23 45

S RO L le t e s a n to lo Mr

DU R an Dr PA I re in cu d
wa h t e de ed pe n

“Sto b o y s a n at me ” Squ s a d

I wa no s a n at hi bu g a c f e n y as

PA re es on g ca to be gi to an de ed
pe n an S U S wa in an un k ce

23 54

S U S s a t to c I o r hi so ti

“Go fu yo l ” S U S to me He to t e ti s

23 59

S U S s a d “Are yo ma d ” I sa it wa no
ap p a to di s m pe n li I t e sa I wa
no ma d

“Not su r Le yo di s e Let me gu For be
a po s k o it al p i k b an c a c Ye h Bar
co ge li t a Be n a co r do it Yo lo t i k
yo re be r t a ev ne el Wel le me te yo Jim

G E I di t b o y ki Bar Id ne do an h
to hu hi I lo t a ma ”

I ex ne t a S U S s o d wa fo t e in v e

“I ca sa w a I wa I fo t in t e Fal n yo
ut cu I sa me be b o n to bi so I t i k Ive
go t e ri t to ex s m ow vi in m ow b o y
co r t a I b o y fo t fo How da yo te me
no to s e Wha ab f e m of s e h Thi is a
f e co r Is t it Or ar we al fu n co n s
no un co d Jim G E Did yo ev se in
t e mi r Of co yo di t I be yo we bu d
at s o l an jo t e po to bu y ot pe Ye h

Abo ri t But ho da yo te me no to s e My
hu n is de si My hu n is de Oh go Oh

Ch i t Bar ’s de Jes I b o y to hi no to go
o t ”

S U S t e we fo a lo ti I fe ba I wa d
to co r hi bu it wo no ha be ap p a I
o r hi mo ti s

00 25

S RO L re n wi Mr DU R an Dr

PA Ne t we in t e ji y ja s al g I
di no Mr DU R lo re y ve su r an
pe l

S U S wa s i l we g in hi ce S RO L
s a t to c an as if s e co go an gi

S U S a cu l I ex ne t a no l su a
t i g wo no be al d bu un t e ci m n e

S RO L co o r co r

“But t no to cu l hi ” I s a d

“Wh ca t I cu l hi ” S RO L as me

“Wh ca t s e cu l hi ” Dr PA as

“Bec e hes a de ed pe n an he’s be ar t
fo mu r an it wo nt be ap p a Plu we do t
ha su fa ar co c wi pe in cu d in ca
t e ma al ti ” I ex ne

“But its Sam Hes Bar s ot ha Hes lo a r

El a be w e I wo d la wi Bar ” S

RO L s a d

“Sor Wh am I he ” Mr DU R as

“Are yo a so to ” I as hi

“I wa ye But Ive be re d fo ov te ye ”

“Wel Yo re al weve go ” I ex ne

“Got Got fo w a ” Mr DU R as

“For Sam ” S RO L sa “w o I to l t i k I
s o d be al d to cu l Hes c in hi he o t ”

“I sa yo ca co r hi Jus do t cu l ” I s a d

“Got fo w a ” Mr DU R as ag

“Its s a l t a I t o h it wo be ” Dr PA
s a d as we al lo at hi “In he I me Its no
li on te y is it ”

“An I’m no Id i El a ” I sa

“Id i El a is b a k ” Dr PA s a d

“He’s ho t o h ” S RO L s a d

“Sor Got fo w a ” Mr DU R as “Can I go
ho ”

“He wa go in t a t i g ” Dr PA sa “Id i El a

Whe he wa a co r I li t a Wha wa it ca d ”

“Oh go ye Wha wa it ca d ” S RO L
as “Jim Did yo se it ”

“No Cop s do t wa h c i s u ”

“Wh no ” Dr PA as

“Cos t e re so in ra ” I ex ne

“So I li a go me l d a ” Dr PA sa

“Are t e ev ac te ” S RO L as Dr

PA

“Ac u l so me t e ar Not t a on t o h

Ho s wa it Did yo se t a Tha wa aw ” Dr

PA sa

“Oh I lo hi t o h Hug La r e He wa in Je v
an Wo s wi Ste n Fr ” S RO L s a d

“Sod t i Im go ho ” Mr DU R s a d

“Yo ’ve go to ac fo Mr S U S ” I ex ne “Yo ’re
al we’ve go ”

“Sto sa g t a yo b a t fo Got fo w a ”

“He is a b o y fo ” S U S t e s o d f o t e
ce

“Oh Sam ” S RO L s a d as S U S s a t to
c ag

“Jim Let me gi hi a cu l ”

“Let he gi hi a cu l ” Dr PA sa

“Got fo w a ” Mr DU R as (He wa ge n
c o s )

“Ac u l Im t e at d cu d do r ” Dr PA
s a d “Er Am I t e at d cu d do r I me
li Ive ne do t i be bu Im figu g t a s
w Im he ”

“Yes ” I sa

“In t a ca I p e c on cu l to t e de ed
p i n co m ma ” Dr PA s a d

“Hes no co m ” I s a d

“Wh t e he am I he ” Mr DU R de d

“Yo ’re al we’ve go ” Dr PA S RO L an I al
sa

“Cre s ” Mr DU R mu r

“I sa t a ” S U S s o d t e bu t in te
ag an S RO L we in hi ce to gi

S U S a cu l as p e c d b Dr PA (Im no
su yo ca ac l p e c a cu l bu it se to
he )

“Mr DU R ” I t e s a d to Mr DU R

“Sam S U S ha be ar t fo mu r an I
re e yo to ac as hi so to ”

Mr Dum s sa “I di co y in an p o t I
di t do c i I do t k o t e fir t i g ab
c i n la ”

“Rig Nig If yo wa to he us o t yo ne to
t i k mo la l ” Dr PA s a d w o I no
se to be in t e s i g of t i g “Yo re a la r
ri t An Bar ’s be mu r ”

We s o p ta n be e S U S he Dr PA
an s a t c in lo I t e in m S RO L

I wa go to ex t e cu d su an as du as
t e in t a n o c in or to ha a p e di l e
me g wi t e le re

“Tas Put me do fo t e p e di l e t i g as we ”

Dr PA sa

“No On I s o d do p e di l e wi t e le re

Yo wa he wi S RO L an do a me l
as s t on t e de ed pe n an Il s e to t e
le re ” I sa

“Got it ” Dr PA t e sa wi a wi “Wan me to
bu r hi up an ge a co s o ye ”

“No ” I s a d “Jus as s if hes fit to be de ed ”

“Ye h Hes no fit at al ma Hes ob an he
d i k ”

“Not fit li fit fit I me is he ca l of be he

An Il go an s e wi Mr DU R in t e
in v e ro If t e is an in v e ro Tas Is
t e an in v e ro ”

“Er Dun ” S RO L s a d

“Thi do do t e co d ” S U S s a d “The
ta ar ke in a ca t in t e f o t o c ”

I t a k S U S fo hi he

“Go fu yo l ” he s a d “Nig Wha do I do

The ’re s i c g me up fo Bar s mu r ”

“Hey Who Our in t a n is c e ma ” Dr PA
sa

“Nob is s i c g an up fo mu r ” I ex ne

‘Doc ju c e k hi ov an ke an ey on hi Tas
s a he an s o if yo ne me Nig le s go an
ha a c a ”

“Sor Det ve Wha pa of do co y in an
p o t co s yo ”

“Eve t g co s hi ” S U S s o d as S

RO L ga hi a cu l an Dr PA ga me a
wi an w i p hed t an ge a co s o

00 50

I ex t e cu d su

ELEVEN

I get into Tash’s Citroen and check my watch. 0105 hours. Jesus. One o’clock in the morning. What the hell am I doing? Am I really going to go and search a dead sergeant’s house on my own in the middle of the night?

I tell myself to walk back into the station and release Sam. But I know deep down that I can’t. It’s started now, and it can’t be stopped. Well. No. It can be stopped, but then everything done today would have been for nothing.

Why the hell was Sam so cagey?

He was definitely hiding something.

He even said he’d explain it. And the temptation was to go into interview straight away, but the guy’s still a bit drunk. He needs to sober up. Mr Dumfries said that as soon as we went for the pre-interview disclosure chat.

‘I don’t even know what that is,’ Mr Dumfries said.

‘It’s where I tell you what we know so you can best advise your client. Disclosure. That’s disclosure.’

‘Yes. Yes. We have similar rules in probate and conveyancing, but really, Detective. I am not fit to advise Sam here. And I would argue that Sam is not fit either. He’s drunk. Surely you can’t interview a man while he’s drunk?’

He was right.

I couldn’t.

Which also meant it was the right thing to do, bringing Dumfries in, because he was instinctively providing balance and clear thought.

I told him he was right and that I would search the house while Sam sobered up.

‘Good. I think that is best,’ Mr Dumfries said and looked ready to leave.

‘But you need to stay with him,’ I added quickly.

‘For what? He’s got the doctor!’

‘Come on! Barry’s been murdered. He’s your bloody sergeant here. Help me out.’

‘I am retired! And I don’t know what you think I can do.’

‘Just be here and, I don’t know, make sure Sam is okay so I don’t get hung, drawn, and quartered later.’

Mr Dumfries sighed and seemed to grasp more of my fear. ‘Yes. I see. You’re in a tight spot, Detective. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’

‘Fucked either way.’

‘To put it crassly,’ he said, giving me a look. ‘Right. Well, I suggest you get on with it then while I pour coffee down Sam’s neck. But er, before you go, Detective. Do you have evidence of Sam’s involvement?’

I shook my head as we stood in the front office, with the doors closed to prevent our voices being heard in the custody suite.

‘He was just really evasive. I asked him repeatedly what time Barry left the house last night and why and so on, but Sam got shitty and said I was out of order. You know? Like he was deflecting me.’

‘And you’ve interviewed murder suspects before?’

‘Hundreds. I’m a Major Crime Team detective. That’s pretty much all we do. And stranger rapes or attempted murder or, you know, big major incidents.’

‘Well. Off you go, then. I shall remain here.’

I said thank you, and truthfully, I was glad he was there. He was eighty, but he was spritely and still clearly highly intelligent. Fair enough, he didn’t know criminal law, but he will be able to later say I didn’t beat Sam about the interview room with a phone book.

Not that we have phone books anymore.

The fish and chips were nice, though. I start the car, which promptly shoots forward and stalls.

I start it again, remembering to push the clutch down this time and ignore the voice in my head telling me I’m driving without an MOT.

At least it’s easy to find. I stay on the main road out of town until I come across the house and park up on the driveway.

I don’t have a search log either. Or anything at all. I don’t even have the forms that we use to explain what power we’re searching under.

I know I’m allowed to search a dwelling under Section 32 of PACE, which allows a search for evidence relating to the offence at or immediately near to the place the person was arrested.

Bugger.

I can’t use that power. I could have used it if we searched immediately, but now we’ve come away, I can’t use it retrospectively.

That means it’ll be down to Section 18 PACE, which gives powers to search premises and property after arrest. You normally need an inspector’s authority–but the good old allowance is there again. Meaning I can do it without gaining the authority first and then get the authority later. You are meant to do it immediately, but immediately is undefined. Which means I can argue this was the soonest I could reasonably conduct the search.

Right. That’s okay, then. They never show this on the telly shows or in the crime books. No decent copper ever searches a house without knowing what power they’re using.

That’s dismissal territory and getting done for misconduct and all sorts. Nope. Do it once and do it properly or don’t do it at all.

That does mean getting an inspector’s authority later, but that’s fine.

The only other way to search the house would be by getting a search warrant–which again is massively misrepresented on the telly shows and in the books. You need to complete forms and get them authorised by a sergeant, then by an inspector before you get anywhere near a magistrate. And then you need solid grounds. Some magistrates go easy, but most are very careful. You’ve got to show you absolutely must search a property, and even then, if there’s children on the premises, they will often say no.

And I doubt the island has a magistrate. Offenders would be bailed to courts on the mainland.

Anyway. I’ll have to use my trusty puppy sketchpad–but yay, such luck! I just used the last page. And this day was going so well.

I sag back in the seat and squeeze my eyes closed and regret ever getting on that stinking rust bucket bloody ferry.

What the hell am I going to do now? Write everything on my hand? I didn’t even think to bring paper or look for new police pocket notebooks. Mind you, they have to be booked out too. They’re assigned with reference numbers and must be signed for.

Maybe there’s something in here. I rummage around, using the feeble overhead light in the car to look in the footwells before squeezing between the two front seats and groping in the shadows.

I’ve got something.

A pad. And it even has a pen clipped to the top.

Finally, something is going right.

It’s even got nice, brightly coloured unicorns all over it.

Yay.

0125 ho

Ar i at The Ol Bar Ma n Ro d Gal m Thi be
t e ho ad s of Sam an Bar S U S

Se r wi be co c un se n 18 PA wi an
a t it f o an in c to be ga la w e
p o s ar ba up

For no My pu y s e c d ha ru o t bu I di
fin an r on in S RO L ’s ca A un n
co r I t i k Or ma a un n pa n wa n But
t e w wo an t i k ev a un n pa n
wa n wo be cu

I am al aw t a I s o d no be ma g flip t
re k in m ne un n no ok (wi a ma h
pi ge in pe ) bu its ne y 01 30 in t e mo n
an Ive on ha a flas of co on cu of te an
so fis an c i s al da An its t e fir da of m
le The fis an c i s we ve ni t o h An

Tas do ma a c a k cu I me S RO L

An ay My po is Im a bi wo up an hu r an
ti an so yo k o Im w i n s u I s o d t be
w i h is so go to bi me on t e ar w e its re
o t in Cro Co r in 18 mo h

Sor I ca ’t ev c o s t a o t as t a s no al d
in an o c po re d Wha r Ig o t e la

Rig On wi it

0130 ho

En y ma to ho vi f o t do w i h wa no lo d
be e t i is Gal m w e ap n y t e ha t
in t ke ye But it do lo t e sa as w e we
le

Ro g la

Fro do le in ha w Kit n o Din ro
o Lo n o Sta le g up in t e ha w Two
be m Bot do One ma be m wi en e
ba r One ot ba r

Ini ob v i s

Ho s ap s ti an we or d No si s of da
or vi ce No si s of f a t se h Che d t e
ki h bi Nor wa it Sev em y bo l of
wi s a k up re to be ta o t fo re c g

One em y bo of p e b i me ti fo at t e
bo m of ki h bi (Pre li is us to t e
an y di d re l le et It is p e c t o on
me ti an ma o t to Sam S U S But t e
p e c t o la su s it wa pu h f o an
on p a m )

Con ra gi t a Sam S U S di no wa
to us t e is d G an in d us an on pa fo
do r se c an go t e me f o an on p a m

Tha ha n a lo t e da Pe p us it as a wa of
hi g t e me l re d wi t re in t a t e
p e c n do r is du bo to in m t e
re t e do r so t e N re d ar up d

Fo n mo me ti in t e en e ba r

Cit ra co n an p e s Pre r to

Sam S U S f o an r on do r an
pu h f o an r on p a m Box is ha
em y Loc on ot em y bo of sa An on
ot fu bo

Di z a (ak Val ) us fo an y al l
wi d l d u wi d l se es et Sev em y
bo One ha bo le Aga p e c d Sam

S U S f o a di t on do r an on
p a m

Tri am (Hal ) a s on se ve us to de s
t e ce r ne s s te Ma n us to t e
in n a Th e em y bo (Yo re on me to us
be d a ne me li di am an t i la fo t e
s o t te I t i k its no me fo mo t a 7 to 10
da us as t e ar ad t e an ha s on si
e c The ar bo of al of t e in ti lo
te ab The t i la is f o an r on do r
se c an on p a m an al of t e ar ma
o t to Sam S U S

The on me ti fo Bar S U S ar fo hi
b o p e s Not g el

0203 ho

En i he s o n do an s o p o t e I we
to t e up r be m wi w to lo o t an co se
re ta g s a s o t di n up t e ro No ot
ho ne y an I co se no re fo t e ve l
to s o t e

I we o t e vi t e f o t do The ve l di t mo

I co he t e en ru n bu I co no se w a
t e of ca it wa du to t e g a of t e re li t “Can

I he yo ” I ca d o t The wi wa s on I wa d
o t of t e f o t ga n on to t e ro an ac te t e
flas g on m mo p o The en of t e ve l
re d up It wa de an bi an so d po f an
w e I wa d to d it it s e up an d o o

I wa o t e fo te mi s bu di no se it co g
ba A er t a I fini d se h Not g el of
no No ba re d fo No fina l s a m s
bu t e pe ke co t re d no Hom la p
fo bu it wa pa w p o c We ar no al d
to ex e co t in si The ha to be se an
se to la I se an ba d it

I di no fin Bar s wa n ca or ba or hi
p o I al di no fin Bar ’s ve l ke or ke fo
t e po s a n

0245 ho

Se r co l Ho s no lo d as no ke fo to
lo it wi

0303 ho

Ar i at Gal m s a n S RO L as in ce
on wi Sam S U S Mr DU R as in ce
t o Dr PA as on a c a be d t e cu d
de

“I’m ba ’ I s a d

“Wid aw ” S RO L sa as s e sa up

“M EG ” Dr PA s o d as he wo up at t e
sa ti t e p e n he ha t be as “Rig

Yes The co m ma is fit an we an no de as
yo ca se Det ve G E ”

Mr DU R ca d on s o n

I sa I wa go to ma co

“I’l do it Jim ” S RO L sa t e we up r to
ma co

I ro Mr DU R By w i h ti Sam S U S
wo an se to ha so d co d a l He wa
ca r le ab e an ap ed to ha no ap te fo
ar g

“Id li to be in v e no p e ” he sa ca l

“We ne to be su yo re no d u k Do yo wa mo
s e ” I as hi

He s o hi he “I ju wa to go ho ”

Dr PA ag t a S U S se me l s a l
an co n As di Mr DU R w e he fina y
wo up S RO L t e b o h in a t a of co

One fo e c of us an I sa we co co n t e
in v e un s an ha an ob t o No
ob t o we fo h n

TWELVE

TRANSCRIPT OF TAPED RECORDED INTERVIEW.

LOCATION: GALLYMAY POLICE STATION D ATE: 27 T H JANUARY

TIME: 04:05-04:42, 04:55-05:23 INTERVIEWING O FFICER(S): DC GREENE. SC ROSKILLY. PERSON(S) BEING INTERVIEWED: SAMUEL SQUIRES A LSO PRESENT: DR PATEL. M R DUMFRIES (LEGAL) INTERVIEW R EFERENCE NUMBER: TBA

FOR THE PURPOSES OF THE INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT, THE FOLLOWING PERSONS WILL BE REPRESENTED BY THEIR INITIALS: JG: D ETECTIVE JIM GREENE

NR: SC N ATASHA ROSKILLY

SS: SAMUEL SQUIRES.

SP: D R STANLEY PATEL.

ND: N IGEL DUMFRIES.

JG: This interview is being tape recorded. The time is 0405 hours on the Monday, 27th of January, and we are in interview room number, er … I think there’s only one here, isn’t there?

SS: There’s just one.

JG: Thank you, Sam. Is it okay if I call you Sam? For the benefit of the tape, Sam Squires is nodding. SS: Sorry. Yes. I am nodding.

SP: I can confirm the arrested detained suspect offender was nodding, Detective.

JG: Thank you, Doctor. But you can just say Sam. SP: I thought you’re called Jim.

JG: Not me. Him.

SP: I know he’s called Sam. He’s my patient. JG. Right. Fine. Moving on. We’re in the interview room at Gallymay police station. My name is Detective Jim Greene. We need to introduce who else is in the room. NR: Why are you staring at me?

JG: The second police officer always goes next and says who they are.

NR: Right! Okidoki. Er, hiya! I’m Tash. JG: Your full name and rank.

NR: Oh god, yeah. Ditzy as hell. Er, for the benefit of the tape, I am Special Constable Natasha Roskilly, and I literally have no clue what I’m doing.

JG: You don’t need to say that.

NR: I take the last bit back. Can we like rewind it and start again or something?

JG: No. Just leave it. Okay, and we are interviewing, Sam. Can you please give your full name?

SS: Samuel Henry Squires.

NR: I think you need to say for the benefit of the tape. JG: You don’t need to say that. Thank you, Sam. Also present is …

ND: You’re looking at me, so I think that’s my cue. I am Nigel Dumfries. A retired solicitor that specialised in probate and conveyancing. I have absolutely no knowledge about criminal law, but I do understand the situation DC Greene is in, so I am willing to do my best to ensure Samuel is treated fairly.

JG: Thank you, Mr Dumfries, that was really nicely put actually, and it saves me having to explain it. And lastly, also present is …

SP: Doctor Stanley Patel. I’m the island’s general practitioner of medicine based in Gallymay clinic, and I’m assisting DC Greene with this murder crime.

JG: Er, right. So you’re not technically assisting me like a police officer, but more in a medical capacity of taking care of the detained person Mr Squires.

SP: I did try and get a confession, but he weren’t having it. SS: I’ve got nothing to confess!

JG: Doc. Let me do the talking. Anyway. Let me go through the formalities. I need to caution you again. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand that caution?

SS: I understand

NR: I don’t really get it if I’m being honest. SS: It means the police are giving you an opportunity to explain something, and if you don’t do it now, then the court might not believe you if you say something else later. Is that right? That’s what Barry said it meant anyway. God, sorry. I didn’t mean to start crying.

NR: You poor thing.

JG: Tash, we’re in an interview. You can’t hug him in here. NR: He’s upset!

SS: No, no. The detective is right, Tash. I’m okay. You sit back.

JG: Okay. I also need to … to verify that you’ve had an opportunity to speak with your solicitor before this interview. SS: Yes. Yes, we did speak.

ND: I informed Sam that it is standard procedure for the officer to explain what they know to the legal representative prior to an interview taking place on tape. JG: Again, thank you, Mr Dumfries. Yes. That’s correct. NR: Do you always tell the solicitor everything? JG: Er, not always. Sometimes we hold information back to test honesty or for tactical reasons, but that isn’t the case here.

ND: I should hope not, given the rather peculiar circumstances.

SP: It is a bit weird, ain’t it? Has anyone been murdered on the island before?

NR: I remember that Mary shooting her fella with a shotgun. You remember that, Sam? Mind you, he’d knocked her about for years. Vile piece of shit.

SS: Of course, I remember. I helped Barry to get the body in the bag as it was all over the place.

JG: He called you to help him?

SS: I’m the harbour master, Detective. I’m the next authority here after Barry. I used to assist him all the time before … JG: Before what?

ND: Sam. Don’t get drawn. Remember what we said. SS: No comment.

ND: I have advised my client that given the very odd circumstances and the complete lack of appropriate legal counsel that he should give no comment to all questions, but I would stress that my client is very willing to cooperate once we are back within a professional environment. JG: Is that what you want to do, Sam? Do you want to give ‘no comment’? You said you helped Barry before something. Before what?

SS: Before I was disqualified from driving. ND: Sam. It might be best to wait until you can speak to a proper criminal solicitor before you–

SS: Barry always said only the guilty go ‘no comment’. I’ve nothing to hide.

ND: Exactly, Sam. You’re innocent, and that innocence must be protected.

SS: I’m sorry I was defensive and evasive when you came to my house, Detective. But you were deeply offensive and making vile homophobic comments, and I was deeply shocked on hearing my husband had been murdered. NR: He wasn’t homophobic! Jim only got the name wrong and thought he was looking for someone called Samantha. JG: I apologise for the confusion and if my comments were insensitive, Sam. However, just to correct one thing there. I did not say Barry had been murdered. SS: You bloody did! You said–

JG: I said I found Barry’s body near to where I was staying. SS: And that he’d been murdered!

JG: I did not say that, Sam.

NR: He didn’t say that, Sam. Jim only said he’d found poor Barry.

SS: I stand by what I heard! You were homophobic and offensive and told me I was Barry’s wife; then, you were in my face, demanding what time I had seen Barry and what my movements were and where my car was. I was in shock! I was crying.

JG: You were not crying. And I did ask those questions, but again, not in the manner of your retelling. I asked you repeatedly what time Barry left and tried to narrow his movements down, but you flitted between anger and outrage and became obstructive.

ND: You mean my client reacted with emotion on hearing his husband had been killed. Sam is allowed to have an emotional reaction.

JG: Yes, of course. But we are here now. So if it’s okay with you, Sam, I’d like to ask those questions now. SS: I told you already. I don’t know!

JG: You don’t know what?

SS: Anything! Jesus. What is this? My husband is dead, Detective, and I’m in here, being interrogated? JG: That was the same reaction as at your house, and no, you’re not being interrogated. You’ve been arrested on suspicion of an offence, and I am now conducting what we call a first account interview. This is your opportunity to tell me what you know, Sam.

SS: Again! I don’t know anything! Barry went out. Then he got killed. Why am I here? Is this because I’m gay? JG: No.

SS: Don’t you like queers, Detective? The bloody Navy was the same. I should have been a captain! I was top of my intake, and I’ve had this my whole bloody life. JG: Sam, please tell me about Saturday night. SS: What about it?! I’ve told you. Now you’re being silent. Barry said that was a tactic to make people speak. I’m not an idiot! I’m not some fool off the street! I was an officer in the Navy, and I’m the harbour master. Jesus Christ! Fine. Saturday night. What do you want to know? Hmmm? What we ate? What we were wearing? The last time we fucked? NR: Sam.

SS: I’m sorry, Tash! But this is too much. This invasion into my privacy. My husband is dead, Sir! My very life is in tatters! There he goes again. The big silence. Right. Saturday night. Fine. We were at home. We had dinner. We had chicken. Barry told me not to eat so many potatoes because I am an ugly, fat pig. I said–we don’t all have metabolisms like you! Then he went out. I’ve told you this. The other police officers have gone back, and it was Saturday night, and he bloody knew Jeb and Aiden were drinking together in The Chuff. JG: The Chuff?

SS: The pub! The Gallymay Arms. We call it The Chuff. They always end up brawling, and I said I’d go with him for back-up, but Barry said–oh no, Sam. Stay at home. I said–why? He said I was drunk and fat and stupid. Okay. He didn’t say stupid. I felt stupid because I am fat, and since … since the ban, he never let me help him.

JG: Barry let you help him with policing? In what capacity? SS: As a citizen, I am able to assist an officer in the execution of his duty if I so wish!

JG: Did you help Barry a lot, Sam? Was that what you’d agree to say if ever asked?

SS: No comment.

JG: What time did Barry go out?

SS: No comment. Nine-ish. I didn’t rush to write the time down, Detective. I didn’t know my husband was going to be murdered. What happened to him? You still haven’t told me. JG: That is the first time you’ve asked that question. SS: Liar, Sir! I asked you as soon as you arrived and started making vile, homophobic comments. Which is a hate crime! I want that recorded. I want to make a complaint about that hate crime.

JG: You can do that when the Devon and Cornwall police get over here. But going back to my comment, you did not ask what had happened to Barry.

NR: You didn’t ask, Sam.

SS: I bloody did! And you said he’d been murdered! Was it recorded? It wasn’t, was it? You only put your phone on later when you were throwing me around and yelling at Tash to put handcuffs on me.

JG: Sam, why didn’t you ask what had happened to Barry? SS: I did!

JG: You don’t need to shout.

SS: I am not shouting, sir! And I did ask you. I did! Oh, the silent treatment again. Narcissistic shit. Married, are you? No ring that I can see. I’m not surprised. ND: Sam, I advise to stop speaking now.

SS: I did ask. I bloody did. I was drunk! And you said Barry was murdered. How can you even know that without doing an autopsy?

JG: From the evidence gained at the scene. You just had a visible reaction, Sam. You recoiled.

SS: I did not!

SP: You did. I saw it.

ND: Doctor, you are here for the medical welfare of Mr Squires and nothing else. Detective, my client has no further comment to make. I insist we end this interview now. JG: You don’t get to say that, but your concerns are noted on the tape. Sam is not being abused. Nothing bad is happening to him. He is simply being pressed about the very recent murder of this island’s police officer, Sergeant Barry Squires. I mean, if it was me, I’d want to cooperate fully and help the police.

ND: That’s enough!

JG: Which is what any reasonable person without something to hide would do.

ND: My client will cooperate when he has had proper legal counsel and not dragged into an interview room at four o’clock in the morning by a detective on holiday! JG: Sure. If you don’t want to help the police with the death of your husband, Sam, then that’s fine. SS: I told Tash she should have got me! I’ve got nothing to hide.

JG: Yes, you did say that. You said it a few times, and in actual fact, I kind of got the impression that you were almost annoyed that Tash didn’t come and get you. Which does make me wonder why? And we do have to consider all possibilities, one being that you knew the wind was strong enough to stop the ferry, and you also knew there were no other police officers on the island, other than Tash, which presents the perfect time to kill Barry and then wait for Tash to come and tell you so that you’d go to the scene and transfer your DNA and fibres legally, thus negating any forensic evidence.

NR: Jesus, Jim.

SS: Will there be an autopsy?

JG: Why?

SS: Yes or no?

JG: Don’t raise your voice at me, Sam SS: Yes or no? YES OR NO?

JG: Tell me why?

SS: He was drunk! Jesus fucking Christ! Happy now? JG: What?

SS: I told him not to go out. I told him to stay at home. But he knew Aiden and Jeb were drinking in the pub, and that never ends well. Jesus Christ. I said to him. I bloody told him, Tash.

NR: Oh, god, Sam. Why didn’t you just say that? SS: And he was taking strong meds. Did you search my house? Did you find them? They were all made out to me, but they were Barry’s. I said don’t go out. He’d been drinking. But since my ban … He was … He wasn’t sharing! He wasn’t telling me what he was doing, and, and … and he had wine with dinner, and he was drunk, and honestly, I just panicked when you came to my house. When you said he was dead, I assumed he’d driven off a cliff or into a tree or something. I was expecting it. I’ve been expecting it for weeks. Months. And I just … I just … I didn’t want Barry to be tarnished like that. He was in the Marines. He fought in the Falklands. That’s where we bloody met! He was on my ship. I can’t believe he’s gone. I just can’t believe it. I’m sorry. Just give me a moment. I can’t breathe properly. My chest!

JG: We’ll take a break so the doctor can check you over. The time is 04:42.

JG: Okay. The time is 04:55. The same people are present. Sam, can you please confirm that you haven’t been questioned during the break?

SS: No comment.

JG: Mr Dumfries, can you confirm that no questioning took place during the break.

ND: I can confirm that.

JG: And the doctor has checked you over, Sam. SS: Hardly.

SP: I did check him over. He’s alright. JG: Sam, you said before the break that Barry was drunk and on meds. Is that correct?

SS: No comment.

JG: The medications I found in your house were pregabalin, diazepam, and
triazolam. They were all prescribed to you, but you suggested Barry was taking them. Is that correct? SS: No comment. Yes. No comment. I thought he’d had a car accident. That’s why I didn’t ask when you started abusing me for being gay and interrogating me despite the fact I was drunk and crying. Oh, shut up! Do you want my account or not? Barry was drunk. I was trying to cover for him. I’d assumed he’d driven into a tree or driven off a cliff. And yes. I am aware that is withholding evidence or perjury or whatever, but I am claiming the fifth and my right not to incriminate my marital partner. Not that Barry did that when I got banned.

JG: Sorry? What does that mean?

SS: It means mind your own damn business. I’m giving you my first account. Barry was drunk. He went out. I don’t know what happened after that. I stayed at home like I always do. Being fat and useless. And if he’s drunk on duty, then it might ruin his pension or something. No, I don’t mean … I’m not interested in his money. It was the weekend. The Chuff is always packed, and he knew Jeb and Aiden were drinking. JG: You said you never went out, but you also said you went to the station and saw Aiden.

SS: No. I never said I never went out. Check the tape. No! Check the tape! Check it right now! And I said I went out and saw Aiden. You’re being all sleazy and trying to trick me into saying things. I went to the station and saw Aiden, and he didn’t know where Barry was, so I came home. JG: When was that?

SS: Again. I didn’t make a record, Detective. JG: Was it night? Daytime?

SS: Yes.

JG: Which one?

SS: Both! It’s dark in the morning. It was morning, but it was dark. I should know. I’m the harbour master! I know the weather and the tides. So yes, Detective. It was dark, but it was morning.

JG: Do you know where Barry’s car might be? SS: No. And I didn’t know it was missing. Where is it? JG: We don’t know. Does Barry park it anywhere we could check?

SS: Home or here. That’s all I know. I don’t have a car, and I’m too fat to get anywhere on foot.

JG: You walked to the police station.

SS: It’s one mile away! You’re at Cliffside Cottage, that’s the other side of the island. How the hell would I get over there and kill Barry and get home?

JG: How do you know where–?’

SS: It was Barry that organises for George to let that cottage to the Police Federation Welfare whatever it’s called. Is that why you’re in it? Another burnt-out copper on stress-leave? JG: Was Barry dealing with anything that could have led to him being murdered?

SS: And I told you–since the ban, he didn’t tell me anything. He used to share … We used to share everything. Then he just stopped and … No comment. I said no comment! But you need to ask that Skally. That’s who I’d be asking.

JG: Skally?

ND: Kevin Skallford. Works for Mr Rutherford. Game keeper. That sort of thing.

NR: Everyone’s had run-ins with Skally. SS: Him and Rutherford. No comment. But Barry had something on them. No, that’s it. No comment. I want a proper lawyer. But you can tell that lot when they get over … the bloody proper police that my money is on Skally and Rutherford. Right. That’s it. No comment. I want to go home. You’ve got your account.

JG: Yep. The time is now 05:23. Interview ends.

THIRTEEN

‘Just go home, Sam. Get some sleep, and when the wind clears, get hold of a good criminal solicitor.’

I hear Sam’s voice, but not what he’s saying. Then he’s out the main front door, with Mr Dumfries coming back to the police side of the front office to slump in an office chair. ‘Don’t look so down, Jim. You’ve done sterling job.’

‘I’m just tired. But seriously, though. You should have been a defence barrister. How did you know to do all that?’

He shrugs and gives me a smirk. ‘Watched Luther.’

‘Bloody Luther,’ I mutter. Tired to the bone. A day from hell, and my brain now running on fumes.

‘Drink your tea, Jim,’ Tash says.

I drink the tea.

‘But see. Sommit ain’t right,’ Stanley says from the other side of the table. ‘He weren’t being proper evasive. Did you get that vibe?’

‘Can’t tell you. Perry Mason is listening,’ I say as Mr Dumfries rolls his eyes. ‘It’s hard to tell for sure,’ I say with a yawn. ‘He’s an older man, used to being in control, but who has spent years struggling with prejudice, and now he’s got a drink problem, and he’s banned from driving, and so, you know, all that stuff can you make you bitter, but it doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. That said. Even in interview, he couldn’t hide his animosity towards Barry for not including him in things.’

‘He was clearly not telling you something,’ Mr Dumfries says.

‘Then why didn’t you let me press him?’

‘Wouldn’t that form duress?’

I stay silent but give a slow nod while thinking it all through.

‘Well. I love Sam. Honestly. I do,’ Tash says, ‘but if you knew he was lying about something.’

‘But that’s the problem,’ I reply. ‘It’s human nature to think we know when someone is lying to us and then verbally pound on them until we get the truth, but it might only be the truth we want or that fits what we are expecting to hear so we know we were right. And those signals we think we were reading are literally the most unreliable signals ever.’

‘Get off! You just know when someone is telling porkies,’ Tash says.

‘Sometimes. Like maybe with a child or someone you know really well. But outside of that. Nope. Honestly!’ I add when she pulls a face. ‘Alright. Okay,’ I say with a nod as I swivel to face her while Stanley and Mr Dumfries watch on with interest. ‘What did you have for breakfast?’

‘Breakfast? Toast,’ she says with a touch of a smile and quizzical look at me. ‘Why?’

‘Toast. Just toast.’ I say, repeating her words but not adding the question inflection at the end.

‘Yeah. I always have toast.’

‘Toast.’

‘Yes! And I may or may not have finished Ella’s cereal off,’ she adds with a comical look.

‘But toast, though. You had toast.’

‘Yes.’

‘Toast.’

‘Yes, Jim! Toast.’

‘What kind of toast?’

‘Like, that half and half from the supermarket. I always have it.’

‘Toast.’

She smiles and flaps her hands and pulls all sorts of expressions.

‘Fascinating conversation,’ Mr Dumfries says.

I nod and stay passive and purse my lips. ‘And where were you last night?’ I ask with a sudden drop of humour and look straight at her.

‘With you! Here, doing all this.’

‘No. The night before. Where were you the night before?’

‘I was at home,’ she says, shooting a look to Mr Dumfries, then to Stanley, then back to me with a flicker of a smile that fades when I don’t return it.

‘Home.’

‘Yes. With Ella.’

‘With Ella.’

‘Yes! I was at home.’

‘You sound defensive.’

‘No! I’m not. I’m …’ she chuckles and flaps her hand. ‘No. I’m not defensive. I was at home.’

‘You went out.’

‘I did not.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘I was at home with Ella.’

I stare at her for a long second without any expression. ‘Tash. Where did you go?’

‘I was at home!’

‘You look worried. Why are you fidgeting? Don’t look at Mr Dumfries.’

She tries to laugh it off, but the signals start showing. The tiny nuances that suggest she isn’t so clear that this is entirely a game, which manifest in her shifting position and blinking more and looking around at the others. Then smiling and seeking reassurance from me.

‘Bloody hell,’ Stanley says. ‘Tash looks right guilty.’

‘I stayed in!’ she says in a louder tone.

Mr Dumfries inclines his head with an acknowledgement of my point, but that only seems to trigger Tash who gets even more defensive.

‘I bloody well stayed in! I do every night. I’m a single parent and literally stuff my face with crap on the sofa. Is this about Barry?’

‘No. Just showing you how easy it is to misread signals. Push someone enough, accuse them enough, and even an innocent person will sound guilty.’

‘Are you single, Jim?’ Mr Dumfries asks in a way that catches me out. But then I connect the dots of his thought process, and honestly? It comes up a lot. Detectives are trained to look for NVCs and how to argue passively and how to deconstruct the things said by the other person.

Which can often make them a bloody nightmare to be in a relationship with.

‘If my husband was a cop and used those bloody Jedi skills on me, he’d have a what-for,’ Tash says.

That’s what Cat said in her kind of way. Stop being so bloody policey all the time, Jim!

Which is daft, considering she is a uniform divisional inspector stationed at Aldershot. The next big town along from mine. She’s done well to reach inspector within ten years. I’ve done nearly twenty, and I’m still a DC.

‘I shall take that non-answer as it’s complicated,’ Mr Dumfries says and sips his tea.

‘So? Was Sam hiding something or not?’ Tash asks. I shrug, then nod, gaining smirks and chuckles from the others. ‘After all that, bloody Jim Greene,’ she says and launches the obligatory front office roll of toilet paper at me, which is always kept handy to wipe snotty noses when cops come in from the cold.

‘Anyway. Whatever. I need to sleep. That was one very long day,’ I say.

‘And I am sure tomorrow will be the same,’ Mr Dumfries says.

‘Not for me, it won’t. I’ll pop back to make notes and check the phones, but other than that, there’s nothing else we can do.’

‘You’ve been saying that all day,’ Tash says.

‘Has the pub got CCTV?’ I ask.

‘I thought there was nothing else you can do?’ Mr Dumfries asks.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Tash says. ‘Barry said CCTV is a pain in the arse cos a lot of the time you don’t want cameras recording what goes on.’

‘Really? He said that?’ I ask, struggling to imagine policing an area without CCTV. ‘Anyway. Listen, thank you for coming in, Mr Dumfries.’

‘Rather enjoyed it in the end.’

‘And you, Doc.’

‘I’m telling you, Jim. He’s hiding sommit. Can’t we put him under surveillance or something?’

‘What? No! God, do you know what level of authority you need for that? And how bloody hard it is? Hadn’t you better get some sleep? You’ll have patients in a few hours.’

‘I haven’t had a patient for weeks, mate.’

‘No. Get off, have you.’

‘Seriously. Janice sends them all to the nurse. It’s alright. I’ll get some sleep and go and sit up in one of the hides later. You can join me if you want.’

‘Um. I shall give it some serious consideration,’ I say as Mr Dumfries and Tash both smile. ‘Anyway. Let’s go home. You alright for a lift, Tash?’

‘There’s rooms upstairs all ready,’ she says, but I shake my head. I need to wash and change, and my mouth feels like a cesspit after a day and night of drinking tea and not brushing my teeth.

We head out into the cold after I double check the evidence room is locked, then find a key to lock the police station and give it to Tash under promise not to let anyone else inside.

Stanley and Mr Dumfries head off to walk home. Both of them living in the town. I get in the car. The sky outside still pitch-dark, with no sign of dawn, and Tash drives us out of town and onto the Main Road.

‘Sorry if I got in your way today,’ she says after I yawn and blink the tears from my eyes.

‘No! You were great. Honestly. You don’t know what you don’t know. Do you work or anything? I mean, have you got work in the morning?’

She shakes her head. ‘I’ll get a couple of hours when I get in. George will probably take Ella to school for me. I don’t sleep much anyway. Used to it,’ she says with a sudden grin. ‘Eh? I’ll make a good copper one day.’

‘You will,’ I say as we turn a corner and go past the scene of Barry’s death. Both of us falling silent.

We reach the cottage. Still dark, and no sign of that incredible view. Not that I’d pay much attention. I crack the door open and start heaving to get out of the seat.

‘What was all that about the toast?’ she asks. I smile back at her and pull the door to. ‘Was that like a, you know, I don’t know the words and things. Like to soften me up a bit so I’d think it was a game.’

I nod back at her.

‘Thought so,’ she says. ‘Off you go, then. But I really did stay at home!’ she adds as I get out into the strong, biting wind. ‘That’s all I ever bloody do!’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Tash. Eleven hundred hours at the nick.’

‘Roger, ten-four!’ she shouts as I roll my eyes. ‘I’ll come pick you up. Or George will.’

She heads off, and I go inside to the cold, dark cottage and straight up the narrow stairs to wash and undress, then climb shivering into the bed, under the heavy blankets.

I start to doze off, then hear an engine and groan, thinking Tash has forgotten something, and wait for the door to knock. Except it doesn’t, and the engine keeps ticking over.

I get up and go to the window and see the same set of taillights further up the road again. Not far. Close enough to be obvious, and again, I can’t see past the gleaming, red lights. It stays for a few minutes until I think to get dressed and go out. Then, the same as before, it drives off with a throaty noise.

It doesn’t come back, and after fifteen minutes of shivering, I get back under the blankets and shrug it off as weird island people doing weird island people things that has nothing to do with me.

I lie still for a while, thinking back over the day with a bizarre mixture of emotions, and get a surge of cringing shame at what I said to Sam when he opened his door and then that whole thing in custody. Saying I was two different people. The custody officer and the investigating officer. I must have looked like such a twat. But people don’t realise the fear coppers have of messing PACE up.

Overall, I think I did my best, and as much as it pains me to admit–I haven’t put that much effort into anything for a very long time. Even so. I’ll be very glad when I get off this island and go home.

What was Sam hiding? And even though he said he didn’t ask what had happened to Barry when we first went to his house because he was almost expecting it, given that Barry was drink-driving and had taken lots of meds. Still. I don’t know. It would be the first question out of my mouth. ‘What happened?’

