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  ‘Prior preparation and planning prevents piss poor performance,’ she said, and smiled, as though expecting a round of applause. Rob didn’t know what to do. Kelly opened the car door. She logged the information about the back packer away in her mind for another day. Rob stopped her.

  ‘I’ll get these,’ he said. Kelly could have taken the gesture as misplaced chivalry, and been affronted, but she didn’t, and instead took it as a sign of respect.

  ‘Ok, thanks.’

  Hot air blew from outside as Rob opened his door and slammed it behind him. She watched him go. He was tall and strong, and she wondered if he’d been picked on at school for wanting to be a pig, like she had. He had an open face, and Kelly admired his enthusiasm: it was infectious and reminded her of herself at twenty-seven: all keen eyes and energy, but little experience.

  He came back to the car with two coffees, and got back in.

  ‘I brought sugar,’ he said. She took one and opened it, pouring sugar into the cup and stirring. She sipped a little and replaced the lid, popping the coffee into a holder by her door. She started the engine and they put their belts back on.

  ‘Where do you see yourself in five years, then, Rob?’ Kelly asked. He didn’t hesitate.

  ‘In charge of a case, like you.’ It was the kind of answer she’d have given at twenty-seven, before she knew better.

  ‘So, have you notified before?’ she asked, bringing him down to earth.

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Alright, just observe. It can be rough, especially with a homicide.’ Rob nodded. He was nervous, but excited.

  Kelly remembered when she’d been given a chance to tag along with the boss, as a junior officer over ten years ago now, and the exact day was fresh in her mind. It’d been a burglary gone wrong, and an old woman had been beaten to death. That day, she’d watched her DCI examine the first dead body she’d seen, and she’d wished to be like him one day.

  It was good to have the company, too.

  ‘Have you always worked for the constabulary, Rob?’

  ‘Yes, Guv. It’s where I grew up. I can’t imagine leaving. What about you?’ He’d heard that she’d worked in the Met. The idea of that fascinated him, but he knew he’d never go. Mia wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘No. I worked for The Met for fifteen years. I moved back last year,’ she said.

  ‘Bit of a shock?’ he asked. Kelly laughed.

  ‘It’s different. I think anyone who works murder squads in any city can’t keep it up for ever, it gets to you.’

  ‘I bet. I’m guessing this kind of thing is routine for you then?’

  ‘Well, I see why you’d say that, but, you know, this homicide is pretty unique. I never saw anything like it in London, I saw loads of drug related homicides and sexual violence, but this is more about the ritual, I think.’

  ‘But it’s sexual too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, but it’s not the main characteristic. We’ll have to wait for DNA to know for sure. I hope you haven’t got much planned for the next few months, we’ll be eating and sleeping this one,’ she said.

  ‘That’s why I went the detective route. My girlfriend knows that.’

  ‘Understanding girlfriend. I’ll try to go easy on you,’ she added, knowing she wouldn’t. ‘So, when not chasing homicide investigations, do you get into The Lakes much?’

  ‘Every chance I get,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah? What’s your sport?’

  ‘In the summer, I windsurf. In the winter, I climb. Have you ever tried paragliding?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t, have you?’ she replied.

  ‘Yeah, it’s amazing. I did this flight over Arthur’s Pike and the view was spectacular, I mean, just perfect. It gives you the best view of Ullswater, it was incredible. This summer I’ve done Brock Crags and some of the fells down Borrowdale. You should try it, honestly, it’s so peaceful up there, and the view…it’s incredible,’ he said.

  Kelly remembered when all she cared about was climbing and fell running, before she ran away to London to throw herself into something that couldn’t ask questions or make demands on her heart. Rob’s love of The Lakes touched her, and maybe she’d give paragliding a go one day. Slowly but surely she was falling in love with her childhood playground all over again.

  ‘I might do that. I love the Borrowdale Fells. Could you do it off Scafell Pike?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you nuts?’ he said, without thinking. Kelly looked at him and he froze. She knew he thought he’d just insulted her by the look on his face. He needed to get to know her a bit better; it’d come in time.

