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  ‘Can you stop sending me bodies, Kelly?’ It was light hearted and Kelly wasn’t offended. She understood.

  ‘Weirdo, this one, Ted,’ she said. He nodded and took a gulp of his beer.

  ‘That’s the word. He arranged her pretty good, didn’t he? It was well planned. I’m no detective, Kelly, it’s my job to tell you what the body went through – it’s your job to say why.’

  ‘I know you think that, but your opinion is important to me. I agree, it was well orchestrated.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to know something I found today. I’ve emailed you the report, and I’m sure you’ll go through it with a fine tooth comb, but a few things stood out for me.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said. He had her full attention.

  ‘Apart from what I’ve already said, about the planning, it struck me that the sexual activity was subsidiary – as if an afterthought. The main point was the way she was left and what was left with her.’

  ‘I see where you’re going, but I disagree. The sexual activity is rushed, violent and full of rage, whereas the arrangement, messages and care taken, are all deliberate. I think they’re equally important but different.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m not a detective,’ Ted laughed

  ‘I saw some of the money in-situ before she was bagged, I knew it was there. To me, that’s something you would do to someone who’s cheap; to make a point.’

  ‘Or money grabbing – remember the fingers,’ he said. Kelly nodded. The bar was busier now, but all their attention was on each other. ‘I see some of the worst things mankind can do to one another, Kelly, but I still get shocked. The money inside the victim, well it wasn’t just money. I found something else. It was a piece of paper with verse written on it. I looked it up. It’s from a poem by Shelley.’

  ‘One of the Lakes poets,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Chapter 13

  Kelly woke in a good mood, and when she went downstairs to make her mother a cup of tea, Wendy was already up and sat at the table. She looked well. Kelly had missed her sister last night, and for that she was thankful. Her mother had been in no mood to discuss her health, and so Kelly had respected her wishes and tried to act as normal; but she’d forgotten suddenly what normal was. Instead, she’d given her mother a lingering hug and helped her in to bed. Even this was too fussy for Wendy who had ordered her daughter to bed.

  ‘Morning, Mum,’ she said, and kissed her.

  ‘Morning, love, did you sleep well?’ Wendy asked. Kelly wished that her mother wouldn’t be quite as gracious, she certainly wouldn’t be if she’d just been told that she had cancer. Kelly supposed it was the stoicism of the generation: but, to her, she couldn’t understand it. If cancer came knocking on her door, she’d slam her fist into it.

  ‘I did, thanks, Mum. I slept brilliantly. So well in fact, that I feel a bit groggy. What about you?’

  ‘I did. It was a good night. I feel like going for a walk today.’

  ‘That’s great, Mum. But I don’t know if I’ll make it back for lunch,’ Kelly said.

  ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll go on my own. I think I’ll walk to Nikki’s.’

  ‘Why don’t you call Nikki and ask her if she’ll come and get you, and then walk back? I’d feel much better,’ Kelly suggested. She had a crazy day ahead, but surely Nikki could find time to take their mother for a walk. ‘I’m not around at all, Mum. I’m driving to Inglewood Hall today, and then I’ll be in Watermillock.’

  ‘Will you call her for me?’ Wendy asked her daughter. Kelly didn’t relish the idea of speaking to Nikki this early in the morning: it could potentially ruin her whole day.

  ‘Of course I will, I’ll do it now,’ she said, sounding breezy. She called her sister.

  ‘Kelly? Is Mum ok?’ Nikki asked.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Mum would like to go for a walk later, I was wondering if you could take her? I’m out all day,’ Kelly said.

  She closed her eyes and prayed that Nikki said yes. She wandered in to the other room and sat on her mother’s bed, in case the conversation turned into an argument. The bed was a great ugly thing and Kelly had tried to improve it by draping it in sheets, buying fresh flowers, and pretty cushions, but it was still depressing. She waited.

  ‘I’m busy too, you know,’ Nikki said. Kelly’s heart sank.

  ‘I appreciate that, Nikki, I’m only asking because Mum would really like to get out,’ Kelly said. She used all of her self-control to keep her voice monotone and passionless. She had little experience of children, but reckoned it wasn’t far off this.

  Nikki sighed, as if Kelly had asked her to walk to Manchester to collect a speck of dust.

  * * *

  Wendy eavesdropped from the kitchen, and she figured she knew how the conversation was going. She didn’t blame Nikki; she was indeed becoming a burden, and it must be irritating looking after an old woman who couldn’t even walk round the block on her own. She wished John were here, or that she was with him, dead already, pain free and away from the squabbles.