It’s instinct to ask that. Even if we think we know. Especially when it involves the death of someone so close to us. We want details. We want to know. And even if Sam was, as he says, half-expecting it, you’d still ask how it happened. As in specifically how did his husband die? Did he crash into someone else? Into a tree? Swerve off the road and land in a river? Drive off a cliff?

That doesn’t sit right–but then Sam did have something to hide. The guy in an ex-Navy officer and now the harbour master, and his husband was the foremost legal authority on the island. That meant those two men spent their lives in service of some kind or another–and men like that detest any sense of scandal and shame. Not just men. People in general who have been held by others to be in positions of authority. Pride is a powerful thing. Sam knew Barry was drunk and on strong meds, and he was drunk himself.

I tell myself it isn’t my problem. Let the Devon and Cornwall guys unpick it all. I roll over, tutting at that bloody engine that was outside waking me up when I was nodding off.

What about George, though?

Is he a viable suspect?

There was mud and fresh grass in the wheel arch of George’s Land Rover, and he did drive on that road when he brought me here from the ferry, and that same thought process I applied to Sam still applies because George would have also known that Barry was the only police officer on the island.

But apparently, they were lifelong mates. And both ex-military. I think the SIO would flag him as a person of note. We’d bottom him out quite quickly. Where he was. What he was doing at the time of the crime. Check his phone pings. Find out about any bad history between him and Barry.

My mind goes back to Sam again.

I sigh heavily and feel sleep tugging at my eyes and remind myself none of this is my business.

I’ll try calling the mainland again tomorrow, but other than that, this really isn’t my problem.

FOURTEEN

DAY TWO

Monday, 27 th January

I foolishly thought I’d wake up and make coffee and eat buttered toast, seeing as I only brought bread and butter with me, and sit in front of the log fire while avoiding going outside and the possibility of stumbling across any more bodies or crime scenes or literally anything to do with police work.

That was my plan. But as Mike Tyson said, Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

My metaphorical punch in the mouth comes in the way of waking up to someone hammering on my front door while shouting my name in a distinct Yorkshire accent with a hint of Indian. ‘Jim! Jim Greene!’

I lurch to the window and spend seconds with my brain and eyes trying to coordinate enough for me to open the bloody thing. Which I eventually do and get hit with a blast of freezing wind. ‘Stanley?’

‘Down here, Jim Greene!’

I lean out to see him in a head-to-toe camouflage outfit, complete with bits of branches poking out here and there. ‘What the bloody hell are you wearing?’

‘It’s me ghillie suit.’

‘You look like a sniper.’

‘For the birds, innit?’

‘Okay. Er. So … Can I help you?’ I ask mid-shiver as he blinks up at me like he momentarily forgot why he was here. Then he animates and flaps his arms out excitedly.

‘I found it, Jim Greene!’

‘What?’

‘I bloody found it! I were at the hide. You know. Making sure the eggs were alright, and I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’

‘Down the cliff. On the beach. It were dark when I went in, see. So I couldn’t see. And the sun don’t come till late this time of year, but I like watching them come out of t’caves.’

‘What!?’

‘The birds, Jim!’

‘Not the bloody birds. What did you see?’

‘Oh, right! Sorry. Yeah, it’s on the beach,’ he says, then blinks at me again. ‘Barry’s Land Rover. It went down the cliff.’

Ten minutes later, after hastily brushing my teeth, washing my face, waggling a deodorant stick at my body, dressing, and then after removing all the binoculars and spotter pads and gear from the passenger seat, I’m in Doctor Patel’s forest-green Subaru–and instantly regretting not making a thermos of coffee first.

‘Here, mate,’ he says while reaching back to grab something off the back seat and passing me a woolly RSPB hat.

‘Cheers, Doc.’ I tug it on and over the tops of my ears.

‘I couldn’t believe it. I were like, what the bloody hell is that? You know cos I couldn’t see it clearly at first. Low cloud, innit? The daylight comes on proper slowly, and my night-vision binos don’t reach that far and–’

‘You have night-vision binoculars?’

‘For the nocturnal birds,’ he says with a glance as he navigates the country roads with practised care. ‘There’s a gorgeous short-eared owl up by that hide.’

The way he says it catches my attention. ‘Are there more hides?’

‘Aye. A few around the island. Not the west end, obviously. But so I were trying to make it out. You know. This thing on the beach, and I were thinking–is it a wreck? Like a fishing boat or sommit. Then I clocked it, and I were like–bloody hell! That’s Barry’s police car, that is.’

I get an urge to call it in and request more units. But there’s still no signal on my phone. The wind feels stronger than yesterday too. But then I spent most of the day inland, and we’re right on the coast road. I look out, at the unbroken expanse of churning, grey ocean on one side, then over to the bleak, muted greens and browns and fields and forests on the other. A glimpse of a rooftop in the distance, but nothing else.

Then he’s slowing down and turning into an unmade lane and bouncing over stones and potholes. He’s good at it too. Navigating the car with care instead of ploughing forward without regard.

He tucks into a small, gravelled area with a large sign erected to one side.

HIDDEN CCTV IN U SE: POACHERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

‘CCTV?’ I ask as he kills the engine, and we get out.

‘Just a sign,’ he says, grabbing a small rucksack. ‘We got ’em off the RSPB and put them up at all the hides. Don’t stop the bastards, though.’

A short, winding path leads to the hide. A simple wooden construction with large holes on all sides giving view of the sea and the countryside. Posters on the walls with bird pictures and a crate of water bottles and snacks. Smaller signs to clear rubbish and not make unnecessary noise.

‘There,’ he says, guiding me to the open side giving view of the sea. I go closer, seeing we’re close the cliff edge and only now realising that we’re actually quite high up from sea level.

But I spot it instantly. A long-wheel-base Land Rover. The sides painted white with the word Police just visible beneath skid marks of mud scraped along the sides. An older style blue light bar across the top. We use smaller ones now with digital lights. But I can also see the vehicle looks stuck a short distance from the edge that gives way to the sea below.

‘You got any binos?’

Stanley hands me a pair, and it takes me a second to adjust the focus; then, I’m seeing it clearer. The Land Rover has gone down the cliff alright. And from the scrapes of mud and buckled sides, it might have rolled a few times, but then it’s come to a stop on its wheels with the nose down. As though it’s stopped while driving down. And it’s definitely not on the beach.

Which is when I notice there isn’t any beach. Just nasty rocks being pounded by waves crashing into them.

‘They messed up,’ I mutter, feeling a rush inside. ‘They meant to drive it into the sea.’

‘It’s not in the sea,’ Stanley says, standing next to me and using another larger pair of binos.

‘I know! That’s what I mean. They messed up.’

‘Eh?’

‘It hasn’t rained, and it’s not in the sea, which literally destroys all forensic evidence. It’ll have fingerprints and DNA. That’s bloody brilliant. How do we get to it? Is there a path?’ I ask, pulling my binos away to see him blinking at me as though I can’t possibly be asking a real question.

‘Are you joking? You can’t get to that. That’s down a hundred feet of cliff.’

‘We need to get closer. How do we get closer? Is there a path along the top?’ I ask while opening my bag with a near silent yes that I’ve got a couple of early evidence kits and evidence bags left over from yesterday.

‘Not a path. A trail, like.’

‘Show me.’

‘Jim, mate. I’m telling you, there’s no way down that cliff.’

‘Just show me.’

He takes me back to the parking area, then back down the access lane, to a footpath leading through thick gorse and bushes. It winds and twists until we’re stepping alongside the edge of the cliff. An old wire fence the only thing between us. I lean over, trying to see down, but the gorse and gnarly trees block my view. That wind too. It’s stronger than I realised. Gusting hard and howling. I tug the hat down over my ears as Stanley leads us on until the land side gives way to a meadow of sorts stretching off to the coastal road.

‘There!’ Stanley shouts, waving over the rickety fence as I see we’ve gone a short distance to the other side of the Land Rover.

I track it back up with the naked eye to the top of the cliff and only then see the broken section of fence it went through. Track marks in the meadow beyond it, leading back to the road.

I grab pictures on my phone. The tracks heading through the thick grass, up to the now broken fence hanging down the cliff. Then up to the edge, and I grab pictures of the back of the Land Rover from above, then work back along to Stanley and take pictures from the side.

I don’t think Stanley was entirely accurate. It doesn’t look like one hundred feet. Sixty feet maybe. Which is still a hell of a distance to go down. But still, though. The inside will be dry and a smorgasbord of forensic evidence. Will it stay there for a week until the mainland police can get over? What if it rains and loosens the soil and surface, and it slides down into the sea?

Seawater destroys evidence faster than anything else. People think acid is the best thing to use, but try getting enough acid to destroy anything of size, and people start asking questions. Plus, that acid still needs to be disposed of. We’ll find it in drains and sewage systems.

But the sea, though. It’s a massive thing full of living creatures and big ships with big propellers. Both of which like taking chunks out of bodies. And the seawater will destroy DNA and prints and just about all forensic evidence. Even inside of a car. Cars aren’t watertight. They’re not submarines. They have air vents and inlets. But if I can get to it now, I could get some swabs from the steering wheel and the seats. From the door handles. There might still be evidence on the front end where it impacted the body.

Caution creeps in, and I look again at the shape of the cliffside. It does layer out towards the base, which does, kind of, give a safer, tiered way down, I guess. But it doesn’t look that stable. I can see the loose scree from where the vehicle skewed down.

‘I think George has kit,’ Stanley shouts over the wind.

‘Kit?’

‘For going over,’ he shouts while waving an arm at the cliff edge. ‘They get suicides. People chuck themselves off. There were one a few months back. I think George went over with ropes and got the body down to the sea for the lifeboat to take.’

I give another inward yes and nod eagerly at the doc. ‘Go get George. I’ll stay here. And get Tash if you can. But not Ella!’ I yell as he nods and heads off, then stops and comes back to drop his bag at my feet. ‘My thermos is inside, mate. No coffee, though. Just hot chocolate and some snacks. Help yourself.’

I could bloody kiss him.

‘You look like you want to kiss me,’ he says with a laugh, then turns, and runs off in his ghillie suit. Leaving me once more alone in a bleak place, trying to find shelter from the howling wind and staring at another crime scene.

I squat down behind a bush, giving thanks for the tiny bit of relief it brings from the wind and go to pull out the unicorn notepad from my bag to create another log and make some initial notes. But of course, the bloody thing was left at the station to be retained with the case papers for disclosure.

I don’t have anything else. But I do find a bird-watching Twitchers Journal in Stanley’s bag that he’s used to make notes of birds and things. At least that’s what I think he’s written in it. I hate clichés, but seriously, every doctor I ever met has terrible handwriting.

I find a fresh page and make my notes.

08 35

Wok b Dr Pat at m ac m a n Dr Pat s a d
he wa at t e bi wa h hi w e t e su s ca
an sa t e mi n po ve l I im at d e s
an we wi Dr Pat

09 10

Ar i d at t e bi wa h hi Ob e v t e po

Lan Rov on t e c i d bu no at t e ba We we
as c o as we co ge on t e to pa Ob e v t a k
ma s co g f o t e ro ov t e g a s an a
b o n do se n of fe Pho r s ta

Pho r s of t e Lan Rov al ta It is ap x

50 to 60 fe do a s e c i To da r u to re

09 25

Dr Pat le to fin as t e f o a po t a bo
re r te us on t e is d Sug t o t a t i
ma be Ge r Aid Ros l

I would write more, but my bloody hands are freezing and going numb. I tuck them back in my pockets and stomp about, trying to stay warm as a strong gust of wind almost unbalances me. It dies away, leaving me tutting and cursing under my breath, wishing I was back in a warm, dry office in Basingstoke. I’d even take viewing endless hours of CCTV over this shit.

Then I hear it. A metallic groan and the sound of movement. I race back to the cliff edge to see the Land Rover sliding and bucking, having been dislodged by the wind. It gathers speed, and for one awful second, I think it will plummet the rest of the way into the sea, but it hits a big rock with a loud bang and comes to another stop.

At which point, it leans slightly, presenting the passenger side to me as an arm flops out of the either broken or opened window.

A bare arm. Slim. White-skinned. There’s a person inside.

FIFTEEN

I spin around for help, but of course, there isn’t anyone.

What if they’re alive?

We’d have a witness.

What if they’re hurt? Idiot. Of course, they are hurt. They went down a cliff in a car. They might even be dead. Bloody hell. It might even be the murderer.

‘CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ I yell out, but I know instantly the wind will whip my voice away.

Shit. Shit and shit and double shit.

I can’t just stand here. They might be bleeding out or something. I run back and grab my bag and go back while pulling the binos out. God, my hands are so cold. I focus in and find the arm. Slim and white. That’s all I can see. Nothing else.

Then it twitches.

I cry out and dump the binos and run to the broken-down fence. I can’t not try. They’re alive. I scrabble over the edge and start down the screed on my backside. Digging my feet in, scuffing my already frozen hands. Fear kicks in immediately, with a voice inside my head telling me I’m an absolute twat for doing this, but the urge to get there and render aid is stronger.

I aim for the first levelled-out section, but I just set the scree off and end up half falling and half sliding. Yelling out and gathering speed. I clutch at bushes. They break off in my hands but slow my descent a little. I cut my knees and backside and hands, then take a tumble, and roll a few times.

I come to a stop, somewhat dazed, and see the Land Rover about fifteen metres away, on the same level as me.

‘ARE YOU OKAY?’ I yell. Snatching glimpses at the arm. ‘JUST HANG ON!’ I dart forward, then immediately stop on seeing the ground covered in a thick layer of loose stones and soil. Chunks of flint and chalk and gorse twigs. It looks dangerous as anything and still shifting in parts, with pebbles and things rolling down. Then I look left to the sheer drop giving way to the sea and rocks below. If I lose my footing here, there’s nothing to stop me going over the edge. ‘HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME?’

Nothing. Only the wind and the violent thump of the waves hitting the cliff face below me.

The arm moves. Or was it the vehicle? Shit. I can’t tell. I start scrabbling forward as I hear a noise above and snatch a glimpse to a figure on the top of the cliff waving and holding a megaphone. I wave back but can’t make out what is being said. I can’t even see who it is. Then another figure joins the first. Then another. All of them waving at me to stay put.

I raise an arm. Showing I will comply and stay put. They disappear out of sight; then another one appears. Shorter and of a different shape and wearing a distinctive yellow jacket. I wave at Tash. She waves both arms over her head, then turns, and I imagine her urging the others to hurry up.

I feel like such an idiot. I shouldn’t have come down. Now I need saving along with whoever is in the Land Rover, which puts the rescuers at greater risk.

I look back up as something sails over the edge of the cliff. Something small and bright orange. It lands behind me, away from the Land Rover. A small rubber box of sorts attached to a long, thin line. For a minute, I think they want me to hold onto it and get pulled up, but it’s gets yanked away. It comes over again a moment later and lands much closer. I do reach it this time and spot hinges on one side and find a small, orange, short-wave radio inside when I open it. The front screen already illuminated.

‘Hello!’ I say while holding the press-to-talk button down on the side.

‘Jim! You daft bloody twazzock!’

‘Tash? I’m sorry! But the arm moved. They might be alive.’

Another voice comes over the air. Male and deep and speaking slowly. ‘Are. You. Hurt?’

‘Negative. Answer no! The arm moved. I repeat. The arm moved. The person inside might be alive!’

‘Understood. Stay there. We will come to you. Copy?’

‘Yes, yes, answer yes! Copy that.’

I add a wave to show I understand. At which point, the wind blows hard again, and it feels like the whole side of the cliff seems to shift with another layer of scree tumbling down. I go low. Hugging the earth and feeling it bounce and slide past me. Rocks and stones hit my sides. I cover my head, then hear a louder creak, and snatch a look to see the Land Rover shifting position. The back end swinging away. The arm out the window flopping as though in motion. As though alive.

Instinct kicks in. I run for it. Slipping and tripping, and god only knows how I don’t get ripped off my feet, but I leap and land on the running boards.

The Land Rover kinks again, with the back end slewing out as I gain sight of the person inside. A young man. Early twenties. Slim and small. Brown hair. Naked, except for a pair of boxers. And I was wrong. He’s not alive. First glance tells me that.

The skin looks mottled and grey and ashen from the blood draining away. The body has only stayed upright in the seat because of the seatbelt across the chest.

I check his neck anyway, but it’s freezing cold, with no sign of a pulse, which is when I spot what looks like a burn mark on his chest. Small and round. It takes me a few seconds to realise what it is. We don’t have a prevalence of guns in the UK. Most of our murders are committed by blades or blunt trauma, but this is a gunshot wound. Jesus. To the centre of his chest. A small, cauterized entry point. I lean him forward but don’t see any exit wound. That suggests the bullet stayed inside his body, and the lack of bleeding strongly suggests he died very quickly after being shot. Or he was already dead.

‘Jim! Get off the car!’ Tash’s voice blasts through the radio as I pull my phone from my pocket and start taking pictures of the body and the gunshot wound, and it’s only then I see the lesions or bruising around his wrists that look like possible grip marks or from being tied or tethered. I lean in further and see the same marks around his ankles.

‘JIM! GET OFF!’

The car shifts again. The chassis groaning at the unnatural angle while the wind howls through the windows. No broken glass, though. They were left open on purpose. No doubt, hoping the car would fill with seawater and sink quickly. It shifts again. I need to get off, but you really do only get once chance at a crime scene. I wrench my bag around to my front and get one of the early evidence kits out and one of the swab sticks. Then I’m leaning in and getting it inside the mouth of the body, then snapping the end off into the solution. At which point I panic that I’ll get them mixed up, and it would have been for nothing. Which means scrabbling for a pen so I can write M for mouth on the side.

I grab another swab and do his palms for whatever good it might do. H for hands on the side of the solutions container.

‘YOU HAVE TO GET OFF THE CAR!’

I have to get off. I know I do. This isn’t worth dying for. And for the life of me, I don’t know why I stay. I’ve never been this committed to anything, but I grab a fistful of hair and hate myself for doing it as I yank the hair from the head, hoping I get hair roots, and stuff them into an evidence bag as I hear a voice shouting and glance out to see Aiden, the man I kicked out of the police cell, coming down the cliff in an abseiling harness, feeding a rope out and shouting at me. For one surreal second, I almost stop to ask him what he’s doing here again. But the car slews and groans. I think to jump free, but it stops, and I realise I’ve probably got seconds left.

I grab another swab kit as Aiden reaches the ground behind me.

‘Get out, Jim!’ he calls in a surprisingly calm voice.

‘Hang on!’ I call and start clambering in through the window, over the body of the young man.

‘Jim!’

‘I need the steering wheel!’

Strong hands grip my legs, anchoring me and allowing me to pivot and run the swab over the steering wheel. I break it off into the solution. Nearly upside down in the car, leaning over a dead body.

I twist to pass the solution containing the swab to Aiden. ‘Steering wheel. Remember that!’ he shoves it in a pocket as the vehicle groans and slides again. ‘Can we get him out?’ I shout over the wind.

‘Him?’ he asks, nodding at the body with the same lack of shock that George showed when he saw Barry’s body in the lane; then he grabs his radio. ‘Jeb! The copper wants the body winched up. Come down with the stretcher.’

That’s good. The body is a crime scene. The gunshot residue on the entry point and the bullet still inside of him might help us identify the weapon used to kill him, which could lead us to the murderer.

But then my luck runs out again as it all starts getting very messy very quickly from another sustained gust of wind that seems to shift the car. It slides out as more scree sails down the cliff. Battering the sides as I feel the motion and the sensation of sliding within the car. I yell out as Aiden grabs and heaves me hard, and even then, I try and go for the seatbelt buckle to unfasten the body and pull it out with me. But I can’t get to it from the car twisting and sliding and me being yanked back.

The next thing I know I’m flying backwards out of the car as it slides down the cliff. Hitting rocks and tumbling down the remainder of the cliff. Smashing the lightbar off the top. Smashing the windscreen. The body inside bucking around but held in place by the belt. Then it’s gone. We don’t even hear the splash over the noise of the wind and scree falling down. Or rather, I don’t hear it while on my backside, with Aiden holding me from behind.

‘Ain’t many coppers do that, mate,’ he says in my ear with what sounds like a laugh.

The next few minutes are a blur of pain and what feels like complete feebleness as I get strapped into a harness and hoisted up the cliff side. Aiden stays at my side. Guiding me up the worst bits while it feels like my testicles are being slowly pulled from my body. But eventually, with a final heave and several pairs of hands grabbing at my arms, I’m yanked over the edge and land gasping on the thick grass. Staring up at the faces of George and Tash and the grinning smile of Aiden and another man who shared a similarity to Aiden, apart from having darker features. Plus, a black eye. ‘You must be Jeb.’

‘And you must be a bloody idiot,’ he says bluntly as George reaches down to help me up. At which point, I really do yelp from the pain in my privates.

‘Jim!’ Ella shouts as I turn to see her in Tash’s Citroen waving at me and several strong metal stakes embedded in the ground forming a frame of sorts with ropes attached pooling out to the harnesses worn by Aiden and me.

‘Hey, Ella!’ I say feebly as Tash winces at me.

‘I’ve got no one to ask. We’re all here,’ she says.

‘You alright, Jim?’ Stanley asks, checking my cut hands and the grazes on my face.

‘I’m alright. I’m fine. I think.’

‘What the bloody hell were you thinking?’ Tash asks me.

‘Evidence,’ I say, patting my bag still on the front of my body. ‘Which we’ll need. Cos this is now a double murder …’

SIXTEEN

MG11 WITNESS STATEMENT

(CJ Act 1967, s.9; MC Act 1980, ss.5A(3)(a) and 5B; Criminal Procedure Rules,

Rule 27.2)

This statement (consisting of 3 pages each signed by me) is true to the best
of my knowledge and belief, and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in
evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it
anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

Signature:

Aiden Roskilly

Date:

Monday 27th Jan

I am Aid Ros l I re at t e ad s as p o d
to t e po I am ma g t i s a m to D Jim

Gre at Gal m po s a n w i h is si ed in
t e to of Gal m on t e is d al k o n as

Gal m

I ha li on Gal m is d si bi h ap f o
ap x te ye w e I wa a Roy Mar Com d
wi t e Roy Nav an se d in va u ot
lo on I am no a se em y fis e m wo n
on a t a l wi m Un e Ge r Ros l an so me
wi m b o h Jeb Ros l

I am ma g t i s a m ab t e la ti I sa

Pol Ser t Bar Squ I k o Bar f o be
a re n on t e is d It is a s a l co n Bar
wa f i d wi m un Ge r The o n p a d Cri
to h Bar wa al a Roy Mar as wa m

Un e Ge r an me The is d ha a s on co c o
to t e Roy Nav

On Sat y 25t Jan Pol Ser t Bar Squ
ca to The Chu Thi is t e ma pu an be an
b e f in t e to an is ca d The Gal m Ar
bu it is k o n lo l as The Chu a r t e bi w i h
is ac l s e l C O H

I wo ’t sa w a ha n D Gre ha as me
an I’m no sa g But it in v a si i n wi m
b o h Jeb I’m no a s i c an I do ’t te ta so

I’m no sa g w a ha n But Bar ca to t e
pu ab 10 p m or ma ju a r I’d ha se l
pi s of s on la an a fe s o s of ru I wa qu
d u k Som n ha n be n me an Jeb an

Bar pu me in hi po ca an I we to t e po
s a n

I’d so me ge ta ho But Jeb wa ho so t a
wa ’t a go id an Bar sa I co s e it o in
t e ce s

I do ’t re b a lo du to t e al l But I do
re b Bar se an y or ma s es He
no l ca d me na w e I’d do so h si y or
go in a s ap Lik ba r We k e e c ot fo a
lo ti He’d ca d me a da t a or a si y p i k He
we ’t ev ab e an it wa ’t li he wa ba at hi
jo bu he s o to me an t e re of us li we al ta
to e c ot He ha a re ti to I me yo di ’t
me ab wi Bar He wa al s fa bu he wa a
ha ma

Bar di ’t ca me an na or gi an ba r t a
ev g t o h He ju pu me in t e ce an to me to
s e it o an he’d se me la I t i k he wa in a
ru to go I di ’t as w a I sa I wa d a cu

Bar al s ma me a cu w e I ha to s e it o
in t e ce He to me to “fu n ma it yo l ” bu it
we ’t jo g or ba r Tha ’s w I t o h he wa
an y I sa I wa so y bu he we o

I fe as in t e ce The do wa le un k I
t i k so me in t e mo n (I do ’t k o w a ti it
wa ) Sam Squ t a be Bar ’s hu n an t e
ha r ma r ca in t e ce an wo me up He
as me w e Bar wa I sa I di ’t k o Sam
al se an y bu I a n’t s i c g on hi Sam
co ge an y t o h I li t e gu bu he is bo y
an al s te n us w a to do li he wa s i l an
o c in t e na or so h

I fe ba as an I do ’t re b an h el
ab Sam

The la D Jim Gre wo me up an to me to
le t e s a n

I di ’t he an h el I we ho an s e t The
t i mo n on Mon 27t Jan at ju be 10
a m m un Ge r ca to m ho wi Doc

Sta y Pat Jeb wa t e to Doc Pat sa

Bar ’s ca wa s u k do a c i on t e so s o

Ge r an me an Jeb ar t a d ab er an he d

Bar o t w e pe ju d o t e c i or if t e fe

We we to t e so s o wi Doc Pat an I
we do t e c i an sa D Gre wa do t e
c i ne to Bar Squ Pol ve l I we do
an t e D Gre go in t o g t e f o t pa n
wi w I al sa t e wa a bo in t e f o t
pa n se It lo li a yo ma wi b o n
ha He ha w a lo li a gu h wo to hi
c e t I’ve se t i be a lo of ti w e I se d in

Ira an Af an n I’m no a fo s ex t bu it
lo li a s a l en y po f o a s a l ca r
we Tha ’s w a it lo li to me

We t i to ge t e bo o t bu t e ve l s i an we
in t e se wi t e bo in

I k o t e wa s ve we Tha se n of se is
da r u in al we r The se fo s w i l s an
ca ’t be ac s Div t a ar ev on a ca da
wi no wi is da r u

Aiden Roskilly

MG11 WITNESS STATEMENT

(CJ Act 1967, s.9; MC Act 1980, ss.5A(3)(a) and 5B; Criminal Procedure Rules,

Rule 27.2)

This statement (consisting of 3 pages each signed by me) is true to the best
of my knowledge and belief, and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in
evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it
anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

Signature:

Natasha Roski y

Date:

Monday 27 Jan

I am Nat Ros l I re at t e ad s as
p o d to t e po I am ma g t i s a m to D

Jim Gre at Gal m po s a n w i h is si ed
in t e to of Gal m on t e is d al k o n as

Gal m

I am a Spe Con b wi Dev an Cor l Pol
bu I ha on be do t i fo a fe we an ha
no ga in n e t pa l or un t e an co s
ot t a s a w Pol Ser t Bar Squ
w e I co ge c i d fo m da t El a

I la sa Pol Ser t Bar Squ on Fri
ev g t a be Fri 24t Jan I’d no l t
an pa l wi e t Bar or on of t e co t s on
a Fri fo a fe ho w i m Un e Ge r Ros l
wa h El a But t e ot t o po o c ha be
se ba to t e ma n as t e ro on wa ov
an t e ne on ha ’t ar d

El a al ha a ba tu y an ke ne g t e to
an I di ’t t i k it wa fa on m un Ge r to de
wi t a so I te d Bar to sa I co n’t co in I
di ’t ge a re y w i h wa ve un a Bar al s
re d I we in Gal m po s a n at ar 6
p m El a wa in t e ca Bar wa in hi o c I to
hi I co n’t co in He sa t a wa fine an he
ho El a fe be r so But he di se di r d I
as hi if he wa al h The Sam ca do t e
s a s f o t e ki h an I co se he ha ma

Bar an hi l a cu of te Sam as me if I
wa d on bu t e at p e be n t e wa
s a n an I ha El a in t e ca

The di bi r a lo Sam an Bar But I al s
t o h t e we bo s on wi d an s u b I
al k o Sam ha a d i k p o l an ha be
ba d f o d i n be e on of t e ot co t s
t a go se ov ca t hi d i k d i n hi Vol
an Sam ha to go to t e co on t e ma n an go
ba d fo t e v mo h

I do ’t k o w a wa ha n be n t e on t a

Fri ev g The s a d qu un I le bu I di
he Sam sa g to Bar “t i is ge n o t of ha ” as

I le He sa it in an an y vo

I di no se Bar ag un t e co r ro on t e
ma n p o d me at ho an I we on t e Ma n

Ro d an fo D Jim Gre wi t e bo of Bar

Squ

I wi ma a se te s a m ab as t D

Gre at t a s e an t e ev s a r

Natasha Roski y

SEVENTEEN

‘All done,’ I say as Tash signs the statement. ‘We’ll do the other one later, or the mainland team can do it when they get over.’

‘Why do this one now then?’ she asks as she hands me the forms back.

‘So we can later show that we got our first accounts down as soon as practicable.’

‘Oh,’ she says with a pained expression, ‘Barry used that word all the time. Practicable. He said it was a policey word.’

I have to remind myself again that this isn’t just a job for Tash. She knew Barry on a personal level. ‘Cor. Anyway,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘What’s next?’

‘We’ll grab a brew,’ I say as I open the door to leave the small interview room.

‘We made ’em already, Jimbo!’ Aiden calls from the front office. We head in to see him and Stanley clutching cups of tea, and Ella hard at work on a colouring book. Three more mugs on a tray on the table. I grab one with a sigh of pleasure.

‘You all done, Tash?’ Aiden asks in that cheery way of his, with no sign he just abseiled down a cliff and dragged me from a car that had a dead body inside of it.

‘Do I need to do one?’ Stanley asks.

‘Everyone does,’ I say as the main door to the station swings open with George coming in. ‘Where’s Jeb?’ I ask, going round to let him in, seeing as the inner door is now kept locked.

‘Home,’ George says in that blunt way of his.

‘I said we need his statement,’ I say, following George into the front office.

‘Yeah. So. I don’t think Jeb will do one,’ Tash says diplomatically.

‘Why not?’ I ask to a wall of silence loaded with shared looks between the Roskillys. Jeb was quiet when I came up the cliff. Darker and more brooding than Aiden, and with a distinctive swelling around his right eye. No doubt from the punch delivered by Aiden. Although strangely, right then, I noticed his eyes were the same colour as Aiden and Tash and George too. ‘Okay. That’s fine. Devon and Cornwall can talk to him. George? We’ll do yours in the interview room.’

I head to the metal drawers and grab another few sheets of MG11 statement forms as I spot more shared looks between Tash and Aiden and George pointedly sipping his tea. ‘George?’

‘Yeah. No,’ he says.

‘Yeah, no? What does that mean?’

‘Means no, nips.’

‘No what? No statement?’

‘Aye,’ he says and sits down as I blink at the distinct lack of an explanation.

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Asking’s free.’

‘For the love of … Fine, why then?’

‘Don’t mean I have to say, though, does it?’

‘I just need the last time you saw him and if he said anything or you saw anything or heard. Devon and Cornwall will do fuller interviews when they get here. George?’ I prompt, but he stays quiet and unreadable. The others exchange looks, clearly knowing more than they’re letting on. ‘Okay. Alright. May I talk to you in the interview room, please?’

‘I’m not giving a statement, Jim,’ George says flatly.

‘Why not? Tash and Aiden have done them.’

‘You done one, have you?’ George asks with a look to Aiden. ‘What you said in it?’

‘Just said when I last saw Barry and when Sam came in here looking for him.’

‘Nothing else?’ George asks as Aiden shakes his head.

‘What else could he tell me?’ I ask as that awkward silence comes back, with the only sound coming from Ella’s felt pen on the rough paper in her colouring book.

The evidence taken from the Land Rover already bagged and booked into the seized property register and placed and locked into the evidence cupboard. Apart from the vials of solution containing the swabs. They went into evidence bags and then into the freezer in the small kitchen upstairs.

‘I thought you weren’t getting involved,’ George finally says with a glance at me.

‘Are you bloody … Sorry,’ I add with an apologetic glance to Tash for swearing in front of Ella.

‘She’s heard far worse, Jim.’

‘You said you weren’t getting involved, Jim,’ George says again. ‘You done what you had to …’ he trails off for a second. I don’t rush to fill the silence. He sips his tea and gives me another look. ‘You’re on holiday, nips, and most coppers use that cottage when they’re on stress leave. I’m just saying you probably don’t need to do more than you done already.’

I wince at the implication and feel a wave of embarrassment as the others avoid my eyes. ‘You on stress leave, Jim?’ Tash asks hesitantly.

‘No. Yes. Sort of. I was just … Jesus, this isn’t about me. Barry’s been murdered, George. He was repeatedly run over, and someone shot whoever that was in the car. That’s serious. And yeah, I’m on leave, but I’m here now and doing what I can. What is this? Do you know something?’

‘Oh, blimey. He got like that with Sam and then arrested him,’ Tash says with a worried look at George.

‘I’m not gonna nick George,’ I groan, rubbing my face. ‘I mean. Christ. Do I need to, George?’

‘Jim!’ Tash protests, her tone scolding.

‘This is a double murder!’ I snap back at her. ‘Barry was a copper, and that lad looked young.’

‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ George finally says, though his tone and the feeling in the air suggests otherwise.

‘Then what do you know?’ I press. ‘Anyone? Stanley? Aiden?’

‘Don’t look at me, Jimbo,’ Stanley says as I double-take at him. ‘What? Aiden called you that. Here, though. You got the pictures of that dead lad from the car? I might know who he is.’

I hesitate. Debating whether I should, but my brain is a mess, and Stanley is the town doctor. Maybe he’ll recognise the victim. I hand my phone over. ‘Just flick the images left to right.’

‘Is that how you use a phone, is it?’ he asks and starts going through them. Turning the screen and enlarging the images of the young man’s face. ‘Nah. Never seen him. He’s been a dead a little while, though. Did he have rigor?’

‘No. My very rough guess is about the same time of death as Barry.’

Stanley nods. ‘Is that the gunshot, is it? I’ve seen a couple of shotgun injuries but never a proper gun wound, though. Not in real life.’

‘Nine mil probably,’ Aiden chimes in, leaning forward to look over Stanley’s shoulder. ‘Handgun. Close range. See the scorch marks around the wound?’

‘You seen them before, then?’ Stanley asks.

‘Loads. Iraq. Afghan. Normally IEDs and NATO rounds and from AKs, but we secured this prison place they used for torture and execution, and the bodies all had those bullet wounds from being shot point blank range with pistols. Was there an exit wound, Jimbo?’

I shake my head, silently marvelling at Aiden’s knowledge and experience.

‘Hollow point then,’ Aiden says, glancing at George as though for confirmation, and I notice the older man nodding in agreement.

‘What’s that mean?’ Tash asks.

‘Designed to stay in the body,’ Aiden says. ‘So they don’t go out and hit someone else.’

‘That’s what the police use,’ I add as she pulls a face and the conversation dies. I sigh from my patience wearing thin. I should just leave it. Like George said. I’m only meant to be doing just enough to help out, and this isn’t my case or investigation. But I can’t help it. ‘George? Just tell me what you know.’

He meets my eyes. ‘Off the record?’ he asks quietly.

I snap. I know I do. The pressure, and yeah, I was already stressed before I even got here, but the last two days have been something else. ‘No, George,’ I say in a voice loud enough to make Ella stop colouring and look up. ‘Nothing is off the record. You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t care. We’ll ping the phones and find out where Barry went. His car might even have black box tech we can track. Most cop cars have them fitted now. We’ll get in his emails and internet use and bank records. Same with Sam and everyone else. We’ll canvass every single person on this island, and I can bloody guarantee someone will know something. It always comes out. Whatever it is. And I’ve got that dead lad’s DNA. We’ll find out who he is and what he was doing here. So whatever. Keep your bloody secrets. I don’t work like that, and I don’t bloody fine people with fish.’

I storm out and into the kit room and search around until I find the door enforcer. Every station has one. A heavy battering ram with two metal handles. I find it in the corner, covered in dust, and walk back in time to see George going out the main door and a strained atmosphere in the front office.

‘I’d best get Ella home,’ Tash starts to say, pushing to her feet, then stopping as she spots me heading to Barry’s office door. ‘Jim? Are you allowed to do that?’

Practicable is one of the words the police use a lot. The other is justification and specifically being able to justify your actions in any legal hearing held later. In this instance? Yes. I am bloody allowed to do this. Two people have been murdered. One of them being the police sergeant who most likely locked this door before he went and got killed.

So yes. Right now, I am definitely allowed to do this.

I glance up and down, seeing it’s a wooden door in a wooden frame and probably won’t have bolts or locks at the top or bottom. Which means one solid strike just below the central handle should pop it open.

One strike does do it, but irritation gets the better of me, and I hit it way too hard. Sending the door slamming back and ripping half the frame out in the process.

‘Bloody hell, Jimbo!’ Aiden says as I stand and stare dumbly into the office.

‘And I don’t leave loaded handguns lying on desks either,’ I mutter into the silence that follows.

EIGHTEEN

The others rush into the doorway, peering in with me at the handgun on the desk.

‘You got my phone, Doc?’ I ask as Stanley grabs it from the table and comes back to pass it in.

I start taking pictures of the largely square room. A desk to one side. An old, worn office chair next to it. Jotters on the desk. A few scribbled words. Some underlined. A keyboard, mouse, and a flat-screen monitor showing the static image for Devon and Cornwall police. The obligatory plastic in and out trays. Another wire basket filled with papers. Police posters on the walls. Another door leading off to a cupboard or storeroom, by the looks of it.

A clothing rack in the corner with faded, yellow high-vis jackets and black fleeces with the blue chevrons. Barry’s police flat cap and his custodian helmet on a shelf. Another big hook holds what I figure must be Barry’s police utility belt with handcuffs. Baton. Incapacitant spray, and a first aid pouch. An old pair of boots. A pair of wellies. Even a pair of slippers. His uniform stab vest dumped in a corner. The edges worn and frayed with use.

And then, of course, there is the matt black semi-automatic handgun on the desk.

‘A bloody gun,’ I whisper and lean down to stare at it. Like most coppers in the UK, I don’t know the first thing about them. I’ve dealt with gunshot murders before, but they were all shotguns and domestic related. We had a rifle shooting once, but the wife only maimed her husband, so went and got a heavy skillet to finish him off.

But handguns? Not a clue. Although I can see there is a magazine in the butt, which means it appears to be loaded.

Shit and shit and double triple shit.

Now what do I do?

It needs to be made safe. But I can’t do it. Police in the UK are unarmed. We don’t handle firearms unless we become AFOs. Authorised Firearms Officers.

‘Have you used these before?’ I ask with a glance back to Aiden. ‘That is loaded, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. I have,’ Aiden says, coming into the office.

‘Don’t touch it,’ I say as he reaches out, then stops himself, and leans over to look at the handle. ‘Yeah. It’s loaded. Want me to make it safe? You can’t leave a loaded gun unsecure,’ Aiden says with a sudden show of seriousness that catches me off guard. ‘Can you fingerprint it first, then I’ll do it.’

‘I can’t fingerprint it. I don’t have any kit, and I’m not trained. Bollocks. Alright. Hang on a sec.’

I step back into the main room and grab evidence bags and gloves, then curse myself for leaving a loaded gun in a room with someone Barry arrested. But what choice do I have?

Aiden hasn’t moved an inch when I go back inside. He looks calm as anything and puts the gloves on without me asking what I need him to do.

‘If I touch that textured grip, will that be okay?’

That makes me focus. The gun has a textured grip which would be unlikely to hold prints. Whereas other parts are smooth metal and would hold prints.

‘Don’t touch the smooth bits.’

‘Am I okay to do it, then?’ he asks. I nod, and he takes the gun like he’s very used to handling them. Holding it by the grip and keeping it aimed away. No fumbling. No hesitation, and I notice how he avoids the parts I mentioned. He motions me to hold one of the bags open and holds the gun over it, then presses the magazine release, and it drops into the bag. A magazine loaded with shiny bullets. ‘Mag out. Chamber now. I’m going to slide this bit back.’

He does it smoothly. A single round pops out. He grabs it mid-air, then adds it to the evidence bag.

‘Clear,’ he says and shows the gun to me like I should know what it means. Then it goes in the bag. ‘Done. Right. Where’s my brew?’

‘So flippin’ cool,’ Stanley whispers in awe as Aiden strolls out, and I even find myself nodding in agreement.

I start following Aiden out to log the gun into the seized property register but stop and head over to the other door marked “STOREROOM”, but it’s locked. Do I need to open it? Probably not, but then I should clear the station and check every room. I tut at myself for not having done that yet.

I turn for the enforcer but stop on seeing a set of keys hanging from Barry’s utility belt. I pull them free of the clip and find one that fits the storeroom.

‘Bit of luck for once,’ Stanley says, echoing my own thoughts. He even joins me as I unlock the door and stare inside. Finding a small walk-in cupboard lined with shelves. Spare kit on most of them. Uniform shirts and fleeces and high-vis jackets. Utility belts and spare batons and handcuffs and incapacitant spray holders. That makes sense. Most small forces have a central uniform store that send out when kit is needed. But a remote posting like this would need to carry spares.

‘Ere, Jim. Seen this?’ Stanley asks from the end of the room, staring into a large metal container bolted to the wall. The door slightly ajar. I join him with a mutter of surprise at seeing it’s a firearms cabinet. A rack at the bottom holding another handgun, the same as the one Aiden just bagged but with an empty slot beside it.

‘Least we know where the gun came from,’ Stanley says as I look at the single black assault rifle and another larger-calibre rifle with a wooden stock and a scope fitted to it. A form on the side for safety checks lined with dates and signatures.

‘Jesus, Barry,’ I groan the words out, shaking my head at the lack of security. Even Stanley tuts and shows he’s thinking the same as me.

‘Familiarity breeds contempt, mate,’ he says.

I get what he means. This was Barry’s kingdom, and with no ranking officer above him, he could do as he pleased.

But still, though. Why would he leave the gun cabinet unlocked? Barry was ex-military and an Authorised Firearms Officer, by the looks of it. Leaving a weapon or a firearms cabinet unsecure isn’t just a disciplinary offence; you could be prosecuted and face prison time for something like that.

‘Maybe he was in a rush,’ Stanley suggests. ‘Like, he got the gun out but then had to leave quick, so he locked his office door instead.’

‘That suggests he thought he was coming back quickly,’ I reply.

‘Aye. It does. But were that before or after he brought Aiden into the nick? And before or after Sam came looking for him?’

I rub my jaw. Thinking it through. ‘Barry’s face was stiff, but his legs weren’t. And I found him just after 8 a.m. I think I worked it out that he’d been dead three to six hours. Somewhere between 2 and 5 a.m. Does that sound about right?’ I ask, remembering I’m talking to a doctor.

He nods as he turns to shout out the door. ‘Aiden! What time were you nicked?’

‘Eh? What’s that?’ Aiden asks, strolling in with Tash. ‘That the gun cabinet, is it?’ he asks with expectation that there would be one. ‘Yeah. I said, didn’t I? Hollow point round.’

‘Where you seeing that?’ I ask him as he leans closer to point at the ammunition boxes without touching them.

‘See that JHP at the end of the spec? Stands for Jacketed Hollow Point. I reckon that lad got shot with that gun, Jimbo.’

We look down at the evidence bag in my hand holding what could well be the murder weapon, then back to the firearms cabinet.