  ‘Yes, I am nuts, I find it helps, when you’re chasing nutters.’ She smiled, and took another slurp of coffee.

  They entered Kendal and followed satnav to the residence of Mr James Tate, husband of Moira. Their mood changed, and their thoughts turned to the victim’s husband: it was possibly the worst job of any police personnel; informing the family of the death of a loved one, and in such horrible circumstances. However, they might also be about to meet their first suspect.

  ‘I’ll do the talking,’ Kelly said, as they walked up the driveway, towards the front door. The property was handsome, and Kelly imagined that it wasn’t cheap. It matched what they already knew about Moira Tate. They were in the most desirable part of Kendal. A Mercedes sat in the driveway and it had a new plate. Flowers hung in pots and boasted the best of the summer. Kelly carried a small handbag and Rob a notepad. He was dressed smartly like her, in a shirt and tie, and Kelly wondered if, like her, he preferred sport’s kit and jeans. She wished she was paragliding off Scafell Pike. Kelly heard Rob take a deep breath and she tapped his arm in reassurance.

  The Georgian property was double fronted and the windows were clean; it was well tended. Like Moira. Kelly knocked and they stood back.

  A man, who looked to be in his sixties, answered, and smiled at them. He was disarming. He stood straight and tall as he took a pair of glasses off the end of his nose. He had a mass of white hair and reminded Kelly of The BFG. This would be hard. But then it always was.

  ‘Mr James Tate?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Tate. I’m Inspector Porter and this is Detective Constable Shawcross. We’re from North Lakes Police. May we come in?’ Kelly spoke gently and showed her badge. Rob watched.

  Mr Tate’s face sank, and he stayed, unmoved, for several seconds. He was puzzled, and a little worried. They had his attention. He’d been listening to Classic FM, wondering why Moira hadn’t called.

  ‘Of course,’ he said finally, and stood back, beckoning them into the hallway. It was as grand as Kelly had expected. The floor was a beautiful mosaic of oak, and the staircase swept away from it majestically. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and Kelly fancied herself in a magazine shoot. They stepped inside.

  ‘Please, come in,’ Mr Tate said again. He led them into a spacious drawing room and it was obvious that he’d been enjoying tea and cake when they’d called. Kelly wondered why he hadn’t reported his wife missing.

  ‘Please sit down,’ Mr Tate said. They did.

  ‘Mr Tate, do you recognise these items?’

  Kelly showed the man a clear plastic bag, inside which were Moira’s watch and rings.

  ‘Of course, they belong to my wife. Why…?’ He floundered.

  ‘Mr Tate, I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say this. We’re here to inform you of your wife’s death. We had to make sure. I’m terribly sorry.’

  The man’s face wrinkled and his mouth opened and closed. ‘Why? What? Where?’ Questions poured out of him. ‘It’s not possible.’ He attempted to laugh: a common response to horror.

  Mr Tate’s head sunk into his hands and he sobbed. ‘It can’t be, I…I saw her only two days ago. I’ll ring her, see, you’ve made a mistake.’ Mr Tate went to get up.

  ‘Mr Tate, is this your wife, Moira?’ Kelly showed him a copy of Moira’
s passport photo and he stopped dead. It was Moira. They hadn’t made a mistake.

  ‘Where is she?’ Mr Tate brought himself back under control and wiped his eyes. He coughed and straightened, embarrassed by his earlier outburst.

  ‘Carlisle. We need to perform an autopsy, Mr Tate. Your wife was murdered.’

  James Tate half sat, half fell into his armchair. His elbow knocked his newspaper, and that knocked the cup of tea, and it fell on to the carpet. For a moment, no-one moved. Mr Tate was oblivious to what had just happened, and Kelly left the room to try to find a kitchen that might have towels. Rob didn’t know what to do, so he sat down opposite the old man and simply said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Chapter 7

  Brandy Carter was bored.

  Bick snored next to her and she looked at her watch: ten p.m. She went to the fridge and took another beer; she needed to get all the freebies she could while Bick was asleep. She was mad with him and he owed her anyway. They said they’d be easy on her. Bastards: they thought it was funny, at first.

