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  Upstairs, the windows were either cracked or missing. Only the bathroom was intact, sporting a seventies-style avocado-coloured bath suite. Lambert turned the taps but nothing but air fell from the openings.

  After securing all the rooms, they spent the next thirty minutes searching every inch of the building for signs of recent occupation. ‘If he’s been here he’s cleaned up after himself,’ said Lambert. It had always been a long shot but he understood the disappointment on Sarah’s face.

  The sun came up and they watched the surrounding fields slowly come to life. ‘Strange no one has done this place up. It’s a lovely spot,’ said Lambert.

  ‘From the land registry records it’s been owned by the same people for fifty years. Didn’t get any response yesterday. I’ve left messages at their last recorded address.’

  ‘What were the names?’

  ‘The Hurst family.’

  The name meant nothing to him. He gazed out at the grassland and was reminded of his time at Waverley Manor. Was it coincidence that brought him here the day after he’d visited the site? Waverley Manor was less open than the farmhouse, but who knew what lay beyond the woodland.

  Lambert had long believed the group known as the Manor could have more secret locations similar to Waverley Manor. It had been a major part of the interrogations following the arrests but none of the men cracked, only Jonathan Barnes hinting at other sites.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ he said to Sarah, heading off into the fields.

  When they reached the woodland perimeter, Lambert realized how difficult searching the area would be. With Waverley Manor he’d had a location to work with and found the trapdoor to the underground prison within fifty or so metres from the derelict Manor itself. Here he faced acres and acres of forest.

  They walked through the dense woodland area for thirty minutes, Sarah tracking their progress on her phone so they could find their way back. ‘I appreciate you going to this trouble, Michael, but I think I may have made a mistake.’

  They took a different route back. Lambert caught some movement through the trees and followed the sound, watching what appeared to be a wild boar disappearing into the undergrowth. Surprised such animals lived in deepest Norfolk, he was about to share with Sarah what he’d seen when sunlight bounced off an object on the ground.

  ‘What have you got?’ said Sarah.

  Lambert bent down to retrieve the object. ‘A tent peg.’

  ‘Is there even room here for a tent?’ said Sarah, bending down to examine the area.

  ‘I’m sure a one-man tent would fit in this space. I’m no expert, mind you.’

  ‘Why would you camp here?’

  ‘To be at one with nature,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Or to escape from reality.’

  They scoured the surrounding area for further signs of life but it was a job beyond the scope of two officers.

  ‘How can I call it in? I can hardly explain I came here on the off-chance after speaking to Anna Saunders,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Not on the basis of one tent peg, no.’

  ‘Let’s work this methodically. We’ll move out in increasing circles. I have some scene tape so we can mark where we’ve been. We can give it an hour and reassess.’

  They spent the next two hours scouring the site, Lambert’s clothes filthy from crawling on the ground, his hands and face scratched from too many encounters with low-lying brambles. Eventually their hard work paid off, Sarah uncovering an area where the ground had recently been dug. The earth was cold but not frozen. Sarah told Lambert to stand back as she pulled at the ground with her gloved hands. They exchanged looks and the occasional smile, both appreciating how mad their actions were. Only when Sarah uncovered the arm of the corpse did they realize their search hadn’t been in vain.

  They didn’t want to disturb the crime scene but needed to check the identity of the body. Removing the shallow covering of earth with care, Sarah uncovered the face of the frozen corpse.

  ‘That’s not Saunders,’ said Lambert.

  ‘No, that’s his prison guard.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lambert and Sarah retreated from the makeshift grave.

  ‘John Prine,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Probably outlived his usefulness,’ said Lambert.

  They searched the surrounding area for camping gear. ‘I guess we have to work from the assumption he came here with Saunders and they camped for some time before Saunders decided he was better off alone,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Saunders may have a rendezvous point he was aiming for.’

  ‘Or he may still be in the woods. You should call it now, Sarah.’

  ‘What about you?’

  It would be better for both of them if Lambert’s presence at the discovery of the body went unrecorded. Sarah had been careful not to let him near the gravesite and he would be unlucky if his DNA was discovered. ‘We either take the risk and I head back, or we say you wanted some company and you asked me to help. It’s your call. I’ll go with whatever you decide.’

  In the end they decided Sarah would say she came alone. ‘I’ll tell them I came on a hunch having spoken to Anna Saunders and I didn’t want to waste their time.’

  She drove Lambert to the nearest train station before calling it in. ‘It was great working with you again,’ said Lambert as she pulled into the car park.

  ‘It’s not too late, I’m happy to stay here and get my knuckles wrapped,’ he said, noticing her agitated look.

  ‘It’s fine. You go. Take this though,’ she said, handing him her burner phone. ‘Just in case. I’ll keep you updated, I promise.’

  Lambert hesitated. He wanted to say more but was momentarily at a loss for words.

  ‘Get going before you’re missed,’ said Sarah, rescuing him from his awkwardness.

  * * *

  He was back at headquarters before lunchtime. If the team were suspicious about his absence and battered appearance, they knew better than to question him. ‘Matilda,’ he said, walking to his office.

  ‘Sir,’ said Matilda, following him.