‘Get Aiden to sniff it,’ Tash says.

‘Hey. I saw that on Luther,’ Stanley says. ‘Or was it NCIS? They sniffed the gun and said it had been fired recently. Aiden, give that gun a sniff, mate.’

‘Get off,’ I say with an eyeroll, then find myself also staring at Aiden. ‘I mean. Is that even a thing?’

He shrugs and takes the bag, which luckily I haven’t sealed yet, and opens the top and takes a big sniff. ‘Yeah. I reckon that has been fired.’

‘Is that a definite?’ I ask.

‘Not one bit,’ he says with a grin and a wink. ‘Barry might have shot himself a rabbit with it, for all I know.’

In normal circumstances, I’d say using a police firearm in that way would be unheard of, but I’m starting to realise things were done differently out here.

‘Did he log it out?’ Aiden asks, nodding past me to the forms clipped to the inside of the cabinet.

I check them over. Seeing the only weapon ever drawn was the larger calibre rifle. Which was drawn three times over the last twelve months. With each entry being marked as:

In u d se Har Sin s o

‘Barry didn’t shoot them,’ Tash says. ‘Does that make a difference? Oh, hang on. Did he kill one? Sam did that one … Then George did that other one. Did you?’ she asks and trails off with a look to Aiden.

‘No, I couldn’t do it,’ Aiden says quickly, shaking his head. ‘Weird. Shot loads of people but couldn’t do the seal. Barry did it. Sam and George were better shots at distance, but this was close.’

Is that allowed? I mean. Technically these are police issue Section One firearms, and it’s highly illegal for anyone not authorised to have a Section One firearm. Barry giving possession to Sam and George raises immediate issues, but then perhaps there are allowances in such circumstances. Given that if Sam and George were better shots, they could end the suffering faster. Does that form a legal defence?

‘Hang on. You get seals here?’ I ask in the surreal second.

‘God. Loads,’ Tash says.

‘Massive colony along the coast from where we found Barry’s car,’ Stanley adds. ‘And we get whales. Minke. Even seen humpbacks. And dolphins.’

‘No way,’ I say with genuine awe.

‘Best time of year now, and all,’ Stanley says. ‘I’ll show you if you want.’

‘Can I see the dolphins?’ Ella asks eagerly as I look back over the records to see the other entries were for cleaning and checking and nothing recent. Neither of the handguns have ever been booked out that I can see.

I find myself seeking justification for why Barry would draw a handgun and not record it. If, like Stan says, Barry was in a dire rush, enough to need a firearm, he might have skipped signing it out, knowing he could come back and do it later, or as we always say–as soon as practicable.

‘Man. I don’t know,’ I say out loud, shaking my head. ‘Sam said Barry was drunk, and he was on strong meds. Any AFO would know, if you use a gun on duty, you’re going to get blood tested. Alcohol or even meds would undermine the justification to use deadly force. Any defence barrister would rip him to pieces and say the whole decision-making process was warped. I mean. It would have to be a serious, like, super-serious immediate threat to life to justify that. Was he drunk when he brought you back here?’ I ask Aiden.

‘Mate. I was bladdered. I’ve no idea,’ Aiden says.

‘Did you ever know him to drink on duty?’

Aiden hesitates with that same air as George as I tut, and I guess my features show my displeasure.

‘Not like when he was on duty,’ Tash says, sharing a glance with Aiden. ‘But it’s a small island, Jim. He was never really off duty.’

‘I can do a test if you want, Jim,’ Stanley says as we all look at him. ‘Check his alcohol level and for narcotics.’

‘You got kit for that here?’ I ask.

‘Aye. We got a few drug users on the island we have to test for their probation.’

‘Alright. I mean, though. How?’ I ask, gathering my thoughts.

‘Extract some urine from his bladder would do it,’ Stanley says.

We should wait for the major crime team to arrive, but even bodies in cold storage decay, and so do the drugs inside of bodies. We’d always request full toxicology reports during a PM–but maybe it would be a good idea to get some early evidence now. Just in case this storm remains. I think it through, seeing no reason how it would harm the investigation. Stanley Patel is a registered doctor. He could provide a statement, detailing exactly what he did.

‘Alright. Yes, please.’

‘I’m on it,’ he says and turns to go but stops when I ask the next question.

‘Were the phones down before I arrived? I came over Saturday evening.’

‘Aye. My internet kept dropping,’ Stanley says.

‘Wind was up Saturday morning,’ Aiden says. ‘None of us could go out. We knew it was coming in.’

‘Us? You mean the fishermen? Sorry. People. Fisherpeople.’

‘Fishermen, Jim,’ Tash says with an eyeroll. ‘And yeah, we were surprised the ferry came over.’

‘Okay. So Barry might not have been able to call for backup then,’ I say more to myself.

‘He’d get George if it was anything that bad,’ Aiden says.

‘Or you,’ Tash adds with a look to Aiden.

‘He did get Aiden. Drunk from the pub,’ I say as Aiden snorts a laugh. ‘And he didn’t say anything to you or you, Tash? Nothing?’ They shake their heads, but I can sense it hanging in the air. ‘Whatever,’ I say with a loud sigh and shut and lock the firearms cabinet. ‘Seriously. When the Devon and Cornwall get over here, they’ll turn this place upside down. Whatever you’re not telling me will come out.’

‘Not from us, though, Jimbo,’ Aiden says with that same casual air.

‘Who are you being loyal to?’ I ask him. ‘To Barry?’

‘Family, mate. Family before anything. Right. I’m offski. Fancy a pint later, Jimbo?’

I blink at the sudden change and also at the cheery tone and friendly manner in the guy.

‘I’d like a pint,’ Stanley says. ‘Of beer,’ he adds.

‘Chuff, then. About seven,’ Aiden adds.

‘I’ll get them tests done, Jimbo,’ Stanley says. ‘You be here later? Or I’ll catch you at the pub.’

‘I need to get Ella home,’ Tash says with a look at me. ‘You be okay? Do you want a lift to the cottage? I’ll drop Aiden off, then come back if–’

‘Use the fire car,’ Aiden cuts over her.

‘Fire car?’ I ask.

‘Round the back,’ he says.

‘Bloomin’ fire car!’ Tash says with a tut aimed at herself. ‘Idiot, Natasha!’

‘You’ll find it. Probably one of them keys,’ Aiden says, helping Ella into her coat as I look down at the keys I’m still holding. ‘Got your colouring book, Ells Bells Smelly Bum?’

‘I’m not a smelly bum!’

‘I can smell it from here!’ Aiden says, ushering her out behind Tash.

‘What’s a fire car?’ I ask as Stanley shrugs.

‘A car on fire!’ Aiden quips, going out the inner door to the other side of the front desk with Stanley and Ella; then, Aiden stops and presents himself at the counter with a mock serious expression. ‘Excuse me, officer!’ he says in a high-pitched posh voice. ‘I wish to make a complaint about this vagabond child having a smelly bum!’

Even I can’t help but smile at Aiden playing the fool. He hoists Ella up and heads out behind Stanley and Tash, into that howling wind. ‘Round the back, Jimbo. Can’t miss it.’ He pauses and looks back at me. ‘West End donated it,’ he adds with a nod and a level glare before winking. ‘Laters, Taters!’

Silence follows when they leave, and I know I’m tired and stressed, but it still takes me a few seconds to think over what Aiden said and how he said it. I’ve heard West End somewhere else. Didn’t the Doc mention it? He said they don’t go to the West End. What does that mean? And why did Aiden stare at me like that when he said it?

I log the seized gun into the property register, then lock it into the evidence cupboard, and pocket the key. The key to the evidence cupboard normally stays within a key cabinet somewhere in the station, but given the lack of security here, I’m not chancing it.

I also go back and check the firearms cabinet is locked; then, I lock the storeroom door too, and then immediately I unlock it and put Barry’s utility belt inside and lock it again. He’s not even put his incapacitant spray away but left it in the holder on his belt.

I spot it when I’m walking out of Barry’s office in amongst the scribbles and doodles on his jotter pad. Thick, black ink.

!!!!

West End!!!!

What the hell is West End? It must be a place. He’s capitalised it, and Aiden said West End donated it.

A club? A bar? Maybe a posh resort or something. Like a private one that doesn’t want birdwatchers snooping about.

A few moments later, after locking the station up, I go out into the biting wind and around to the other side of the building to a set of sliding doors that give way to a double vehicle pad. An older and somewhat smaller fire engine on one of them alongside a large, red-coloured double-cab Ford SUV fitted with a modern, digital red and blue light bar on the top and big signs on the sides and on the bonnet: Gallymay Emergency Service Vehicle.

‘Fire car,’ I mutter, wondering why nobody told me until now. It looks new. And big. I find the keys hanging from a hook in a small storeroom and just about give up being surprised at the shocking lack of security this place has.

I open the back of the car to find a fold-out stretcher, a tow rope and accident equipment and boxes of kit. Including tape and body bags. ‘Unbelievable.’

I clamber into the front and look for the vehicle logbook. Every police force uses them. You’re meant to record the start and end mileage and the user so they can always know who was driving it. I find it in the usual spot, tucked between the passenger seat and the central console, and open it to the last page and then duly tut at seeing it hasn’t been kept up to date because the date wasn’t entered, and the last recorded mileage doesn’t match what the dashboard is showing me now.

USER: PS SQUIRES

START MILEAGE: 20989 DATE:

NOTES: REFUELLED

END MILEAGE: 20999

‘Wild West. Literally the Wild West,’ I mutter as I book it out to myself and make a note of the missing mileage.

USER: DC GREENE

START MILEAGE: 21030 DATE: M ON 27 TH JAN

NOTES: 31 MILES MISSING

END MILEAGE:

In fairness, though, detectives are the worst for not updating vehicle logbooks in our unmarked, beaten-up old squad cars. There are always emails going out, ordering us to do them properly, normally when someone gets into one out of hours to find it running on fumes with no idea who used it last.

The engine starts first time, and I roll it out of the garage, then get out and pull the doors shut and lock them. Then I’m back into the car, heading off through the town centre and turning the heat up. The fuel gauge shows a full tank, and by the rumble of the engine, I take it to be a diesel, which hopefully means good miles to the gallon and will avoid needing to refuel it.

That said. I hopefully won’t need it. My only plan now is to get my gear from the cottage and go back and stay at the police station. Which I still haven’t checked through fully. Bloody idiot! Mind you, there has been a lot going on.

I’ll stay at the nick until the mainland can get over. That feels right, given what’s happened. Tash and Aiden and George know something, so I need to try and maintain what little continuity we have left.

I go back on the main road, which I think is called Main Road. I don’t see any other cars.

I stop for a moment at the spot where I found Barry. Staring at the hole in the hedge and the track marks still evident over the verge, no doubt, caused by Barry’s own Land Rover driving at him while he ran along the road.

The image reforms again in my mind with now more details. Barry driving his Land Rover with the nearly naked young man in the front. It’s dark. Windy. Barry’s had alcohol and strong meds. They come along this road. The next bit is blurry and unknown, but for some reason, someone shoots the young lad at close range. The windscreen was intact. Which suggests it would have been through the passenger side window. That was open. Or had it shattered from the bullet? I didn’t see any broken glass, though. Either way. My mental replay then has Barry dropping out of his Land Rover and running off. He was a Royal Marine and served in combat. Even drunk and on meds, he’d know to run and try and escape. But the shooter gets in the Land Rover and uses it to run Barry over. Smashing him into the hedge, then reversing over him. The shooter then takes the Land Rover to the cliff and gets it over the edge.

But why leave Barry here?

Why not put him in the car?

Was it panic? The killer, or killers, had just murdered two people. They’d fired a gun and maybe worried it would draw attention. They drove off in a state of panic, then figured out to ditch the car after. And then worried it was too late to go back for Barry.

Too many questions form in my mind.

Barry might have shot and killed the lad, for all I know, and then someone else ran him over.

Whatever was going on, it was enough for Barry to draw a gun from the cabinet but then rush off without it–and then he gets murdered, along with whoever that was in the car. And the car gets pushed off the cliff–after being driven to the southern side of the island.

The sun drops while I’m idling. But it’s warm in the car and soothing too, with the engine ticking over. If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d sit here longer. But I am hungry.

It’s nearly dark when I pull out onto the cliff side road. Dark enough for me to see a pair of red taillights pulling away from the cottage. It goes quick too, with fast acceleration. Something about it makes me speed up, then stop outside the cottage, and rush through the gate. The front door open ahead of me. A sense of dread hits me, with the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I toe the door open wider. Seeing the sofa and armchair have been overturned. Pictures ripped from the walls and thrown on the floor. Vases smashed. The whole place looks ransacked.

Fear creeps up my spine. Alone and isolated in the middle of nowhere. No radio. No phone. I should have taken a baton or some spray from the stores. I stand still, with my heart whumping. But I can’t hear anyone. I figure whoever did it was in that car.

‘POLICE OFFICER!’ I shout out, trying to make my voice deep and loud, but my mouth is dry. ‘SHOW YOURSELF!’

Still nothing. I summon courage and head inside, to the kitchen. That’s always the biggest fear in situations like this. That someone has grabbed a knife from the kitchen.

The drawers have been spilled out over the floor, so there is no way of knowing if a knife has been taken, and I resist the urge to grab one for defence. I’ve seen people get killed by knives they were holding ending up being stuck in their own body.

I rush upstairs, feeling jittery and freaked out, and find my stuff strewn about the room. Whoever did it was in a rush. In and out. I gather my clothes into my bigger rucksack as quickly as possible, then rush into the bathroom to get my toothbrush and grunt at the word smeared in toothpaste on the mirror.

PIG

It’s a message, then.

I don’t hang around and grab what I can. Then I’m out of the cottage, feeling like I’m being watched. I look around but don’t see anyone. But there are plenty of bushes and thickets, and it’s already nearly dark, which only adds to the feeling of isolation and fear.

I almost expect someone to be in the back of the car when I get in, having left it unlocked. And even check behind me. Nothing. I gasp relief and set off with my hands gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

‘This fucking island …’

Someone doesn’t want me here.

That much is obvious.

NINETEEN

I pull the car on the pad outside of the nick with a grimace at the creepy dolls standing and sitting silently in the dark store window opposite. No other people in sight. Just the wind howling over the rooftops and through the old, narrow streets.

I wish I could go right now. Seriously. I want to get on the ferry and go home. This isn’t my business. And who does that? Who breaks into a holiday cottage being used by a copper and smash it up?

Something about it feels off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m too jittery, both from that and from knowing what I need to do now. God. Come on. Just get it done.

I draw air; then I’m out the car, making sure to lock it behind me, then running to the front door of the police station. Which, thankfully, is still locked. I get inside and through the inner door and head straight into Barry’s office and into the storeroom to grab a utility belt and a baton and cuffs and a spray holder. I slide Barry’s incapacitant spray from his belt and check the expiry date and also see it’s the same PAVA spray we use. We used to use CS spray, which was awesome. That stuff could clear a room. PAVA is stronger and nastier when it takes hold, but it needs to hit the eyes–and it doesn’t always work. Especially on people full of booze or drugs or even people suffering extreme mental episodes.

I load the utility belt up, feeling simultaneously relieved and also that I’m being overly dramatic. British policing isn’t gung-ho. We don’t value the use of force like a lot of other places. Some units, like the tactical firearms teams and the unarmed public order and house-entry teams, specialise in advanced control and restraint and violent person methods. I never trained in firearms, but I did a lot of public order training when I was a uniform response and pursuit driver. It’s a good way to earn overtime. I even find myself wishing I had a shield and then feel instantly more stupid for thinking that, at which point I remind myself there is a double murderer at large and that someone has been tracking my movements since I found the body.

I saw those taillights outside Sam and Barry’s house, then outside my cottage when I got back after that first day–and whoever it was took the effort to break in and ransack my place.

Okay. So maybe this caution is justified.

I get the belt around my hips with a small modicum of reassurance from the weight of it. New, rigid speed cuffs go on, then the baton on my left side, and the spray-holder on my right so I can draw it quickly. Were there any spare stab vests?

I go back in and find only one lying flat on a shelf at the end. It’s all stiff and new. They take time to wear in and will mould to the shape of your body overtime. And there are always the issues over size. One that fits your body just right becomes too tight if you try and wear it over your fleece and jacket, whereas one that fits over layers will be loose and ill-fitting in summer months.

Thankfully, this one is a touch too small. I strip my winter jacket off and pull the stab vest on and zip it up; then I’m into the kit room, drawing one of the clip-on body-worn cameras from the charge stands. The cameras require a Devon and Cornwall login to access the footage, but I can turn it on and off. That’s enough for now.

I should have started using it when I first got into the nick, but I didn’t think about it, and I figured I’d only be securing the body, then going back to my holiday. Or, as George correctly told everyone else, my stress-leave.

Which I’ll bloody well need again after this. Jesus. You couldn’t make it up.

Right, though. I’m dressed and ready. Best get on with it and start checking every room in this bloody place.

TWENTY

BODYWORN VIDEO LOG

O FFICER NAME: DC JIM GREENE INCIDENT R EFERENCE NUMBER: D ATE/TIME OF RECORDING: 27/01/2025 18:15 LOCATION: GALLYMAY POLICE STATION FOOTAGE SUMMARY : CLEARANCE OF GALLYMAY POLICE STATION

_______________________

18:15:02 – RECORDING ACTIVATED . DC JIM GREENE COMMENCES NARRATION .

“My name is DC Jim Greene. I am alone in Gallymay police station. Sergeant Barry Squires has been murdered, along with another unknown adult male. My holiday cottage has been entered and ransacked, and so now I am intending to check every room in this station. The time is just gone 1815 hours on … Jesus, I don’t even know what day it is … Er. I got here Saturday evening, and that was the 25th, I think. Of January. So then I found Barry’s body on the morning of the 26th. That was a Sunday. So now is the 27th. Monday 27th. Has it only been two days? Feels like I’ve been here for months. Right, so. Er. We’re in the kit room. I’ve taken a body-worn video camera from that charging stand. Then out here is the corridor. That room is the interview room I used to interview Sam Squires. That was weird too. He’s holding something back. I bloody know he is. Anyway. So, yeah. And I also took Tash’s statement in that room, and Aiden’s. They’re not telling me something and all. George definitely isn’t. He offered me an off-the-record chat. I said no. Which now I am realising I could have taken as an intelligence report. Bugger. Why didn’t I think of that? We can put intel reports in without saying who told us. No. I mean. If we know who told us, we should say, but the name and the report get separated. I mean, I can’t access D&C systems to do that, but I could have taken the intel. But then he meant like proper off-the-record. Which I won’t do. Anyway. And in here is the custody suite. Two cells. Both unlocked. One charge desk. Aiden was in that cell when I first came in. The door was wide open, and he went into the toilet in the corridor, then walked back to his cell. I think it's a common thing here.

And then in here … This is the door to the public side of the front office, which was not locked when I arrived. Nor was the outer door. And then this is the police side of the front office, and that evidence cupboard door was open too. God, I feel like a right snitch. But it was. Barry’s door, however, was locked. I used an enforcer today to open it and in here, on this desk found what I think is a police-issue handgun which was loaded. Aiden cleared it and made it safe, which was a risk, but I was out of options, and he was in the Marines. I watched him do it. He was certainly proficient.

Then that’s the storeroom, and this firearms cabinet holds an assault rifle and a big sniper rifle thing. This was unlocked too.

Back out of this room and through the front office. Okay. So. Let’s start checking through. Might as well begin with the downstairs toilets. Nobody in here. All secure.

That’s it for downstairs. We go up the stairs, to the first floor. Small rest room and a small kitchen next to it. I’ve been in here to put the DNA samples in that freezer. It all looks untouched.

Along here are the showers and other toilets. Boiler in this cupboard. All looks fine. Another door here. This must lead to the rooms on the top floor. Tash said the officers that get sent on attachment live up here. Ah, yeah. Stairs going up. I haven’t checked up here yet. And it’s pitch bloody dark. Yay. Awesome. Where’s the light switch? No light switch. Seriously? Is it outside the door? Nope. God, I hate this place. I haven’t even got a bloody torch. Oh, hang on. I’ll use my phone flashlight thing. Er. So. Okay–that doesn’t make it look creepy at all. Straight out of a bloody horror movie. And for the benefit of any court listening to this later on, I apologise for my comments, but the last few days have been shitty as anything. Jesus. Did you hear that step? Listen to that creaking under my foot. This is proper giving me the willies. Alright. We’re at the top. Still no effing, jeffing bloody switch. Another door that is also squeaking super loudly. And yay again. Pitch-bloody-dark inside here. A small hallway. Two doors. Two coppers get sent, so I guess they have one side each? The left is locked. The right is … okay, that’s not locked. Switch on the wall. And finally. Some light. Small hallway. All the doors are open. Smells like it’s been recently cleaned. Bedroom here. Bed is stripped ready for the next lucky copper to get posted to the wonderful island of Gallymay. Bathroom is all clear and cleaned. Kitchen. Small lounge and table. Jesus. Can you hear that wind up here? I can literally feel the windows rattling in the frames.

Okay. Back out to the other door. Why is that one locked and this one unlocked? I’ve got Barry’s keys from his belt. Let me … er … this one? Nope. Maybe this one …? And nope. That’s a yale key. Need a mortice. This is the only one it could be … and nope. Bugger. I’ll put my flashlight back on and … okay, so there’s no key on the inside. Which is a massive relief. So nobody has locked themselves in, but I have no idea why this is locked. Or why Barry left a loaded gun on his desk. Or why he booked himself on duty if he was drunk and on strong meds. Sam didn’t want to tell us that when I first got there. Something isn’t right about it all. Not my problem, though. And neither is this door. Bugger, though. I need to check. Which means going all the way down and getting the enforcer and coming all the way back up here with it.

Come on, Jim. Done once. Done properly. Christ, though. I am so hungry. Have I eaten today? No. I don’t think I have. I’ll put that door in, check the flat, then go for food. Actually, Stan said we can meet at the pub place at seven. Do they do food? Tash said they do a curry night, so they must do food. What time is it now? Just gone six-thirty. Yeah, that’s fine then. Okay. Where’s the door bosher? Jesus, why are they so bloody heavy?”

18:36:14 - DC GREENE STOPS NARRATING AS DOCTOR STANLEY PATEL COMES INTO THE POLICE STATION THROUGH THE OUTER PUBLIC DOOR .

DR PATEL: “Jimbo!”

DC GREENE: “What’s up? You look worried.” DR PATEL: “I tested him. His urine and–” DC GREENE: “Oh, that! Okay. Er. Hang on. I’ll put this down and let you in. Right. Blimey. What did you say then? He had what in him?”

DR PATEL: “Bloody cocaine and bloody cannabis. Alcohol but not–’

DC GREENE: “Barry?”

DR PATEL: “Yes! He had–’

DC GREENE: “Cocaine? And cannabis? Are you sure?” DR PATEL: “I did it three times, Jim. Three times! He had urine in his bladder, right. I got that out easy and ran a urine toxicology screen and a urine ethanol assay for alcohol. They’re broad strokes only and not as accurate as bloods, but yeah. And I wasn’t even looking for those. Sam said he was on diazepam and triazolam and pregabalin, right? I can’t check for triazolam and pregabalin, they’d show in bloods. But I looked for diazepam, and he didn’t have any. But he did have cocaine and cannabis and alcohol. I can’t say how much.’

DC GREENE: “No, course not.”

DR PATEL: “Just a screen to see what’s present. But yeah. I mean, in fairness, probably half the people on this island have a smoke. But cocaine? And no diazepam. And that stays in the body for like ten days, or longer for heavy users. Sam lied!”

DC GREENE: “Or, Barry said he was taking it but stopped without telling Sam.”

DR PATEL: “Bugger. I never thought of that. Why have you got that door bosher thing?’

DC GREENE: “What? Oh, yeah. One of the flats upstairs is locked. I was going to pop the door.”

DR PATEL: “You want to do that now or after meeting Aiden? I can give you a hand, but I’m bloody starving.” DC GREENE: “Do they do food at the pub?” DR PATEL: “Oh, do they? Best chips I ever had, and I’m from Yorkshire. Best chippies in Yorkshire, Jim. But down here it’s good. And they do beer-battered cod and–” DC GREENE: “Stuff the flat. My mouth is literally drooling. Cocaine, though? That’s bloody odd. This island, Stan. Honestly. The whole thing is bloody odd. Someone turned my cottage over earlier. No! Seriously! And I keep seeing this car stalking me … Er, hang on. Right. Time is ten to seven. 1850 hours. I’m switching the camera off.”

18:49:45 – FOOTAGE ENDS.

TWENTY-ONE

I was half-expecting it to be like a Wild West saloon. I’d walk in through swinging half-doors, and the fishermenpeople would all be lined up at the bar, holding shot glasses of whiskey, with a heavy-set, moustachioed bartender in a stained, white apron rubbing a filthy rag over glasses.

Thankfully, The Gallymay Arms, or The Chuff as it is known locally, is like every semi-rural pub and restaurant and trying to merge local charm with ubiquitous trends. And like every other pub–it’s either old and trying to look modern, or modern and trying to look old.

Exposed ancient roof timbers and exposed floors. A big wooden bar, and the place filled with wooden tables and chairs but with modern spotlights and folk music playing from hidden speakers. Modern flat-screen cash registers behind the bar, and the back wall lined with bottles and the normal things that busy pubs have.

Stan and I get a few glances when we walk in, but that’s normal. He’s the town doctor, and I’m a new face. There aren’t any fishermenpeople lining the bar either. Just what appears to be normal folk ordering drinks and food and toing and froing from tables.

‘Jim!’

I turn on hearing my name to see Ella waving from a table in a booth and wave back as Tash slides out to head over. ‘Have you heard?’ she asks without preamble.

‘Oh god. What now?’ I ask, sharing a look with Stan, who shakes his head to show he doesn’t know what she means.

‘Word’s got out about Barry. I think Janice has been telling people.’

‘Bloody Janice,’ Stan says.

‘It’s fine. It’s normal. You can’t stop gossip,’ I say. In all honesty, the only thing I can think about is getting food down my neck. I spot a gap at the till next to a sign saying ‘order food here’ and make a dash for it. ‘Doc? What you having? Tash? Are you and Ella eating? Hi. Do you do fish and chips?’

The surly-faced young woman behind the register nods with a silent tut, as though every human being on the planet should know they do fish and chips.

‘One fish and chips for me, please. Doc?’

‘Same. I’ll get these. GPs earn more that coppers,’ he says with a smile and a gentle shoulder barge.

‘But they’re having a meeting,’ Tash adds when she can get a word in. ‘And yeah, we’re eating, but I’ll get ours.’

‘I’m here now,’ Stan says, holding his debit card in his hand. ‘Ere. Can you take cards if the lines are down?’ he asks, prompting a triggered eyeroll and an audible huff from the young woman.

‘Obviously,’ she states.

‘They process the transaction when the landlines and internet come back on,’ Tash explains, much to the chagrin of the young woman behind the counter. ‘But you sure, Stan? I don’t mind getting ours. Aw, bless you, though. Okay, fish and chips for me then please, Tracey, and can Ella have the fish fingers from kids’ menu, please?’

Tracey grunts and jabs the screen almost angrily, then waves the card machine at Stanley.

‘We didn’t order drinks,’ I say.

‘Bar,’ Tracey says, looking at me like she now has confirmed that I am, indeed, a complete moron.

‘We have to step over,’ Tash says as we take a step to the side and wait for Tracey to do the same and then glare at us.

‘What the f–’ I start to say. ‘Er, coke for me, please.’

‘You not having a pint?’ Stan asks.

‘I haven’t eaten all day. It’ll go straight to me head.’

‘I’m bloody having one,’ he says.

I pay for the drinks, back at the first till, with Tracey tutting and jabbing until it’s done.

‘She’s the owner’s daughter. Very entitled,’ Tash whispers when we go over to the table. ‘She is an Evans, though,’ she adds with a mild look of distaste.

‘Evans? The driver of the Volvo,’ I say, remembering the car crash yesterday.

‘No, that was Mike. He’s a new Evans. Tracey is an old Evans.’

‘Right, cos that makes sense,’ I say as she tuts and fixes me with a look.

‘The old Evanses took the pub from the Roskillys and then–’

‘Wait. What? Your family had this pub?’

‘Like. I dunno. Centuries ago.’

‘Oh! I thought you meant like recently.’

‘And if you stopped interrupting, Jim Greene, I’d explain it properly.’

‘She told you, mate,’ Stanley says with a thin line of beer foam on his upper lip.

‘Wipe the foam from your lip,’ Tash says, handing him a paper towel. ‘The old Evanses took the pub apparently either from a smuggling deal that went wrong or a gambling thing. I mean. The old Evanses say it was won fairly. The Roskillys say–they ripped us off. Anywho. So then the new Evanses came over like a century ago, just before or maybe just after the First World War.’

‘And you still call them the new Evanses?’

‘Yes. And the old Evanses are connected to the Rutherfords. They were always in service to the Rutherfords. They used to be lords, like way back, but they lost the title cos they were involved in piracy and smuggling and slavery, like way after it was banned. Proper naughty sausages, that lot. They’ve got all these grand paintings in their house, but every time I see them, I just think, how many people did you rob to pay for that? Anyway. Shush. My intel. And you’ve got beer foam on your lip again, Doc.’

‘Intel?’ I ask, trying to keep up while my eyes track plates of food being carried past our table.

‘About the meeting!’

‘Oh. Right. Got it. Yep. Okay. Sorry, what meeting?’

‘Here. About Barry. In the back public room.’

‘Awesome. Er …’ I say when she looks at me expectantly.

‘Well. Shouldn’t you do the thing … You know. They do it on the TV shows. The thing.’

I rub my face and silently pray the food gets here quickly. ‘You mean a press statement?’

‘That’s the wotsit.’

‘You gonna do a statement?’ Stan asks me.

‘No! Get off, am I. I’m not even … I’m just … No. God, no. Why you looking at me like that?’ I ask as Tash shrugs and looks away sheepishly. ‘Did you bloody say I was going to make a statement?’

‘No!’ she says, giving me an exaggerated eyeroll.

‘Jimbo!’ Aiden says, sliding into the booth, next to Tash. ‘Alright, Doc. Yeah, so I said you’d be here later if they wanted to ask about Barry in the meeting.’

‘Oh, you bellend,’ I groan and go back to rubbing my face.

‘What’s a bellend?’ Ella asks.

‘The end of a bell,’ Aiden says, quick as anything with that easy grin. ‘Sorry, Jimbo. Bad idea, then?’

‘I’m not a copper here. I was just helping out.’

‘By taking statements and shouting at George?’ Aiden asks.

‘I didn’t shout at George.’

‘Fine then, George,’ Aiden mimics in a deep, mock angry voice. ‘I don’t even want your secrets. We’ll comb this island from top to bottom and side to side.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You did,’ they all chorus as Aiden continues. ‘Then you smashed that door open. Seriously. You’re out of control, Sheriff.’

‘Idiot,’ I say but with a snort of laughter.

‘Here. Jim had his cottage ransacked,’ Stan tells the others, then looks at me with instant regret. ‘Bugger. Should I have said that?’

‘No. Can you take it back?’

‘Jim didn’t have his cottage ransacked,’ Stan says, but the joke doesn’t land as the other two show instant worry. Even Aiden, which I haven’t seen before.

‘Jesus, Jim,’ Tash whispers. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I wasn’t there when it happened. I found it. Well. I mean. I saw the car … No. Hang on. I saw a car driving off, which I think is the same car that was watching me at Barry and Sam’s house and also at the cottage before. But then I found it all smashed up inside.’

Tash looks terrified, which makes me feel guilty for being so flippant about it. ‘They went into your house?’ she asks with a horrified look to Aiden. ‘Did they do much damage?’ She asks.

‘I don’t think so. They wrote “pig” on the mirror in toothpaste, though.’

‘Oh my god!’ Tash says, as though that’s the worst thing she ever heard.

‘It’s just petty,’ I say, finally voicing the nag I had in my head about it. Because it does seem weirdly petty, given the fact that two people have been murdered. ‘But listen. Not a word to anyone about that. I’m serious. No gossiping. Okay?’

A tray full of plates holding our food slams on the table, with Tracey dumping it and walking off without a word.

‘Good service,’ I say, handing them out.

‘We’re not in the big city now, Jimbo,’ Aiden says, snagging a chip from Tash’s plate.

‘Just Basingstoke, mate. You eating?’

‘Mine’s coming,’ Aiden says as Tracey brings another plate over and hands it to Aiden with a big smile. ‘Cheers, Sweetness!’ he says with a beaming smile that makes her blush.

‘Charming bugger,’ Tash says, but by then I’m already tucking in. Savouring the taste and feel of it going into my belly. ‘Slow down, you’ll give yourself wind,’ Tash chides.

‘That’s not even a thing,’ I say before stuffing a big piece of fish in my mouth.

‘It so is!’ Tash says as Aiden and Stanley agree while munching, and even Ella too.

‘Get burpseys,’ she says, holding a fish finger skewered on a fork.

‘Cut it up, Ella. We’re not Neanderthals,’ Tash says, leaning over to cut her fish fingers up as Aiden nicks another chip from Tasha’s plate. ‘Oi, eat your own!’

‘Aerophagia, Jimbo,’ he says with a nod at me.

‘What’s that?’ I ask as Stanley shows surprise.

‘When you swallow air with your food from eating too quickly,’ Stanley says. ‘How do you know that, Aiden?’

‘Eh. I know all sorts, Doc. Lad in Afghan ate like a pig and was always burping. Bit like Jimbo now. What was that written on your mirror?’ he asks with a grin.

‘Too soon!’ Tash says, slapping Aiden’s arm as I make an effort to slow down.

‘How long did you do?’ Stanley asks with a look over to Aiden.

‘Bout twelve years. Then did a few years private contract. Paid well but shit work. Came back here to work the boat with George after …’ he trails off and shares a look with Tash.

‘What about Jeb?’ I ask and spot their next reaction as Aiden drops his eyes, and Tash avoids looking over. ‘Was he in the military too?’

‘Navy,’ Aiden says, but his tone is flat and telegraphing an intent not to discuss it further. ‘How’s the fish?’ he asks, clearly trying to change the subject. ‘I probably caught that.’

‘Yeah, good. What does Jeb do now?’

‘You don’t let things go, do you?’ Aiden says.

‘Nope.’

‘Where you going to stay now, Jim?’ Tash asks, making her own attempt to steer the conversation away from Jeb.

‘At the nick. One of the flats upstairs was locked, though. Any idea where the key is?’

‘You tried those ones you had?’ Aiden asks as I nod and chew my food. He shrugs, with Tash shaking her head.

‘Did the last two coppers here both live upstairs?’ I ask.

‘One did. The Padstow lad,’ Tash says. ‘The other one did for a bit, but Barry said he got upset because it was damp and cold. He got himself a room in the town.’

That must be the one that was locked.

‘Have you finished already?’ Tash asks with a double take at my plate.

‘I didn’t eat all day.’

‘And you had fish and chips yesterday. That’s fish and chips two days on the trot,’ she points out. ‘Ooh. And me. Right. Healthy dinner tomorrow. I’ll do a spag bol. Come to mine for a spag bol.’

‘I love a spag bol,’ Stanley says.

‘Do you eat beef, then?’ Aiden asks him.

‘No, mate. I make it with minced turkey.’

‘I can do minced turkey,’ Tash says.

‘I didn’t mean to invite myself.’

‘Silly. Come over. Aiden and George love my spag bol.’

‘You can shout at George again, Jimbo,’ Aiden says with a wink at me. ‘You do the drug tests, though, Doc?’

‘Cocaine and cannabis,’ Stan says before I can stop him.

‘Stan. Stop telling people things.’

‘Sorry, Jim! But it’s Aiden and Tash. They’re on our task force.’

‘Task force,’ Aiden says with a snort.

‘We don’t have a task force,’ I say.

‘Hang on. Go back,’ Tash says. ‘Who had cocaine?’

‘Barry,’ Aiden tells her.

‘Barry didn’t do cocaine, you daft twazzocks. City folk and those sailors that come over in the summer for the yacht racing do all that. Barry taking cocaine … Idiots.’

‘He had cocaine in his urine,’ Stanley says.

‘Well, someone else put it there then. Barry hated all that.’

‘What about the cannabis?’ I ask as once again they both shut down. ‘Stop doing that!’

Tash shrugs and makes a point of cutting her fish while Aiden shoves chips into his slice of bread and butter to make a butty. Which makes me wish I’d also made a chip butty.

‘Do you want my chip butty?’ Aiden asks from me staring at it.

‘Yes. But no. Did Barry smoke weed?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Yes, you do. You bloody do, Aiden. Jesus. Why would he draw a firearm with all that in his system?’

‘And the other stuff Sam said he was on,’ Tash says.

‘Yeah, but no,’ Stanley adds, now also making a chip butty.

‘Jesus, Jimbo. Just have mine,’ Aiden says, offering his half-eaten chip butty.

‘Don’t be gross,’ Tash chides him and slides her plate holding her piece of bread and butter over. ‘Have mine, Jim. And Ella won’t eat all her chips.’

‘I can’t eat Ella’s chips.’

‘Can Jim have some of your chips, Ella?’ Tash asks as Ella nods happily. ‘So he wasn’t on those meds that Sam said about then?’

‘I tested for diazepam, and he weren’t on that,’ Stanley says to our apparent task force and a small child. ‘I thought Sam was lying, but Jim reckons Barry might have pretended to be taking them, so Sam didn’t know.’

‘Yeah. I can see that actually,’ Tash says, using a clean fork to push chips onto the piece of buttered bread. ‘I love Sam. Honestly. I do. But he was a pushy wotsit, going on at Barry.’

I go to ask questions but stop myself and pretend to be absorbed with her making my chip butty while also actually being absorbed by her making my chip butty.

‘He could be hard work,’ she continues. ‘Really bossy. And I know he was an officer in the Navy, but he never got over how they treated him. He was a pain in the harbour, sometimes. To the lads. You know. Getting all strict when it suited him but then trying to be one of the lads, and honestly, he thought him and Barry were both coppers the way he carried on. Didn’t take it well when he got caught though. You know. By the young copper who caught him drink driving. He proper kicked off from what I heard and was telling the lad he’d have his job. He was the same one that wouldn’t sleep in the damp flat. From Exmouth. Or was it Dartmoor? Anyway. I’ve put the chips on. Go on. You fold it over, Jim. So yeah. Sam, eh? He could be a right one. He proper had a go at Barry sometimes. Especially after. You know. When he got banned. He was causing issues for the lads and getting petty over little rules to make himself feel important. But then, I mean, he was embarrassed, wasn’t he? About the ban. And he was drinking more. Cocaine, though? No. Barry wouldn’t have touched that stuff.’

I munch contentedly on my chip butty and realise that I didn’t need to ask questions after all. Just letting it come out naturally seems to be working well.

‘And I know cannabis is still illegal, but who doesn’t do it now? I bloody did after my Chris went,’ she adds as I detect pain in her features and tone and how Aiden grimaces.

‘Chris?’ I ask gently.

‘Tash’s husband. Ella’s daddy,’ Aiden says quietly. ‘Storm took him few years back.’

‘And your dad,’ Tash says, rubbing Aiden’s arm.

‘Were they fishingmenpeople?’ I ask.

‘Fishermen. Yes, Jim,’ Tash says.

‘I’m so sorry.’

She shrugs and exhales. ‘That’s when Aiden came home. And Jeb. To take over on the boat.’

‘Forgive me asking, so the boat was recovered?’ I ask.

They both nod. ‘Something went wrong with the engine,’ Aiden explains. ‘They got pushed onto the rocks off the eastern end. Nasty wind there. Comes from two directions at once sometimes. The nets got tangled, and it must have tipped enough for them to go over. We never found them, though.’

‘Oh god. That’s awful.’

‘Happens,’ he says in that way of his. ‘That’s where the migrants wash up sometimes.’

‘Migrants?’ I ask.

‘One or two a year,’ Aiden says.

‘Had one this year,’ Stanley says. ‘There were that big drowning in the channel. Twenty of them died trying to cross from France in a tiny boat. They reckon he was one of them and washed up here. From Syria. Still had his passport in his pocket.’

I chew on in silence for a second, with my head processing how tragedies of the modern world can reach even places like this. ‘So you and George run the boat now? Not Jeb?’

‘They don’t get on,’ Tash says diplomatically. ‘Tried to. Lasted about two days, I think.’

I want to ask again what Jeb does now, but using such a traumatic thing to throw questions in seems crass even to me.

‘But, my point is,’ Tash says, clearly trying to move on from bad memories. ‘Barry wouldn’t have taken cocaine.’

More questions push into my head. But it’s not my job. This isn’t my case.

I don’t know what to say about the cocaine. But just the fact Barry used cannabis and had booze in his system while on duty is enough to cause huge issues, let alone driving or using a firearm.

Who was that lad with him? Why was he only wearing boxers? Who shot him? And then how did Barry get run over? Why not shoot them both?

Unless someone wanted to make it look like Barry shot the lad and then got run over. Jesus. Hang on. That fits.

‘Shoot the lad. Run Barry over. Get rid of the car and put the gun back so it looks like Barry shot the lad and got rid of his own car and then died from a hit and run.’

I say it out loud without really being aware I’m doing it, so then shrug and carry on eating what, I can honestly say, must be the best chip butty ever. ‘Best chip butty ever,’ I say to Tash and only then become aware of them all looking at me.

Which is when the door at the back of the pub flies open with a bang, and I turn to see what must be the public room packed with people, most of whom appear to be staring at me.

‘That’s him!’ Janice from the GP surgery says in a haughty voice as her form fills the doorway, and she fixes me with a filthy look. ‘That’s the copper that said he was gonna nick me! We should bloody ask him what’s going on!’

Shit, shit, and double shit.

But still, though. Best chip butty ever.

TWENTY-TWO

‘Tactical retreat?’ Aiden asks as the whole pub seems to go quiet, with everyone looking over at me. ‘I’d drop a smoke bomb if I had one, Jim.’

‘Cheers, mate,’ I mutter as a smiling face pops out from behind a beam. ‘Hi, Lauren.’

‘Jim! I didn’t know you were in here,’ she says, holding a pool cue. ‘Stevie, it’s Jim,’ she adds as the lad who drove his Ford Fiesta into Mike Evans’ Volvo, that being one of the new Evanses, not the old Evanses, also comes into view, holding another cue.

‘Alright, Jim. You nicked my bat.’

‘I seized your bat, you mean,’ I say as I slide out of the booth and watch the entourage pouring out from the back room, headed by a very angry looking Janice.

‘We want a bleeding word with you!’ she snaps, finger-jabbing the air at me. ‘What the hell’s going on! Barry’s been murdered and now some other poor sod!’

How do they know about the other victim?

‘Jeb,’ Tash groans as I realise the task force have also slid out of the booth, albeit with Stanley hiding behind Aiden and Tash.

‘Jeb?’ I ask, not getting it, until I spot Jeb, then instantly get it.

‘And you must be Detective Greene!’ a strong, educated voice calls over the hubbub as a tall, handsome man in his early fifties strides towards me. An open-necked, checked shirt. Tan trousers. Brown brogues. Athletic, and even from first sight, I can see the upper-class breeding showing from his confident, educated voice and manner. He bypasses Janice in a way that takes instant control and makes a point of coming at me with his hand held out and takes mine in an overly firm grip. ‘Jim, is it? Great name. I’m James. James Rutherford. Commander James Rutherford. Retired now, of course. Royal Navy. But I am so glad to meet you. Mrs Rutherford spoke very highly of you. Speaking of which. Have to put a pin in our dinner date, Jim. Maybe later in the week when things have settled?’

