November 2024

The sky had ruptured before Elisabeth Bailey arrived, spilling snow across the half-frozen path and uneven grass verges, filling footprints, blurring tyre marks, erasing every fragile thing left behind. Any more of it and the scene would be gone.

Light fractured across the gravestones, throwing shadows everywhere. Half a dozen chequered BMWs blocked the lane, electric blue strobes cutting through the white haze. Beyond them, uniformed officers milled, four fingers from each hand tucked inside the armholes of their stab vests to ward off the cold.

Elisabeth was out of the car and striding towards the cemetery before the engine had stopped, Boyd hurrying after as she shouldered through the reporters and ducked beneath the barrier without answering their shouted questions.

“Who’s in charge here?”

The officer tugged one hand from his vest and beckoned over a man with too much hair gel and an ill-fitting Tyvek suit.

“Tony Rennet, ma’am. Crime scene manager.” He unhooked his mask.

“DCI Elisabeth Bailey, deputy SIO, Operation Nutmeg. This is DS Tom Boyd. What’ve you got?”

“Female victim, approximately five years of age. Lacerations to the neck and abdomen. She was discovered about 9am by a dog walker.”

Elisabeth steadied herself. “Is it her?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”

She let out a slow breath and surveyed the scene.

“We’ll need tents up fast. If the ground isn’t frozen through, we might have a track.”

“In progress, ma’am.”

In the far corner of the field, an area of about 200 square feet had been cordoned off. “Who’s been over there?”

“Other than the dog walker and the responding officer who secured the perimeter straight away, only I’ve been up. The CSI and photographer stayed on stepping plates.”

“Good.” She could still see the others as they’d been found, different graveyards, the same careful placement, the same manufactured serenity. He didn’t rush, because he had the time they kept giving him.

“What about the pathologist?”

“In the command vehicle, getting suited and booted, ma’am.”

The shrill vibration of Elisabeth’s phone cut through the cold air. She stepped away from Boyd and the CSM, still cataloguing the scene as she answered it.

“Bailey.”

“Is it her?” the voice of Superintendent Andy Crane, her boss, thundered down the line.

“I haven’t laid eyes on her, but yes, I believe so.”

“Christ,” Crane sighed. “Are the press there?”

Elisabeth scrutinised the small crowd on the other side of the police line. “Yes.”

“Shite, that’s all we bloody need. No statements, okay? I don’t even want you saying ‘no comment’ until we’ve war-roomed it with the Press Office. The media are just waiting for us to fuck up.”

“Understood.”

“We need a break, Elisabeth. He’s not going to stop.”

“I know.” Her mind was already mapping the next critical hours. The body, the scene, the family, the post-mortem. The snow was still falling.