  ‘Close the door.’

  He told her about where he’d been with Sarah. ‘This can go no further, Matilda. You can’t even tell Tillman,’ said Lambert, thinking Tillman was probably the last person who should know.

  ‘You think Saunders is in that vicinity?’ said Matilda, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  ‘We’ll find out more once the pathologist arrives. They’ll search every inch of that land, especially if MI5 are involved.’

  ‘How does this relate to us?’

  ‘I’m not sure. If Saunders was with Prine it would suggest he wasn’t directly involved with Beckinsale and Jenkins but we thought that anyway. It doesn’t rule out the Manor’s involvement. It could still be diversionary. Do you have anything else for me?’

  ‘Nothing linking the cases whatsoever, aside from your name being found at the scene and them being your old cases. I met with Dr Harrington this morning. She confirmed the body was moved post-mortem. The cause of death was the blow to the head and the bones were manipulated into position after Jenkins was dead, which I suppose we can be thankful for.’

  ‘That is the smallest of blessings, Matilda.’

  As she was leaving, DS Bickland popped his head around the corner. ‘A word, sir?’

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Maybe you should hear this too, Matilda,’ said Bickland. The DS had put on weight recently and his breathing was heavy. ‘I was thinking about what we discussed yesterday, searching for a link between Jenkins, Beckinsale and the Manor. As you know, neither had criminal records so I looked at it a different way.’

  ‘What way?’ said Lambert.

  ‘I considered them as potential victims. I looked into Jenkins’ history first as he is the youngest. Now I appreciate I maybe clutching at straws, looking at something that wasn’t there, but one of Jenkins’ primary school teachers was suspended when Jenkins was aged ten. George Forrest was never
formally charged with anything but there were reports of inappropriate behaviour. He’d been alone in the boys’ toilets on a few occasions, and fellow staff members were concerned by his closeness to some of the children. Basically, he’d been breaking safeguarding procedures.’

  ‘It’s an interesting lead,’ said Lambert. ‘You’re right though, it’s one hell of a leap to the Manor.’

  ‘As I said, it was just a thought. Forrest left the profession not long after being suspended.’

  ‘You’re thinking Jenkins was somehow involved with him?’

  ‘Worth checking.’

  ‘You speak to the head teacher. I don’t suppose you can link this teacher with Beckinsale?’

  ‘No. Alistair Beckinsale is much older than Forrest, but it’s an angle to consider.’

  ‘Matilda?’

  ‘I’ll get the team onto it.’

  * * *

  Lambert changed into the spare suit he kept in the office. Even if Bickland’s suggestion was little more than a punt it was a move forward as far as Lambert was concerned. It was unlikely Forrest would end up being linked with the Manor but asking such questions often resulted in unexpected answers and potential new leads.

  He glanced at his phone and realized he’d done little else since returning from Norfolk. He’d destroyed both burner phones and Sarah wouldn’t be so careless as to phone him directly, even from a payphone. Still, he wanted to hear from her. Spending last night in her company made him realize he’d never fully come to terms with their separation. The split was artificial. Sarah’s affection eased once Jane was born and it was at her insistence he try again with Sophie. It didn’t feel like something she would do, but had she been testing him, and he too dumb to realize? There’d been no recriminations, no prolonged arguments or fights, only a sad goodbye which never felt final. This made the current situation twice as complicated. He had a daughter now, and he loved Sophie. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about Sarah?

  He visited the canteen and ordered lunch. He’d managed a couple of hours’ sleep on the train back from Norfolk but was still wearing yesterday’s underwear. His face was rough with stubble and he was in need of a shower. Playing with the chicken dish in front of him, he drank black coffee – the canteen’s only saving grace – and tried to formulate what he could do next. His thoughts were still with Sarah. He was desperate to know what was happening with Saunders, and though he was sure news would reach him if they found the escaped convict, it was difficult being out of the loop.

  DS Bickland’s lead made him think. Of the four victims in the investigations, it could be assumed that Thomas Powell, killed by his aunt, and Lance Jenkins, killed by unknown assailants, were innocent victims. He took out his notebook and wrote his thoughts on paper. Next to Powell and Jenkins he wrote first ‘innocent’, then ‘victim’.

  The same could not be said of Webster. Electrocuted by his daughter and wife, Webster had systematically abused both his family members for years. He wrote down Webster’s name and drew a line pointing to a second word ‘guilty’. Finally he wrote ‘Alistair Beckinsale?’.

  He had no way of knowing what it meant, if it meant anything at all, but it gave him fresh impetus. He purchased a second cup of coffee and took it back to his office where he searched for records of Dominic Webster’s widow and daughter.

  The pair had moved to a small village twenty miles outside Leeds. Using the System he found recent bank and work records. The mother, Kate Webster, was retired. The daughter, Eleanor Webster, worked as a teaching assistant at a local primary school.

  Lambert sat back from his laptop. What good would it do to contact them now? The files were clear on what Webster had done to them, and the threat he posed, and no charges were ever brought against them. Both women would have to live with what he’d done on a daily basis and it was unlikely a visit from Lambert would uncover anything further, while it would undoubtedly cause distress.