I blink while remembering Mrs Rutherford invited me to dinner at Rutherford Manor tonight at 8 p.m. and that Aiden had done swapsies to procure a lobster. I also note how Mr Rutherford got his rank into the conversation nice and quickly and glance past him to see Jeb and another man positioned just a few feet back. Jeb with his black eye. Still dark and brooding and actively avoiding looking at me, or at Tash or Aiden. He stares around everywhere else instead like a bodyguard looking for risk. The other guy does look at me, though. Straight at me. Shaved head. A thick skull on a thick neck. I figure he must be the guy called Skally Tash said about. Kevin Skallford.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say with a look back to Mr Rutherford. ‘And er, yeah. Apologies about the dinner. Quick question, though. Are they your bodyguards?’ I ask with a nod to the two men clearly acting as such.

‘Why would I need bodyguards? Jeb’s my driver, and Skally is my PA.’

Yeah. Cos he looks like a PA and not like every bouncer on every nightclub door I’ve ever policed.

‘Means I can have a sherry without worrying about the implications,’ Rutherford adds. ‘Speaking of which. Tragic news. Tragic. We are all absolutely devastated. Devasted. Thoughts and prayers.’

He winces as though in awful emotional pain while still clasping my hand in that overly tight grip. ‘Anyway. Anyway. I suggest we take five,’ he announces to the room and to the mob that steamed out of the back room. ‘Everyone, grab a drink, and we’ll reconvene. Tracey! These are on me. But no doubles!’ he calls to a few chuckles. ‘Detective Greene, though. Can I call you Jim? Jim, I can’t say how lucky we are that you’re here. What are the chances of an actual detective finding poor Barry?’

He finally releases my hand but then places another one on my back to guide me into the quieter back room filled with chairs facing a small, raised stage. I glance back to see Jeb and Skally move in behind Rutherford, putting themselves between me and my friends.

‘So, what force did you say you’re with?’

‘I didn’t say. But I’m with Hampshire.’

‘Hampshire! Skolton still the chief constable, is he? I know Skolton. Do you know Angie Palmer? I think she’s quite high. We’ve crossed paths at the odd do here and there.’

He means Angela Palmer. One of our assistant chief constables. This guy is connected. That’s for sure.

‘And you’re a what? Inspector?’ he enquires politely.

‘DC.’

‘DC? As in …?’

‘As in a detective constable,’ I say as he nods slowly with a slight flicker in his eyes.

‘I see. Yes. A DC, you say. Well. Good for you, Jim. Rank and file are the backbone of any service. So, tell me, Jim. What’s all this about?’

He stands close, and being taller than me, it means I have to look up as he stares at me expectantly, no doubt, disappointed by my lowly rank. Or perhaps he’s pleased by it as it means he can try and control me. Hampshire is a weird force to work in. We have areas of abject poverty alongside communities of people with absurd wealth and heritage, and both types use methods to try and get the police on side.

‘You mean Barry?’ I ask, stating the obvious as he nods earnestly with an air of prompting, like he’s a senior officer addressing a rating. ‘I’m afraid I can’t make any comment, Mr Rutherford.’

‘Hmm. I see. Yes, of course,’ he says as though agreeing with me. ‘Let me put your mind at rest, Constable. I was a ranking officer in the Navy. I did say that. Commander, specifically. And I am the island’s only elected official.’

He can’t mean he is the island’s Member of Parliament. He would have slipped that in straight away. Plus, this island doesn’t have a big community. There’s no way it would have its own MP. ‘Councillor?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Elected councillor, and as such I am the official authority in presence here, and without Barry, well, as you can see the islanders are looking to me for reassurance. Take it in good faith, Jim. I am a trusted asset.’

‘Of course, sir. Except I’m really not allowed to discuss any police investigation with anyone. Regardless of who they are. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Constable,’ he says with his eyes closing for a second, ‘this wind is in for the week, and two people are dead. Questions are being asked. It’s highly routine for authorities to release statements to ease tensions. Is it not?’ He tilts his head slightly, his tone a mockery of concern. ‘What part of my position of authority confuses you, Constable? Of course, I understand and commend you on your efforts thus far. And I am here only to support you in any way that I can. But you are not stationed here. You’re on holiday. Yes? In the cottage used by officers on stress-leave, I believe?’

‘It’s a holiday cottage leased by the Police Federation,’ I reply bluntly and in a way that sounds too defensive. ‘Any serving or retired officer can use it.’

‘It’s okay, Jim. No shame in it. Mental health is a big thing now. But this community needs leadership. They know Sam’s been arrested, and they’re not happy.’

I start to feel pushed into a corner. Rutherford is right. If he is the councillor, then he does have a right to address his community in times of crisis, and this is definitely a time of crisis. I’m also aware that the police get hammered when we mess up and increase community tensions by being too reticent or by not engaging. ‘Alright,’ I mutter. ‘Yes, Sergeant Barry Squires has died, and that at this time, we are treating it as–’

‘A tragic and unforeseen incident?’ Rutherford asks smoothly as he pats me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll say that. And I’ll say we’re keeping an open mind on exactly what happened, and that Sam has been helping with enquiries. But he’s been released, hasn’t he? Any evidence on him? What do we think? There was a lot of tension between Sam and Barry since the driving ban. What did he say in interview? Have you interviewed him? And is there any indication exactly what Barry was doing when it all happened? Any notes? Records? Have any witnesses come forward yet?’

That’s a lot of questions.

I stammer for a second. Feeling out of my depth and on the spot. ‘Yes. I interviewed Sam. But that’s very routine in a murder–’

‘Let’s not use the M word, Jim. We can’t say for certain. Can we? There’s been no PM yet. Could be a hit and run from what I’m picking up. What did Sam say? And what about witnesses? And the other dead person in the car? Who was that? Any leads? Anything on him?’

‘No, but–’

‘He went into the sea in the car, didn’t he?’

I glance at Jeb still avoiding my eye-contact, then nod at Rutherford.

‘Damn shame. Seawater destroys evidence, doesn’t it? Every naval man knows that. No idea who he is, then?’

I shake my head and don’t mention the DNA sample I took.

‘Did you get his DNA?’

Arse. Jeb must have seen it when Aiden handed me the container back.

‘Samples were obtained.’

‘But no witnesses?’

‘Well. It’s not my job to canvass for witnesses. Devon and Cornwall will deploy their major crime team and do that. I’d think in a community like this, they’d probably do door to door and speak to everyone.’

‘Understood. Did Barry have his phone on him?’

‘His phone?’

‘Phones hold a lot of data, Jim. Triangulation pings can track movement. Which is done when you have three masts and–’

‘I know how triangulation pings work. But no, er, not yet.’

‘And you searched Sam and Barry’s house for it?’

‘A preliminary search was undertaken, but I didn’t find his phone. Listen, I can’t really go into specifics like that.’

‘Probably in his car, then,’ Rutherford says thoughtfully. ‘And as I understand it, Barry tested positive for drugs and alcohol, didn’t he?’

How the bloody hell does he know that? I glance over to try and see Stanley but spot Janice giving me the evil eye instead and figure it must have come from her.

‘Damn shame. What an end to his legacy,’ Rutherford says with a sigh. ‘Long time coming if I am honest. Anyway. Great work. Really good work, Jim. I’ll be putting in a word with Skolton and Angie Palmer. Get you a commendation. Outstanding effort. Right. They’re all back. Come up on the stage with me. I take it you’re not media trained. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. You look the part, though. The stoic, reliable constable. Okay! Everyone back in? Got your free drinks. Is that a double, is it, Mrs Wilkins? Well. I shan’t tell on you. I’ll put it down to expenses,’ he adds with a wink as he guides me up onto the stage, my heart whumping in my chest. I hate public speaking. It terrifies me. My voice cracks and goes all weird, and I dry up, and despite not liking Rutherford one bit, I feel a sense of huge relief that he’s able to take control.

‘Alright, everyone,’ he calls as the room settles into a relative silence, with even the people from the main bar crowding in the doorway. Aiden and Stevie and the staff too, and Tracey making eyes at Aiden as he stands holding Ella. Tash and Stanley next to him. All of them staring in, and I realise nearly everyone in the room is looking at me. It makes my knees feel weird. I hate it.

‘I’ve had a chance to catch up with the investigation, and on that note, I must give a huge thanks to Detective Jim Greene here,’ Rutherford says in a commanding voice. ‘The poor chap is on a break from work, and yes, as we’ve all heard, it was him that found Barry in what can only be described as a tragic and unforeseen incident. And without any local officers, Detective Greene took it upon himself to take control of the incident.’

‘Was he murdered?’ someone calls.

‘He said he was gonna arrest me!’ Janice snaps at the same time.

‘In fairness, though, there are times I’ve wanted to arrest you, Janice,’ Rutherford quips, with chuckles rolling around the room. ‘But I don’t think any of us can understand the pressure Detective Greene is under. Well, that Jim here was under. Securing the scene. Securing the body. Who wouldn’t be stressed at that? I’m sure Jim didn’t mean it,’ he adds with a look at me.

I nod as much as my rigid body will allow and try and offer a tight smile to Janice who just stares daggers at me.

‘Was he murdered, though!’ the first voice calls. An older man with a ruddy face. ‘And what about the other one that died? And why did he release Sam?’

‘Should be locked up!’ someone else mutters.

‘Evil shit,’ another voice says. A woman near the front. ‘And I ain’t been homophobic about it or whatever. But this is what happens.’

‘Sorry. What happens?’ I ask before I realise the words are coming out.

‘I’m just saying! And I said I weren’t being homophobic. Jesus. Can’t even say anything now,’ the angry woman says as more than a few people mutter in agreement.

‘I know. I know,’ Rutherford says in a tone seeking calm with a nod at me to be quiet and not wind anyone up. ‘Sam was helping us with our enquiries, which is entirely routine in these matters. But he is not under arrest or charge and is safely at home and not currently under suspicion.’

They all look at me again. ‘That’s mostly correct,’ I say.

‘Who ran him over, then?’ the ruddy-faced man demands.

‘And who drove his car off the cliff with that migrant in it?’ the angry woman cuts in. ‘And why isn’t he in the cells? Just cos he’s gay? If anyone else did that, they’d get bloody pinched!’

‘Okay. Just stop right there,’ I say, speaking out and ignoring Rutherford trying to signal for me to be quiet and let him take control. Clamour in the room. People agreeing with the angry woman while others show they don’t agree. Making comments at her and gesturing. ‘Guys!’ I call.

‘Shut up! Let him speak!’ Lauren yells from the doorway in a surprisingly loud voice.

‘Jesus. Where did that come from, Lauren?’ I ask as she grins and gives me a thumbs up, then glares around the room. ‘Jim said I could be a detective.’

‘I never said … Right. I’ll come back to that. Okay, listen,’ I say firmly, holding my hand out for emphasis as my worst fear comes to life with the whole room going silent and staring at me. Making my thoughts die in my head and my hand start trembling as my mouth and throat lose all moisture.

‘Go on, then!’ the angry woman snaps as Janice sneers at me, and I hear a few more comments being muttered.

‘Okay. So. Barry died and … We’re not … I mean. So. Devon and Cornwall will come over, and they’ll sort it,’ I say in strangled tone as I spot Aiden and Tash and Stan all wincing in pity at me dying on the stage.

‘Indeed, they will,’ Rutherford booms in his educated voice. ‘When the mainland police get over, they will indeed grip this situation and do whatever is necessary to resolve all of our concerns. Isn’t that right, Jim?’

‘S’right,’ I say, feeling my cheeks burn from embarrassment and shame.

‘And if Sam has played any part in any events, then we’ll let that play out. But what we won’t do is become a lynch mob with pitchforks. We’re better than that. And I need to address the rumours about Sergeant Barry being drunk and on drugs when this incident happened. Now, I’m sure you’ll understand that we have limited resources on the island, and it will take a full toxicology report done on the mainland to determine exactly what Barry had taken and if it really was cocaine and high amounts of alcohol.’

Murmurs break out, and despite my own terror of still being on the stage, I can’t help but grimace at the character assassination being done by Rutherford. The way he says it makes it sound like Barry played an active part in his own demise.

‘Now. This wind is in for a few more days yet, but we’ve got through worst storms than this. Jim is here, advising me with his expert policing knowledge, and I am sure we can get through this together. I think that will do for now. Ah. Just one more thing. Jim has assured me that there is no danger to anyone else. We do not believe that anyone else is at risk.’

‘So Sam did do it, then?’ the ruddy-faced man mutters to more comments spreading around the room.

‘Rest assured. Truth and justice will prevail! And so will a sherry,’ Rutherford adds with a charming smile, defusing the tension in the room with practiced ease. He clasps my hand again in a gesture that feels more performative than sincere. ‘It’s alright, Jim. Public speaking takes practice,’ he says, his voice a mix of patronisation and reassurance. ‘Good job I was here, eh? Now, going forward, let’s make sure I’m kept in the loop. These things need careful handling. Wouldn’t want anyone outside Sam’s house with pitchforks, would we?’

I shake my head, hating him for being so smug but also grateful he managed to defuse the crowd.

‘Good man. Commendation-worthy effort. I’ll be sure to mention your name to Skolton and Palmer. Promotion points, Jim. Don’t underestimate the value.’ He pats my arm, his grip lingering just long enough to make me feel like a child being scolded. Then he strides off, leaving me withering on the stage as the crowd begins to disperse. Stan, Tash, and Aiden still giving me pitying looks.

‘That was a bit shit, Jim,’ Lauren says with blunt honesty.

‘Thanks, Lauren.’

‘S’alright. Being shy don’t make you a bad copper. Stevie’s got some weed if you wanna have a toke and chill out.’

‘Um. Yeah. I’m alright, but cheers, Lauren. Oh, and by the way, maybe don’t offer cops illegal drugs.’

She shrugs and pulls a face. ‘That’s where Barry got it from,’ she says before heading off back to the pool table.

‘And now I know where Barry got the weed from,’ I say to Sam, Tash, and Aiden walking over to me.

‘Yeah. But not from us,’ Aiden says. ‘And FYI. That was more than a bit shit.’

‘Jim,’ Tash says with a grimace and even pulls me into a hug and rubs my back. ‘That was so awful. Like. Oh my god, that was so awful.’

‘Thanks for the support, guys,’ I say weakly when she lets go.

‘Seriously, Jim. Ella could have done a better job. What happened? You just went quiet and started shaking. Stan thought you were having a stroke.’

‘Can you smell burnt toast?’ Stan asks me.

‘No. Just my own sense of despairing shame,’ I admit with a sigh.

‘He’s a one, isn’t he?’ Tash says, clearly meaning Rutherford. ‘He’d charm the skin off a snake, that one, then sell it back to it. Listen to him up there. You’d think Barry murdered himself, and the whole island are convinced Sam did it.’

‘Yeah, he was a bit like that,’ I say. ‘But he doesn’t know about the gun, and he never mentioned the gunshot in that other man either. Did you mention the test results to anyone, Doc?’

He shakes his head quickly, casting a dark look to Janice holding court in the main bar. ‘She saw me coming out of the mortuary and must have accessed the records. I never mentioned it to anyone.’

I don’t doubt him for a second. Which means the only leaks came from Jeb and Janice.

‘Janice is a cow,’ Tash mutters. ‘But see, Jim. You know you can trust us now, though. Eh? We’re a task force’ she adds with a smile.

‘But that works both ways,’ I say with a look to her and Aiden. ‘And we’re not a task force.’

‘Task force, brother,’ Stan says with an earnest nod. ‘And we’ve got a plan.’

‘Oh god. What plan?’ I ask with a groan.

‘We’re gonna catch that car that keeps stalking you,’ Tash says.

‘How the bloody hell are we going to do that?’ I ask as they all grin and share looks.

‘With a stakeout!’ Stan says.

‘A stakeout? Not a bloody chance. The only thing I’m doing is finding a bed to cringe in until this wind stops, and I can go home.’

TWENTY-THREE

I sit in the dark, listening to the wind outside while running it all back through my head. Finding Barry’s body. Securing the evidence. Stan finding the police Land Rover; then me finding the body inside of it. Seeing the gunshot wound, and then finding the loaded gun on Barry’s desk inside his locked office.

I think about Sam too, and how he reacted when Tash and I went to deliver the death message. The bluster he showed. How quick he was to anger, and how he tried to belittle me. What he said in interview, and more importantly, what he didn’t say and his body language.

He kept folding his arms, then seemed to be aware of how defensive he looked, so he kept unfolding them. But then I remind myself it’s also natural for men with bigger bellies to rest their folded arms on their stomachs, and not all body language equates to something meaningful.

Mind you. It does look like Sam lied. He said Barry was self-medicating. But Barry’s urine didn’t give a positive reading for diazepam, but then it did show positive for cocaine and cannabis and alcohol–and Lauren said outright that Barry got his cannabis from Stevie, but then Tash said there was no way Barry would have taken cocaine.

Then, of course, there was that car crash of a public meeting, and I cringe again with shame.

‘What a bloody mess,’ I mutter and sip my cup of hot chocolate as another strong gust of wind rocks the car.

‘Have you made a mess?’ Tash asks, turning the interior light on as Stanley yelps in the back and quickly covers the lens of his night-vision goggles strapped over his eyes.

‘Retina burn!’

‘God, that’s so bright,’ I say at the same time and shield my eyes from what must be the spare lighthouse bulb the manufacturers put in this car.

‘Turn the bloody light off!’ Aiden says. ‘We’re meant to be on covert ops.’

‘Jim’s made a mess,’ Tash says with a roll of kitchen towel in one hand and wet wipes in the other.

‘No. I said it’s a mess.’

‘What is?’ Tash asks, looking for the mess.

I reach up to flick the light off. Plunging us back into near-on pitch darkness with what little natural night-vision we had now gone.

‘Jim’s turned it off, Doc,’ Aiden says as Stanley tentatively slides his hand away from the lens.

‘Sorry. I thought he’d made a mess,’ Tash says.

‘I said this is a mess. As in, you know, all of this.’

‘What? The stakeout?’ Tash asks. ‘Seems alright to me.’

‘Not the stakeout. And it’s not a stakeout. I meant all of it. Barry and Sam and that bloody meeting.’ I groan again while replaying my own performance on that stage and rub the stress from my face.

‘I hope that’s your face I can hear you rubbing, Jim,’ Aiden quips as Stan and Tash snort laughs. ‘Do you remember Pervy Pete, Tash?’ he asks with a laugh.

‘Do I!?’ she says, twisting to look back as our eyes start adjusting to the dark again.

‘Who was Pervy Pete?’ Stan asks, turning his head like an android with big goggles covering his face.

‘This old guy, bless him. He was always flashing his willy,’ Tash laughs.

‘Not bless him,’ I say.

‘Oh, here’s Detective Doom,’ Tash says, then mimics a serious, monotone voice. ‘Flashing is very serious and should not made fun off. You won’t get another bumhug if you carry on being grumpy.’

‘Indecent exposure is serious,’ I say in a voice that comes out too peevish. I clear my throat and try again. ‘It’s actually a gateway crime that escalates when the offender stops getting a kick out of it.’

‘He got a kick alright. Right in the ghoulies’ Tash says with perfect timing, making Aiden and Stanley laugh. Even I chuckle at the delivery. ‘No way. Did I actually make you laugh then, Jim Greene? I bloody did. Here. He’s not a robot, after all. You can have another bumhug for that, Jim.’

‘Stop saying bumhug,’ I say as I take another chewy mint sweet from the packet.

‘Bumhug,’ she fires back at me. ‘It’s fine. Relax.’

‘Can I have a bumhug?’ Stanley asks. The packet does the rounds, and the air fills with the sound of us unwrapping, then biting into the hard candy to get at the chewy middle. ‘It’s got bad in the NHS too,’ Stanley adds after a moment.

‘What has?’ I ask and look around outside. Seeing only the closest trees on either side of us parked up in the entrance to an old track. Low clouds blotting the moonlight. No streetlights present. No lights at all. Just the vast, churning, and now invisible sea ahead and the clifftop road running left to right. The holiday cottage I was staying in lies about two hundred metres off to the right. But we can’t see it in this darkness. I said no to the stakeout initially and that we should wait for Devon and Cornwall police to get over and deal with it all. But then I also considered the fact that two people have been murdered, and someone did break into the cottage with clear intent to scare me away. Which in itself is perverting the course of justice or at least witness intimidation or obstructing a constable in the execution of their duty. And that led me to thinking I want to know who I am up against. Who is trying to intimidate and threaten me? Sam? Someone else? Plus, if I am being honest, the thought of four of us doing it was reassuring. Especially with someone as physically capable as Aiden. So I said yes. Although I also said it was definitely not a stakeout, and we were just an observation patrol in the marked emergency service vehicle, which would also provide public reassurance.

‘Banter and making jokes,’ Stanley says while mid-chew in the back of the car. ‘Gotta be so careful now.’

‘Bumhug wouldn’t cause a trouble, though, would it?’ Tash asks.

‘Yep,’ Stanley and I both say.

‘Are you being serious? So saying bumhug instead of humbug would get a complaint?’

‘Homophobic,’ Stanley says.

‘It’s not!’ Tash exclaims.

‘No. Someone would say it was,’ I add. ‘Or that it was a sexualised comment, and then everyone would get in trouble because they didn’t challenge the comment. Did you hear that person back in that meeting, though? That was homophobic.’

Silence for a second again, and in the dark, I can feel it becoming loaded. ‘What?’ I ask.

‘Sam isn’t liked, Jim,’ Tash says quietly.

‘I get that, but you can’t have a go at him being gay.’

‘I wasn’t. And I don’t mean that. But, you know, people will use whatever they can to be mean, won’t they? That’s just people. And that Vicky Evans who said that about Sam is a right nasty bit of work, and you might not have heard it up there on the stage, but plenty of us had a groan when she said that. She goes off about migrants and all sorts. She’s one of them. What about my rights? This country is so effed up. I bloody said to her once. I said leave then! Go on, Vicky. Bugger off and live somewhere else. She right copped it. Know what she said? She said shut up, you fat cow. See. Straight for the personal insult.’

We sit in silence again. ‘So nobody’s gonna say I’m not fat, then?’

‘You’re not fat, then,’ we all chorus to more snorts as Stanley tugs the goggles off.

‘These are hurting my eyes.’

‘They do after a bit,’ Aiden says.

‘Can I try them?’ Tash asks. I listen to her fumble for a while until she’s got them on. ‘Ha! Oh my god. You look like an alien, Jim! Aw, look at that big smile. You’re starting to relax a bit.’

‘Relax?’ I ask with a snort. ‘Yeah. Never been so chilled. Should have got some weed from Stevie.’

‘We could go get some if you want,’ Tash replies too quickly.

‘Tash!’

‘Joke!’

‘It wasn’t a bloody joke. And you can’t do that now if you’re a Special. They do random drug tests all the time.’

‘Barry never had one,’ Tash mutters, peering through the windows with the goggles on.

‘Does Stevie grow it then?’ I ask.

‘He’s really into it, actually,’ Tash says. ‘Totally organic. He won’t use any chemicals. Oh, stop huffing, Jim. It’s better for you than bloody Prozac or whatever. Ooh, we’ve got a doctor in here. Is it, then?’ she asks, twisting to look at him.

‘You’re on lookout,’ Aiden tells her. ‘So look out, not in.’

‘Oh, shush. We’d see a car a mile off out here,’ she says. ‘Go on, Doc. Cannabis or prescription meds?’

‘Depends on the person and the condition,’ he says.

‘No. Come on. Gun to the head,’ Tash says. ‘Which might be a bad analogy, given our current situation, but … if you had to pick one.’

‘It don’t work like that, Tash. Treatments should be tailored to the person. There’s loads of evidence that cannabis helps, but then there’s loads of evidence that it sends people doolally too.’

‘Big pharma don’t want it legalised. That’s what I heard,’ she says.

‘What, from Stevie?’ I ask as Aiden and Stanley laugh, and Tash calls me a rude word.

‘I missed these useless conversations on ops,’ Aiden says, making us smile.

‘Do you miss it?’ I ask.

‘Some of it, yeah.’

‘You ever shoot anyone?’ Stanley asks.

‘I don’t think you’re meant to ask that,’ I say.

‘You worry too much, Jim,’ Aiden says. ‘Yeah, a few, Doc … And no, I don’t,’ he adds after a weighted silence. ‘Have PTSD.’

‘I bloody will after all this,’ I quip, earning snorts. ‘That was a joke. I’m not making light of mental health issues.’

‘Will you relax!?’ Tash chides. ‘We’re safe, Jim. Say what you want. God, are you all like that in the city?’

‘It’s really just Basingstoke. And yes.’

‘No wonder you’re all burning out. How you meant to function if you’re watching every word you say? Christ. I grew up around Navy guys and Marines. My dad. My uncles. Cousins. Chris. And fishermen! Every other word is eff this and eff that. But they’re not being cruel. They’re just blokes doing a hard job and venting. That’s their culture. Stupid bloody I don’t even know what.’

Tash sighs and sits back in her seat. We pour more hot chocolate and share the many snacks we brought with us.

‘Alright. Elephant in the room,’ I say.

‘We’re in a car, Jimbo,’ Stanley says.

‘In the car then. So. Having met George and Aiden, I wouldn’t pick a fight with either of them.’

‘Where’s that come from?’ Tash asks, still wearing the goggles.

‘So it must be a greater force than they are that they’re worried about and the reason why you’re all not telling me things.’

Silence again.

‘You’ll go home, Jim. We have to stay here,’ Aiden says.

‘Are you worried about repercussions? From who? Sam?’

‘Get off. Bloody Sam,’ Tash snorts.

‘Jesus, Tash,’ Aiden whispers as she realises what’s she said.

‘Rutherford then,’ I say as she groans to herself. I think back to him walking around that pub with Skally and Jeb sticking close to his back and how he told Tracey to give everyone a free drink and then how he commanded everyone’s attention. I also saw how Janice stared at me with outward hatred but had hearts in her eyes when she looked at Rutherford. A lot of them did. ‘Why?’ I ask into the somewhat heavy silence. ‘Stan? Do you know anything?’

‘Nothing, mate,’ he says with what sounds like raw honesty. I believe him. He’s an outsider like me, and from what he’s said, Janice controls who sees him. ‘Like, some of the other twitchers told me to be careful.’

‘Careful how?’ I ask.

‘Just careful. When Rutherford got mentioned, they all went quiet, and I were like, what’s he like then? And they wouldn’t say, and they just said be careful. I did locum for a while, though. Every town has a character like that. He weren’t what I was expecting, mind. I thought he’d be like a London gangster or sommit. He were going on at you, though, Jim. Before you got on that stage. He were stood right over you.’

‘He wanted to know if I’d recovered Barry’s phone or searched Sam’s house and what Sam said in interview. And if I’d got a DNA sample from the dead man.’

‘Very specific,’ Stanley says.

‘I thought that, and he did ask a lot of questions, but he seems the type to always want to know what’s going on. Knowing everything about everyone else is a power-play for people like that.’

‘That’s exactly what he’s like,’ Tash mutters.

‘Tash,’ Aiden says quietly, with a warning tone to his voice.

It is Rutherford they’re worried about then.

‘He were definitely probing, by the sounds of it,’ Stanley says. ‘And he threw Barry under the bus quick enough. Even I were thinking he shouldn’t be saying nowt until we’ve done full toxicology. You can’t undo that kind of reputation damage.’

‘Listen, do either of you two have any idea who that lad was in the car?’ I ask, figuring it’s best to be direct.

‘No. I would’ve said,’ Tash says quickly.

‘Aiden?’

‘No, mate,’ he says. ‘But I did think of one thing. So, where the car went over. Down that cliff. That’s one of the worst areas down there. That water is deep and full of rocks and strong tides all year. You get proper whirlpools down there. None of us go anywhere near it. Even the seals don’t go close.’

I frown into the darkness. Realising what’s getting at. ‘So it would be hard to get down and retrieve the car then.’

‘More like impossible. I’m an experienced diver, and I wouldn’t do it. Nobody would.’

‘Which means whoever did it knows this island and these waters. Which, I’m guessing, is just about every fishermanperson and local?’

‘Yeah. Pretty much,’ Aiden says and sits back as we fall into silence until Tash shifts and fidgets and huffs like she wants to say something.

‘Rutherford owns the harbour,’ she says quietly. ‘And the fish plant. And the ferry. Well. No. I mean. He owns the contract to run the ferry service. I think.’

I blast air through my nose. Getting a clearer picture of it all. Someone like that could prevent Aiden and George from earning a living. They could still catch fish, but they wouldn’t be able to dock or offload their catch.

‘Why do this with me now then?’ I ask. ‘Why risk being seen eating with me in The Chuff?’

‘Nah. That’s different,’ Aiden says. ‘Saying something on a statement like that could go to court … If Rutherford’s connected, that would, you know, be bad for us … He’d–’

‘How would Rutherford be connected?’ I ask, cutting in as I twist to look at Aiden’s features nearly hidden in the darkness. ‘Mate. Are you saying he could be involved in this?’

‘No! He wouldn’t shoot anyone. Christ, Jimbo. Argh. Fuck’s sake. George was trying to tell you, but you got all shitty at him.’

I have to take that one on the chin. ‘Yeah. I did. I was exhausted. No excuse, I should have said he can give me an intel report. Which isn’t off the record. I mean. I still make a report, but nobody knows it was him who said it.’

Silence. But I can feel the energy change from Tash and Aiden both thinking.

‘We’ve got rules over it,’ I explain. ‘Really strict rules. So, Stan gives me intel, right? About a drug deal that’s happening. I put a report in, and it’s gets sanitised, and his details are removed and stored on a different system. People can see the intel but not the source, you know, who told us. And we even have rules about us acting on that intel if it was to put Stan in danger. I mean. That’s all graded and subject to necessity tests and proportionality. If he said there was immediate risk to life, we might have to act. Do you get what I mean? The police use informants all the time. So yeah. George could have said it, whatever it was.’

‘So, if we say something now, then it’s anonymous?’ Tash asks.

‘Yes and no. When we put the intel report in, we have to say if the source is known to the officer. That’s effectively telling our systems I know who told me, but they don’t want me to tell anyone else. But that downgrades the intel. Did Barry explain how we grade intel?’

‘No,’ Tash says. ‘But I love this stuff.’

‘Alright. We have this five-by-five-by-five grading system. The first is the source evaluation, as in, who has told us. If we know that informant is always reliable, then we grade it as an A. If they’re always unreliable, or we know on this occasion they’re unreliable, then it’s a D, and if we don’t know, then we give it an E. Then we grade the intel itself. If the intel is known to be true, then it gets a one. If we can’t judge it, then it’s a four, and if we suspect it to be false, then it’s five. And then the actionability is graded. Immediate action is one. No action required is five. So an A-One-One intel report means a reliable source has told us something known to be true, and it requires immediate action.’

‘No. I got it,’ Tash says quietly. ‘So Rutherford is–’

‘Tash,’ Aiden says over her.

‘Enough, Aiden. Rutherford is a smuggler, Jim.’

‘What the …? Like a pirate?’

‘No!’ she scoffs.

‘Bellend,’ Aiden says with a laugh that sets Tash off. ‘Yeah, he puts on a fake beard and goes out in his schooner.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I say, feeling somewhat sheepish.

‘Pirates do pirating,’ Aiden says. ‘Smugglers smuggle. Mate, this is Cornwall. We’re literally famous for it.’

‘No. We are literally famous for it,’ Tash adds. ‘The Roskillys were smugglers, Jim. And the old Evanses and the Rutherfords. This is like. You know. Back in the day. But it still goes on. Rutherford owns the harbour, and there’s other little bays and things. And he’s got a few of the boats in his pocket. And you know. We’re right next to one of the world’s biggest shipping lanes. Stuff goes overboard all the time. Containers and this and that.’

The human senses are an incredible thing, especially how our other senses heighten when one of them is restricted. Like now, in the near on pitch dark, being unable to see them, I can bloody tell from their voices and the energy that something is still not being said.

‘I mean. We all get a bit of stuff now and then,’ she adds quietly. ‘Booze. Tobacco. Had some nice olive oil doing the rounds. We all had new iPhones.’

‘From Rutherford?’ I ask.

‘Not that lot, no,’ Tash says. ‘Not the olive oil and the phones. The lads on the boats make connections with French trawlers, and they get stuff in, and lads on cargo ships.’

‘We all do a bit, Jim, It’s in our blood,’ Aiden says as I grapple with the moral complexities being presented.

‘What does Rutherford smuggle?’ I ask. ‘I don’t think olive oil and phones would get anyone that upset. I mean, yeah, it’s an offence and all that. But Rutherford doesn’t strike me that he’d risk things for low-end smuggling. So. I mean. Drugs? Guns? Money? People?’

Silence.

‘Jesus,’ I groan, rubbing my face. ‘Are you being serious? What? All of them?’

‘No! I mean. We don’t know,’ Tash says. ‘Just. Rumours. Like. Not people. I don’t think people.’

‘Well. Blimey. That just widened this whole thing,’ I say with a snort. ‘There’s me thinking who would kill Barry on a peaceful island? And suddenly there are gun runners and drug importers.’

‘Barry would have known, Jim,’ Tash says. ‘He’s from here. That’s why he came back.’

Actually. That’s not uncommon. Every copper in every sector knows of a top-level criminal or two suspected of being involved in high-end crimes. But of course, high-end criminals are protected by high-end lawyers and high-end barristers and people like Skally and Jeb making sure rumours are kept low.

It also makes me think of what we said a moment ago– that we shouldn’t use someone as an informant if it puts them in danger. And this situation now feels like it’s straying into that territory. They’re also right about the other thing they said. Because when the wind drops, I will go home, but they will have to stay here.

‘Alright. Listen,’ I say quietly. ‘We need to stop doing this. I’ll take you both home. And you need to stop wearing that jacket for a bit.’

‘Why?’ she asks in alarm, looking down at her high-vis yellow police jacket. ‘You’ve got yours on.’

‘I’m a proper copper, Tash. No, listen. I don’t mean you’re not. But you don’t even have any PPE.’

‘I have!’ she says, tugging a small bottle of something from her pocket.

‘Is that PAVA?’

‘No. It’s body spray from the minimarket.’

‘You can’t carry that. It’s an offensive weapon.’

‘It’s body spray!’

‘But you literally just said you’ve got PPE and pulled it out.’

‘I know! And if this gets in your eyes, you’ll bloomin’ wish it was that PAVA.’

‘You just … I mean … You can’t, Tash. You don’t know what’s coming your way. Major Crime Teams go through everything. And this is a murdered copper. The level of scrutiny will be insane. I’ll put the intel in as anon, okay? I’ll point them in the right direction, but that’s it. Other than that, stay out of it. Aiden and George were right. I’ll go home, but you’ve got a kid and–’

‘But we’re the task force,’ she says in a worried voice. ‘I don’t do anything else! Not since … You know. After Chris, I just stayed home and ate. I wasn’t always a fat cow.’

‘Don’t say that about yourself.’

‘I was really slim! Wasn’t I, Aiden?’

‘You’re my cousin. Stop being weird,’ Aiden says. ‘But yeah, she was.’

‘It’s not about how you look, Tash. It’s … I just can’t put you at risk. Just let Devon and Cornwall come over and dig it all up for themselves. I’ll get you home. It must be late.’

‘It’s only quarter to nine!’ she says. ‘What about the stakeout? George is staying at mine cos I thought we’d be doing it all night.’ She falls silent and sighs deeply. ‘Whatever. I’m having an egg sandwich before we go. Do you want yours?’

‘Yes, please. I’m sorry, Tash. Are you upset?’

‘No,’ she says with a heavy sigh. ‘Yes,’ she admits and passes me an egg sandwich. Then one to Stanley and Aiden in the back.

‘By the way,’ I ask while chewing, ‘I keep meaning to ask about the West End place?’

‘What about it?’ Tash asks.

‘Is it some resort place or something?’

‘Military base,’ Tash says.

‘Not ours. US,’ Aiden adds as my mind goes into a tailspin.

‘A military base? On this island? An actual bloody military base? And you never said because why?’

She shrugs and eats her sandwich. ‘It’s a secret.’

‘A bloody secret?’

‘Secret base,’ she adds after swallowing.

‘Secret nuclear submarine base,’ Aiden says as I stare at them incredulously. ‘They’re not even on any maps.’

‘We thought you knew. Everyone knows,’ Tash says as I sputter.

‘I didn’t know! How far is it?’

‘Like, right at the end. Forty miles? Why you getting so worked up?’

‘They’ll have bloody comms to the mainland. They could have helped!’

‘We’re not allowed anywhere near it,’ Aiden says. ‘We can’t even fish within ten miles of it.’

‘Even twitchers aren’t,’ Stanley adds.

‘There’s been a double murder! We’re allies. For the love of …’ I trail off, shaking my head at nobody telling me until now. Which is when I spot the lights in the distance. ‘Is that a car?’

‘Where?’ Tash asks, twisting to look out her side.

‘It might turn off onto the Main Road,’ Aiden says. ‘Nope. It’s coming this way!’

‘Action stations!’ Stanley says. ‘Shush! Everyone, shush!’

‘We’re not saying anything,’ Tash says. ‘Oh god. It’s actually coming this way.’

‘Watch your eyes,’ Aiden says as the front of the car comes fully into view, with the headlights hitting the lens on the night-vision goggles, making Tash yelp in pain and twist away while tugging the goggles off.

‘I’m blind!’

‘Get after it, Jim!’ Stanley urges.

‘Stick the blues and twos on,’ Aiden says over him.

‘Hang on. It’s probably gonna go straight past,’ I start to say as the car brake lights come on, and it slows to a crawl past the holiday cottage.

‘Bastards!’ Stanley says.

‘What’s happening? I’m blind!’

‘Get the blues on, Jim!’ Aiden urges.

‘Come on, Jim,’ Stanley yells as I start the engine and pull out, with them both urging me on, and Tash rubbing her eyes.

‘Put the blues on!’ Aiden says, leaning through the middle to jab at the control panel for the lights and siren in the centre.

‘Get off. We’re not putting the blues on!’

‘Oh, they’re going down!’ Stanley yells.

‘Who’s going down?’ Tash says, flailing about blindly.

‘Hit the blues. We’ll do a hard stop!’ Aiden says as I try and slap his hand away.

‘I vote hard stop!’ Stanley shouts.

‘What’s a hard stop?’ Tash asks as the world around us comes to life, bouncing red and blue lights back at us.

‘I said no blues,’ I say as and try and turn it off but hit the wrong button and activate the sirens.

‘Go on, Jim!’ Aiden shouts. ‘Floor it!’

‘Vote carried for a hard stop!’ Stanley calls.

‘Something’s wrong with my eyes!’ Tash shouts. ‘I’m seeing blue and red strobes!’

‘Jesus,’ I grunt and push my foot down, figuring we’re committed now and also seeing the car ahead has already started slowing with a flare of brake lights.

‘We need maximum aggression!’ Aiden says. ‘Full on. Big shouts. Totally overwhelm them.’

‘No! It’s probably not even connected! Might just be birdwatchers,’ I say, trying to calm them down.

‘Or egg stealers!’ Stanley says. ‘Bastards!’

‘What’s going on?’ Tash says, squinting between her fingers as she digs her body-spray out of her pocket.

‘You don’t need that, Tash. Oh, bugger. It’s stopped. Right. Just let me do the … No! Aiden! STANLEY! Shit!’

I slam the brakes on and just about flick the siren off before I heave out into the wind to run after Aiden and Stanley as Tash tries to do the same and falls out her side.

‘HANDS UP!’ Aiden yells.

‘RSPB, MOTHERFUCKERS!’ Stanley shouts, throwing an egg sandwich at the driver’s window.

‘SHOW US YOUR HANDS!’ Aiden yells.

‘Oh god, I can’t see!’ Tash yells as I yell, and Aiden and Stanley yell, and the driver opens his door, and Stanley throws another egg sandwich at his face, and Tash bumps into me with a yelp, and then squirts body spray from the minimarket into my eyes.

‘Argh! My eyes,’ I yell.

‘My eyes!’ Tash yells.

‘My sandwich!’ Stanley yells.

‘HANDS!’ Aiden yells. ‘Oh, hang on. Stand down! Repeat. Stand down. It’s a friendly!’

‘Who is?’ I ask, blinking at Mr Dumfries sitting in his driver’s seat with a chunk of egg mayonnaise stuck to one cheek.

‘Detective,’ he says slowly, blinking up at me crying, then leaning over to see Tash shielding her eyes, then at Stanley and Aiden grinning sheepishly. ‘Things are going well then …? And what’s that smell?’

‘Body spray,’ Tash says.

‘From the minimarket,’ I add.

‘I see.’

‘Good. Cos I bloody can’t. And did you know about this West End base?’ I ask him.

‘What about it?’

‘That it existed?’

‘Of course.’

‘And nobody said?’ I say with a look at them all.

‘What you doing out here anyway, Nigel?’ Tash asks.

‘I heard about the awful meeting and came to check on Jim,’ he says. ‘And why are you shaking your head?’ he asks me.

‘A bloody US base. All this time. For the love of … I’m going,’ I say and start to turn, then stop and turn back. ‘Thanks for coming to check on me. And sorry about the, er, hard stop thing.’

‘And the egg in the face,’ Stanley adds.

‘And yelling at you,’ Aiden adds.

‘And the body spray,’ Tash says.

‘You sprayed me, not Mr Dumfries,’ I tell her.

‘Smells rather nice, actually,’ he says politely as I offer a tight smile and turn to go. ‘It won’t do any good, Jim!’ he calls. ‘It doesn’t officially exist. It’s not on any maps or even Google Earth.’

‘They’ll have comms,’ I call over the wind as he wipes the egg off his face, which is how I feel right now.

‘They won’t assist in civil matters.’

‘There’s been a double murder!’ I yell, flapping my hands out. ‘The island’s sergeant is dead. And they’re allies, and these are, you know, extenuating circumstances. They bloody will help. I’m telling you right now.’

I head off to the car and get in and kill the lights, feeling stupid and like things are spinning out of control.

This isn’t police work. Police work is slow and boring. We catch people with DNA and phone pings.

This, though? I don’t know what this is.

But first thing tomorrow, I’m going to that base. I’ve been to US military bases before. On driving courses and for enquiries. They always help and bend over backwards to accommodate us. Why wouldn’t they?

TWENTY-FOUR

Day Three

Tuesday, 28 th January

I wake to the incessant beep coming from my phone, and just for one awesome moment, I get filled with hope that the signal is back, and someone is calling me. Then I wake up properly and instantly remember it’s the alarm I set–and on checking the screen, there is still no signal.

I groan and stretch and listen to the wind rattling the windows in their frames. I can hear the dull echoing howl of it going over chimney pots and figure the building must have had open fireplaces back in the day. It’s only then that I glance to the window and see the rain pouring down the glass and give another groan at the worsening weather.

Mind you. That was an amazing sleep. I dropped Tash and Aiden off at hers, then Stanley at the clinic so he could get his car and came straight back here to the nick and had a horrible moment of panic that someone might have broken in. I needn’t have worried. The place was locked and secure and appeared as I’d left it.