  He must have felt guilty because he’d given her two wraps plus twenty quid. The money was in her purse. The corner shop would still be open, and she was out of fags. Maybe there’d be some kids playing on the street still, despite the hour. The light nights always gave them leeway with their stupid parents, who only started to pretend to care when something went wrong.

  She remembered when her and Bick made a boy strip and then ran off with his clothes; that had been cool. But, now she couldn’t rouse Bick from his pissed slumber, and the others had gone. It looked as though she’d have to go out on her own.

  She felt unsteady on her feet. And she was sore. They’d said sorry in the end and they’d shared beers. She’d even laughed. But she wasn’t laughing now and, as she downed her beer, she felt the need to vomit, so she made her way to the bathroom. She lifted the toilet lid and knelt down, steadying herself with her free hand. She wretched but nothing came so she put her fingers down her throat and she had more success, but it didn’t make her feel any better. She flushed and stood up, and she felt less shaky.

  She didn’t expect it to be cold outside, and so left her jacket, grabbed her bag, and went to the door. The sky was turning dark, but the last of the sun made it dark purple and orange. Brandy’s vision was slightly blurred, so she didn’t stop to admire it. She was unaware that she was staggering. There was no-one about and she felt disappointed. She was in the mood to make someone feel pain, to assuage her own. The park was empty, and the Rec, as far as she could see, was deserted.

  She walked to the corner and entered the shop; a bell alerted the owner. An elderly man approached the counter and looked disapprovingly at the girl who swayed.

  ‘Ztwenty Lam-bertnbudler,’ she slurred. Brandy squeezed one eye; the guy was shaking his head.

  ‘Give ‘em to me…’ Her voice was interrupted by hiccups and the man reached out to offer his assistance. Brandy recoiled. ‘Off me!’ She stumbled.

  ‘You’re drunk. Go home. Do your parents know you’re out? A young girl shouldn’t be out at this hour, on her own in the dark.’

  Brandy went to retort, but she hiccupped instead.

  ‘Fucker.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the man swore under his breath and figured the easiest way to get rid of her would be to sell her the goddamn cigarettes. Which he did. He shook his head; these kids threw their lives away. This one was probably no more than seventeen, judging by her size and face, but her eyes and teeth belonged to a corpse.

  ‘£7.49, please.’

  Brandy handed over the twenty and received her change. She dropped some of the coins and the man went to help her.

  ‘Get yourself home, do you hear me? You need to get yourself to bed and take care of yourself.’

  ‘Get off me!’

  She staggered backwards and the man held his hands up, away from her. He knew that he was wasting his time, and went back behind the counter, watching her stagger away. A few coins remained on the floor. When she’d gone, he went to the door and locked up, toying with the idea of whether to ring the police or not. He sighed.

  Outside, Brandy opened the packet and took out a cigarette to light. She fumbled with the wrapping and tottered across the road to the Rec. She managed to get the lighter to her mouth without setting anything on fire and took a deep drag. It hit her bloodstream with a furious wave and she had to sit down. The cocktail of chemicals, mixed with the alcohol and the coke, made her want to vomit again. She’d be alright, if she could just stand up, she willed herself. She was sitting under a tree and she leant back on the trunk.

  The sky was now totally dark. She needed to get up, but the grass was so comfortable. If she could just have a little rest… Nausea caught her off guard again and she took another deep drag on her cigarette, thinking that might help.

  Before she could exhale, though, a great force wrapped around her and held something over her mouth. For a moment, she thought Bick had followed her and was helping her stand. Or perhaps it was one of the other boys: Monk or Tinny, wanting some more, out of the way of Bick’s charge. Fear gripped her as she struggled to breathe. Yes, it was Monk, she could feel his strength. She fought as hard as she could, but her body went heavy and she couldn’t seem to coordinate herself. Maybe it was all three of them.

  Brandy passed out.