  Webster was guilty of abuse; that was evident. Was Beckinsale guilty for some unknown crime?

  Innocence was subjective. Beckinsale had left his wife and taken a much younger lover. To some that would equate to some form of guilt, but it was nothing in comparison to Webster’s. Beckinsale had no record, and the interviews conducted with friends and work colleagues suggested he was a good man.

  Lambert went back to the beginning. On the System he dragged up everything he could find about Beckinsale. The System was still not an official application. Out of his department, only Lambert and Tillman had access. It had existed in one form or another for years, an amalgamation of police and government databases, social media back ends, and was linked to domestic and external security service databases.

  A detailed snapshot of Beckinsale’s life appeared on screen from his birth certificate onwards. It listed all his known addresses, from his parents’ first home in East Sussex to the flat where he was found in West Hampstead. In minutes, Lambert knew the man’s exam results, his work and tax history. Although his social media presence was limited, the System accessed all the photos ever posted to Facebook, Instagram and Twitter and gave Lambert the option to view the posts Beckinsale accessed over the years.

  Lambert concentrated on the discrepancies, periods of time when Beckinsale’s life could not be fully accounted for. A period of a year existed between the time Beckinsale received his A level results and when he started university. A year out, possibly, but there was no record of where he’d gone. After graduating, there were three periods – of six months, two months, and eight months respectively – where Beckinsale had been out of work. Lambert made a note and continued searching, hoping something would spring out at him.

  He read everything intently once and then let the file play out on the screen as he processed everything he’d read. The answer, if there was one, wouldn’t necessarily come now.

  Splitting the screen in two he updated his logbook. He grimaced at the irony that he couldn’t enter the most significant entries. He recorded his visits to Mrs Powell and her sister but omitted his contact with Sarah and his visit to Waverley Manor. He could have added the latter but didn’t want to include any link to the place in the official report. For one, it would smack of obsession; his greater concern being that it would alert the Manor he was onto them.

  Something was missing; something obvious. He clicked on Beckinsale’s file and returned to the beginning once more, charting the young Beckinsale’s formative years, and finally found what he was looking for.

  It was a long shot at best, but thinking about Waverley Manor jogged his memory. Lambert’s memory was strong, if not quite photographic. He’d begun using memory techniques as a new recruit in the force. At first he’d used it to memorize the names of colleagues, suspects and witnesses. As his ability increased he’d used the techniques to memorize number plates and street names. The ability had become so ingrained he did it without thinking.

  And that was why he remembered seeing the name of the village, Fairleigh, on his way to Waverley Manor yesterday. The same Fairleigh Beckinsale had moved to aged seven.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They came in silence – no wailing sirens or flashing lights – a dark saloon car, German make with blackout windows. Sarah May watched the car from her vantage point at the abandoned farmhouse. She’d been preparing her report for the last seventy minutes, going over the details verbatim in her head. She kept mainly to the facts. Her meeting with Anna Saunders, the woman’s recollection of the farmhouse, the late-night journey and desperate scrambling in the dark until the body of John Prine was uncovered. Only, in this new version, there was no Michael Lambert.

  It was a necessary risk. She could have argued his involvement away. He was a trusted officer and knew the Manor as well as anyone on the force, had been instrumental in its discovery and partial destruction. Yet the security services didn’t work that way. At best, she was considered a necessary hindrance to their ongoing investigations. They marginalized her as best they could, and one th
ing they would not tolerate was outside help. Involving Lambert would be considered a betrayal and would lead to her being taken off the investigation, with more severe consequences likely down the line.

  The car glided to a stop metres from where she stood. Sarah took a deep breath as the rear door opened. Partridge stepped out like a dignitary, draped in a pure wool overcoat.

  ‘DCI May. What have you been up to?’ There was a hint of humour to his voice, undercut by the hardness of his gaze.

  ‘You may want to change your shoes,’ said Sarah, glancing at the man’s expensive-looking brogues.

  Two colleagues, neither introduced to Sarah, joined Partridge. They followed her like stalkers through the frozen grassland to John Prine’s shallow grave. The three men stood on the periphery and confirmed the deceased’s identification. None of them made a move to touch the crime scene.

  ‘Tell me again, what led you to this discovery?’ asked Partridge.

  Sarah recounted the tale she’d told Partridge on the phone. She varied the order of the details so not to sound like she was rehashing a prepared script.

  ‘You came here alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for backup?’

  ‘It was the middle of the night and it was little more than a hunch. Anna Saunders suggested this place was important to her husband but I didn’t think that warranted a full-scale search. I wanted to see what the house was like myself before concluding how best to proceed.’

  ‘And yet you went into the woods in the darkness?’ Partridge’s questioning remained neutral in tone. He wasn’t accusing her of anything directly but she sensed the undercurrent of distrust.

  ‘I was here. The house was derelict. I didn’t want to come away empty-handed.’

  ‘Quite. Well you certainly haven’t done that, DCI May. What do you think happened?’

  Sarah was surprised by the question. She wondered if Partridge was humouring her, or was genuinely interested in her opinion. ‘It would appear Prine outlasted his usefulness.’