After that, I pretty much came straight up here. Brushed my teeth. Had a shower and found the bedding cupboard and made the single bed–at which point, I fretted about everything for around twenty seconds before passing out asleep. I didn’t even wake up needing to pee. Which is a first for a long time. I even found the thermostat before I went to bed and turned it up high, so I’d wake up to a toasty warm room.

Stuff the bill. It’s the least Devon and Cornwall can do after what I’ve been through. Jesus. You couldn’t make it up. It’s turning into one of the bloody awful murder crime books that bear no resemblance to reality.

God. That meeting, though. That was so bad. And Stan throwing his egg sandwich at poor Nigel, and Tash spraying body spray from the minimarket in my eyes. Although, in retrospect, it was quite funny. No. It wasn’t funny, and I shouldn’t be smiling. Police work isn’t done like that. We work quietly in offices and do the tasks we are given by the SIO, and then we go home. Day after day. That’s my life. I get up and go to work and fight for a parking space in the car park or end up on the street somewhere. Then I go in and grab a brew and make passive small talk about sports or the weather or share gossip about who has been promoted while taking care not to offer any opinions on anything. Then we get briefed or carry on with whatever tasks we’ve got. We eat lunch in the canteen and again share passive non-opinionated commentary on benign subjects, or for the most part, everyone stares at their phone screens, with earbuds in, and we eat in silence. A lot more people eat in their car now. That never used to happen. Canteens were lively places, full of jokes and humour.

Then I work and go home and try not to message Cat or think about Cat or if we’re on a break or if it’s finished for good.

I conjure an image of telling this tale in the canteen about how I found a body and all the stuff after. In my head, it’s animated and lively and equally funny and desperate. But in reality, it would be almost robotic and largely without comment from anyone else. Would be good to have something to tell Cat, though. She’d find it interesting. Would she?

I feel a pang inside and consider that perhaps Cat wouldn’t find it interesting. The old Cat would. But she’s changed. Or maybe I have. Or maybe we all have. I get the impression she’d question me on what powers I used and prompt justifications.

‘Sorry, Jim. Just go back, please. What was the necessity for the arrest? You didn’t have a custody officer. You could justify the delay in waiting for the Major Crime team to attend. No. I’m just asking how you can justify that?’

That’s what she’d be like now. Inspector Catherine McDonald.

‘I’m sorry. You went down the cliff? Without safety gear? And you swabbed the deceased person’s mouth? Right. I see. No. It’s fine. I mean. You’ll have to justify that. So. You know. Just saying.’

It’s been like that for a while. But then she’s two ranks above me now, and her role is to inspect investigations and ask questions to make sure things are done properly. But then I’m not one of her officers, and I’ve been doing it ten years longer than she has.

Am I resentful over that? I think maybe I am. Bloody Aiden, though, and his hard stop and Tash’s bumhug joke.

I snort a dry laugh and get washed and dressed with a simple plan: get to the US base and use their comms to report the severity of this clusterfuck and then wait for reinforcements. They’ll find a way over. Even if it means using Royal Navy resources. Plymouth has a big Navy base, and the RNLI have lifeboats that can get through even the worst seas.

I flick the kettle on in the small kitchen and grab the bread I brought with me, thinking to put a brew and some toast on while I get dressed. Then I stare dumbly at the loaf I take from my bag and how someone has squished it all up.

Who does that? It does make me think of Sam. Having met him I get the impression he could be petty and spiteful– but he doesn’t have a car. How would he get to the cottage? And hang on. He was in custody when I saw the car pull up outside his house.

That’s assuming that car and the damage to the cottage are connected.

CSI can fingerprint the cottage when they get back. I even think of securing the bag of bread for evidence, but then I think–stuff it–and chuck it in the bin. I’ll have a brew and get going. But then even that makes me stop and think with another groan. I get IBS from poor digestive issues. My GP said it was stress-related and that I had to make sure I eat regular meals. I’ve already had two days of swinging between fasting and then gluttony and stuffing fish and chips down my throat. Is it tonight Tash is doing spag bol? That’ll be nice. But I can’t not eat until then, and the US base trip might take a while.

I mutter and curse my way through getting dressed and trudging down to the ground floor and getting my coat on and then even more so when I stop by the main door and remember the reasons why I can’t eat my own bloody bread– because someone here hates me and mashed it up.

Shit, shit, and shit. I go back up and grab my utility belt and strip down my upper layers and get the stab vest on, then the yellow high-vis waterproof police jacket over the top, and finally the RSPB woolly hat Stanley gave me. Then I go out of the station, into the wind and rain and mutter more foul words at the creepy dolls in the store opposite.

A few moments later, I push through the door of the minimarket and come to a dead stop, and honestly? For one full second, I consider about turning and scramming before they see me.

That being the adult male, who I take to be the store owner, currently gripping the hooded scruff of a skinny, young lad.

‘Give it!’ the store owner says in an accent somewhere between Cornish and what I take to be Sri Lankan or Indian.

‘I bloody did!’ the lad says.

‘The other one!’ the guy shouts and rags the lad a bit.

‘Alright. Take it easy,’ I say as they both snap their heads up with the same double take and the same looks of surprise.

‘He’s a thieving shit!’

‘He’s assaulted me!’

‘I didn’t assault him! I didn’t assault you. It’s a citizen’s arrest!’

‘I’m a kid! You can’t touch me!’

Never rains, does it? Why didn’t I just get in the car and go to the US base?

‘It’s fine. Just relax. Let him go.’

‘I’m not letting him go! He’ll bloody run off!’

‘He’s assaulting me!’ the lad shouts over him.

‘Arrest him! I want him arrested!’

‘No! Nick him. For grabbing kids.’

‘You’re banned from here anyway, Callum. He’s banned from here anyway. Are you the new copper, then?’

‘Yeah. He is, and my Lauren said he’s alright, and she’s gonna be a copper, and she’ll bloody deck you for grabbing me.’

‘Okay. Stop shouting. Both of you. Please … Let him go. Just let him go.’

‘He’ll run off!’

‘So what if he does? You just said his name is Callum, and he said my Lauren, which means she’s probably his sister, and it’s not a big island, is it?’

The adult glares and blinks, then finally lets go of Callum’s hood, with the lad jerking back and looking to bolt, but then he peers up at me, with his eyes darting left and right like he’s not quite sure what’s going to happen.

‘Right, you need to listen to …’ I start to say as my hand moves up to my chest to activate the body-worn video camera. Which isn’t there because I didn’t grab one. ‘I only wanted some sodding bread,’ I groan at myself.

‘Are you arresting him, then?’ the owner demands.

‘I gave it back!’ Callum shouts as they start arguing again.

‘Hang on,’ I call to stop them both. ‘Callum, is it? How old are you?’

‘He’s fifteen,’ the owner says. ‘I sold Lauren his birthday card and some balloons on his birthday.’

‘Alright. Callum, I’m going to ask Mr … er, what’s your name?’

‘Kam,’ he says as I glance to the licensing certificate on the wall behind the counter giving authority to Kamal Pathirana to sell intoxicating liquor.

‘Pathirana? Am I saying that right?’ I ask as he blinks and nods. ‘Right, Callum. Mr Pathirana is going to explain why he suspects you have committed theft in his shop. And you need to listen and not interrupt.’

‘I just bloody said! He’s a thief.’

‘Yes, I know, but you need to tell me in his presence so it doesn’t become hearsay evidence. What did you see?’

‘Him! Nicking!’

‘I gave it back!’

‘What did you see Callum take?’

‘Bloody Snickers!’ Kam says, holding one of the chocolate bars up. ‘But he does this. He nicks two, then gives one back if he gets caught. But he had two! I saw it. On the camera.’

‘Okay. You saw it. You saw Callum conceal the item? Where?’

‘In here!’

‘No. Where on his body?’

‘Up me bloody backside!’

‘Callum, shush.’

‘He put this one in his pocket there,’ Kam says, pointing at the big pocket on the front of Callum’s hooded top. ‘Then the other one went in his trouser pocket.’

‘They’re jeans! Not trousers,’ Callum says as though he just proved his innocence.

I rub my face, remembering the many, many shopliftings I dealt with before I was a detective.

‘Okay. Callum, you’ve heard what this man said. Do you have the stolen item on you? Yes or no? I can search you under Section One of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Or you can give him his Snickers back.’

Callum frowns for a second before sharing a look with Kam and digging his hand into his pocket and handing it back.

‘Good. Well done.’

‘You’re not nicking him, then?’

‘No, I can’t and–’

‘He keeps doing it! And he’s been in and out of here, loading his pockets, since Barry died.’

‘Go through your CCTV. Find the evidence of the thefts and keep it secure. Then make a complaint when the Devon and Cornwall officers get over here. I’ll write a report about this now when I get back so they know it’s happened. What’s your surname, Callum?’

‘Evans,’ he says at the same time as Kam.

‘Old Evans or new Evans?’ I ask for no reason whatsoever while seemingly stuck in this bizarre reality.

‘New,’ he snorts as though I just insulted him.

‘He’s Vicky’s lad,’ Kam says.

‘Vicky?’ I ask, thinking I’ve heard that name. ‘Oh, the homophobic … The lady from the meeting. Right. Got it. And she’s Lauren’s mum as well, then?’

‘No,’ they both say and share looks like I should know this.

‘Mandy Evans had Lauren with Steve Evans,’ Kam says.

‘Mandy’s my aunt’ Callum adds.

‘So, Lauren is your sister and your cousin? Oh my god. I want to go home,’ I say and even consider clicking my heels three times.

‘If you’re gonna be the copper here, you need to know this stuff,’ Kam says.

‘I’m never gonna be the copper here. Right. Well. Callum, stop nicking stuff. And bugger off. Oh god. Hang on. He’s fifteen. I need to let his legal guardian know. No phones! Shit! Shitshitshit!’

‘Barry never did,’ Callum says.

‘Barry gave him a clip, and that were that,’ Kam adds.

‘Oh god, don’t tell me that. He did what? No! Oh my goodness. No, no, no. Bugger. Right. Let me get some bread; then I’ll take you home, Callum. How far is it?’

‘Next door,’ they both say.

‘Why didn’t you say?! Right. I’ll come back for the bread. Go on, Callum.’

‘Are you really taking him home?’ Kam asks.

‘Yes. It’s law. He’s a juvenile that’s come into contact with the police, and he’s suspected of a crime. I can’t just let him go. What if he didn’t arrive home? Or went missing?’

‘It’s next door!’ they both say.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’d still be in the shit. Be back in a minute.’

I follow a stunned Callum out as he keeps blinking back at me, then motion for him to get on with it. We literally walk to the next house along, and again, he stops and looks at me before going in. ‘Just let me go here,’ he says in a smaller voice.

‘I can’t,’ I say and lean past him to knock on the door.

‘Don’t!’ he says, then winces, and opens the door with a look of worry. ‘Mum!’

‘Shut that effing door!’ a loud voice bellows as I step after Callum into a front room, thick with cigarette smoke, to see the woman from the meeting yesterday on the sofa in a fraying dressing grown staring at me with a stunned expression. ‘What the eff are you doing here?’

‘I’m, er,’ I start and break off to cough and wave my hand, trying to clear the air in front of my face as I take in the disarray around me. Clothes half folded and half dumped on a small table laden with red-letter bills and ashtrays and filthy mugs. Plates on the floor from previous meals. A big flat-screen TV playing a DVD of Friends that Vicky pauses. She stubs her cigarette out and pushes up to her feet all in one angry motion.

‘What’s he done now!?’ she barks.

‘He was shoplifting in the minimarket.’

‘Shoplifting? What did he nick? I hope you got my Snickers!’

‘That’s what he was nicking.’

‘I gave you the money, you little twat!’

‘I wanted one as well,’ Callum says as his mum slaps him hard around the head.

‘Hey. Whoa,’ I say.

‘Don’t you tell me how to parent!’ she yells, turning on me with full fury. ‘Get to your room!’ she yells while still glaring at me and in a such a way it’s like she’s telling me to get to my room.

‘He doesn’t have a room,’ Callum says, then dodges back as she goes for him, making her trip over the plates left on the floor, which just sets her off even worse, with foul language pouring from her mouth.

‘Anyway. I’ll leave a report for the police when they get over from the mainland.’

‘Eh? What for? Barry never did that. What are you? A jobsworth? You lot are all the same. Bullied, were you? Whatever. You can eff off now. Go on.’

‘And I need to inform you a report will be made to social services about Callum’s interaction with the police.’

‘They don’t give a shit either! He’s got bloody ADHD, and no one helps. Go on. Go and let more gay murderers go.’

‘Okay. You need to stop saying–’

‘Get out my house!’ she yells as I figure to pick my battles and beat a tactical retreat out the door, into the rain and wind. She slams it behind me; then, I hear her voice screaming inside.

I used to see that a lot when I was in uniform. Broken people leading broken lives in broken homes.

Back in the minimarket, I grab a loaf of brown bread, seeing as that’s all they have left, and some butter and step to the counter.

‘She’ll be in here later, giving me what for,’ Kam says. I take it he means Vicky.

‘How long you been here?’ I ask.

‘Over twenty years. She were the same when she was his age. Anyway. Cheers for that. Have it on the house, mate.’

‘I have to pay,’ I say, holding a note out.

‘I said it’s on the house. Did Sam kill Barry, then?’

‘Really. I have to pay. We can’t take freebies. Especially from a licensed premises.’

‘Barry did,’ he says and rings it through. ‘I’ll just charge you for the bread, though.’

I give up trying to argue and pay the money.

‘Sam did it, then?’ he asks. ‘Mind, though. I heard from Pat who said Janice told her Barry was high on coke and weed and drunk as a skunk. And I said … I said are we sure Sam did it? You know. If Barry were off his face, maybe he did it to himself.’

‘What, ran himself over, then drove his car off a cliff?’ I ask, then wish I hadn’t.

‘Ah. Right. Yeah. Must have been that other lad that helped him. Like a pact. You read about those, don’t you? Murder suicide pacts. I’ll kill you, then top myself.’

I nod politely, thinking it would be very hard to shoot yourself dead while in the passenger seat and then still drive the car off the cliff and then take the gun back to the police station. ‘Well. I’m sure it will all come out. Cheers! Nice to meet you.’

‘And you, sergeant, er? Jim, is it?’

‘Jim Greene. Not a sergeant,’ I say as I go out the door.

‘Inspector, then!’ he yells as I lean back in.

‘Not an inspector either. Detective. DC.’

‘Aye. I prefer Marvel, though,’ he says as I frown, then go back to the nick in the rain and wind and past the creepy dolls.

I go back up to the cosy, warm flat and eat toast and drink tea and stare out through the rain-streaked window in between making handwritten notes up about Callum and the theft and, more importantly, the issues obviously going on at home and the violence I saw from his mum.

Ten minutes later, I’m back down and into the fire car and setting off for the West End with the very high hope that within a few hours none of this will be my issue anymore.

TWENTY-FIVE

The first sign is ten miles out from what must be the end of the island.

RESTRICTED AREA

DO NOT CONTINUE

YOU WILL BE PROSECUTED

No markings. No UK or US government stamp. Just big, red letters on white signs that repeat every few hundred metres.

The landscape has changed too. Windswept Cornish moors and scrubland dotted with rocky outcrops.

Then I reach what must be the outer perimeter fence. Two sets of high wire fencing ten yards or so apart. Both topped with coils of razor wire. Oversized, white cameras fixed at intervals and lots of signs.

RESTRICTED AREA!

NO LOITERING!

YOU WILL BE PROSECUTED IF YOU REMAIN!

MILITARY RANGES!

LIVE FIRING!

That’s a smart move. Anyone reading that would think twice before trying to get into what they think are live military ranges.

After getting out into the howling wind and driving rain, I find a simple intercom on the gate. I press the buzzer and hear an automated voice.

‘There is no entry to this facility. You must leave this restricted area immediately. You will be prosecuted if you remain.’

‘Hello? I’m a police officer!’ I call into the intercom. ‘My name is Detective Constable Jim Greene. I need to speak to someone in authority. This is an emergency.’

Nothing for a few seconds. Then a click and a monotone female American voice speaks out.

‘Please show your accredited identification to the camera above you.’

I step back and fish my warrant card out to present.

‘Please return and wait in your vehicle, sir.’

I nod and wave at the camera and go back to the car.

Half an hour later, a plain, white four-by-four drives into view on the other side of the gate and comes to a stop, with four unformed soldiers coming out, each one holding an assault rifle.

I get out and approach with a wave and again present my warrant card to the soldier coming closest on the other side. Two stripes on his sleeves. A stencilled surname across his breast reads HARRINGFORD.

‘Hi!’ I call over the wind. ‘Jim Greene. I’m a detective. What are you? A corporal?’

‘Yes, sir. US Marines. You need to go through proper channels to come here,’ Harringford replies. The epitome of a US soldier. Tall and broad, with a clear complexion and an earnest expression.

‘I can’t. The storm. I’ve got no comms. I’m sorry, but this is urgent.’

I present my warrant card again with Harringford coming closer to peer at it through the fence. He even digs an iPhone out and takes a picture of it, then nods at me to wait and goes back to the car to use what looks like a short-wave radio set. The other three soldiers range out. Scanning all directions.

‘Sir? Are you armed?’ Harringford calls a moment later.

‘Not with a firearm!’ I yell over the wind. ‘Extendable baton and pepper spray and handcuffs … And I’m wearing a uniform stab vest.’ I open my yellow high-vis jacket to show the vest and utility belt. He nods and speaks into the radio, then calls over again.

‘Why are you here, sir?’

‘Urgent police business.’

‘What is that business, sir?’

‘Do I have to shout it through a fence in the pouring rain?’ I call, but he and the others stay poker-faced, with no response. ‘Fine. There have been two murders on the island. I’ve got no comms and–’

I cut off as Harringford frowns and blinks with the first show of human reaction, then speaks into the radio for another moment.

‘You’re cleared for entry. Please put your equipment and vest in your vehicle, sir.’

‘Alright. Hang on.’

That’s not unusual. It’s the same when officers go into prisons. We can’t take or carry anything that could pose a threat. I strip down to dump my belt and vest in the car, then jog back to the gate as an electric hum sounds, and one side starts opening.

‘Step in, sir.’

Harringford pats me down and takes me in through the gate and into the back of the SUV with a US Marine either side of me.

‘Bloody weather,’ I say. They don’t comment. We drive slowly across another few miles of open scrubland. ‘Big base,’ I remark.

‘Yes, sir,’ Harringford says politely. But offers nothing more.

We stop at another set of fences. High concrete sectional walls behind them. This time there is an armed checkpoint. The corporal goes out with my warrant card, leaving me in silence with the soldiers.

It takes about an hour, by which time I’m fighting drowsiness from the warm car, but eventually Harringford comes back, and we go through what I take to be the inner perimeter fence.

The base inside is non-descript. With bland concrete buildings here and there, all built on what must be the extreme physical end of the island. I clock the ocean on both sides, and glimpses of it ahead. Miles of unbroken, grey, churning sea.

We go past a helipad, and I spot a helicopter inside of a hangar to one side and more plain, white vehicles. I don’t see any people. But then this weather is shocking.

We stop outside a normal, office-like building that I get taken inside of. A woman in uniform greets me politely and takes my details to tap into a computer system.

‘And what is the nature of your visit today, sir?’ I recognise her monotone voice from the one that spoke through the intercom.

‘Hi. Nice to meet you. I have urgent police business and need to–’

‘Yes, sir. What business is that?’

‘Is there a commander or someone I can speak with?’

‘Yes, sir. What is the nature of your police visit today?’ she keeps her tone and expression entirely flat. They all do.

‘I said to the corporal here that there have been two murders and–’

‘We cannot intervene in domestic civilian matters, sir.’

I feel the first bite of frustration at the almost robotic reactions.

‘Sorry. It’s a bit more serious than that. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. I’m a detective. I work what you’d guys call homicide. We call it the Major Crime Team, but I’m not from here, and there aren’t any comms.’

‘Sir. We cannot intervene in domestic–’

‘I heard you, but there aren’t any civilian police on the island. It’s the island police sergeant that’s been murdered. Sergeant Barry Squires.’

I spot the look from her to Harringford and catch the reaction on his face and see him swallow. ‘When was this?’ he asks in a quieter tone.

‘I found his body Sunday morning. I’m on leave. Like vacation. Then I found his car with another body inside. I’ve no phones. No internet. Even the landlines are down. Nothing. I just need comms to the mainland. Or someone to make contact with the Royal Navy. They can contact Devon and Cornwall and sort something out.’

The female soldier taps away on her system for a long time. Then she stops and waits, but it feels awkward. Like when Aiden and Tash go quiet on me. A moment or so later, another soldier comes out of another office with a visitor badge on a lanyard. ‘Wear that at all times and please take a seat.’

‘This way, sir,’ Harringford says and leads me to a small side room with two chairs inside. I think we’ll take one each, but he waits outside the door.

Another hour or so passes with me huffing and tapping my foot, and again, I grow drowsy.

I jerk awake to the door opening, with another soldier striding in. Older. Fifties. But lean and very fit-looking with weathered features. He smiles and holds a big hand out, clasping mine when I stand up. ‘Are we keeping you awake?’ he says with more than a little disapproval. ‘Commander Ethan Sawyer. Jim Greene? Come on through, Jim. I’ll say from the outset, we cannot assist in any domestic matters, but least I can do is get you a coffee.’

‘I could literally murder one,’ I say. ‘Which might be a bad choice of words, given the reason for my visit.’

Sawyer looks back as he leads me on.

We go through an inner security door, and I clock how the other soldiers stand still and offer salutes as we pass, with Ethan giving each a curt nod and hand raise in return.

‘I know this breaches protocol,’ I say as I rush to keep up with him. ‘But this storm … I’m out of options. I’ve done enquiries at US bases before, and I know we’re meant to seek consent through the proper channels.’

I stop speaking as we go past a high-end gym filled with rows of running machines and equipment. Then a squash court and even an indoor tennis court. Then I spot two soldiers carrying cartons of popcorn through a door into an actual cinema.

‘Our nick got a vending machine a few months back,’ I say to try and break the ice. Sawyer just gives me another plain stare.

We go through to an open plan mess hall with a large counter serving lunch on one side and what looks like a Burger King on the other, next to a 7-Eleven store.

‘You’ve got your own Burger King?’

‘We sure do,’ he says. ‘Want one?’

‘Oh god, no. Honestly.’

‘Have one. Like I said. Least we can do. You grab that seat, and I’ll go fetch.’

He leaves me at a table in an otherwise empty upper tiered area while the soldiers and other personnel all eat on the lower section. I guess this must be the officers’ area. What a place, though. Every US base I’ve been to is like this. UK military bases look like something from the Cold War in comparison.

He comes back fairly swiftly. Carrying a tray with a wrapped burger and a side of fries. Two sachets of ketchup squared off very precisely alongside two small white salt sachets and two disposable coffee cups. ‘Enjoy,’ he says, sliding the tray at me as I reach for one of the coffees. ‘That’s mine. I have decaff. That’s yours,’ he says, handing me the other one.

‘I should have less caffeine. Messes my belly up. Do you get IBS?’

‘You’re having some troubles?’ he asks, ignoring my question as he asks his own.

‘Understatement,’ I say and sprinkle salt on the fries. It feels rude to eat like this, but I’m starving. ‘I’m on leave, right. Like vacation.’

‘I know what leave is, Detective.’

‘Sorry. My first day, I’m out for a walk, and I find the body of the island’s police sergeant. So yeah. Troubles. But listen. What I really need is–’

‘How?’ he asks, cutting over me with that same blunt stare.

I chew the fries and cover my mouth. ‘How what? How was he killed? Someone ran him over.’

‘Couldn’t that be a hit and run?’

‘Well. Yes. I did consider that. But from my experience, it looked highly suspicious.’

‘You’re a homicide detective?’

‘We don’t have those. Not like that. I’m a detective, yes. I work on the Major Crime Team who deal with murders and serious crime and–’

‘What are the odds,’ he cuts over me with that same level gaze. ‘The island’s police chief gets murdered, and the body is found by a murder squad detective.’

‘Yeah, right. Sounds like a book. But yeah. So. It was sus enough for me to declare it as a crime scene, but the cell phones went down. So I walked three miles back to my cottage and just about got a call to the mainland police before the landlines went down too. I mean. I’ve done what I can and secured the body and taken what samples I can.’

‘Samples?’

‘Routine. Grass. Mud. Hand swabs. Seized his clothes. Anyway. The reason I’m–’

‘On your own?’

‘Er. Well. Yes. Mostly. I mean. There’s a volunteer helping me. But she’s not trained. Anyway. And then we found the other body, which makes it a double homicide. Hence the importance of coming here to–’

‘Other body?’

‘In the missing police car,’ I say, still eating the fries. ‘Which had been driven off a cliff with the body inside of it.’

‘I see,’ he says, holding my eye contact. ‘Have you identified that body yet?’

‘I, er … Sorry. That’s a lot of questions, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I just need to–’

‘Secret vice,’ he says, cutting over me again with a touch of a smile. He even drops his voice a touch as though sharing a secret.

‘What is?’

‘True crime,’ he adds. ‘It gives me something to do while I’m posted to, er, well, let’s just say places like this.’

People get fascinated over murders and always want the details. Even high-ranking US base commanders, apparently. I smile and drink some of the coffee. Which is delicious.

‘Good, huh? So. The second body?’

I hesitate because it is highly unethical to share details of something like that, but I need his help, and the guy is clearly used to having power and authority.

‘Nope. Young man in his boxers. Shot in the chest. Anyway. Listen. I know you can’t help with that, and I’m sorry for coming here. But I said to–’

‘Have you charged anyone yet?’

‘Charged?’

‘For the homicides.’

‘Right. No. Er, so we don’t do … It’s different here to the US. We arrest on suspicion, and then later, they can get charged and bailed or remanded to appear at court. But no, I mean. I interviewed Barry’s partner, but I can’t charge anyone. I can’t really do anything. That’s why I’m here to–’

He cuts over me again with that same manner that Sam and Rutherford have. Projecting an air of masculine authority. ‘What did he say?’

‘He?’ I ask as the commander half frowns and half scowls at me. ‘Sorry. I said I spoke to Barry’s partner, and you said he. Which suggests you know that Barry was in a–’

‘Gay? Sure. He told me. We met.’

‘You knew Barry?’

‘I said we met. He went through the channels and wanted to come shake my hand when we donated that car.’

‘Right. Great car, by the way. But hang on. Barry came here, then?’

‘Sure. Like I said. He gained clearance and wanted to shake my hand. I respected that, and he had a burger and fries and took one with him for his partner. Barry said he loves burgers. I figured same sex relationship.’

‘Gotcha. Of course.’

‘Sorry to disappoint, Detective, but I have a lot of witnesses to my alibi of being here Saturday night.’

‘No! I didn’t mean … Sorry. Coppers never switch off. You said he, and I thought, how does he know Barry was in a same sex relationship? Anyway. Thing is. What I need to do is contact the mainland. That’s why I’m here. I said to the woman at the desk that–’

‘No, sir.’

‘Sorry. We spoke over each other. I just need a call put in to the Royal Navy or the Devon and Cornwall police or–’

‘No, sir.’

I stop again as he holds eye-contact with a ramrod straight back, staring intently into my eyes. ‘Um. Sorry. Bit confused. You keep saying no and–’

‘We cannot and will not intervene or assist in domestic civilian matters.’

‘That’s what the woman said. But I thought … I mean. You brought me in here with the burger and the … coffee.’

‘Least we can do after you came out here in this weather. Enjoy your burger, and we’ll escort you out.’

‘I need comms. You must have a communication line open to the mainland.’

‘We cannot and will not intervene or assist in domestic–’

‘I heard that, Commander. But two people have been murdered. The island’s police sergeant is dead, and another man was shot.’

Nothing. No reaction. Not a flicker. Just that dead-eyed stare.

‘I don’t need to use your comms or see anything. What I’m asking is for someone here to make contact on my behalf to–’

‘We cannot and will not–’

‘Are you taking the piss?’ I snap too loudly as several Marines fall silent at their tables and push to their feet. ‘I’m a police officer,’ I tell them.

‘Not in here, Jim,’ the Commander says and nods at the soldiers to relax.

‘That’s a myth about embassies being US soil.’

‘We’re not in an embassy,’ he says as I get the sudden impression this was a flex in that American way of gaining awe through a show of power. Look at us. Look at what we have. ‘Enjoy your burger, Jim.’

‘So, you’re refusing cooperation? Is that correct? Just so I know when I report back later.’

He smiles wider. ‘You do that, Jim. Come on. I’ll escort you out. And my advice,’ he says in that quieter tone like he’s about to impart a great secret. ‘That’s the best burger you’ll get on this island. I’d take it with you.’

I don’t want the sodding burger. Stuff him.

But then again.

I take the burger.

He leads me back all that way to the small room and shakes my hand like we just met. ‘Great meeting you, Jim!’

‘Commander. I’m on leave. This isn’t my force area. Just make a call for me. That’s all.’

‘We cannot and will not intervene or assist in domestic civilian matters.’

‘Jesus bloody …’

‘We don’t like mess, Jim. I’d remember that if I were you. Have a safe trip back.’

He marches off, leaving me in the small room. I eat the burger, which is amazing, and after hunting around for a bin, I stuff the wrapper in my pocket and wait until Corporal Harringford comes and takes me to the white SUV with the other three silent, brooding Marines.

We reach the outer perimeter fence, and I drop out into the rain and wind, with the three Marines stepping out and away from the car. Each one of them facing out to scan the area as the gate hums and starts to open.

I stare at it glumly while the rain pelts my face and the wind howls over the scrubland. The churning sea beyond it. Low, grey clouds making it all feel gloomy and desolate. This isn’t what I thought would happen. I was sure I’d be staying here while someone put a call in, and help would get sent. But nothing. No assistance.

‘You take care, sir,’ Harringford says, breaking into my thoughts as the gate opens enough for me to get through.

I grunt a reply and start forward.

‘I’m sorry about Barry,’ he says in a rush of words. I snatch a look at him. Seeing that troubled, earnest expression again. ‘Face ahead. Cameras,’ he adds, dropping his head.

I face out and make it look like I’m still waiting for the gate to open as I figure I’ve only got seconds to get a question in. ‘When was he here?’

‘Saturday. He had a burger while I–’

‘Corp!’ a Marine yells, cutting off the conversation. Harringford steps back, his face tight.

‘You take care, sir.’

I go out to the other side and glance back, trying to catch his eye, but he makes a point of not looking at me. Then the gates close, and the white SUV slowly turns and drives off, leaving me in the wind and rain, wondering what the hell that was all about.

TWENTY-SIX

I start the car and drive off. Fidgeting in my seat with my hands gripping and loosening on the wheel while my mind whirls with what just happened.

Harringford was spooked. I’ve seen that look a hundred times. The “I know something, but I’m scared” look. What the hell would frighten a super-tough US Marine? And why was Barry at the military base on Saturday. Why didn’t Sawyer mention that?

I want to go back and demand answers. It’s like a thrum inside of me. But I can’t. It’s a bloody US military base.

Sawyer was asking a lot of questions, though. He said he was into true crime stuff. But you don’t get to that position of authority by listening to podcasts. I bet he’s never listened to a podcast in his life. He looks like he does fingertip push-ups while reciting the component parts of assault rifles.

Wow. I mean. That’s got me going. I went there, thinking I’d get a call made to the mainland for help. I wasn’t expecting this.

His face, though. Harringford. I think back to when I first arrived and how he looked a bit nervous, and then again at the reception desk when I said the island’s police sergeant had been murdered. He had a reaction then too.

What was he trying to tell me?

He had a burger while I …

While he what?

Why the hell was Barry at the base?

Sam said Barry left their house about 9 p.m. because he wanted to check on the pub. End of the month. Payday. Aiden and Jeb were drinking, and they did have a fight, and Aiden did end up being taken to the cells by Barry, which was massively illegal, but then I’m starting to think Barry had slipped into some weird 1960s style of policing. Giving kids clouts around ears and putting people in drunk tanks to sleep it off.

Something happened Saturday night, then. Something that caused Barry to draw a firearm, but then drive to the US base without it, and for Harringford to try and do something. Did Harringford call Barry to the base? What for?

Then it hits me in sudden realisation.

‘Shit! Shit and shit and shit. No bloody way. No.’

I slow the car down and pull into a layby with the rain pelting the windows. The sea off to one side. A seething mass of white-topped waves. The wipers squeak annoyingly loud. I flick the stalk to turn them off and sit with my mind whirling as the view quickly obscures from the rain. My heart beating like the clappers. My hands still gripping and loosening on the wheel.

‘That bloody lad,’ I mutter. Thinking back to skidding down the cliff to reach Barry’s Land Rover. Seeing the body inside. The body of a young man wearing only boxer shorts.

His wrists and ankles. I dig my phone out and flick through the images. ‘Shit … Oh shit …’

Tether marks on his wrists and ankles. I saw them when I was in the car, but with everything going on I didn’t really process it.

He’d been tied up.

At the US base?

What was he? A bloody spy or something? What the hell was Barry getting into? Is that why he drew a firearm and loaded it?

No. That doesn’t make sense. They wouldn’t even let me inside with pepper spray, let alone if Barry turned up with a loaded gun; they’d probably shoot him. It’s a nuclear submarine base. If mutually assured destruction of the planet ever did happen, the missiles would come from submarines hiding in oceans. Which is why he probably drew the weapon but then decided against taking it. And as we know from the early toxicology tests, he was drunk and using cocaine and cannabis–all of which would impact on his decision-making processes.

‘Man. This is serious, though.’

Barry was into some serious stuff.

Something serious enough to kill him for.

I bring that image back to my mind: Barry running along that country road, being hunted or chased down by US Marines from the base. One of the white SUVs knocks him over and reverses over him. Sawyer gets out and checks he’s dead, then pulls his pistol and shoots the young man in Barry’s Land Rover.

Hang on. Why was Barry out of his car?

Because Sawyer dragged him out of his car so they could run him over to make it look like a hit and run.

But they’d already shot the lad in the Land Rover. Why bother then trying to make Barry look like an accident?

Because they were sending the Land Rover off the cliff! That’s why. Get rid of Barry’s car in a place nobody would ever find it, and the other body, and then run Barry over. And who would know these deep and treacherous waters better than the commander of the island’s secret nuclear submarine base? And we’d never get access to the vehicle used to commit the crime as it would be on the base.

‘Oh my god … This is like … espionage stuff.’

Man. Wait till Cat hears this. But then she’d still probably pick it all apart in that way she does now.

‘Yeah, sorry, Jim. It all sounds like a plot in a book to me. Deep and treacherous waters? Secret base?’

‘No, it doesn’t, Cat.’

‘And they have spies. In Cornwall. In boxer shorts.’

‘I saw him!’

‘So, he wasn’t just a migrant that washed up on the beach that Barry picked up, then?’

‘What and then shot himself before somehow driving himself off a cliff? Why do you always do this, Cat? I’m a good detective!’

‘Of course, you are. Which is why you’re still doing it after twenty years.’

‘What does that mean? And why am I arguing with myself?

God. That wind is howling. And that sea. Look at those waves.

What the hell was Harringford on about, though?

I tried to …

Tried to what? Yeah, Sawyer, though. He was interested in the case. Like. Way too interested.

Man. I need to get back and tell Tash and Aiden and Stan. ‘Ha! The task force.’ It’s quite funny actually. I flick the wipers to clear the windscreen and nearly jump out of my skin on seeing a black Range Rover parked a few metres in front with Jeb and Skally staring straight at me.

I’m out the car quicker than my brain can kick in and marching over to the driver’s side as Jeb pushes the button inside for the window to go down. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ I snap.

‘Why? What are you doing?’ Skally asks in a goading tone, leaning forward in the passenger seat to speak past Jeb.

‘Why have you stopped here?’

‘Why have you?’ Skally replies instantly.

‘Are you trying to intimidate me or something?’

‘Why? Do you feel intimidated?’

‘What the …? Eh? Oh god. Seriously? You’re trying that one? I know. Every time the copper asks a question, I’ll ask it back at him. Cos yeah. That’s never been done before.’

Jeb blinks at me with a look of surprise as even Skally reacts like he wasn’t quite expecting that.

‘Well. Go on then,’ I say and flap my hands out while getting drenched in the rain.

‘What?’ Jeb asks.

‘Threaten me. Tell me to get off the island. You leave well enough alone, copper. You’re not from here.’ My accent comes out half Victorian and half Bristolian, which I thought would sound Cornish, but apparently it does not. ‘Hang on. Please allow me to activate my video recording device … which is back in the car. With my phone. Arse.’

‘Something wrong with you,’ Skally says with that same sneer. ‘What you doing out here, anyway?’

‘I don’t answer to you, bellend. What are you doing out here? Or did Sawyer call Rutherford and tell him to scare me off. Was that it?’

‘You just call me a bellend?’

‘Yes. Bellend. Is that it? Are we done? Look at you, getting all hard-faced with your beady eyes,’ I say with a grin at Skally. ‘Mate, you’re not scary. I’ve dealt with County Lines Gangs. You ever met them? They’re half your size. Like literally skinny teenage boys, but I’d have been chopped and stabbed by now. Not some half-arsed, low-level threat made in your boss’s Range Rover … Which is over three years old, so I’m guessing like every other car on the island, it doesn’t have an MOT. I’ll check that later and put a report in.’

‘You need to–’ Skally says, leaning forward more as I cut across him with a smile and a laugh.

‘I need to what? Mate. You have no idea of the world of hurt coming your way. This isn’t how it’s done now. The world moved on. In a few days the entire Devon and Cornwall Major Crime team are going to descend on this island and turn every stone and rock over to see all the little maggots and bugs squirming underneath. They’ll go through your phones and your emails. They’ll speak to every person on this island, half of whom will have grudges against everyone else, and bit by bit, the whole thing will come out. All of it. And trust me. When house entry teams smash through your front door at 4 a.m. or the tactical firearms teams do a proper hard stop, pushing guns in your face, driving without an MOT will be the least offence you get done for. Try obstructing a constable in the execution of their duty. Perverting the course of justice. Burglary. Criminal Damage. Harassment. Stalking. And that’s way before they get to the murders. Fuck you, Skally. Fuck you and fuck off. You don’t scare me.’

A second of golden silence before Skally bursts out laughing. ‘That’s brilliant! He’s clueless. Come on, Jeb … Priceless … Absolutely priceless. See ya, Jimbo!’

Jeb pulls away. I watch it disappear, then close my eyes, enjoying the feel of the rain pelting my face. It’s refreshing in a way I’ve really never experienced before. But also very cold.

I turn for the car and stop from seeing two things.

The first being a bird swooping through the air, past my head. Medium-sized, with black feathers and an orange beak and orange legs. My mind matches it to the painting of a bird on The Gallymay Arms, and I realise it’s a chough. It flies beautifully, though. Even in this wind and rain. Circling and swooping with an incredible aerobatic display before it flies off, over the sheep.

That being the second thing. The fifty or so sheep bleating their way along the country road and flowing around the car and then me.

What a surreal moment. I can even smell them. Earthy and dungy and like when a woolly jumper gets wet. Which is what they are, I guess. Wet woolly jumpers.

They trot on by me, leaving wet, splatty poops while I blink and wonder if perhaps a porpoise is going to leap from the churning waters or maybe a humpback whale will do one of those tail slap things.

That doesn’t happen sadly, and I finally get into the car and the warm air flow and set off at a crawl behind the sheep.

They keep trotting along quite happily, with me thinking that perhaps this is part of their routine. Don’t cows take themselves in for milking? Is that true?

I think about Skally laughing, but that’s a common tactic with low-end criminals. They try and act cool like it’s a joke, and they will do anything to try and trigger the police into reacting.

A detached cottage comes into view. Stone walls and a slate roof. A low wall around a smallish front garden, but a huge expanse of nice-looking grass at the back. I figure the sheep see the same thing as they batter through the wooden gate and start pouring down the side of the house as the owner comes out. A thin, middle-aged man with wild hair and a hipster beard and wearing an old, frayed woolly jumper.

He stands in his front garden, watching the sheep pour in through his gate. He even leans out to watch them spread out on his lawn and start munching.

I come to a stop on the road alongside, and we share a shrug as I hear a loud engine behind and see a muddy quad bike speeding towards us in the same direction the sheep came from.

A man driving it in wellies and waterproofs. He pulls up sharp, shouting loudly and gesturing for the other man to shut the gate.

‘CLOSE THE EFFING GATE!’ he bellows; then, he’s off the quad bike and rushing over as the last of the sheep get through and follow the herd into the back garden. ‘Why didn’t you effing stop ’em? Don’t just bloody sit there!’ he shouts, turning to gesture at me.

I crack the window down. ‘Eh?’

‘You’re the new copper! Those are my sheep!’

‘Oh god,’ I groan and do the window up and start getting out, but this time I stop and pull the stab vest on first.

‘Sheep ain’t gonna effin shoot you!’ the farmer man on the quad bike yells.

‘Yeah, but you might,’ I say with a nod at what looks like a shotgun case strapped to the back of the vehicle. I get the belt around my waist and tug the waterproof yellow police jacket back on and head over.

‘The bloody sheep!’ he says, gesturing at the bearded man as he steps back under his porch to light a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘What about them?’ the asks calmly.

‘They’re my sheep!’

‘Right. Sure. Uh-huh. But they’re in my garden,’ he says as calm as anything.

‘But they’re … That’s … You can’t do that … He’s stealing my sheep!’ the farmer says, turning on me.

‘He hasn’t stolen them,’ I say as we all stare down the side of the house to the sheep seemingly content.

‘They’re my sheep in his garden!’

‘Jesus. Stop yelling at me. And he hasn’t stolen them. They went through his gate. I saw them.’

He blinks like he’s not getting it. ‘They’re my sheep!’ he yells again.

‘Yes. But he hasn’t stolen them. In order for someone to steal, they have to dishonestly appropriate the property … But he hasn’t. So it’s not theft.’

‘But … That’s … They’re my effin’ sheep!’

‘In his garden, eating his grass,’ I reply.

‘No! Bloody … No! Barry wouldn’t … What about …? That’s not …’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t do anything. It’s a civil dispute.’

‘They’re my sheep!’ he yells.

‘Seriously. Stop yelling at me. It’s not a police issue. I mean. I don’t think it is. Unless there is some weird sheep law under the Countryside Act.’

‘THEY’RE MY–’

‘Alright! Yes. I heard you. Mate, seriously. Shouting at me or him isn’t going to make this better. Your sheep broke his gate and have gone into his garden. He’s not shouting. And I’m not shouting. So. You know. Stop shouting. And maybe try and secure your sheep properly so they don’t run wild.’

‘No! No! No! Don’t put this on me!’

‘Whose sheep are they?’

‘No … No! That’s not … The gate was smashed … And they ran … and … No! It’s not my …’

‘Alright. Okay,’ I say, seeing the obvious distress in the man. ‘What’s your name? I’m Jim. Jim Greene.’

‘Ben,’ the bearded guy says with a wave of the hand holding his cigarette. ‘Ben Bevan.’

‘I know who you are. You’re that artist,’ the farmer says, then blinks at me and at his sheep. ‘I’m Andy … Andy Trelawny, but that’s ten grand! I ain’t got ten grand. I’ll go under if I lose them. Rutherford’ll still want his bloody rent, and I been chasing ’em about since Saturday … They ain’t broken out before and the gate was all–’

‘Andy, you’re speaking so quickly. Rutherford will what?’