  She didn’t blame Kelly either, although she could be abrupt. It was as a result of remaining a spinster that did it; it made one hard. In her day it was called being ‘on the shelf’, and anything left on a shelf went stale eventually.

  Wendy had checked her will only last week. Everything was split down the middle: the girls would get half each. That shouldn’t cause too many problems, she thought. Her bank manager was her executor, and she’d made her instructions clear: the house was to be sold straight away to minimise arguments. She continued to listen to Kelly, who sounded tense, as always.

  * * *

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Nikki said, uncommitted. It was the best Kelly could do and she hung up. She walked back to the kitchen.

  ‘She’s going to see how her day goes, Mum. I’m sorry,’ she added.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Kelly, you’ve got a job to do. I’m guessing you’re dealing with the body that was on the news last night?’

  Kelly had forgotten that finding a body in the open in The Lakes, during peak season, would cause a stir. In London it would have been just one more news item in a stream of pessimism.

  ‘Yes, I am, Mum.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘It was a murder, Mum. Pretty gruesome. You don’t want to know what some weirdos get up to.’

  ‘I hope you’re being careful, Kelly. You work with some horrible people don’t you?’ Wendy said. She didn’t add that she’d be better off getting married and having children.

  ‘I know, Mum. Of course I’m careful. We’ll catch him soon, don’t worry, it’s my job,’ Kelly said.

  ‘That’s why I worry. Did you bring all these criminals back from London? It doesn’t seem as though you’ve had a moment’s peace since you came back.’

  ‘That’s a slight exaggeration, Mum. And you don’t need to worry about me. I’m not Dad.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean, we’re different. I’m not your husband. You shouldn’t worry.’

  ‘But, you’re my daughter.’

  Wendy was overcautious by nature. Kelly shook her head and grabbed a flapjack and finished her coffee. She kissed her mother on her head and decided she didn’t need her jacket again, she could get used to this weather. The sky shone blue outside, and all the forecasts said it would be another scorcher, reaching twenty-nine degrees. The traffic would be horrendous, with tourists everywhere, blocking the roads with their caravans and four-by-fours. Kelly swore it wasn’t this busy in the summer when she’d been growing up, but everything had seemed smaller and children take little notice of such worries, too busy jumping in lakes and running up and down hills.

  That reminded her that she’d had a message to call the Tourist Board. Murder was bad for business.

  ‘I’ve laid out all your pills, Mum.’

  Kelly went to the door.

  ‘I know, I’ve seen
them. Off you go. Call me later,’ Wendy said.

  Kelly left. She unlocked the Audi Q5 and jumped in. It still smelled new. The Z4 she used to have couldn’t navigate the fell roads, though it was a dream to drive. The Audi was better suited and more practical.

  Kelly sighed, aware that she might be growing up.

  Chapter 14

  Kelly’s team was assembled at eight-thirty, sharp, armed with coffee and note pads. The room was airless and she felt sorry for the men in ties. Her policy was to allow them to take them off in the office, but they must wear them out on business. It was easier for the women who could wear loose fitting skirts and blouses. She cleaned the white board and scribbled notes under titles. Officers busily arranged photos to put on the board, and others collated witness statements and items bagged from the area, around where the body had been dumped.

  Kelly handed copies of the coroner’s report around. A hush descended. DS Umshaw entered the room last minute after a quick cigarette and with her she brought a smoky odour that lingered around her. Kelly began.

  ‘As suspected, Moira Tate died between eight and twelve hours before she was found. That gives us potentially thirty-six hours unaccounted for, before her actual death. This indicates a length of time where Moira was held against her will and tortured. A newsagent’s vendor near The Penrith and Lakes has stated – on record – that Moira always popped in for polo mints either in the morning, or late afternoon. She wasn’t particularly talkative, but the vendor remembers her because of her attire and general appearance standing out as ‘posh’. I hate that word, but that’s what he said. He distinctly remembers Moira buying mints on Monday afternoon at around five p.m. but not on Tuesday morning. But there’s something else I want to draw your attention to.’

  Everybody watched their DI as she wrote the lines from the Shelley poem, found on a piece of paper inside Moira Tate, on the incident board. Kelly then walked to her computer and pressed a few buttons, bringing a photograph of the item up on the white board alongside.

  Whilst yet the calm hours creep, dream thou, and from thy sleep, then wake to weep.