  When she came to, it took what felt like ages for her senses to sharpen. Her head banged, she was terribly cold, and it was dark. She was laying down, or that’s how it felt. Her arms sent messages to her confused brain that she couldn’t move them; more than that, she was restrained. Seconds passed and her body flooded with adrenaline as her endocrine system contemplated flight, but she couldn’t flee, she was tied down.

  To a bed that wasn’t hers.

  Or Bick’s.

  Maybe it was Monk’s.

  Now, she was fully awake.

  She went to shout, but her mouth was taped over tightly. This panicked her further and her heart jumped beneath her chest. Her head hurt and she needed to pee. Then she felt the chill. She was completely naked, and her legs were bound as well. She was on a bed, of that much she was pretty sure, and each limb was tied at one of the four corners, leaving her terribly exposed, and she felt like an animal. She tried to focus and her eyes darted about frantically, but the light was so dim, and she could barely make out the ceiling and walls. She recognised nothing. The lack of oxygen, caused by the tape, was making her dizzy and she passed out again.

  When she came to for the second time, it took several long seconds to remember the information she’d processed the last time. Her brain registered that she was still restrained. Bick and his mates watched a lot of porn, and some of it, she’d seen, involved tying up games. Her chest heaved up and down. Then she became aware that she was laying on a plastic sheet. Her heart rate increased again and she pulled harder at her straps, but it hurt too much. She willed herself to think.

  A door opened and closed.

  Brandy went to speak again, but she’d forgotten about the tape, and it was just a weird mumble. If she could have spoken, she would have screamed, ‘Bick you fucking bastard, I’m gonna rip your dick off!’

  ‘Hello, Brandy,’ said a voice.

  It wasn’t Bick. Or Monk, or Tinny. Her knees trembled.

  ‘You’re a bully, aren’t you, Brandy? I don’t like bullies.’

  She struggled against her straps.

  ‘You need to be made clean, Brandy, because all that hate and nastiness has made you dirty, do you understand?’

  Brandy decided to agree with whatever the person said. They were speaking in riddles that made no sense. She nodded emphatically.

  ‘Good.’

  The person left the room.

  But not for long.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Mr Tate. I know that this is an extremely difficult time. It’s never the time to ask questions, but it would help Moira.’ Kelly’s voice was gentle and easy.

  Rob paid attention as he
watched his boss select her language and approach carefully. The old guy was clearly distraught. There was no way he was a suspect, at least that’s what Rob decided, in his haste: he examined DII Porter to see if he could work out what she thought.

  They knew that relatives would have questions of their own, but they would come in time. Some loved ones wanted to hear everything – every gory detail – so they could go forward and process; others wanted to know nothing, in an attempt to remember their dearest as they were: before their bodies were ripped apart. Some relatives were staggeringly dignified after the brutalisation of a loved one – like Jenny Davis – but others swore revenge and flew into murderous rages. James Tate didn’t look like the latter; he was broken and inside the moment. Rob daren’t say a word. Then Mr Tate spoke.

  ‘Anything. Ask me anything. I’ll help in any way I can. I don’t know anyone who might want to harm Moira, it must be an accident. A mistake perhaps?’ His face was pained, and the detectives knew that’s how it’d be for a long time to come. Kelly remembered what she’d seen outside the church in Watermillock this morning, and she doubted very much that it had been a mistake. She looked at Rob to check on how he was holding up; he was doing a great job. There was no easy way to experience this.

  ‘That was going to be my first question, Mr Tate, thank you. Can you tell us why she wasn’t reported as missing?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘She wasn’t missing. She was staying in Penrith for a few days, while she visited her mother in the hospital. It saved her driving every day, and her mother hasn’t long to live, Miss Porter. Oh God, how can I tell her?’ Mr Tate voice was tinged with panic now, as well as grief.

  ‘We can do that,’ Kelly said. She imagined an old woman preparing for her own death, only to be told that her daughter had beaten her to it. Well, at least now they had their answer.

  ‘Do you know where Moira was staying?’ Kelly asked. Rob’s eyes followed, first one, then the other, like a game of interrogation tennis.