‘My rent. He’s my landlord! And I can’t pay unless I sell my sheep.’

‘I’m not going to keep your sheep, dude,’ Ben says.

‘See. He’s not going to keep your sheep,’ I say to Andy as he starts wringing his hands.

‘I ain’t slept. I been so worried. One was dead, and I had to shoot the other one and–’

‘Why are they dead?’ I ask over him.

‘Fright. I said Saturday night the gate was all smashed down and something scared ’em … One was dead, and another went into a ditch and broke its legs. I had to shoot the poor thing.’

‘Dude. I’m sorry,’ Ben says with a pained look. ‘You want some tea? Come in for some tea. They can stay here until you can get them. Your farm’s on the border, isn’t it?’

‘Border?’ I ask. ‘We’re on an island.’

‘The army base submarine thing,’ Andy says, still wringing his hands with worry. ‘Barry said we can’t talk about it.’

‘Talk about what?’

‘The base!’ he says in anguish. ‘We get a stipend. I get money cos I border ’em.’

‘Okay. Alright,’ I say as it starts making sense. ‘Sorry. Where were the sheep?’

‘In their field!’

‘And the field is right on the border with the base? And the gate was broken?’

He nods rapidly and looks like he’s had it worse than me the last few days. But something about it all catches my attention.

‘Is it far? Can you show me?’

‘Eh? You really gonna do me for them getting out?’

‘Dude,’ Ben says, giving me a look.

‘No! I just want to see the … I’m not going to do anyone. I’d just like to see it. You know. So I can write a report that you were totally cooperative and open, and you and Mr Bevan are sorting it between you.’

‘Barry don’t make no reports.’

‘I’m not Barry. Is it far?’

‘Couple of miles. Five miles.’

‘I’ll follow you. Then you can come back and have a brew with Mr Bevan and work it all out. Fair one?’

He nods and heads to his quad bike. I feel bad for him, but all this talk of Saturday night and Barry being at the base and the sheep getting out and his farm being on the border.

I get back in the car and follow him along the road, then off along a country track. Splashing through divots filled with rain. I spot what must be his farm cottage a distance away.

Then he turns again and leads me to a broken, wooden five-bar gate hanging off the post. I get out and see a few of the slats have been snapped, and judging by the tyre marks in the mud, I’d say a vehicle drove into it.

‘People don’t give a shit, do they?’ Andy says, shaking his head at it and full of worry and despair. ‘Folk used to understand about livestock. Now they just break things and leave gates open. Farmers are going under like every week all over the country. And who’s gonna fix that gate? I can’t afford to get someone in, and I ain’t got the time to–’

‘Are these yours? The tyre marks. Are they yours?’

He shakes his head and carries on about hardship while I take my iPhone out and take pictures. I’m not an expert by any degree. But they bloody look similar to the ones on the verge where Barry was run over.

‘That’s ten grand! I ain’t got that,’ the farmer carries on.

‘Ben said he’d give them back,’ I say and venture further into the field. ‘Where was the dead one?’

‘In that ditch.’

‘You said one died of fright. Where was that?’

‘Middle. Why? What’s this all about. You having it, are you?’

‘Having it?’

‘S’wot Barry did. So I didn’t have to report it, like. You know. Get some chops out of it.’

‘Jesus,’ I say, thinking Barry had a whole judicial fine system using produce. ‘No. I don’t want it. I just like being thorough.’

He tuts and shakes his head, and we slop through the mud, over his field, towards the middle, to the dead sheep still lying there.

‘Why is it still here?’

‘I been bloody chasin’ the effin’ things! I ain’t had time to–’

‘Alright. Alright. Sorry. Stupid question. I don’t know anything about this sort of thing. What would make a sheep die from fright, though?’

‘Everything spooks them. They hear anything, and they run or stampede or–’

‘Yes. But what would cause that? Out here, I mean?’

‘Effin’ bloody kids chucking bangers in. Livestock hate fireworks. I hate effin’ fireworks! They should make ’em silent. Why the big bangs?’

I nod and listen and wince at a headache starting to come on and turn to go back when something catches my eye a few metres away. I go closer and first peer down, then lower into a squat and pull my pen out to get it into the end so I can lift it clear. ‘And that’s the border, is it?’ I ask, nodding to the end of the field and the treeline.

‘Yeah. What’s that, then?’ the farmer asks, motioning the ground.

‘That,’ I mutter as I pull an empty evidence bag from my pocket. ‘Is a bloody great big bullet, which, I’m guessing, is what scared your sheep.’

Bugger.

I hate this island.

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Look at me, Jim,’ Stan says, shining a slim pocket torch into my eyes.

‘As he got a temperature?’ Tash asks and puts one hand on my forehead and the other on the back of my neck. ‘He’s a bit clammy. I said you’re a bit clammy.’

‘Clammy Jimbo,’ Aiden says with his usual grin as Stan steps back.

‘Honestly. I’m alright. I just had a headache and felt urgh,’ I tell them as Ella hits me on the knee with a small plastic hammer.

‘Your knee is broked,’ she tells me.

‘Broken,’ Tash corrects her.

‘Wanna bandages?’ Ella asks and immediately starts applying a brightly coloured one covered in pictures of poorly kittens.

‘Get some food in you,’ Tash calls from the kitchen adjoining her lounge diner. A big sofa at one end covered in a large throw. The TV on, playing cartoon DVDs.

It’s a lovely cottage, though. Cosy and lived in. Her kitchen is spotless.

‘All that running around in this weather. You’re from the city and not used to it,’ Tash adds while checking the garlic bread in the oven.

‘S’just Basingstoke,’ I say again.

‘He gonna live then, Doc?’ Aiden asks as Stan grimaces and waggles his hand.

‘Touch and go. I reckon that bandage might be what saves his life.’

‘Definitely,’ I say as Ella grins and undoes it to do it all over again.

‘Anyway. What did you say again?’ Tash asks, coming back, clutching a big, wooden spoon.

‘Oh god, don’t,’ I say and rub my face, feeling like crap. Exhausted and worn down, with a dull headache. ‘It was that bloo– … blooming coffee I had. I’m still cringing inside. I was like, you don’t scare me, Skally. You wait till the major crime team come over, and I was doing this weird voice and …’

‘Bless you,’ Tash says, patting my shoulder.

‘And then I was like, eff off and eff you.’

‘You said that? To Skally and Jeb? On your own?’ Tash asks as I nod feebly. ‘Blimey, though, Jimbo. Fair play. I bet that shocked them.’

‘Skally just laughed.’

‘Well. He’s a wind-up merchant, that one,’ Tash says. ‘But you might as well hear it from us first.’

‘Oh god, what now?’ I ask with a wince.

‘It’s not that bad,’ she chides.

‘Skally went in The Chuff,’ Aiden adds with an apologetic shrug. ‘He’s saying you’re bringing this big team of cops over to go through everyone’s phones and emails for porn and who’s having affairs and not paid tax.’

‘Porn isn’t illegal,’ Stanley blurts, then looks panicked. ‘Cos so many patients say they watch it, and I have to advise them …’ he trails off as Tash and Aiden look back at me.

‘I didn’t say that,’ I tell them and shrug it off, knowing how people like Skally work. ‘This bloody island.’

‘Oi. We’re not all like that,’ Tash says. ‘You do look a bit peaky, though. Get some hot grub in you, then a good night sleep. You’ll be right as rain.’

She goes back to the kitchen as I clock the photographs on the walls showing a younger Tash with a handsome, rugged man with sandy blond hair and striking resemblance to Ella. ‘Is that Chris?’ I ask as Aiden and Stan both turn to look at them.

‘My daddy,’ Ella says while wrapping my knee in bandages.

‘He looks like you,’ I tell her as I spot another one of Chris in Royal Marine fatigues, holding an assault rifle somewhere in a desert.

‘He was a good lad. My best mate,’ Aiden says quietly as I look at a wedding photo showing Chris and Aiden, side by side, in dress uniform and figure Aiden must have been the best man. ‘He survived two tours, then …’ he trails off. ‘So, Barry was at the base then on Saturday night?’ he asks, clearly wanting to change the subject.

I shouldn’t be telling them. It breaks all sorts of rules. But I’m so up against it and don’t know which way to turn, and this storm feels like it’s only getting worse.

‘And that lad, what’s his name again?’ Tash calls.

‘Harringford,’ I reply.

‘He was all spooked, was he? He knows something.’

‘He knows something,’ Stanley says at the same time. ‘And he said he was trying to do something?’

‘And he didn’t say what, Jimbo?’ Aiden asks.

‘He wasn’t free to talk. But yeah, his non-verbals were screaming that he knows something. And then that Andy–’

‘Angsty Andy,’ Tash calls from the kitchen. ‘That’s what we call him. He’s always like that. Was he wringing his hands?’

‘Yeah. Constantly. And he said his sheep got scared enough to stampede, and I saw these tyre marks by the broken gate.’ I pause to unlock my phone and show them the pictures, with Tash coming out to peer at them. ‘Then he showed me the dead sheep and–’

‘Don’t take a lot to kill a sheep, though, Jim,’ Tash says.

‘Hang on … I found this …’

‘Ooh. Blooming hell!’ Tash says as Stanley makes a sound, and Aiden narrows his eyes, staring at the pictures of the bullet.

‘NATO round. Five point five six. Spent casing.’

‘Is that what the US Marines use?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. M4 carbines, but so does that G36 AR in the nick.’

‘Bugger. I need to make a report on that, then. So that round could have been fired by either side.’

Aiden nods, ‘But you can match it to the fired weapon.’

‘Ballistic reports, yeah,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘I mean. We won’t be able to get the rifles from the US base, but we’d be able to say if it was or wasn’t fired from the assault rifle in the nick.’

‘But Barry got that handgun out,’ Tash says. ‘Unless he got that and thought, eh-up, I need a bigger gun, but then how did he put it back before he got run over? Unless he literally did that and went and put it back, and then it all went sideways.’

‘But then he’d have put the handgun back and all,’ Stanley says.

‘Unless whatever happened was like, you know, instant and urgent, and he couldn’t,’ Tash says.

‘Why would Barry fire a police issue assault rifle in a field full of sheep?’ I ask.

‘He was hungry?’ Aiden quips as we laugh.

‘But that gate got driven into and forensics can match the tyre tracks to Barry’s Land Rover,’ Stanley says.

‘Which is in the sea,’ I point out. ‘I mean. An expert could argue the pictures of the tyre tracks from the sheep field and the verge where Barry was killed either do or do not match each other, and if that make of tyre was fitted to that vehicle, but without the tyre, they can’t be one hundred percent positive. Which leaves it open for the defence to exploit. Okay. Bad thinking, Jim. The police don’t convict people. We gather evidence. And we present that evidence to the CPS, and they prosecute, and the court convicts. But blimey, though. Even I’m like, you know? What happened? Who did what?’

‘Oh god, mate. I’m thinking about this more than birds,’ Stanley says.

‘And porn apparently,’ Aiden adds with a laugh as he nudges Stanley.

‘Better now!’ Ella announces as we all proclaim the bandage around my knee to be the best ever.

‘S’ready!’ Tash announces.

We help fetch plates laden with spaghetti and piled high with rich, meaty-looking Bolognese and bigger sharing plates loaded with slices of garlic bread. We get around the table with a moment or so of noise and chaos, and Ella saying she wants to sit next to me. Which then involves some bum-shuffling to accommodate my new nurse until she realises the TV’s still on and she can’t see it. ‘Go on. Just this once so we can talk,’ Tash says as Ella rushes into the lounge with her dinner to watch cartoons on the sofa. ‘Right. Yeah, go on then, Jim,’ she says as we start tucking in. ‘Barry goes out at what, 9 p.m.? And he gets Aiden out of The Chuff and takes him back to the nick.’

‘Then he gets the handgun out and maybe the assault rifle,’ Stanley says.

‘I bet Harring-what’s-his-face called him,’ Tash adds.

I motion with my fork while swallowing my mouthful. ‘I was thinking about this. So, Barry wouldn’t take a gun into the base. They wouldn’t even let me in PAVA or my baton or my stab vest. I thought maybe he took the handgun out from the cabinet but then rushed off and realised he couldn’t take it with him. Hang on. Did the Land Rover have a gun box?’

‘In the back,’ Aiden says, which explains why I didn’t see it.

‘So, he could have put the handgun in the gun box in his car. Why leave it on the desk? That’s like. I mean. Jesus. This is like Chekov’s gun, but then this whole bloody thing is like one of those crap books.’

‘Don’t wait for me to ask what it means, you cheeky sods,’ Tash says, clocking Stanley and Aiden clearly waiting for her to ask. ‘I read loads, thank you very much. I know exactly what Chekov’s gun means.’

‘And me,’ Aiden says.

‘Same. Totally know it,’ Stanley adds. ‘The old Chekov gun thing.’

‘From Mr Chekov,’ Aiden says, then puffs his cheeks out. ‘I haven’t got a scooby.’

‘Yeah, nor me,’ Stanley admits.

‘If a gun is mentioned in a book, then it has to be used,’ Tash says.

‘It was used. To shoot that lad in Barry’s car,’ Aiden says.

‘We don’t know that, though,’ I say.

‘Alright. What do we know?’ Stanley asks. ‘Barry got Aiden from The Chuff. Takes him back to the nick.’

‘He goes to the base,’ Tash says. ‘Then somehow someone ends up driving through Angsty Andy’s gate and firing a rifle and making his sheep stampede. But Barry takes a handgun and loads it but either does take it with him and brings it back or never takes it anywhere.’

‘I’m seeing all this in my head as you talk,’ I admit.

‘I keep doing that!’ Tash says as the others admit they do the same. ‘Like this video in my head that keeps rewinding and changing as we figure things out.’

‘But going back, though,’ Stanley says. ‘Somehow Barry ends up with that lad in his car who had been tied up.’

‘Mmmmm!’ Tash says, flapping a hand while chewing quickly to swallow. ‘Maybe that lad got shot in Andy’s field?’

Stanley nods with his fork hovering in front of his mouth. ‘But Aid said that was a NATO bullet, but that lad was shot with a 9 mil.’

‘Yeah, but that was a guess,’ Aiden says, then takes a mouthful and chews thoughtfully. ‘You got those pictures again, Jimbo?’

‘You sure? While you’re eating?’ I ask.

‘He said to the soldier and the doctor,’ Aiden quips with a grin.

I shrug and pass my phone over so they can flick through the images. ‘Yeah. Nine mil. I’d bet my boat on it,’ Aiden says with a firm nod.

‘Alright, but then Barry’s got the lad in his car,’ Tash continues, ‘who gets shot, and Barry gets run over, and his car goes off the cliff.’

‘By someone who knows the island well enough to pick that spot,’ I add as they all look at me.

‘You done this before then, Jimbo?’ Aiden asks. ‘He must be a detective or something.’

‘But that’s bang on, though,’ Stanley says. ‘Aid, you said that water there is bad.’

‘Deep and treacherous,’ I say with another cringe, remembering my earlier imagined conversation with Cat. Which then reminds me of spouting off at Jeb and Skally, making me groan again.

‘Oh, bless. Don’t think about it,’ Tash says, guessing what I’m remembering. ‘Least you stood up for yourself. I bet he weren’t expecting that. Skally, I mean. Or Jeb. But Jeb, though. Poor sod. He was always a bit, you know …’

‘He don’t like hard graft,’ Aiden says bluntly. ‘He wants nice things. Cars and that and splashing cash.’

‘Was in the military?’ I ask.

‘Failed the Marines course,’ Aiden says, taking another slice of garlic bread. ‘Too hard for him. So he joined the Navy and did a few years till he got bored.’

‘He saw Aid earning when he went out to do those private security gigs in Iraq and whatnot,’ Tash says. ‘He tried to sign up for it, but they wouldn’t have him.’

‘He wasn’t combat experienced or from a frontline unit,’ Aiden explains.

‘He didn’t like that. He’s always been a bit, you know, cos of Aiden and my Chris. They served and went to war, and Jeb didn’t, did he? Mind, he looks the part.’

‘He does,’ I say, looking over Aiden’s and Stanley’s heads to the wedding pictures on the walls. Aiden and Chris grinning and laughing, with Jeb in the background doing his brooding thing.

‘All for show,’ Tash adds with a tut. ‘But that Sawyer, though, Jim. He must have told Rutherford you were there for Skally and Jeb to find you. I knew he’d be involved. I bloody said to you, Aid. I said I bet Rutherford’s all over this.’

‘But why?’ Stanley asks. ‘What’s the mens rea?’

‘Is that a gay joke, Doc?’ Tash asks.

‘No!’ he scoffs, having taken a mouthful.

‘It means intent,’ I say with a smile at the misunderstanding. ‘Latin, I think. Like Modus Operandi, which is how the crime is committed. Why and how.’

‘Eh. I like that. Barry never said things like that,’ Tash says.

‘He liked clouting kids, though, and fining people in produce,’ I say out loud. ‘Just on that … Did you ever see him hit Callum?’

‘I heard you took him home,’ Tash says, avoiding my eye-contact. ‘Vicky’s been gobbing off about it.’

‘Tash?’ I ask as she shrugs and shifts in her chair. ‘Jesus.’

‘It weren’t hard,’ she says quickly. ‘And I only saw it the once. But I knew he did it.’

‘It’s an island, Jimbo,’ Aiden says. ‘He clouted me a few times when I got out of hand.’

‘He was a good man, Jim,’ Tash says with a pained look. ‘I don’t like all this. Saying he was a wrong ’un and he had cocaine and whatever. He was a nice man.’

‘You can be more than one thing, Tash. And I’m not saying he was an evil man, but he had a position of authority, and Andy said Barry turned the cheek when his livestock died so he didn’t have to report it, but Barry had chops out of it. And Aid was offering me fish and a lobster, and Kam at the minimarket said Barry never paid for anything. That’s so bad. You take a favour like that, then you’re expected to give it back. Corruption isn’t, you know, envelopes full of cash. It's little things, and little things add up. Like cutting corners and looking the other way so they didn’t have to deal with stuff. You know. If they’re off duty, they’d not see dealers or stolen cars. Even on my team. I’ve known cops not see evidence on footage because they can’t be bothered or pretend not to hear things when we’re out canvassing for witnesses. But then … God. I mean. I don’t know. Don’t even listen to me. Cat was always like, you’re too rigid, Jim. You don’t bend.’

‘Cat your wife? Ex-wife?’ Tash asks.

‘No ring,’ Stanley says, looking at my hand.

‘Never married,’ I say and take another mouthful. I expect the timeline conversation to restart, but they stay quiet and look over as though expecting me to continue. ‘We split up,’ I add into the silence. Thinking I don’t want to talk about it. ‘I mean. She said it was a break. But … I had to move out. You know, which is fair enough. I mean, I still have to pay my share of the mortgage cos it’s not fair she covers it all. But then I mentioned she’s on an inspector’s salary now, and I’m still a DC, but … it’s fine. It’s all good. This garlic bread is lovely.’

‘Keep going. Get it out,’ Tash says earnestly.

‘I’m fine! I’m all good. I just … So, I tried to walk away, right? When I first saw Barry’s body. I was like, this is my first day of leave. I do not need this. But I couldn’t. I was thinking, if that was me, I’d want the copper to do their job. But honestly. I think a lot of cops would have swiftly about turned and buggered off. They’d never admit it, mind. And even then I think most would have just bundled the body into a car and given it to Stanley, then be like–job done. But I couldn’t just not try and do it properly. And I can apply discretion when it’s needed. Anyway. Cat did well. She’s smart. She’s an inspector. And I don’t know. Maybe that didn’t help, with me still being a DC like two ranks below, and suddenly I’ve been in the job nearly twenty years, and I’m not progressing. But that’s … well, Jesus … That’s a whole other story. Anyway, anyway, anyway. Bullet in the field. Broken gate. Sawyer. There’s something going on … And I didn’t even say it. Someone else did. I was just … You know when something is just so unfair, and you’re like, what just happened?’

‘Yes,’ Tash says firmly with a glance to pictures of Chris.

‘God. Tash. I’m sorry. Ignore me. This food, though.’

‘Oh, shush. I wasn’t one-upping you. I was, you know, agreeing to show I can empathise so you feel comfortable opening up.’

‘Yeah, but,’ I say with a look at the other two.

‘I’ve heard it all, Jimbo,’ Stanley says.

‘And I’m eating spag bol,’ Aiden says in a way that makes me chuckle and wish I could be more like that. Funny and tough and cool and not giving a shit. ‘What did you say then?’ Aiden asks.

‘Pardon?’

‘He said he didn’t say it. Someone else did,’ Tash says as I realise what they’re on about.

‘Right. Yeah. God. So. I can’t even …’

‘Alright, Angsty Andy?’ Tash asks with a smile. ‘Go on. You’re with friends. Spit it out.’

‘I mean. It’s nothing. Like. I did my sergeant’s exams ten years ago and scored high. Then I did my detective course, and I did well, and I thought I’ll go into CID, and then I’ll go for promotion later. So I do the squads and end up on Major Crime, and then I’m thinking okay, so I’ve done years in uniform on pursuit and response, then years as a detective. Time to move up. So I start applying, but I was getting knocked back, and then I see people with like way less service getting promoted past me. And I’ve led operations. Like big operations and done all sorts. So I know my work can’t be beaten, and I scored high … And so.’

I squirm and shift and fidget, remembering that day in the canteen at work when I got the rejection email for promotion. ‘So, two detectives got promoted, right? But not me. And they’ve got less service and less experience.’

‘Oh, man. I see where this going,’ Stanley says as Aiden nods with a knowing expression.

‘But,’ I add quickly. ‘They’re both switched on. Like really smart. I mean. If I got murdered, that’s who’d I want investigating it. But so, one of them was a woman who was openly gay, and the other was an Indian guy. And I didn’t say a bloody word. Not negatively. I mean. I was gutted I didn’t get promoted again, but they’re both really good cops. Anyway. Everyone knows who got through and who got rejected, and this older detective was huffing and puffing a bit, and he said it’s cos I’m a straight, white man. But then because I didn’t challenge him, I’m in the shit, and my DS was telling me I’m stressed, and I need to take a break.’

‘Jim,’ Tash says with a sad tut.

‘I’m not saying I’ve got an issue about them being different. They’re both really nice people, and I should have challenged him. But we were all getting up as he said it, and so we were all like moving around. And I get it. The system has historically favoured straight white men, but I never bloody said it! Someone else did. I’m not racist or homophobic.’

‘So you got sent on a break because of something someone else said?’ Tash asks.

‘Yes. No. They can’t make me come here. But my DS said about my break-up with Cat, and I’d worked really hard in the build-up to the promotions. I mean. I was gutted. I don’t know. Maybe I did need the break.’

‘How’s it working out for you?’ Aiden asks, and I can’t help but snort and then laugh.

‘Best break ever,’ I say as Tash leans over to squeeze my hand.

‘You’re alright, Jim. You’re a good copper. Anyone can see that a mile off. Even Vicky said you were cute for a you-know-what farm animal that goes oink-oink.’

‘You’re not racist. If you’re worried about saying that in front of me,’ Stanley says. ‘I see it in the NHS. Cronyism is the other thing. That happens a lot. Who you play golf with and all that.’

‘Same in the military,’ Aiden says. ‘We had a cracking corporal. Proper solid lad. Like switched on. Combat experienced. He’d done acting sergeant like loads of times. Couldn’t get made up, though. Lads with less service and no combat were going past him. You lose your head trying to figure it out.’

‘Well. Here’s sommit in the spirit of sharing,’ Stanley says. ‘I didn’t even want to be a doctor. I wanted to be an RSPB inspector. But my dad is a doctor and my mum and my big brother.’

‘You still could be,’ I say.

‘Aye, and my mum would never talk to me again. Which might not be a bad thing. She keeps trying to set me up for marriage.’

‘You don’t want to get married, Stan?’ Tash asks.

‘I just want to watch birds, Tash.’

‘Online,’ Aiden quips, but I can see the delight in Stan’s face at being included in the banter.

‘I think we’ll just keep our heads down until the storm’s over,’ I say as I put my cutlery together and sit back with a full belly. ‘You’ve got Ella to think about, Tash, and Aid’s got his boat and being able to dock in the harbour, and Stan just wants to watch birds. And right now, I just want to sleep. I would like to see a whale, though, or some dolphins.’

‘We can do that,’ Stanley says with an eager grin. ‘Here’s to the new task force’s plan of doing nowt!’ We clink our glasses of water together, and for one glorious golden moment, I think that might actually happen.

But, of course, it doesn’t.

‘JIM! JIM GREENE! JIM! JIM GREENE!’ a voice yells outside, coming closer.

‘That’s Callum,’ I say, recognising the lad’s voice as I rush up from the table with the others and pile out of the front door to see Callum running towards us from Andy’s quad bike.

‘JIM GREENE!’

‘Mate. I’m here,’ I call, going down the path, into the wind and rain. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You gotta come!’ he yells, waving an arm back to Andy on his quad.

‘How did you–?’ I start to say as Callum cuts over me with a rush of words.

‘Lauren saw Tash in the supermarket buying mushrooms and garlic bread, and she only gets them on spag bol night, and she said Jim’s coming for dinner, and Lauren told Uncle Mikey who bought Sam’s Volvo, and he told my mum, who said Tash is trying to shag you, but she doesn’t blame her cos you’re cute and–’

‘I am not trying to sha–! Do that!’ Tash says with a tut while I try and keep up with the who’s who he just listed.

‘Alright. Why are you here, Callum?’

‘Cos Andy said!’

‘Said what? Andy!?’ I yell, motioning him to cut the engine. ‘What’s up? Have they got out again? Can it wait?’

‘No, but down the cliff … And Ben Bevan the artist was helping me … Nice guy actually … And we said, and I went to the nick, but Stevie said he heard from Mikey Evans that Callum knew where you were having spag bol.’

‘Jesus. My head is going explode. Got that, Andy. Why are you here?’

‘Cos I left Ben Bevan the artist there, and I said I’d come, and I found Callum and–’

‘I got that! But why, Andy? Why do you need me?’

‘Cos,’ he says, wringing his hands as I look down at Callum. ‘Mate? What’s he want?’

‘They need your help, Jim Greene. They found a body …’

TWENTY-EIGHT

BODYWORN VIDEO LOG

O FFICER NAME: DC JIM GREENE INCIDENT R EFERENCE NUMBER: D ATE/TIME OF RECORDING: 28/01/2025 19:08 HRS LOCATION: VARIOUS

FOOTAGE SUMMARY : BODY RECOVERY AT TIN MINE B AY

_______________________

19:08:36 – RECORDING ACTIVATED . DC JIM GREENE COMMENCES NARRATION .

“My name is DC Jim Greene. I’m at Natasha Roskilly’s home address with Dr Stanley Patel and Aiden Roskilly and we’ve just–”

ELLA: “And me!”

DC GREENE: “And Ella Roskilly. We’ve just been notified by Callum Evans, new Evans, not old, and Andy Trelawny that a body has been seen at the base of the cliff at a location called Tin Mine Bay.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “It’s next to Andy’s farm!” DC GREENE: “Which is next to Andy’s farm. We’re getting ready now to go and see what’s going on.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Tash. Get George. He’s got the kit in his Landy. I’ll jump in with you, Jimbo. Doc, you’re coming, yeah? They might be alive.”

DR PATEL: “I’ll need my med bag from the clinic.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Don’t wait for us! You three go.” DC GREENE: “Do you know where it is, Tash?” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “I was born here, Jim! Course I do. Aid? Do you want Jeb?

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “No! He can fu-! He can sod off. It’s not that steep.”

19:11:54

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS DC GREENE ALONG WITH DR PATEL AND AIDEN ROSKILLY RUNNING TO THE RED EMERGENCY SERVICES VEHICLE . ANDY TRELAWNY AND CALLUM EVANS ARE SEEN AHEAD ON A QUAD BIKE , WHICH PULLS AWAY AND APPEARS TO WAIT FOR THE EMERGENCY SERVICES VEHICLE TO GET BEHIND IT .

19:12:34

DC GREENE (shouting): “He can’t bring Callum! Andy!” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “He won’t hear you over the engines and wind, Jim.”

DR PATEL: “Clinic, Jim!”

19:13:48

T HE CAR STOPS OUTSIDE GALLYMAY MEDICAL CLINIC, WITH DR PATEL SEEN RUNNING INSIDE AND PAUSING TO SPEAK TO LAUREN E VANS. T HEN DR PATEL RUNS BACK OUT WITH A LARGE MEDICAL BAG AND GETS INTO THE VEHICLE WITH DC GREENE AND AIDEN ROSKILLY.

19:16:24

DR PATEL: “That’s right on the border, isn’t it? This place?” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Yeah, really close.” DC GREENE: “Lads, remember I’m recording. But you mean the base, right?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Yeah. Tin Mine’s nice in summer. You can walk down this path and go for swim cos it’s the south side and the cliffs push out either side. Nasty now, though. I bet whoever it was slipped on the rocks at the top. Proper slippy when they’re wet. Did you say this thing has a stretcher in it?”

DC GREENE: “In the back.”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Winner winner chicken dinner.”

19:25:03

DC GREENE: “That’s Ben Bevan the artist’s house. Look. The sheep are still there.”

DR PATEL: “You ever seen his art?”

DC GREENE: “No. Any good?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Is he? Bloody hell. He’s incredible. Sells his stuff all over the world. He’s proper minted. Don’t look it, though, does it? Was he smoking a roll-up? Ha! Yeah. He loves his roll-ups. Nice guy. Seen him in The Chuff a few times. Swears like a sailor when he’s had a few. He tried to fight Skally one night. I told him he’s got some demons inside of him.”

DR PATEL: “I reckon that’s what makes his paintings so good.”

19:33:24

DC GREENE: “That’s the field the sheep came out of. See the gate?”

DR PATEL: “Bloody dark out here. And someone fired an assault rifle in that field? You can’t see nowt.” DC GREENE: “Where did Andy go? I’ve lost his taillights.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Track turns … See? He’s ahead. That’s Andy’s house. He breeds cracking chickens, Jimbo. Tin Miner Eggs, he calls them. Like proper deep orange yolk. Organic too. You city boys like your organic stuff.” DC GREENE: “Really not a city. I’m so full though. Tash’s spag bol! Oh my god.”

DR PATEL: “Best ever. I’m not eating for a week now.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “You boys’ll soon burn it off if we have to carry a body up a cliff.”

DC GREENE: “Most surreal conversation ever. Is he stopping? Yeah, he’s stopped. Okay. So, for the camera, which I should have switched off and turned back on, but never mind. I think we are here, at Tin Mine Bay.”

19:40:01

DC GREENE GETS OUT OF THE CAR, INTO STRONG WINDS AND HEAVY RAIN. T HE EMERGENCY SERVICES VEHICLE AND THE QUAD BIKE HAVE THEIR LIGHTS ON , GIVING SOME ILLUMINATION.

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “Jim! We’ve met again, my friend. But under tragic circumstances. Aiden! Hi. And you must be the good doctor.”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: ‘Alright, Ben Bevan. Where is it?” BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “Down there. Watch your step. Come down to this bit here, and I’ll shine the torch down. Yeah. So. I walked up to Andy’s to get some air. Didn’t know him before the sheep, but great guy actually, and I said we should break bread together and share a Rioja. And I saw him.”

19:42:13

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST, SHINES A POWERFUL TORCH DOWN THE SLOPING CLIFF FACE TO A DISTINCT HUMAN FORM LAYING PRONE AND INERT AT THE BASE.

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “I mean. I say he. Might be a woman. But the body looks big, like a guy who works out. Big legs. Not saying women don’t.”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “He’s a big fella alright.” CALLUM EVANS: “Do you think he’s dead, Jim Greene?” DC GREENE: “Probably. But we need to get down there. And what are you doing here, anyway? Go and sit in my car and stay dry. What do we need, Aiden?”

DR PATEL: “We need to get down right now. Is there a path, Aid?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Over that way. We’ll go down with the stretcher. Ben and Andy, you come down with us. Callum, stay up top and wait for George.”

DC GREENE: “He’s a kid, Aiden. He needs to sit in the dry.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “He’s a big lad down there, Jimbo. If he’s got a broken spine, we’ve gotta get him up without hardly moving him. So we need all the fellas down there.” CALLUM EVANS: “I can help!”

DC GREENE: “Bloody hell. Alright. Callum, stay here and wait for George and Tash. Put my coat on. You look frozen.”

19:44:17

DC G REENE HANDS CALLUM E VANS HIS YELLOW, WATERPROOF POLICE JACKET. T HE FOOTAGE THEN SHOWS AIDEN ROSKILLY AND DC G REENE TAKING THE STRETCHER AND OTHER EQUIPMENT FROM THE BACK OF THE CAR .

19:46:49

DC G REENE, DR PATEL, AIDEN ROSKILLY, ANDY TRELAWNY, AND BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST, THEN SET OFF ALONG THE PATH THAT SNAKES DOWN THE CLIFFSIDE .

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Hold onto this railing! It’s bloody lethal. And spread out a bit so, if you fall, you don’t knock anyone else down.”

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS DC GREENE AND THE OTHERS SLIPPING AS THEY TRAVERSE THE PATH IN THE POURING RAIN. ALL OF THEM BREATHING HARD WHEN THEY REACH THE BOTTOM AND WORK ALONG THE BEACH WITH THE SOUND OF WAVES CRASHING ON THE STONES A SHORT DISTANCE AWAY.

19:54:08

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “There he is!”

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS DC GREENE AND THE OTHERS RUNNING ON A SHINGLE BEACH TO REACH THE BODY OF AN ADULT PERSON LYING FACE DOWN .

DR PATEL: “Guys! Wait! Let me–”

Dr Patel goes forward, with DC Greene positioning to track him on the camera. Dr Patel kneels at the head and starts checking for vital signs.

DC Greene: “I’m recording, Doc. What are you doing?” DR PATEL: “Checking pulse … No carotid pulse on the neck … No radial pulse on the wrist. Okay. Checking breathing. None visible. Now I’m shining a light into the mouth and … Hard to see … Airways seem clear … Checking eyes … Pupils fixed. Non-reactive to light. Damn. So sorry, brother. No signs of life. He’s cold too. Been dead a couple of hours at least. I’m going to feel his neck. The angle’s off.’ AIDEN ROSKILLY: “He’s got a broken neck.” DR PATEL: “Aye. Broken neck. I’m going to roll him onto his back. Okay. Yeah. Blunt trauma to the side of his head. Fractured skull. He’s gone down the cliff, I reckon, and hit his head and broken his spine.”

19:57:18

DC GREENE: “Alright. I’ve got time of death recorded at nineteen fifty-seven. The body is what appears to be an adult male, with Dr Patel stating he has a fractured skull and broken neck. The clothing looks torn and smeared with mud, which indicates falling. And his hands too. Yeah. I reckon he’s tried to grab hold as he’s fallen down. Someone, shine a torch on him so the camera can see. I need to record all of him clearly … Doc, turn his head … Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit! That’s Harringford. Let me see … Oh god. It is. That’s the Marine I told you about!”

DR PATEL: “He’s not in uniform. Are you sure?” DC GREENE: “Yes! It’s him. What the bloody hell is he doing out here?”

20:01:03

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS A BLACK-SKINNED ADULT MALE IN EARLY TO MID-TWENTIES OF LARGE, ATHLETIC BUILD WEARING A DARK-COLOURED NORTH FACE WATERPROOF JACKET AND HIKING TROUSERS AND WALKING BOOTS.

GEORGE ROSKILLY (shouting): “Aid!?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY (shouting): “Over here, George!” George Roskilly comes into view with a look at the body. GEORGE ROSKILLY: “Tide’s on the turn. Need to get him up top.”

DC GREENE: “Alright. Let me check for injuries.” GEORGE ROSKILLY: “Don’t faff about, nips. That tide’s coming in. We’ll get cut off.”

DR PATEL: “Let me do it, Jim. You looking for other injuries? Like gunshot wounds? Nothing on his front. Left arm. Right.” DC GREENE: “I’m doing his legs. Oh, Christ. I think the right leg is broken. I can feel the bone jutting out. Poor lad.” DR PATEL: “Aye, left arm the same. Broken elbow. He’s tumbled down the rocks. Nothing else, though. No gunshots. That tide, Jim. We need to–”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Yeah, sorry, Jimbo. I’m calling it. Get that stretcher down next to him.”

20:05:24

AIDEN ROSKILLY TAKES CHARGE IN GETTING THE BODY OF H ARRINGFORD ONTO THE STRETCHER AND STRAPPING HIM IN PLACE ACROSS THE LEGS AND CHEST .

20:12:56

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “That’ll have to do, Aid. That tide. Everyone, grab a handle, and on three, we lift. One … two … three! That’s it. You lead, Aid. Nice and steady now, lads.” The footage shows DC Greene holding the stretcher near the feet with all of the others helping to carry the stretcher back along the beach, only inches away from the edge of the waves. The rain gets visibly and audibly harder. Blotting what is said between the men as they struggle to get back up the path. They slip frequently and help each other. AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Come on, boys! Dig in … Not much further …”

20:28:28

T HEY REACH THE TOP OF THE PATH AS N ATASHA ROSKILLY COMES RUSHING INTO VIEW .

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Jim! Quickly! Let me take it … Go on ahead and see. Quickly! Callum’ll show you.”

N ATASHA ROSKILLY TAKES OVER CARRYING THE STRETCHER , WITH DC G REENE GOING AHEAD INTO THE STRONG WINDS AND RAIN. T HE FOOTAGE GOES DARK FOR A FEW SECONDS UNTIL HE TURNS A CORNER TO SEE THE CAR HEADLIGHTS AHEAD AND CALLUM WAVING AT HIM .

CALLUM EVANS (shouting): “Jim Greene!” DC GREENE: “What’s up? God. I’m knackered.” CALLUM EVANS: “There! That way. See.” DC GREENE: “What am I looking at? I can’t see anything … Oh, hang on. What is that? Are they torches?” CALLUM EVANS: “That’s inside the base.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Jimbo? What you got?”

T HE FOOTAGE TURNS TO SEE AIDEN AND THE OTHERS CARRYING THE STRETCHER INTO VIEW AND LOWERING IT DOWN , WITH ALL THE MEN RUBBING THEIR HANDS AND WRISTS AND BREATHING HARD .

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Aid said that’s Harringford from West End, Jim. Is that him? Are you sure?”

DC GREENE: “Definitely him. But that’s inside the base? Those torches? How far away is that?” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “You ain’t gonna see torches outside of one kilometre in this.”

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “That’s way under one kilometre.” ANDY TRELAWNY: “They might even be across the border. Good job my sheep ain’t there. Poor things would be frightened half to death.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “They must be looking for Harringford. Like a search party.”

DC GREENE: “Okay, get him in the back of my car.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Shouldn’t they take him back if he’s one of theirs?”

DC GREENE: “Not a cat in hell’s chance am I handing him over.”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “They’ve changed direction … They’re coming at us. Shit! You hear that? That was a gunshot.”

20:32:01

A DISTANT BUT DISTINCT BANG IS HEARD. FOLLOWED BY ANOTHER .

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “We need to go. They’re firing rounds. Grab that stretcher, boys!”

T HE STRETCHER HOLDING THE BODY OF H ARRINGFORD IS LIFTED AND SLID INTO THE BACK OF THE EMERGENCY SERVICE VEHICLE. T HE FOOTAGE THEN FACES OUT AND TO SMALL LIGHTS BOBBING UP AND DOWN IN THE DISTANCE . T HESE GIVE THE MANNER AND MOTION OF POWERFUL TORCHES BEING CARRIED BY PEOPLE ON FOOT .

DC GREENE: “Andy, go to Ben Bevan, the artist’s, house. Stay there for a bit. Your place is a bit isolated with this going on. George, can you get Tash and Ella home. We’ll get the body to the mortuary.”

20:35:57

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS DC GREENE, AIDEN, AND DR PATEL GETTING INTO THE EMERGENCY SERVICE VEHICLE THAT QUICKLY PULLS AWAY . DC GREENE: “Are they bloody shooting at us?” DR PATEL: “Bloody go, Jim! They’re still firing.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Haha! This is nuts!” DC GREENE: “How are you laughing? Do you not feel fear like normal people?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Gets the blood pumping, though. They might be shooting up in the air like as a signal.” DC GREENE: “But bullets come back down and can still kill people, can’t they?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Not in this wind. They’ll get blown out. Mind you, that wind’s coming from them. That’s how we heard them. Dunno. Bit wild, eh? What’s he doing out here, though?”

DC GREENE: “Who? Harringford? No idea.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “He’s not in fatigues either. Got his civvies on.”

DC GREENE: “Yeah, good point. Right, I’m gonna turn this camera off for a bit to save the battery. What’s the time, Doc?”

DR PATEL: “Er, it’s eight thirty-eighty.’ DC GREENE: “Twenty thirty-eight hours. I’m switching the body camera off to preserve the battery.’

20:38:09 – FOOTAGE ENDS.

21:05:15

DC GREENE: “Time is now twenty-one zero five hours. I’ve put the camera on as we’re almost back at the clinic. I’m still with Aiden Roskilly and Dr Stanley Patel.” DR PATEL: “Drop me out front, Jim. I’ll grab the keys and meet you at the back.”

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS THE VEHICLE STOPPING OUTSIDE THE FRONT OF THE GALLYMAY MEDICAL CLINIC, WITH DR PATEL RUNNING INSIDE AND SAYING SOMETHING TO LAUREN EVANS. T HE VEHICLE THEN MOVES OFF AND DRIVES AROUND TO THE REAR OF THE CLINIC , INTO AN EMPTY PARKING AREA AND STOPS OUTSIDE OF THE MORTUARY .

21:07:36

DC Greene and Aiden Roskilly get out of the vehicle and appear to wait for Dr Patel.

DC GREENE: “Is that wind easing? It’s gone quieter.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “I think it’s the buildings and trees.” DC GREENE: “There he is.”

DR PATEL: “I’m coming! Here, Jim. Lauren said she heard Janice in the toilet cubicle talking into something and saying she’d seen us all rushing off and that I’d taken me medical bag.”

DC GREENE: “There’s no phones. Have you got radios in there?”

DR PATEL: “If we have, I’ve never seen ’em. Right. Hang on. Let me unlock it …’

21:10:15

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS DR PATEL UNLOCKING AND OPENING THE MORTUARY DOOR AND THEN GOING INSIDE TO TURN THE LIGHTS ON .

DR PATEL: “Bugger. The wheeled stretcher’s in the clinic. You want me to get it?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “There’s three of us. We just going straight in?”

DR PATEL: “Aye. Get him on the main slab, and I’ll sort him. Do you want toxicology again, Jim? Like the urine test I did for Barry?”

DC GREENE: “Yeah, I think so. Might as well … Right. Ready?”

The three men lift the body on the stretcher, clear of the car and carry it into the mortuary and place it onto the main central slab.

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Who’s that?”

21:14:03

T HE SOUND OF AN ENGINE IS HEARD, FOLLOWED BY VEHICLE DOORS SLAMMING .

NATASHA ROSKILLY (shouting): “Jim! You in there?’ DC GREENE: “I told them to go home.” DC Greene, Aiden Roskilly, and Stanley Patel go into the parking area. Natasha Roskilly, Ella Roskilly, George Roskilly, and Callum Evans are observed running towards them. DC GREENE: “Tash. I said to go–”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “They’re right behind us!” DC GREENE: “Eh? Who are?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Who are?”

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “West End.”

DC GREENE: “Do what?”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “We saw ’em! They’re coming!” CALLUM EVANS: “They got cars!”

21:15:42

VOICES OVERLAP AS MULTIPLE INDIVIDUALS SPEAK. A QUAD BIKE DRIVES INTO THE PARKING AREA . IT STOPS NEXT TO GEORGE ROSKILLY’S VEHICLE WITH ANDY TRELAWNY AND B EN B EVAN, THE ARTIST , GETTING OFF .

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “We saw them right behind us, Jim! Two vehicles!”

21:16:01

LAUREN E VANS IS THEN SEEN WAVING AND SHOUTING FROM THE CLINIC BACK DOOR .

LAUREN EVANS (shouting): “The bloody yanks!” DC GREENE: “Jesus. What now?”

21:16:09

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS TWO WHITE FOUR-BY-FOUR VEHICLES DRIVING INTO THE PARKING AREA AND STOPPING IN THE MIDDLE . U NIFORMED SOLDIERS EXIT THE VEHICLES IN A COORDINATED MANNER , VISIBLY ARMED WITH ASSAULT RIFLES.

DC GREENE: “They’re bloody armed. All of you, get in the clinic with Lauren. Go on, quickly!”

21:16:32

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS N ATASHA ROSKILLY, ELLA ROSKILLY, GEORGE ROSKILLY, AND CALLUM EVANS MOVING RAPIDLY ACROSS THE PARKING AREA , TOWARDS LAUREN E VANS, WHO IS HOLDING THE CLINIC ’S BACK DOORS OPEN AND GESTURING URGENTLY. CONCURRENTLY, THE SOLDIERS EXIT THEIR VEHICLES, FACING TOWARDS DC GREENE.

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Gimme the keys to the cabinet, Jim. I’ll get the assault rifle.”

DC GREENE: “No! Jesus. I need to de-escalate this.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “They’re tooled up, Jim!” DC GREENE: “And there’s about ten of them. Get inside. Stan, you too … I mean it. Go!”

21:17:02

A TOTAL OF NINE UNIFORMED SOLDIERS ARE OBSERVED. EIGHT APPEAR TO BE HOLDING ASSAULT RIFLES . T HE NINTH IS WEARING A CAMOUFLAGE BASEBALL CAP AND HAS WHAT APPEARS TO BE A HANDGUN HOLSTERED ON HIS RIGHT SIDE .

DC GREENE: “For the benefit of the camera. I am identifying that older male wearing the cap as Ethan Sawyer, the commander of the US Military base at the west end of the island. Commander. Lads. Stop, please. Don’t come any closer.”

21:17:15

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS ETHAN SAWYER CONTINUING TO ADVANCE, ACCOMPANIED BY THE OTHER SOLDIERS .

ETHAN SAWYER: “Jim! You found our boy.” DC GREENE: “Alright, listen. Seriously. You need to stop there, Ethan. You cannot have those weapons outside of your base. No. Listen to me. Those are section five firearms.”

21:18:11

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS ETHAN SAWYER SIGNALLING WITH HIS HAND. T HE SOLDIERS HALT BUT REMAIN IN FORMATION.

ETHAN SAWYER: “Jim. Relax. We just need to take the body.” DC GREENE: “Okay, but. Hang on. How do you know he’s dead? We literally just got here.”

ETHAN SAWYER: “I’m just relieved you and your rescuers are all safe after recovering him from this tragic accident, and on behalf of–”

DC GREENE: “You need to disarm, Ethan. I just said that. You can’t have guns this side of the base. Yes, we’ve got Harringford, and I am sorry for the loss. I mean that. But how do you know he’s dead?”

ETHAN SAWYER: “We saw you carrying the body up. Jim, listen to me–’

DC GREENE: “No. Sorry, you couldn’t see that from your distance. We could only see your torches. And was that you firing guns? What was that for?”

ETHAN SAWYER: “Jim. I think there might be some confusion here. We’re just here to collect Harringford and–” DC GREENE: “How do you know he’s dead, Ethan? And why were you discharging firearms? What is this? Why are you here with armed soldiers?”

ETHAN SAWYER: “Jim. This is getting tense. We can avoid that. You’re under pressure. It’s a stressful time for you. Listen. We just want to get our man back with us, and we’ll be on our way.”

DC GREENE: “No, no, no. Sorry. Don’t start coming forward again. That’s not happening. Just hang on a second. I need to tell you all that you’re being recorded on this device.” ETHAN SAWYER: “That doesn’t matter, Jim. We’re just going to take our boy and–”

DC GREENE: “I said no, Ethan. Stop coming forward. What happened anyway? We saw you with torches. Were you out, looking for Harringford? Why were you discharging firearms? What’s going on?”

ETHAN SAWYER: “We’ve been over this, Jim. We don’t discuss matters of national security.” DC GREENE: “In the base, yeah. I get that. But that wasn’t the base. You were on our side of the fence, firing weapons–” ETHAN SAWYER: “We were on our side, Jim!” DC GREENE: “Why were you firing?”

ETHAN SAWYER: “I don’t account to you!” DC GREENE: “You bloody well do on my side of the border. I’m asking you again. How do you know he was dead? You couldn’t have seen from that distance. You can’t put a drone up in this weather.”

ETHAN SAWYER: “Goddam, Jim! We have equipment that can see. We saw you carrying the body.”

DC GREENE: “Ah, okay. See. That’s a reasonable account. Thank you. So what was that, then? Like long range night vision or something? The reason I ask–” ETHAN SAWYER: “Jim!”

DC GREENE: “Reason I ask, Ethan, is because you were facing into our headlights, which would blind night vision” ETHAN SAWYER: “You don’t interrogate me, Jim!” DC GREENE: “We don’t interrogate anyone in the UK. We interview and gather evidence. And part of our procedure when finding a dead body is to ask questions about it. Who saw him last? Why is he off your base? Why were you looking for him and firing guns?! And how did you know he was–”

ETHAN SAWYER: “Enough! Harringford is a US Marine. He is my responsibility, and it is my duty to repatriate the body.” DC GREENE: “Don’t start shouting at me. And the body will be repatriated when the coroner releases him. That’s how it works here. You go through the proper channels. Lads, listen. You’re looking tense as anything. Relax. I’m not keeping Harringford from you, but we have laws here–” ETHAN SAWYER: “Address me directly, Jim. Not my men.” DC GREENE: “Disarm, gentlemen! Or you will be prosecuted. I’m going to read your names off for the benefit of my camera. Johnson. Martinez. Collins. Walker. O’Connor …”

FOOTAGE FROM NATASHA ROSKILLY’S IPHONE

21:20

T HE FOOTAGE STARTS IN PORTRAIT BUT TURNS AND DISTORTS UNTIL IT IS HELD IN LANDSCAPE MODE , ENABLING A VIEW FROM THE REAR DOORS OF GALLYMAY CLINIC TO DC JIM GREENE STANDING DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE MORTUARY DOOR AT THE TOP OF THE INWARD SLOPE .

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Right. Er. What do I say? So, Jim introduces himself when he records. My bloody hands are shaking. So I’m Tash. Sorry! Special Constable Natasha Roskilly, and er, it’s all going bent. Jim’s out there on his own … That’s why I’m recording. I can just about hear him cos the wind’s not so blowy here. He’s in front of the mortuary with the whole bloody American army facing him.”

21:21

DC Greene’s voice can just be heard as he appears to be naming each of the soldiers. There is a visible reaction from the US soldiers holding the assault rifles. They appear nervous and look to the older man in the cap.

DC GREENE: “Oi. Don’t cover your name up!” ETHAN SAWYER (shouting): “Do not address my men!” DC GREENE (calm): “I can address who I want. This isn’t the base. For the benefit of the camera, that last soldier is covering his name badge. Which may later be seen to be obstructing a police officer in the execution of their duty … Thank you! He’s dropped his hand now. Petrinski? Am I saying that right?”

US SOLDIER: “Yes, sir!”

ETHAN SAWYER (to his soldiers): “Do not address that man! Hold your positions and maintain silence. Jim, this is getting out of hand–”

DC GREENE: “It is. You’re not disarming as instructed.” ETHAN SAWYER: “Do not speak over me!” NATASHA ROSKILLY (whispering): “He’s got a right temper on him. Blimey.”

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (whispering): Jim’s calmness is setting him off. Look at him. Just standing there, blocking the door. Man. That’s control.”

21:22

ETHAN SAWYER (visibly agitated): “Nobody’s prosecuting a damn thing. Give me my Marine!”

DC GREENE: “I can’t do that. Please disarm or go back to your base.”

ETHAN SAWYER: “Goddam, Jim! We were on exercise. Escape and evasion. Harringford was the subject. He left the perimeter. It’s a tragic accident.”

DC GREENE: “That doesn’t sound rehearsed at all.” ETHAN SAWYER: “Watch who you are goddam talking to!” DC GREENE: “You mean the eight men holding assault rifles pointing at me? And you with your hand on your gun.” BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “Oh, good response.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “He’s so bloody calm. I’d be shitting it.” ELLA ROSKILLY: “Shitting it.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “That’s a grown-up word, honey.” ETHAN SAWYER: “Jim! You need to stand aside. We are taking our boy.”

DC GREENE: “You bloody well aren’t.” 21:23

LAUREN EVANS: “Tash!”

T HE FOOTAGE TURNS TO SHOW LAUREN E VANS POINTING TO A BLACK RANGE ROVER DRIVING INTO THE PARKING AREA AND COMING TO A STOP JUST BEHIND THE WHITE VEHICLES.

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Oh god. What they doing here? How did they know? That bloody Janice. Right. Er. Jim says what he’s seeing. So. That car that just came in is Rutherford’s posh Range Rover. It’s stopped and the doors are opening. That’s Jeb Roskilly driving.”

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “Tash, stop recording.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: ‘Bugger off, George. That’s Jeb, and that other ugly so and so is Skally. Kevin Skallford. Oh, blimey! He’s here himself. That’s Rutherford getting out.”

LAUREN EVANS: “This is tense AF! I’m gonna bloody record it.”

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “And me.”

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “They’re recording, Tash. Put yours down. Think of Ella.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “No! I’m doing my job. Now shush. All of you, be quiet!”

FOOTAGE FROM DC GREENE’S BODY WORN VIDEO

21:25:01

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS ETHAN SAWYER CUTTING OFF MID-SHOUT AS HE AND HIS MEN TURN TO WATCH THE BLACK RANGE ROVER DRIVING SLOWLY INTO THE PARKING AREA AND COMING TO A STOP BEHIND THE WHITE CARS THE SOLDIERS ARRIVED IN . T HE TWO FRONT DOORS OPEN WITH THE DRIVER , IDENTIFIED TO BE JEB ROSKILLY, AND THE FRONT SEAT PASSENGER , IDENTIFIED TO BE KEVIN SKALLFORD GETTING OUT OF THE VEHICLE. T HE REAR PASSENGER DOOR THEN OPENS WITH A MAN, IDENTIFIED TO BE JAMES RUTHERFORD, GETTING OUT OF THE VEHICLE. ALL THREE COME FORWARD, TOWARDS THE OTHERS FACING DC GREENE.

ETHAN SAWYER: “James! You need to get control of this!” JAMES RUTHERFORD: “I’m sure it’ll all be fine, Ethan.” DC GREENE: “You two are on first names terms, then? How do you–?”

JAMES RUTHERFORD: “Jim! So good to see you. And still helping out, eh? Good man! Great job! What an asset you must be to your constabulary. But I can take it from here.” DC GREENE: “Stop there, please. Nobody is to come closer. Including you, Mr Rutherford.”

KEVIN SKALLFORD: “You want him moved, boss?”

JAMES RUTHERFORD (smiling): “No! Gentlemen. Commander. Jim. I can see this is getting tense. It’s fine. Absolutely fine. Right. As I understand it, there’s been a tragic accident with one of Commander Sawyer’s men falling down a cliff? Have you got the body in there, Jim? That’s great work. And on behalf of this community, I want to say thank you for continuing to help out even though you’re off work with stress.”

DC GREENE: “Jesus. Get off saying it like that. And yes, the body is in here, and it’s staying in here. And right now, these men need to disarm. Immediately! Guys, I’ve made it clear. You cannot have those weapons outside of your base.” ETHAN SAWYER: “Grip this, James. You’re the goddam mayor. He’s not even a cop here.”

JAMES RUTHERFORD: “Ah, well. Not the mayor. Slightly different way of things here, but the sentiment is correct. I am the elected official on this island, Jim. And I do have authority here, and you are aware I was a commander in the Royal Navy, and yes, you’re not a constable here.” DC GREENE: “Every constable in England and Wales has the powers of a constable in England and Wales.” JAMES RUTHERFORD: “Sure. Of course. I’ll tell you what. Let’s go to The Chuff and calm this down, Jim. Commander Sawyer just needs to take the body and–” DC GREENE: “I said no. And I told you to stop coming forward. All of you. Nobody is getting inside this mortuary. Only the coroner can release a body.”

FOOTAGE FROM BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST’S, IPHONE

21:31

T HE FOOTAGE NOW SHOWS TWELVE MEN ALL FACING DC GREENE IN A ROUGH SEMI-CIRCLE, WITH JAMES RUTHERFORD AND E THAN SAWYER THE CLOSEST TO DC GREENE.

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (whispering): “They’re not backing down.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY (whispering): “Neither is Jim.” BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (whispering): “Look at Skally.”

T HE FOOTAGE MOMENTARILY ZOOMS IN ON KEVIN SKALLFORD APPEARING TO ROCK BACK AND FORTH ON HIS FEET WITH HIS ARMS OUT AT HIS SIDES WHILE STARING FIXED AT DC GREENE IN A CLEARLY THREATENING MANNER .

JAMES RUTHERFORD: “Jim. Enough now. I’m sorry. I don’t want to pull rank, but I feel I must.”

DC GREENE: “You don’t have rank here. None of you do. This is civilian property. You need to disperse immediately.” ETHAN SAWYER: “We are taking our boy!” JAMES RUTHERFORD: “Jim! See sense. The lad in there is a US soldier.”

DC GREENE: “Who died outside of the base! I have jurisdiction on behalf of the coroner.” BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (whispering): “Jim’s voice is getting louder.”

ETHAN SAWYER: “Move aside!”

KEVIN SKALLFORD: “I’ll bloody move him.” ETHAN SAWYER (shouting): “Get your man to move him, James!”

JAMES RUTHERFORD: “No. We’re not going down that road yet. I’m sure Jim will see sense.”

DC GREENE: “This body is not being removed from this mortuary! Stand down, Skally! Do not come closer.” JAMES RUTHERFORD: “Skally, hold on a second. Jim. This isn’t how things are done here. The police have an understanding on this island. With me and with Commander Sawyer.”

DC GREENE (shouting): “Barry is dead! He was murdered on duty after going to the US base on Saturday night. Along with a young man who, I suspect, was rescued from that US base, and I strongly suspect Harringford in there called Barry. So you or nobody else turns up here, telling me to do anything! We wait for the major crime team to–” JAMES RUTHERFORD (shouting): “That threat is wearing thin! It doesn’t work that way here, Jim! You are out of your depth!”

NATASHA ROSKILLY (whispering): “Jim! Oh my god. What are you doing?”

DC GREENE (shouting): “And I suspect that young man I found in Barry’s car was trafficked into the base!” BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (whispering): “Damn, Jim.” DC GREENE (shouting): And I’m not Barry! I don’t make deals, and I won’t turn a blind eye!”

JAMES RUTHERFORD (shouting): “You are heavily outnumbered, Jim!”

ETHAN SAWYER (shouting): “We are taking that body! Move him aside!”

21:35

T HE FOOTAGE SHOWS KEVIN SKALLFORD MOVING FIRST. T AKING STEPS TOWARDS DC GREENE. T HIS APPEARS TO PROMPT A SURGE FROM THE US M ARINES AND JEB ROSKILLY ALL MOVING FORWARD AS DC GREENE DRAWS HIS BATON AND FLICKS IT OUT TO EXTEND . HIS ACTIONS SEEM TO PAUSE THE ADVANCE, WITH THE M ARINES GLANCING TO EACH OTHER WITH MULTIPLE VOICES HEARD.

DC GREENE (shouting): “Get back!”

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (whispering): “Fuck!” NATASHA ROSKILLY (whispering): “Jim!”

DC GREENE (shouting): “I swear to god! Do not come closer!”

JAMES RUTHERFORD (shouting): “You brought this on yourself, Jim! Bloody move him!”

ETHAN SAWYER (shouting): “Move in! And get that damned camera!”

NATASHA ROSKILLY (shouting): “Keep Ella in here!”

21:36

T HE FOOTAGE BECOMES CHAOTIC AS THE CAMERA BEING HELD BY BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST, STARTS MOVING BEHIND N ATASHA ROSKILLY AS SHE RUNS OUT OF THE CLINIC’S BACK DOORS WHILE HOLDING HER OWN I PHONE UP AND PULLING A CAN OF WHAT APPEARS TO BE BODY SPRAY FROM HER POCKET .

NATASHA ROSKILLY (shouting): “I’m recording you!” LAUREN EVANS (shouting from a window while holding her phone): “And I am!”

BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST (shouting behind Natasha Roskilly): “I’m recording you!”

ANDY TRELAWNY (shouting from next to Lauren Evans): “And me! You killed my sheep!”

AT THAT SAME TIME AS THE MARINES AND K EVIN SKALLFORD AND JEB ROSKILLY ALL MOVE TOWARDS DC GREENE, AIDEN ROSKILLY AND DR STANLEY PATEL RUN OUT OF THE MORTUARY WHILE SHOUTING LOUDLY . BOTH MEN GETTING EITHER SIDE OF DC GREENE , INTO FIGHTING STANCES.

DR PATEL (shouting): “RSPB, motherfuckers!” AIDEN ROSKILLY (shouting): “I’ll put you down, Jeb!”

21:37

FROM THE COMBINED FOOTAGES FROM DC GREENE’S BODY-WORN VIDEO CAMERA AND THE RECORDINGS MADE BY N ATASHA ROSKILLY, LAUREN E VANS, ANDY TRELAWNY, CALLUM E VANS, AND B EN BEVAN, THE ARTIST, IT IS CLEAR THAT K EVIN SKALLFORD ADVANCES AT DC GREENE IN A HIGHLY THREATENING MANNER. BRINGING HIS CLENCHED HANDS UP INTO A FIGHTING STANCE . KEVIN SKALLFORD THEN RUSHES FORWARD AND SWINGS AT DC GREENE , WHO STEPS ASIDE AND STRIKES SKALLFORD’S FIST WITH HIS BATON . SKALLFORD PULLS BACK HIS HAND ABRUPTLY, CLUTCHING IT AS HE STUMBLES. AIDEN ROSKILLY AND DR STANLEY PATEL ARE THEN OBSERVED PUNCHING K EVIN SKALLFORD IN THE HEAD, DRIVING HIM BACKWARD . SIMULTANEOUSLY, AIDEN ROSKILLY TURNS AND PUNCHES JEB ROSKILLY, WHO FALLS AWAY FROM THE FIGHT. DURING THIS MELEE, NATASHA ROSKILLY RUNS INTO THE FRAY, HOLDING A CAN OF BODY SPRAY . SHE IS OBSERVED SPRAYING K EVIN SKALLFORD IN THE FACE, CAUSING HIM TO STAGGER AND COVER HIS EYES AND THEN TURNING THE SPRAY ON JEB ROSKILLY. T HE VISIBLE AND AUDIBLE REACTIONS APPEAR TO HALT THE ADVANCE OF THE US SOLDIERS, WHO REMAIN IN POSITION AS N ATASHA ROSKILLY RAISES THE CAN TOWARD THEM IN A THREATENING MANNER .

21:38

NATASHA ROSKILLY (shouting): “I’ll bloody spray the lot of you! Go on! Piss off!”

JAMES RUTHERFORD IS SEEN LOOKING AROUND AT THE DIFFERENT PEOPLE RECORDING THE INCIDENT AND IS SEEN PUTTING A HAND ON COMMANDER E THAN SAWYER’S ARM TO PULL HIM BACK. E THAN SAWYER IS THEN SEEN ALSO OBSERVING THE DIFFERENT PEOPLE RECORDING THE INCIDENT .

21:39

IT APPEARS AN ORDER IS GIVEN BY ETHAN SAWYER AS THE US SOLDIERS IMMEDIATELY DRAW BACK, TOWARDS THEIR VEHICLES.

ETHAN SAWYER: “Fix this goddam mess, James.”

KEVIN SKALLFORD AND JEB ROSKILLY ALSO DRAW BACK WHILE RUBBING THEIR EYES . DC GREENE IS JOINED BY AIDEN ROSKILLY, N ATASHA ROSKILLY, DR STANLEY PATEL, AND BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST , FORMING A LINE TO BLOCK THE DOOR TO THE MORTUARY.

JAMES RUTHERFORD: “That’s enough. We’re going. Get in the bloody car. You’re an idiot, Jim! A bloody idiot! All of this could have been avoided. It’s on your head! Remember that when you’re bloody thrown out and discredited! And don’t think I’ll forget you either, Aiden.”

DC GREENE: “And I’ll add perverting the course of justice to the charges!”

JAMES RUTHERFORD: “You do that, Jim. You do that. Oh, and good luck with your piss test.”

21:40

JAMES RUTHERFORD, JEB ROSKILLY, AND K EVIN SKALLFORD GET INTO THE BLACK RANGE ROVER AND EXIT THE PARKING AREA ALONG WITH THE VEHICLES CONTAINING THE US SOLDIERS AND COMMANDER E THAN SAWYER. ALL OF THOSE PRESENT CEASE RECORDING ON THEIR PHONES.

FOOTAGE FROM DC GREENE’S BODY-WORN VIDEO

21:41

DC GREENE: “Jesus. Did that just happen? Are you all okay?” DR PATEL: “My bloody hand hurts!”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Do you need a doctor?” DC GREENE: “How are you so calm? Are you alright, Stan? What the hell? And Ben! Even you’re out here. But Tash, though. You bloody running into that mess.”

Multiple voices talk at once as they are joined by Lauren Evans, Callum Evans, and George Roskilly carrying Ella Roskilly.

CALLUM EVANS: “Aid! You were like–have some of that, and Tash was like–piss off!”

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “He’ll ban us from the harbour! You heard him. I said not to get involved.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “And leave Jim on his own, George? Get off with you.”

GEORGE ROSKILLY: “He goes home, Tash!” LAUREN EVANS: “I got the whole thing, Jim! Like, oh my god! I was like … oh my god! I hate that Skally. I hope you broke his hand and–”

CALLUM EVANS: “I wanna be a detective now!” BEN BEVAN, THE ARTIST: “Jim, though. Man. Dude. Words aren’t enough. On your own against all of them.” DC GREENE: “Okay! Alright. Let’s just … It’s done. And thank you for coming out. I mean. That was a bit tense.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Blooming understatement.” ELLA ROSKILLY: “Wanna bandage?”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Oh bless, she’s holding Stanley’s sore hand. And you’ve still got yours round your knee, Jim. Anyway. Blimey. I think that calls for a cuppa.” DC GREENE: “We’ll need to debrief. And I need everyone’s contact details. And do not delete anything you recorded! Doc, you okay?”

DR PATEL: “Aye. Nothing broken. Never punched no one before. Just bruising, I reckon.”

DC GREENE: “Alright. Let’s get the mortuary closed up. Can we get a brew in the clinic?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Hang on, Jim. We need to show you something.”

DC GREENE: “Oh god. Why do I panic every time someone says that now? Alright. What?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Step in a minute with the doc. Everyone else, just stand easy for a mo. Need to talk to Jimbo.”

21:43

DC G REENE FOLLOWS AIDEN ROSKILLY AND DR PATEL INTO THE MORTUARY , ALONG WITH NATASHA ROSKILLY . T HE BODY OF H ARRINGFORD IS STILL ON THE STRETCHER ON THE CENTRAL SLAB. DR PATEL SHOWS JIM TO A COLLECTION OF BELONGINGS ON A SIDE COUNTER .

DC GREENE: “Are these from Harringford? Alright. What have we got? US Dollars. About five hundred dollars, I think. He’s come out with a bit of cash, then. And his passport. Daniel Harringford. God. I didn’t even know his first name. What’s this?”

DR PATEL: “That’s what we found, but it’s all torn from getting wet.”

21:45

DC G REENE CAREFULLY UNFOLDS A WET AND TORN PIECE OF LINED PAPER THAT APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN TORN FROM A RING BINDER . H ANDWRITTEN WORDS ARE VISIBLE IN DARK INK, ALTHOUGH SMUDGED FROM THE PAPER BEING WET .

DC GREENE (reading the words): “Rutherford was sending them to Saw… The rest of that sentence has gone. The next line reads, They were shipping … And the last line, Squires was building a ca…”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “That’s got to be Sawyer, and he’s shipping something with Rutherford … and Barry was building a case.”

DC GREENE: “Could be.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Could be? That’s obviously what he meant, Jim!”

DC GREENE: “Yeah. I said. You’re probably right, but we can’t say for fact.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Well. I mean. They did it, then. They killed Barry. Rutherford. And Sawyer. What do we do? Are we gonna bring them in like we did with Sam?” DC GREENE: “After what just happened out there? Bloody hell. I mean. Yeah, it’s getting into grounds to arrest. Rutherford might have trafficked that young man into the base; then Harringford calls Barry. Oh shit! Harringford said Barry had a burger Saturday night. He said, Barry had a burger while I … But he couldn’t finish.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Barry had a burger while I got the man out!”

DR PATEL (simultaneously): “Barry had a burger while I got that lad out! Then Rutherford and Sawyer go after Barry and finish him off and drive that lad off the cliff. I think that’s it, Jimbo. We done it. We cracked the case.” DC GREENE: “And literally no copper ever said we cracked the case … But I mean … It fits. Jesus. But what was he going on about? Piss test?”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Who?”

AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Rutherford said to Jim. Parting shot. Good luck on the piss test.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Piss test?”

DC GREENE: “Coppers get tested at random times to make sure we haven’t taken anything. But I don’t even smoke. What was he–”

DR PATEL: “Oh bugger. Oh no, Jimbo. No, no, no.” 21:47

Dr Patel is seen moving to another counter where he appears to open a sealed bag and withdraw a small plastic cup which he hands to DC Greene.

DR PATEL: “My kit’s still in here from testing Barry. Right. Toilet’s there. Go on. I only need a bit.” DC GREENE: “You want a piss test now? I haven’t taken anything.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Neither did Barry.”

21:48

N OTHING IS SAID AS DC GREENE STARTS TO SPEAK BUT CUTS OFF AND GOES INTO THE TOILET. T HE FOOTAGE IS OBSCURED FOR THE SAKE OF DECENCY, BUT THE ORIGINAL RAW FILE SHOWS DC GREENE URINATING INTO THE PLASTIC CUP . WHICH IS THEN TAKEN OUT AND HANDED TO DR PATEL WHO TAKES IT TO THE COUNTER.

21:50

DC GREENE: “Explain what you’re doing, Doc.” DR PATEL: “Sorry. This is a simple urine test. I’ve got different dipstick testing strips that react according to the presence of chemicals or substances within the urine. This is the one I’m doing. It’s a sterile strip. I’m wearing sterile gloves. I put it into the urine, and it normally takes–” DC GREENE: “What the f…? Why is that line forming? What is that? What’s that line on the strip?” DR PATEL: “Normally takes a minute, unless it’s a strong positive.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Oh, Jim.”

DC GREENE: “Eh? No! I don’t … I never … I just wouldn’t ever … Oh shit. What did you test for? You did coke, right? Cocaine? That’s a positive reaction to cocaine being in my urine?”

21:51

DR PATEL IS SEEN NODDING WHILE LOOKING VERY CONCERNED.

DC GREENE: “That fucking wanker! He doped me. Sawyer! In the base. That bloody burger! That’s why I was … After, I mean. When I came out, and my heart was all weird, and I ended up gobbing off to Skally and Jeb, and then I thought the sheep looked funny. Jesus! That’s how–” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “That’s how Barry had it! Harringford said Barry had a burger.”

DR PATEL: “You’ve been doped, brother.”

DC GREENE: “I’ve been bloody doped! Oh! Wait. I’ve still got it. Here. In my pocket. There wasn’t a bin, so I … Yes! Thank god! Okay. For the camera, this is the wrapper my burger was served in. I ate the burger, but there wasn’t a bin, so put this in my stab vest pocket, where it has been since.” AIDEN ROSKILLY: “Swab it, Doc.”

DR PATEL: “I can’t mate. You’d need a different testing kit. Like for surfaces or sommit. But keep it, Jim. Your forensics guys can test it.”

NATASHA ROSKILLY: “Thank god you kept it! You’ve gone white as a sheet, Jim. You poor sod. We done here? We need a cuppa. Come on. Enough for now. I’m calling it. Stan, you lock up.”

DC GREENE: “We need everyone’s details.” NATASHA ROSKILLY: “I know everyone’s details, Jim! They can all go home. Do you need that camera on? You’re gonna have a blooming heart attack in a minute. Go on. Switch it off. We’re done here.”

DC GREENE: “Er. Yeah. Okay. Time is twenty-one fifty-four hours. Switching the camera off.

21:54:03 – FOOTAGE ENDS.

TWENTY-NINE

It’s nearly half past ten when I finally pull up outside the police station in the fire car with Stan. Tash only a few seconds behind. Pulling in next to me in her little Citroen 2CV. Aiden next to her. For a moment, none of us move. We just sit in our adjacent cars, sharing looks.

I don’t think my brain has ever been so frazzled. And that’s not even from the cocaine that I took.

I crack my door open to step down into the strong winds and rain. But it does feel like it’s lessening. ‘It is. It’s easing off.’

‘Reckon it might be,’ Stan says as he closes the door on his side.

‘What is?’ Tash asks.

‘Weather,’ I say.

She looks up for a moment, prompting us all to do the same. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Bet you’ll be glad, eh?’

‘Nah. He loves it here,’ Aiden says, earning tired chuckles.

‘So, what happens about you having cocaine in your body?” Tash asks.

‘I dunno. I guess I’ll self-refer to PSD–Professional Standards Department. Like internal affairs in those crap shows. And I think it will have to be recorded as a separate crime. Like Administering a Noxious Substance. Plus, there’s Supply of a Class A Substance.’

‘And they’ll do Sawyer for it?’ Aiden asks with a scoff and a knowing look. ‘He’ll be gone, Jim. They’ll have him out the country.’

‘But Rutherford will still be here …’ I reply. ‘You know what, though? I just want a brew.’

The others grumble agreements as we head for the main door. Which, of course, is when it all goes horribly wrong again, because it’s open. And I know I locked it. But there’s no damage, which suggests they used a key. But then why wouldn’t they have a key? Nothing about this island surprises me anymore.

None of us even ask who it could have been. I think we all know instantly it must have been Skally and Jeb. Rutherford heard my allegations and came straight here.

‘I bet they went for the evidence cupboard,’ I say as I switch my camera back on and rush through the inner door, which has also been unlocked, and into the police side of the front office. Cursing out loud when I see the evidence cupboard door smashed open with the enforcer dumped next to it. ‘Shit!’

The others rush in, seeing the same as me: The evidence cupboard door smashed open, and the contents now gone. The rest of the room has been trashed too. Chairs kicked over. Tables turned. Computer monitors and keyboards swept off the desks. Filing cabinets tipped. Drawers opened, papers everywhere. My hands clench to fists several times over with a surge of hatred I’ve never felt before.

‘This just doesn’t happen! Who does this? I know who did it! I mean. It’s obvious they did it. They’d know that. What the f…? It’s just bloody audacious.’

‘I bloody said, Jim,’ Tash says with a heavy sigh, looking as drained as I feel. ‘Rutherford thinks he owns this island. He probably owns this building or the ground it’s on.

I look at her and the others. Stan looks full of angst, and even Aiden is starting to look stressed.

‘Let’s just have a brew,’ Tash says, shaking her head as we stare around at the devastation.

Which is when we realise they’re still in the building.

And we know that from the horribly loud gunshot fired from somewhere close, with a chunk of the wooden doorframe splintering out.

‘COVER!’ Aiden shouts as we all dive for the floor and hear another gunshot sounding out. Tearing another chunk from somewhere.

‘STOP SHOOTING!’ I yell out for whatever good it will do.

‘Get in here! Quick,’ Aiden whispers, pulling Tash to her feet and running her into Barry’s office, with Stan and me right behind them.

We drop down behind the door. Knowing there is a brick wall between us and any bullets flying into the front office. Unless, of course, they press the attack and come in here.

I look to Aiden, with both of us realising the same thing. He nods as I unclip the keys for the firearms cabinet from my belt and throw them over. Then he turns to run through the already open storeroom door, at which point I see I didn’t need to give him the keys, and I also know where they got the gun from too. Seeing as the firearms cabinet door is wide open.

Aiden rushes for it. Snatching a glance inside. ‘They’ve had that second Glock,’ he says and pulls the assault rifle out free from the cradle as another shot is fired into the front office. Hitting what sounds like a monitor with a loud bang and the sound of breaking glass.

‘ARMED POLICE!’ I yell, hoping to scare them away and buy time for Aiden to find a magazine and load the gun. Tash and Stan hunkering down. The three of them looking scared witless while Aiden is as calm as anything. Finding a magazine and doing some kind of pressure test on the top bullet before he slots it into the rifle.

Another shot comes from the public side of the front office, into the police side.

‘They’re making a run for it!’ Aiden says and drops to a knee, then waves his hand for us to stay low. ‘I bet they put another one through the window.’

He’s right. They do. But not just one. Two shots are fired. Both horribly loud. The first going through the window and into the front office. The second hitting the smoked glass and coming into this office, tearing a chunk out of the wall.

‘Hold,’ Aiden says calmly, cocking his head to listen as I hear a vehicle door slamming shut and an engine starting. But there weren’t any cars out there.

‘Shit!’ I say again, realising that I left the key in the ignition. I rush for the now broken window as the fire car pulls away, giving me a clear view of the rear. Then Aiden’s there. Taking aim and firing a shot which hits the rear tow bar with a flash of sparks.

‘Don’t shoot!’ I say quickly, covering my ears from the deafening gunshot in the close confines of the office. He can’t risk missing and hitting someone else. Not that there is anyone else in sight.

‘I was aiming for the rear wheel.’

‘Tash! Keys! Quickly!’ I call.

‘They’re in the car!’ she calls as I rush out over the debris in the front office, then out through station, to the wind and rain, towards Tash’s car. Aiden hot on my heels. Running for the front passenger side while carrying the assault rifle. ‘Wait!’ Tash shouts as I start lowering into the driver’s seat.

I don’t even get a chance to say no before she’s barging me aside and yanking the seat forward, with her and Stan scrabbling onto the back seat. ‘Doc! You can’t–’

‘Someone might get shot,’ he says.

‘Yeah. You!’ I say and realise there’s no point in arguing. I drop in and start the engine, with my mind going back to my pursuit and response days. Jumping into high-powered BMWs. Except this time, it’s a very underpowered Citroen 2CV with four adults inside.

‘Go on, then! Floor it!’ Aiden yells.

‘I am!’

‘Heap of shit!’ Aiden mutters.

‘You leave my Betsy alone!’ Tash calls as we reach the junction.

‘Where would they go? Which way’s Rutherford Manor?’ I ask.

‘Right! Go right,’ Aiden urges as I pull out. ‘No! Stop!’

‘What!?’ I ask, stamping on the brake, my heart feeling it’s going to thump out of my chest.

‘That ain’t Jeb and Skally, Jim,’ he says, giving me a look.

‘Eh?’

‘Jeb wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t want?’

‘Shoot at Tash.’

‘They just bloody did, mate!’

‘Yeah, but he wouldn’t. Cos–’

‘I know he’s your brother, Aid, but he just shot at–’

‘Jim. That wasn’t Jeb. He’d know I’d hunt him down if he fired a gun near Tash. And he wouldn’t know if Ella was in there with us. He knows I’d kill him. I’m not joking. Chris was my best mate. I’m Ella’s godfather.’

‘Skally, then.’

Aiden shakes his head. ‘Jeb wouldn’t let him. Cos he’d know I’d still go after them.’

‘They just attacked us at the mortuary!’

‘That was a punch-up, Jim.’

‘Then who the fuck …?’ I start to ask as something triggers in my mind. An image of the fire car reaching this junction just a moment ago when Aiden fired at it. He hit the back of it. He hit the tow bar.

The tow bar.

‘The bloody tow bar. No! The tow rope!’ I mutter the words in exclamation because I saw it. I saw the tow rope in the back of the fire car. ‘Jim! You bloody twat! The tow bar! Oh my god!’ I say in exasperation and turn to look at Aiden and the other two in the back staring at me in surprise. ‘How far is it from here to the cliff where Barry’s car went over? I’m gonna guess it’s about fifteen miles?’

‘Yeah, fifteen,’ Aiden says as the other two agree.

‘Bellend. Utter bellend,’ I say while face-palming myself. ‘The bloody car. Thirty-one miles were missing from the logbook. Thirty-one bloody miles! It was right in front of me.’

‘What was?’ Aiden asks. ‘We need to go, Jim. Go!’ he urges, waving me on.

‘Hang on,’ I say, trying to think.

‘They just tried to kill us! Mate, we need to bring them down!’

‘You can’t shoot Jeb!’ Tash says.

‘Watch me!’ Aiden snaps. ‘Jim! Go!’

‘Why ditch the car and not Barry?’ I ask him.

‘What the …? Eh? What you on about? Go!’

‘Barry’s Land Rover.’

‘What about it?!”

‘He wasn’t in it!’

‘I know!’ Aiden shouts.

‘I know you know,’ I yell back at him. ‘Why not? Why put it over the cliff, into the one bit of water too dangerous to ever recover it from and not put him in it?’

Aiden goes to shout back at me but stops with a blink and narrows his eyes. ‘Yeah. Actually. Er? So? Why wasn’t he?’

‘What’s that got to do with a tow rope?’ Stanley asks as I twist in my seat to look at them both.

‘Cos they towed Barry’s car, then shunted it off the cliff. I’m such an idiot. I never even checked it.’

‘Checked what!?’ Aiden says.

‘The fire car! That’s the murder weapon. Barry was run over by the bloody fire car! It was right in front of me. Shush! Let me think. So, Barry went out at nine-ish, and he gets you out of the pub for scrapping with Jeb and takes you to the nick. So far?’

‘So far,’ Aiden says as Tash and Stanley nod.

‘Then Harringford contacts Barry and says he’s got that young man there. Who Rutherford trafficked into the base. He had tether marks on his ankles and wrists, so he’s obviously been tied or bound or something. So Harringford tells Barry who goes to the West End. Yeah, yeah, yeah! Harringford said Barry had a burger! Barry distracts Sawyer and gets doped with a cocaine burger–’

‘And Harringford gets the lad out the base!’ Tash says.

‘And Sawyer’s doped Barry so he can be discredited,’ Stanley adds.

I nod eagerly. Running it through my mind. ‘Cos Rutherford could put a call in to Devon and Cornwall police later and say Sergeant Barry Squires is taking drugs. Barry gets piss-tested and kicked out. I mean, he would have been stuffed anyway, with the booze and the cannabis. Oh! Andy’s field!’

‘Andy’s field!’ Tash says a split second after me. ‘Barry gets the lad from Andy’s field.’

‘And Sawyer gives chase and fires a shot,’ I add. ‘Then Barry’s off. Okay. Hang on. So …’

I bring the image back to my mind again. Muttering it out loud.

‘Barry’s in the Land Rover with the young man. But Barry’s doped on cocaine, and he’s drunk and had cannabis recently. His heart is racing. His mind is going too fast. It’s affecting his decision-making processes. But he’s on that lane where I found him. Maybe they were chasing him. Or! Jeb and Skally have gone to the police station, which isn’t locked and used keys they’ve obviously got and taken the handgun and the fire car. They’ve found Barry in that lane and shot the lad, and then Barry’s run for it. So they run Barry over. No! That’s still not right. Even if they used the fire car to tow Barry’s Land Rover. But there’s two of them. One could drive Barry’s car … And why leave Barry in the lane? Oh,’ I say mildly as I finally connect it. ‘Oh shit. Oh, shitty shit. Where’s the harbour? Quickly! Which way?’ I shout as I stomp my foot down to pull away, twisting the wheel to go right.

‘LEFT!’ they all shout.

I twist the other way and almost hit a wall and have to reverse and then go forward again, trying to get as much speed as I can out of the tiny engine.

‘Straight!’ Aiden calls, waving me on. ‘You reckon they’re making a dash to get away?’

I nod. Gripping the wheel, and the tiny engine screams out as we whiz past The Gallymay Arms with Lauren and Stevie outside, smoking what looked like reefers.

‘This bloody island,’ I mutter. My mind whirling. Seeing it all now. Realising what happened.

‘There, Jim!’ Aiden calls, pointing to the right. I go past the ferry docking place and onto an access road and see the harbour ahead of me.

The big sea wall built out into the ocean. Rows of commercial fishing vessels bobbing on the calmer inlet waters. A few pleasure craft amongst them. Rowboats pulled up onto the banks and sides. Old pots and piles of nets.

Then I see it.

The big, red fire car parked alongside on the wharf.

‘There!’ Aiden calls, pointing at it. ‘Stop here, Jim. They’re armed. We need safe distance.’

I stop the car and bundle out into the cold wind and rain and set off running towards the fire car. ‘Jim!’ Aiden calls. ‘Stay behind cover! Let me go forward!’

But I’ve worked it out. I’ve finally bloody worked it out.

‘SAM!’ I yell, seeing him running from the car, down a sloping deck, towards a pontoon where some of the pleasure craft are moored. One of them, no doubt, being the boat him and Barry own. The one he told me about.

Sam turns instantly on hearing his name, his arm coming up to fire a round. A dull bang. The sound whipped away by the wind. A brief, bright flash from the muzzle. I cry out and duck as Aiden fires once from the assault rifle. Already lowered onto one knee. Calm and controlled. His round hits a big metal post near Sam, pinging off it.

‘DON’T SHOOT!’ I yell as loudly as I can. ‘Sam! Don’t! Please! Just stop … It’s over! Sam! It’s over!’

‘Sam?’ Tash yells, reaching my side. ‘Jim? What are you …? Sam? But …’

‘PUT IT DOWN, SAM!’ Aiden calls.

‘Shush! All of you,’ I call out. ‘Please. We need to … We just need to be calm now. Sam. We can be calm. It’s over.’

‘I’m taking my boat out!’ he yells in a bizarrely normal voice despite the gun he just fired. Or the shots he took in the police station.

But then that’s how he got the gun out in the first place. He had keys to the firearms cabinet and probably Barry’s office, and before that, anyone could have walked into the station.

‘Sam! It’s done. It’s over,’ I shout out, showing him my empty hands.

‘Sorry, Jim. Gotta go!’

‘SAM! You killed Barry!’

‘I thought Skally and Jeb did it,’ Tash whispers.

‘I DID NOT! I LOVED MY HUSBAND!’ Sam yells, taking steps towards me.

‘Sam. It’s over. Put the gun down.’

‘No! I can’t. I’m taking my boat out because the storm is–’

‘I can’t let you do that, Sam.’

‘I can go where I want! And I’m taking my boat out.’

His voice slurs, and I spot the sway in his body and realise he’s drunk. ‘Sam. Put the gun down. It’s all over now.’

‘You released me! I am free to do what I want.’

‘Sam, put the–’

‘YOU RELEASED ME!’ he screams with spittle flying from his lips, and even in this light, I can see his face flushing deep red. ‘I’m free, Jim! Detective Jim, the homophobe!’

‘I’m not homophobic, Sam. But I know you killed Barry … And I know you ran him over using the fire car.’

I glance back at it with a wince. Seeing scratches and even a dent on the front. Consistent with thick branches and hitting a heavy adult male at speed.

‘Jesus, Sam. What did you do?’ I ask, shaking my head at him. ‘Why? Why do it?’

‘I didn’t! I didn’t! IDIDN’T, IDIDN’T,’ he screams the words faster and faster, swaying and waving the gun about. ‘I loved that man! I LOVE THAT MAN!’

‘Then why kill him, Sam?’ I shouldn’t be asking. He’s not been cautioned. He’s not been given his rights. But right now, after these days, I just need to know.

‘But I didn’t,’ he whispers, shaking his head as his lip starts to tremble.

‘Oh, Sam,’ Tash says as tears start falling down Sam’s cheeks. ‘What did you do, Sam?’

‘I didn’t, Tash … I … I loved him … But he … After my ban. It all … He changed. It changed. I don’t know! He didn’t share, Tash! We’d always shared! We shared everything! We had to hide … in the Falklands … What we were doing … And then after, and we shared, and he stopped,’ his voice breaks, coming out with a hard a sob. ‘And this … This was ours …’ he says, waving the gun around at the harbour. ‘Me and him. But he stopped … After I was banned … He didn’t share! HE DIDN’T SHARE AND … AND … AND HE WAS CHEATING!’

He breaks off into a weep as I hear Tash crying and feel the surge of emotion myself.

‘Why did you kill him, Sam?’ I ask. Still needing to know.

‘Stop fucking questioning me! I’m the authority here! Not you!’ he yells, instantly switching to a man full of seething fury and temper. ‘And you will address me as Harbour Master Squires! I am going, Detective. Goodbye!’

‘Where? There’s nowhere to go, Sam!’

‘Wherever I want,’ he shouts pompously, waving the gun as he turns and steps towards his boat.

‘He was too heavy for you, wasn’t he?’ I call, making him falter mid-step. ‘I thought it was Jeb and Skally. But why would they leave Barry if they put his car over the cliff. But it was you. You got the gun from the cabinet in Barry’s office. You got the car. You found Barry. You shot that man, then–’

‘Shut up! SHUT UP!’ he jerks back, glaring at me drunk and angry and screaming the words out.

‘You shot that young man; then you–’

‘I WILL SHOOT YOU, SIR! I WILL SHOOT YOU DEAD!’

‘Jim, get back,’ Aiden mutters.

‘You had access to the gun cabinet. You just said you and Barry shared everything! You even used the police guns to shoot injured seals! You went there and got the gun and–’

‘SHUTUP!’

‘And you killed that young man and ran Barry over! Barry tried to run, didn’t he, Sam? You shot the lad, and Barry tried to run! From you! So you ran him over!’

‘SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I LOVED THAT–’

‘But he was too heavy. Wasn’t he, Sam? I couldn’t pick him up. George and Tash had to help me. Dead bodies are a dead weight. So you towed his car to the only place you knew where it would never be found and left Barry alone on a lane like a dead dog!’

‘Jim,’ Tash gasps.

‘Then you went back and put the bloody gun in his office! Was that when you asked Aiden where he was? To create a witness? An alibi? And what’s in that bag, Sam? Is that the evidence from the cupboard? You’re a murderer!’

‘SHUT UP, SHUT UP!’

‘You killed him, Sam! You killed Barry and that man!’

‘HE WAS A CHEAT!’ Sam screams in pure venom, pointing the gun at me. ‘He was cheating on me! I caught him!’

‘Put it down!’ Aiden shouts.

‘Oh god, Sam,’ Tash says in a tone filled with sorrow.

‘I kept telling him to admit it. He wouldn’t share. He wouldn’t tell me what he was doing or where he was going. He was ashamed of me!’

‘So you murdered him?’ I ask, shaking my head at the horror of it all.

‘HE CHEATED ON ME! I found him! With that … That … that rent boy wearing next to nothing!’

I sigh and close my eyes, and there it is. We’ve got the victim, the scene, the weapon, the offender, and now the motive. And I was right from the very start because it’s the same story told over and over: nearly every murder is committed by the partner or ex-partner of the victim.

‘He wasn’t cheating,’ I say and open my eyes to see a pompous, arrogant bully of a man, but one who had to hide his sexuality and then suffer the consequences when it became known. A man who then found peace and a home here but rotted himself away with drink until it addled his mind. Making him jealous and unable to see reason and logic while feeling his pride slip away. His position. His authority. His relationship.

‘He wasn’t cheating on you, Sam,’ I say in a surprisingly calm voice.

‘He wasn’t, Sam!’ Tash sobs the words out. Shaking her head at him. ‘Barry loved you! He’d bloody rescued that lad.’

‘What? No. He was … He was undressed,’ Sam says.

‘Barry probably found him undressed. The lad had escaped from the military base.

That’s why he couldn’t tell you. Barry knew Rutherford was trafficking people into the base …’

‘And he weren’t on those meds. Was he, Sam?’ Stanley cuts in. His tone soft and caring. ‘Were they yours?’

Sam nods.

Then it becomes silent.

Save for the wind blowing and the rain falling on a thousand different surfaces.

Silence.

Save for the dull thud as the bag, no doubt containing the evidence, drops from Sam’s hand onto the gently rising and falling pontoon.

I see the slowness of Sam’s drunk mind taking it all in and watch every emotion play out on his face. Outrage. Justification. Anger. Wrath. I’ve seen those before when murderers break and give their reasons.

But then the rest soon follows when Sam processes what we just said.

Confusion first. Then disbelief and denial. He even shakes his head and scowls like it can’t be true. But of course, it is, and so the realisation hits, and along with it, the utter horror of what he’s done that robs all that wrath and self-justification away.

It changes him in an instant. His manner. His energy. He blinks and frowns and looks at me. ‘I, er … Well, I didn’t know that,’ he says in a quiet, studied voice. ‘And please do accept my apologies.’

‘Just put the gun do- … NO!’

I scream the word out. Tash and Aiden and Stan do the same. All of us jerking forward and shouting at the tops of our voices as Sam puts the end of the gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger.

I cry out as Sam topples backwards. Stanley yelling something. Aiden with the rifle still up and aimed. He sweeps forward and kicks the gun away from Sam’s hand. ‘Clear,’ he calls, still calm as anything.

‘Is he?’ I ask as Aiden nods.

‘Yeah. Very.’

Aiden didn’t need to say it like that. But then he’s been to war. I haven’t.

I don’t speak. And it’s only then that I realise Tash is holding my arm. Stan a few feet behind us. All of us staring at Aiden standing over the body and how he looks up into the night sky.

‘Yeah. He was right, though. Storm’s clearing. Ferry’ll be back on soon, Jimbo.’

He trails off from the sound of a loud, powerful engine coming towards us from the sea. We look out as a powerful spotlight comes on, and we see a grey-coloured Navy vessel with a high front and sides surging into the harbour. Sending a wave forward that bounces the pontoons and fishing vessels.

It slows quickly, turning dramatically as the spotlight picks us out. Aiden lowers the rifle to the ground, then steps back, holding his hands clear as a loud, amplified voice comes from a speaker.

‘This is the Royal Navy! We are here to give aid to Detective Jim Greene!’

‘That’s me!’ I yell, waving an arm as I get to my feet, still holding Tash. I snort a laugh at the timing. At all of it. At the whole of it. ‘It’s not done like this,’ I say as Tash looks at me. ‘Murders aren’t solved like this.’

She shrugs with her cheeks wet from tears and the rain and blinks her beautiful, soft green eyes. ‘Told you we do things differently here …’

‘Are you Jim Greene?’ a voice calls as the boat comes alongside with men and women in uniform holding assault rifles jumping clear onto the pontoons.

‘Yeah. I am.’

The officer jumps down and strides towards me with his hand extended. ‘Sorry for the delay. We came as soon as we got the call.’

‘What call?’ I ask as he frowns at me.

‘The call that said you needed urgent armed assistance after several murders and that your own life was now at risk. It came from the US Base. From a US Marine. A corporal Daniel Harringford …’

I nod dumbly because it turns out the base did have comms I could have used after all.

Well.

You live and learn.

But still, though.

‘This bloody island …’

THIRTY

I’m realising that nothing on this island is ever easy. Especially what follows because the practicalities have still got to be attended to.

That being Sam’s dead body on the pontoon. There’s no point leaving it there because neither he nor the area is of any real use preserving as a crime scene. His death was clearly the act of suicide as witnessed by four people and also recorded on my body-worn video camera.

Nor is it worth preserving the fire car as a crime scene. Not after the amount of times I’ve used it.

We do, however, borrow a stretcher from the Navy boat and a body bag. Picking Sam up is messy. What with the injury he self-sustained. But then I’ve seen similar things many times. Same as Stanley and Aiden. Tash hasn’t, but she doesn’t come close for this one. Which is fair enough.

We get Sam bagged and loaded and carry him to the back of the fire car. Tash grabs the rucksack Sam dropped and nods when she opens it, and I look over.

‘All the evidence,’ she says, pulling out the sealed bag containing the first gun.

After that, we take Sam to the mortuary and get him and Harringford into different body lockers.

Only then do we finally get back to the police station. I tape the front office off, just in case there is any evidence of others entering. But I doubt it. The Navy officer and two of his personnel come with us. He posts one on the main entrance to prevent anyone else coming in and another outside the door to the front office to protect that scene.

By then the task force is upstairs, in the small canteen. Brewing up in relative silence apart from ‘pass the milk, please’ and Aiden asking if there are any biscuits. Which then prompts another rummage until we find a slightly out of date packet of hobnobs.

Aiden takes one of the armchairs. Stan takes the other. I join Tash on the sofa. It’s small, and we end up shoulder to shoulder and leg to leg. But there’s no awkwardness. Not after what we’ve all been through.

Then we drink tea and eat hobnobs.

‘I wanted it to be Rutherford,’ Tash admits a short while later. ‘Is that bad?’

We all say it isn’t because we all think the same thing.

‘Doesn’t quite feel right,’ she adds. ‘But you said, Jim. You said it’s nearly always the partner or ex.’

‘They still did bad things, though,’ Stan says as we all nod and eat more hobnobs. ‘That’s sommit. I mean. They’ll get done for that stunt at the mortuary … And putting that poor lad into the base to begin with.’

‘Weak, though,’ I say, thinking of the evidential trail. ‘See what they turn up,’ I add.

‘That threat is wearing thin, Jim!’ Aiden quips in a fake posh voice, making us snort with quiet laughs.

‘Listen, when they get here, we’ll probably get split up until we’ve given our accounts. That’s normal. And be honest about everything.’

‘Kay,’ Tash says with a heavy sigh, and we fall to silence. Exhausted to the point of being unable to speak anymore. It’s warm too. And cosy. Especially being next to Tash on the sofa.

I come awake from someone saying my name and blink at the armed uniformed police officer in the doorway.

‘Which one is Jim Greene?’ she asks as I clock the Devon and Cornwall logo on her kit.

‘Yeah,’ I say, clearing my throat as the others stir.

‘Navy got us over. He’s up here!’ she calls as Tash and the other two blink and wake after dozing off themselves.

‘He in there?’ a voice calls.

‘In here,’ the armed copper says, nodding at me, then stepping back as a guy in civvies walks in.

‘Jim?’ he asks, looking around at us. Aiden and Stan point to me as I try and stand up, with Tash pushing me from behind. ‘You DC Greene? Stewie Roberts. Duty DS. Mate. What the actual fuck?’

‘Don’t,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘I can’t even …’

‘I bet,’ he says as I give thanks to the Gods of policing that an older, experienced DS has come over. ‘Anyway. Listen. We need to isolate you.’

‘They know. I said what happens. I’m Major Crime in Hants. Guys. Just be honest,’ I say to the others. They nod back as Tash offers a worried smile. ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll see you in a bit.’

‘Don’t leave without saying bye,’ she calls as I get to the door.

‘I won’t. I promise.’

I break that promise.

But then I’m not given much choice.

The DS takes me down to the interview room and gets my first full account. He makes notes. Asks questions, then goes off.

He’s back within twenty minutes. ‘You good to go?’

‘Go where?’

‘Orders, Jim. Sorry.’

I get up and follow him out into a police station now filled with cops and Navy personnel and voices and motion. ‘What orders?’

‘Go with Sarah to the harbour. They want you back on the mainland ASAP. Sarah!’ he calls as the armed uniformed copper who woke me in the canteen walks over.

‘Ready?’ she asks.

I look at DS Roberts, but he’s only doing what he’s told. ‘Alright. Okay. Let me just say goodbye.’

‘Sorry, Jim,’ he says with a wince. ‘Orders. No more contact for now.’

I sag with a sigh. But it is what it is.

I go with Sarah and shake my head at the irony of using the fire car to get back to the harbour.

When we arrive, I realise the storm really has eased. It’s still windy, but nothing like it was.

After that is a blur if I’m honest. I get put on a boat and go down below, into a warm, snug room. I feel us pull away, but someone gives me a blanket, and I’m asleep in seconds.

I wake when we arrive. It’s still dark. I go off the boat, into a car, expecting to go the local MIR for a debrief.

But that doesn’t happen. I get taken to a Navy base in Plymouth instead and get put into what looks like a guest room with a bed and a small ensuite bathroom.

‘Why am I here?’ I ask the guy showing me to the room. Another rating in Navy uniform.

‘No idea, mate. Fancy a brew, though? And I can probably snaffle a bacon butty.’

I sit down on the bed. Remembering the US base. Which looked a lot nicer than this one, what with the scuffed walls and peeling posters. But I’d rather be here any day of the week.

As to why I am here, I have no clue. I should have gone to the local MIR after giving my account or even a video interview room. Or at least into a police station so I can prepare a statement.

Why the Navy base?

‘Here you are, mate,’ the Navy man says when he comes back with the weak tea and cold bacon butty. ‘Right. Got an update. Have a shower. Bed down. Someone’ll come and grab you later. Alright?’

It’s not alright. Not one bit. But there’s no point arguing with him. I drink the tea and eat the butty and then grab a shower. I pull my phone from my pocket, but the battery is dead. I should have asked for a charger.

Then I’m out of it.

Someone bangs on the door a few hours later. Waking me with a start. I open it to another Navy personnel, this time a woman bringing me a coffee and another bacon butty. ‘They’re coming in ten mins.’

‘Who are?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Have you got a phone charger I can use?’

‘No, mate.’

That’s it. She’s off. I find a cheap toothbrush in a plastic wrapper and clean my teeth and wash my face.

Then it gets really weird, because ten minutes later, the same woman comes back and leads me outside to a waiting helicopter.

‘What’s that for?’

‘I dunno. Get in it and find out.’

‘Where am I going?’

‘I just said! I dunno.’

I get in and shout forward, but the pilot waves me into the seat, then motions a headset with a microphone. He’s already taking off by the time I put it on.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘London.’

‘London? Why?’

‘No idea. Meant to be my day off. Not that we ever get full bloody days off. Whatever. Enjoy the flight.’

He kills the comms switch, and I sit back. Knowing nothing and feeling frustrated as hell.

Mind you. I’ve never been in a helicopter before, so it is kinda cool, although it’s also still kinda windy, and I didn’t realise how bouncy these things are. Not that I can ask the super chatty pilot anything.

We reach the city and put down somewhere. I don’t even know where.

Then it’s into another car. This time a Range Rover with blacked-out windows. Which makes me think about Rutherford. He needs to do time. So do Jeb and Skally. Thank God I had body-worn video on for a lot of it all.

Sam and Barry, though. What a sad ending. Barry was a throwback to a time gone by when coppers held sway too much, taking little bribes and giving kids clouts around their ears. But I think he tried to do the right thing at the end. He must have realised he was going up against Rutherford, getting that lad out of the base. No wonder he didn’t tell Sam anything. Sam was struggling with alcohol and mental health. Barry wouldn’t risk telling him something that important. Which shows Barry knew the flaws in his husband.

It just fills me with sadness that it ended like that. I still don’t know how Sam knew how to find Barry and that lad. Maybe Sam put a tracker on Barry’s car. They’re cheap to buy online, and Sam proved he was capable of using online services to get the meds he was abusing.

He was a cunning man too. Despite the booze. He was scheming enough to have keys to the station and the firearms cabinet and draw the handgun, then use it, but then he took it back and created the actual Chekov’s gun situation by leaving it on Barry’s desk. Why, though? Unless he pushed it into Barry’s hand after it had been fired to put residue and prints on both Barry and the gun. Maybe he did that when he realised Barry was too heavy to get into the car. This happens a lot. People do weird things under pressure like that, and then we’re all left scratching our heads at the exact sequence of events.

But then Sam also had the presence of mind to know when the storm was easing and to make an attempt to cover his tracks. Maybe he even knew we suspected Rutherford. Who knows.

What the hell is this all about, though?

‘Where am I going?’ I ask the driver and the guy with him. Both of them in dark suits.

‘Whitehall,’ the passenger says.

‘Whitehall? Why?’

‘We just get the job sheet, mate.’

We go into an underground car park; then I’m led through an internal security door after being searched. They take my phone and say I’ll get it back after.

‘After what?’ I say with more than a touch of frustration evident in my voice. ‘What the hell is going on? Where am I?’

‘Go with him,’ the security guy says, nodding at another man smiling from another doorway. ‘Here. Before you go, though,’ the security man says and pats my shoulder, ‘fair play. That was cracking, that was.’

‘Yeah, good on you, Jim,’ the driver says with a nod.

‘Got some bollocks on you,’ the other one says.

‘This way, sir,’ the polite, smiling man calls and leads me through several nice-looking corridors inside of some old building while I blink and huff in obvious bewilderment. ‘It’ll come clear. I promise,’ he says kindly. ‘And FYI. Very brave, Detective. Amazing! Just in here. Sirs … Detective Jim Greene.’

I step through into small room with an oval meeting table inside. Deep mahogany panels on the walls and brass fittings and lights. A man inside waiting for me. Pushing to his feet. Thick, grey hair and a bushy moustache.

‘Jim, lad!’ he says in a booming northern voice that I’ve heard hundreds of times on the TV and on radio interviews. ‘Ed Butler.’

I know who he is.

He’s the Home Secretary. And he’s also the Deputy Prime Minister.

‘That bloody island … What now?’

THIRTY-ONE

Could this get any weirder?

Ed Butler motions me to sit down. The Home Secretary for the United Kingdom. The Deputy Prime Minister.

‘Eh. You weren’t expecting to see me, were you, lad?’ he says in that famous Yorkshire accent. ‘Go on now, sit yourself down. Coffee’s on table. Help yourself. I were just watching it again. Must have seen it ten times already. Bloody amazin, lad.’

I sit down and blink at what looks like an ordinary mug of coffee in a sumptuous, old room while he lowers into his seat and motions a large-screen tablet like I should know what he means.

I shake my head. Feeling completely clueless about everything.

‘You, lad.’

‘What about me?’

‘On here!’

‘Sorry? On where?’

‘Have you not bloody seen it? He’s not bloody seen it. Someone must have sent you t’link.’

‘Link?’ I ask, feeling stupid and sluggish.

‘Bloody heck. Right. Here. Cop a load of this, then.’

He twists the tablet and sends it scooting over to me, then reaches over to press the arrow play button, and the screen fills with a recording of me standing outside the door to the mortuary, facing Rutherford and Sawyer. Skally and Jeb slightly off to one side. The eight armed Marines in a semi-circle. It must have been recorded from the back door of the clinic.

‘Jim’s voice is getting louder …’

‘That’s Ben Bevan, the artist,’ I say with a blink at Ed Butler before looking back at the footage.

Ethan Sawyer shouting at me to move aside. Skally saying, I’ll bloody move him. Then Ethan shouting at Rutherford, but not every word is captured. Just a few here and there. The wind and the others in the clinic muttering, and even the rustle of Ben Bevan, the artist’s, jacket blot a lot of the sounds. But the way it looks is nuts. Me on my own. In uniform. Refusing to budge. Rutherford shouting. Then me shouting back at them all. I hear Tash whispering, Jim! Oh my god. What are you doing?

Then I hear Ethan yelling, We are taking that body!

Thank god that bit was captured. But I can’t take my eyes off it. And the next bit is very quick too. The whole lot of them seem to surge at me as I draw and extend my baton and lower into the striking stance and yell at them to get back. I hear the people in the clinic muttering in alarm and Rutherford and Ethan shouting.

Then it’s insane, with Ben Bevan, the artist, running behind Tash, closer to me, as Aiden and Stan come out of the mortuary. To be honest. I didn’t really comprehend they were there. It was all so fast and tense. Then Skally goes for it, and all hell breaks loose. He tries to punch me, and I get the baton down on his fist. He pulls back, and then Aiden and Stan are on him, punching him in the head.

‘Bloody hell!’ I say at the sight of it. Seeing them laying into Skally and driving him back as Tash is the next one to run in. Then Aiden’s giving Jeb a belter to the face, and Tash is spraying everyone, and Stan is beckoning the Marines to come and fight him.

A few seconds at most. Then they’re pulling back, and my team are back in the doorway to the mortuary with Ben Bevan, the artist, in the line with us, still filming.

Viewing it makes the hairs on my neck stand on end as a weird feeling runs down my spine. Then I clock the view count on the upload site.

‘Jesus fu– … over three million? How the …? But …’

‘That’s just Ben Bevan’s footage,’ Ed Butler says and reaches over to hit pause. ‘Lauren and Callum Evans uploaded theirs and got a million plus, but they’ve taken it down, and thankfully Andy Trelawny didn’t have a clue how to put a video on t’internet.’

I blink at the way he says their names like he knows them. Like he knows what happened.

‘Tash didn’t put hers up. She offered it for evidence, though. And … I saw this and all,’ he says, closing that screen to bring another one up. This time showing the view from my body-worn video. ‘And yours captures every bloody word you said and what they said … And everything else you did, lad. Get your coffee. You look like you need it.’

I do need it. I drink the coffee.

‘Anyway. Before we go on. From me. Bloody well done. And I mean that. That took some balls, that did. Let me shake your hand as a man, and this is from me, not the Home Secretary or the Deputy PM.’

It’s all so surreal. I stand up and shake hands with him. He even pats the back of my hand in his and nods at me all manly and earnestly. ‘My dad were a bobby.’

Of course! Ed Butler is famous for that. For his dad being a beat bobby and always having a relative connected to different trades. Factories and railways and even the NHS.

‘Go on. Sit back down. And I grew up right by Whitby. Half my uncles were trawlermen and what not. Crabs and lobsters mostly. Hardest game there is. Blink at me or nod, Jim, lad. Are you processing this?’

I nod and blink. Then clear my throat. ‘Sorry. I was … It’s all a bit–’

‘Aye. Is, ain’t it?’ he says with a wink. ‘But we need to get into the nuts and bolts of it. We had Lauren and Callum get theirs down. But that Ben Bevan weren’t having any of it. Famous artist. Did you know that? Does realism, sometimes with weird, abstract stuff, but he’s good, mind. Been in The Tate and exhibited in New York. But thankfully his footage don’t pick up what’s been said, which makes it a win-win all round, really.’

‘A what? A win-win?’

‘Aye,’ he says and sits back with a sigh. ‘Marines look grand cos they’re refusing to leave a man behind. You know what the yanks are like. Gung-ho bloody Rambo and all that. And you look grand for holding your line with a bloody truncheon against that lot holding their bloomin’ M4 assault rifles. The US love it, and we bloomin’ love it. Win-win.’

But that’s not right, and it must show on my face as I draw air to speak, but he waves a hand and cuts me off. ‘I know what your gonna say, but this is a tricky situation, Jim. Hence why you’re here, talking to me on your own in a private room.’

It hits me fully then. That I am, indeed, talking to the Home Secretary on my own in a private room.

‘Official word’ll be I wanted to shake your hand, what with my dad being a bobby, and I’ve always stood up for our boys and girls in blue. Mind your language, Ed. Get in trouble saying that now. Our police personnel,’ he adds in a dry tone with an eyeroll. ‘People actively look to get offended now, Jim. That’s half the problem. But right. Rutherford.’

‘Rutherford. Yes. Okay, I know the evidence is weak at the moment, but I–’

‘He’s untouchable, Jim.’

‘Eh? What? But he trafficked that lad into the base.’

Ed Butler shakes his head. Not with an expression that he doesn’t believe me, but more like he’s resigned to whatever is going on.

‘He’s connected, Jim. See. I wouldn’t say that to many folk. Not that direct. But I seen all your footage and read your reports you handed over. You’re an honest man. You’ve got integrity, but you’re not a bloomin’ idiot neither. You know how this world works. Some folk are too high.’

‘He fu–! Sorry.’

‘You’re alright, lad. He’s an aristocrat, Jim. His family were lords back in the day. I heard the other party wanted to give the peerage back. Which might happen in a year and a half at the next election. But as of now–’

‘Sir. Sorry. Rutherford probably trafficked that young man into the US military base. Have you got a charger? I can show you the pictures of his wrists and ankles. He must have been tied up. I don’t have my phone. They took it. But I can–’

‘I read it, lad. But like you said, it’s weak. No body. No evidence. That Harringford is dead. Barry Squires is dead. Sam Squires blew his own bloomin’ head off.’

‘What about–?’

‘And we won’t get a foot inside that base, Jim.’

‘They bloody doped me! Sawyer gave me a burger laced with cocaine!’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes!’

‘You saw him put the cocaine in the burger, did you? Cos that’s what any defence barrister’ll ask. Not that we’ll ever get anywhere near him to ask the question in first place. Sawyer’ll be on the next bloomin’ sub back to the states. And if we did push, they’ll say it were some disgruntled worker in the burger place. As for Rutherford, he’s got half the phone numbers for the other party’s shadow cabinet in his directory.’

‘Are you bloody joking?’ I snap, glaring at the man without any regard to him being the Home Secretary.

‘I’m not, Jim,’ he says without any show of being offended.

‘I can’t … He’s got to face–’

‘Thought you’d react like this. I said to meself, Ed, you’re gonna have to level with Jim. I don’t blame you. Not after seeing all that,’ he says with a wave to the tablet. Then he shifts and leans forward, pressing his forearms into the table and fixing me with a steady look. ‘Here’s the thing,’ he says in a quieter voice. ‘We’re allies with the US. Right? Best mates. They go to war. We go with ’em. That sort of thing. But they’re still another country, Jim. And if they have bases in our country, then we want to know what the bloody hell they’re doing on them.’

I get a sudden sinking feeling, which, again, must reflect on my face because he nods like he’s seeing my understanding.

‘So sometimes we have to do what it takes to get that. Do you understand me, Jim?’

‘Rutherford is a spy?’

‘He’s not bloody James Bond, you daft ape. He’s a nasty piece of work, and I can’t stand him. I hate his sort. I hate everything about him.’

‘Take him down, then! You’re the Deputy Prime Minister. There are suggestions he could be running guns or drugs through that base. And people, from the looks of it.’

‘Jim, lad. You’re not an immature activist with no idea how the world works. Sometimes guns are needed in places that can’t be officially supplied. If someone like Rutherford can facilitate the arming of, say, a guerilla outfit on the African continent to oppose a brutal regime … Or there might be another region rich in natural resources that China is propping up, and so other powers might want to weaken their hold. It’s a mucky world, Jim. And I’m not saying Rutherford is a spy. But if he’s in that base and sees something awry, he’s connected enough to slip a whisper in amongst his hobnobbing chums. You know how things work, Jim. Even the police use informants.’

I sit back with a hundred things ready to come out of my mouth, driven by indignation and outrage. I think to demand justice and retribution. Then I snort a dry, humourless laugh on remembering how Sam’s face changed as he processed the information mentally and emotionally. Which, no doubt, I am doing right now.

In the end, I nod bitterly because he’s Ed Butler, the Deputy Prime Minister, and I’m just a DC.

When I glance over, I see him staring at me intently and remind myself that I’m talking to someone who went from a working-class background to a mainstay in British politics. Which means he’s operating on levels I probably can’t grasp.

‘So that’s it?’ I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

He nods, then shrugs. ‘That bit is. Sawyer and Rutherford. As for Barry? You get the full credit for that outstanding work.’

‘It wasn’t outstanding. It was messy.’

‘But you got the right man, Jim. And aye, things do get messy, which is when we get the measure of the man, or person, I should say. It’s one thing solving murders in big teams in clean and dry offices, what with forensics and all that. But you were out there on your Jack Jones. Cut off from tech and doing it the old-fashioned way. Following your nose and not backing down. Lad. Credit where credit is due. And I can see you squirming, but that’s cos you’re a working class doer and not comfortable with attention. You solved two murders, Jim.’

‘What about Harringford?’

‘He fell during an exercise.’

‘He was trying to reach me. He had a note.’

‘Jim. He died a hero during a tragic accident. He did tours in combat. Nobody wants him deserting his post. Cos that’s what it’ll be.’

I wince at the realisation that he’s right. Harringford did commit desertion. Despite the circumstances.

‘Hang on. No, no, no. You said two murders. That lad in Barry’s car. That can’t be bru–’

‘The poor migrant, you mean.’

I was about to say that can’t be brushed off. But it clearly can. ‘A migrant?’

‘Gallymay gets them now and then. He probably landed on t’shore, and Barry scooped him up; then, his husband Sam catches him and leaps to conclusions. I’m being told that water is too dangerous to get him back up.’

‘I took DNA samples.’

‘Aye. That’s good. Right. Listen. You’re gonna get the police medal for this. Meet the King and all that.’

‘Oh god, no.’

‘You bloody will. You’re all over internet. You’ll hate the attention. I know that, but folk are like goldfish now. Give ’em a few days, and they’ll have moved on. Do you want to do any press interviews?’

‘No!’

‘Thought not. We’ll put a release out saying you want privacy. As for your task force. Eh? I bloody love that. The Task Force. I wish they could make a movie. I’d watch it. We’ve spoken to Tash and Aiden. Rutherford’ll be told to bugger off and not block Aiden’s boat from docking cos of who he is and what he did.’

‘Who?’

‘Aiden. He were Special Forces. Did he not tell you?’

‘He said he was in the marines.’

‘Aye. Then he went into the SBS. There’s a line with those guys even Rutherford wouldn’t want to cross.’

I think back to the utter certainty in Aiden when he said Jeb wouldn’t fire a gun near Tash for fear of Aiden hunting him down. Which now seems a lot more realistic, given that he was in the Navy’s equivalence of the SAS.

‘Anyway, lad,’ Ed Butler says with a sigh. ‘That smooths that over and keeps them happy. Doctor Patel doesn’t want any issues cos he’s on a cushy number and can watch birds all day. Lauren and Callum have been slipped a few quid. So has Andy. We can’t do nowt about Ben Bevan, the artist. But he only saw that final bit going on, and he hates mainstream media and has already told ’em to bugger off. The news channels, I mean.’

I watch him speak and how he reels it off. Making it all tidy and neat. Apart from one last loose end.

‘And that leaves you,’ he says, fixing me a look.

‘I won’t say anything. I mean. If you’re saying there is a bigger picture thing, then …’

‘There is, Jim. And it means a lot that you’re taking my word on that. Right. Promotion. Posting. Where do you want to go?’

I snort a laugh. Shaking my head. It prompts a laugh from him that seems to ease the tension somewhat.

‘And it’s not a bribe. It’s a reward for your sterling service to your country. Up to you. You can go back to your team, but I’d caution against that, Jim. You won’t fit back in after what you went through. Go somewhere new. Anywhere you want. Immediate promotion. No boards, and I’ll sort the transfer, effective immediate. And I want to put you on the accelerated promotion scheme. You’ll be an inspector within eighteen months.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Or, if you really want, Jim. I can put you down on permanent attachment to the Home Office and lose you in departments. You can go and play golf all day if you want.’

‘Golf?’

‘Aye. I can’t stand it either. Thought I’d offer, but I reckoned you wouldn’t take it. Have a think. Anywhere in the country. Eh. You know who needs a sergeant?’

‘Where? Oh god. Not a chance,’ I say as he bursts out laughing. ‘I’m literally never setting foot on that island ever again.’

‘Get off with you, lad! You liked it in the end.’

I shake my head while laughing and thinking that I hate that island. But then I think about Aiden and Stan and Tash and Ella. And how Ella wrapped my knee in the bandage that was still visible on that footage. I think about the night we did the stakeout and can’t help but smile. ‘Bumhugs,’ I mutter with a snort. The fish and chips in the pub. Spag bol night. Man. Tash’s food was amazing. I even started laughing again. I haven’t laughed for years. Then I frown when I think about Callum being clouted by Barry and how that lad’s home life needs some intervention. The simplest solution that springs to my mind would be to get him working at the store. Then he’ll gain some sense of loyalty and stop nicking from Kam. Lauren too. She wants to join up. But she needs to pack it in smoking weed with Stevie. And all those cars without MOTs. That’s an easy fix too really. Get some testers over from the mainland and have an amnesty.

‘Aye. It’d never work anyway,’ Ed says as I pull back from my thoughts to look at him. ‘You on Gallymay. Bloomin’ heck. Could you imagine it?’ he asks with a laugh, but his eyes stay fixed on mine. ‘Rubbing Rutherford up the wrong way every chance you get. No! Never work … And he’s tried putting calls in, saying he wants you banned from ever going there.’

‘Did he now?’ I ask quietly, holding Ed Butler’s eye contact that, I swear, has a certain glint in it. ‘Right. Well. In that case … Yeah, honestly. I’m literally never going back there.’

He bursts out laughing. I smile too.

But the glint is still there.

In both our eyes.

THIRTY-TWO

Tuesday, 4 th February

I read the name plate on the door.

POLICE SERGEANT JIM GREENE .

A new life. A new posting. Ed was right. I couldn’t go back to my old life and team. Not after what I did on Gallymay.

I pull my utility belt on and my yellow police jacket over my stab vest and head out for a walk.

To be honest, I never went back to my old station. I didn’t want to see my old team. I can’t explain why I felt like that. And I didn’t call Cat either when I finally got a charger. But by then, she’d sent me a lot of messages.

‘God, Jim! You can go anywhere you want!’ she said on the phone when we finally connected. ‘I mean. Wow! And you’re on the acceleration promotion scheme! You’ll be the same rank as me soon! That evens it all up. Honestly, though. I was thinking I could do with a new start. You know. How about one of the cities? The MET have got some incredible opportunities for female officers seeking to make ACPO level. Urgh! Sorry. Not ACPO now, is it? The National Police Chiefs’ Council. I could be a superintendent within two years. Ha! Then I’d still be two ranks above you …’

I said I’d have a think. I haven’t spoken to her since that call. I didn’t even go to the house we’d shared to collect anything. I didn’t want anything. It’s weird. I can’t explain it.

A new life. A new posting.

That’s all I could think about, and I guess that meant leaving it all behind. All of it. Everything.

Ed Butler was right about what happened on Gallymay too, because it has changed me. I don’t feel the need for validation now–but then as the therapist they connected me with said, It will take time for you to process what happened. It was only an intro meeting. She was nice enough and offered to take me on if I wanted counselling. I said I’d let her know.

But now I’m here. In my new life, ready to start my new posting.

I think back to how much I hated Gallymay and that I swore I would never go back there. I meant it too. The closeness of them all and how they were all living in each other’s pockets and knowing everyone else’s business.

It wasn’t for me. That’s for sure.

I feel a buzz in my pocket and pull my phone out to see two new messages. I read the first, then quickly tap into the next one with another surreal moment in my life.

Good luck, Jim! Here if you need owt. Ed.

Jesus. The Home Secretary just text me. How weird is that?

Bumhugs! Ha! Love it

I smile at his follow-up line and send a laughing face emoji back.

A few minutes later, I reach the house I need and knock on the door then wait until it’s opened. ‘Hi. Sorry to disturb you. I’m Police Sergeant Jim Greene. I understand there has been a terrible accident here.’

‘Yes! Wanna bandage?’ Ella asks as she runs in to hug me.

‘I definitely need a bandage.’

‘Here he is!’ Aiden says as I step into the cosy lounge to get greeted by him and Stan giving me hugs. ‘Did you get the garlic bread? I texted you.’

‘JIM!’ Tash calls, rushing in with a wooden spoon dripping tomato sauce. She pulls me into a big hug, squeezing me tight, then kisses my cheek as I pull back and look into her green eyes tearing up.

‘Bless. Don’t cry.’

‘I was cutting onions, you twazzock,’ she says and swipes me with the spoon, thereby smearing tomato sauce all over my yellow police jacket. ‘Oh, god! I’m such a banana. Right. Get it off. I’ll give it a rub. Eh? Said the nun to the priest …’

‘Tash!’ I say with a groan.

‘Cor! Those cheeks gone all toasty!’ Aiden quips with him and Stan holding their hands close to my blushing face. The smell of cooking rich in the air. The TV on, showing cartoons. Tash pulls my jacket off; then, Ella leads me to a chair because my hand is broked and needs a bandage. As, apparently, Aiden’s and Stanley’s also did, judging by them also having unicorn bandages on their wrists and elbows.

‘Ooh! Did you get the garlic bread!?’ Tash calls, rushing out from the kitchen to take the bag I put down when I came in.

‘Kam put some aside for me,’ I say. ‘Apparently Janice told Mikey Evans that Stan was going for spag bol night again, and Mikey told Stevie when he went to get the money for the damage from that car accident, and Stevie told Lauren, who then told Callum, who went to the shop cos he’d seen there was only one packet of garlic bread left when he was filling the shelves.’

‘Yeah. I didn’t get any of that. Who did what?’ Stan asks as I feel Tash’s arms wrap around me from behind as she plants another kiss on my cheek.

‘Less of that. I’m your sergeant.’

‘Pah. Bumhugs,’ she says. ‘I’m just so glad you came back! I said to Aid and George. I said we’d never see him again.’

‘I hoped we wouldn’t,’ Aiden says.

‘What do you think about my idea anyway?’ I ask as Tash goes back into the kitchen.

‘Community Support Officer?’ she asks with a slow nod.

‘Means you can start straight away, and you’ll get paid.’

‘That’s perfect for you, that is, Tash,’ Stanley says. ‘And we need a good hand for those bloody egg thieves. That’s the Task Force’s next mission, that is.’

‘Not a task force,’ I say.

‘TASK FORCE!’ they all cheer.

‘Bumhugs!’ Ella calls.

‘Oi!’ Tash tells her.

‘You taught her to say it!’ I say, then dodge the spoon being waved at me.

I swore never to come back to this island. But like Ed said. Gallymay changed me, and that was the old Jim Greene that said that. That was DC Jim Greene.

Not Police Sergeant Jim Greene–and I didn’t come back for the island anyway.

I came back for this.

For these people.

For my new family.

Anyway. That was a once in a lifetime event.

I’m sure Policing Gallymay isn’t anything like that normally.

‘Have you tried them all?’ Tash asks the next morning as we gather in front of the still locked door to the second flat above the station.

‘Yes!’ I say again, holding a double handful of keys.

‘No, but have you, though? I mean proper tried.’

‘Argh! Just get the bosher,’ Aiden says with a mock cry of exasperation. ‘Bloody hell, Jimbo! Look at him run!’

‘Jim said I can do it!’ Stan yells over his shoulder as he runs away along the corridor and out of sight, down the stairs.

‘Sam might have lobbed them in the sea with Barry’s stuff,’ Aiden suggests a second later. We never did recover Barry’s phone or wallet or any of his keys. The working theory now being that Sam threw them in the sea or got rid of them somehow.

‘Why would Sam ditch the keys to the flats?’ Tash asks. The door to flat number one open so we can keep an eye on Ella in my lounge bandaging Mrs Puppy Pooface. That being the name of the cuddly toy she said I had to take so I don’t get lonely, and which is now wearing a bandage like everything else in Ella’s life. Actual real bandages too. Stan gave her a load and taught her how to wrap them. I’ve never seen a kid so happy in my life.

‘He probably just grabbed keys and chucked them without thinking,’ I say in reply as we look at the many, many keys we’ve found in the station. None of which fit this door.

Which is a problem because the new officers from the mainland are due soon, and they’ll need somewhere to stay.

‘You haven’t opened it, have you?’ Stan asks with a gasp as he reaches the top of the stairs while lugging the heavy door enforcer. ‘I’m proper buzzing. Always wanted to do this.’

‘Okay. So. It’s a wooden door with a single central lock. Aim just below the handle and one hit should do it,’ I say as we clear back and let Stan line himself up and take a few practise swings while reshuffling his feet and adjusting his stance.

‘It’s not bloody golf,’ Aiden says with a laugh. ‘Just hit it!’

‘Go on, Stan!’ Tash urges as Stan gives a shout and slams the enforcer into the door way too hard and sends the whole thing flying off the hinges.

‘Jesus, Doc!’ Aiden says as we back up with us three laughing at the sight of Stan overextending and falling in after the swing. ‘Best day ever. That was better than Jimbo with Barry’s door.’

‘Eh! I got it open, though, and in one hit,’ Stan says, all puffed up and happy. ‘But yeah. You might need a new door.’

‘Nah. You can put that one back on,’ Aiden says as me and him and Stan peer down at the door lying in the inner hallway while Tash pushes past. ‘New hinges. Bit of filler. Be fine,’ Aiden says.

‘Filler?’ I ask, giving him a look. ‘Remind me never to go on your boat. Bloody filler?’

‘Eh. Speaking of that. Dolphins are out on the eastern point,’ Stan says.

‘Good time of year to see them,’ Aiden adds.

‘Er, fellas?’ Tash calls.

‘Mate. Honestly. I’ll puke,’ I say. ‘I was puking on the way back over here and, it was calm as anything.’

‘I can’t stand people puking. I get proper gag reflex. Honestly. I’m such a crap doctor,’ Stan admits with a smile to more snorts of laughter from me and Aiden.

‘Fellas!’ Tash calls again.

‘What?’ Aiden calls to her, then looks back to me. ‘Just puke then. Don’t let it put you off.’

I frown for a second, figuring that’s why he excelled at being a special forces soldier. Because the prospect of discomfort doesn’t bother him. But then again. He’s also right.

‘Seriously!’ Tash says with a rare snap to her voice, cutting us off as we go into the lounge to join her.

The four of us in a line. Our heads turning this way and that. Staring in silence at the board on the wall.

That being the big, old-fashioned crime board right in front of us. Complete with strands of red string linking phrases handwritten on white cards. Rutherford’s name. Sawyer. Jeb and Skally. Harringford. Dates of shipments.

Which means Barry Squires wasn’t turning a blind eye after all.

He was building a case in secret.

Then we all peer in at the card in the middle. The one written in Barry’s handwriting with red string pointing to the names of Rutherford and Sawyer.

Deceased #1: Unknown Male

‘Eh. You know what this means?’ Tash murmurs as we all look at her. ‘Means more murder crime on Gallymay …’

YOU HAVE BEEN READING….

A er a t e t ye po n ca m a m wa to
te a s o y t a ge el refl d t e re y of mo n
la en c e t in t e UK

If yo ha en d t i s o y p e le me a
re

Muc lo

R Hay

Table of Contents

- PROLOGUE
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- You Have Been Reading…