  ‘It’s from a poem by Percy Shelley, called The flower that smiles today, Tomorrow dies. Along with the money, it was found inside Moira, written on a piece of paper. Thoughts please,’ she said, and waited for the news to sink in.

  She liked to catch people fresh, and she wanted to know what they would make of the unusual find. It was rare that a killer wanted to converse with their enemy: the people bent on catching and punishing them. It was even rarer that a murderer left what was known as a calling card. Kelly had seen it only once before: an acronym scrawled above a body in a flat in Shoreditch.

  ‘Grim,’ said DC Phillips. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a warning or something.’ Will Phillips who’d impressed Kelly so much last year was quickly becoming her go-to. He’d been permanently transferred to her team, from Kendal, and was catching her eye for promotion. A DC for four years, it was about time he made DS.

  Kelly nodded.

  ‘I thought the Lakes’ Poets were always spaced out on opium and blissfully happy, Guv, not signposts to murder,’ DS Umshaw said, and she got a laugh.

  ‘Exactly. So why has their poetry been used?’ asked Kelly. ‘I want to know everything about Percy Bysshe Shelley. What sort of poetry did he write? Was it just Lakes/Romantic? What was it about? You know poetry always has a deep meaning, did anyone study English Literature? Does anyone have a burning desire to get on this? It’s a direct communication with our killer; I think it’s vital.’

  DC Emma Hide volunteered. ‘I studied English at Lancaster, Guv. I’ll give it a go. I’m still in touch with some of my old professors.’

  ‘Thanks, Emma. A copy has already been sent to a handwriting expert in Manchester, and, of course, that will take time. I’ll be at Watermillock most of the day, as well as Inglewood Hall. Rob, give us an update on Watermillock, please,’ she said.

  DC Shawcross approached the white board and stuck photos of various items onto it. He turned around and addressed the room. He was a natural, thought Kelly. He wasn’t nervous (or at least didn’t show it), and he got straight to the point. He was fitting in well.

  ‘The shoe is a Nike, size 7, general cross trainer. The lab has identified several manufacturing details as well as unique defining factors, only found on this shoe.’ He pointed to a clear black and white enlarged print. ‘See, here, the tread is cracked. And here, there is a stone lodged in the heel. Any suspect we identify, we’ll be looking to collect and compare a selection of shoes. The footwear database didn’t give us a match sadly. We also recovered quite a lot of general rubbish, none of it specific or obviously useful, but it’s all gone to the lab, just in case,’ Rob said.

  ‘Good work,’ said Kelly. Rob left his photos on the board and went to sit down. She carried on.

  ‘We’re waiting for results on the dirt, we don’t think it’s from the dump site. The coroner confirmed that the time of death preceded exposure to the evening temperature, so we’re talking about someone who has the privacy to do this. We’re waiting for DNA from the victim and from fibres found in her hair. We all know how long this takes and so, today, it’s all about pushing the names we have so far. The hospital is phoning me if Warren Downs turns up. I did a PNC search on him and it turned up nothing, he’s got no record. You all know what you’ve got to do. We’ll meet same time tomorrow. Oh, can someone call the Tourist Board and calm them down? They’ve been on to Clifton Hall saying this is all going to affect business. If I call them, I won’t be responsible for my language. Emma? You’re way more tactful than I am. I’ll let you do it. I never knew you were an English grad. Knock ‘em out.’

  Kelly smiled. No-one disagreed that their boss used colourful language; and it only got worse when she became frustrated.

  ‘Have we got statements from the hospital staff nursing Catherine Tring?’ Kelly moved on.

  ‘I swung by the hospital this morning. Not all of them were on shift, but I got a list of exactly who had access to her from the ward sister,’ DC Phillips said.

  ‘Nurse Grey?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anything getting past her. I caught up with the coroner last night. You all have a copy of his report. It turns out that he’s quite a Lakeland enthusiast.’

  Kelly didn’t add that Ted Wallis was also a Thai enthusiast and they’d gone to The Thai Rack and eaten green curry and noodles. She hadn’t lied to her mother this morning when she told her she’d slept well; but it was more to do with three excellent pints and the food, rather than feeling rested.

  ‘We’re lucky to have him, he’s unique in the sense that he’s a thinker. Most pathologists and coroners are fantastic at what they do, but they deal in facts. Ted Wallis likes the investigative part as well,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t we deal in facts?’ Rob asked. A few other officers stared at him but Kelly didn’t mind his forward, inquisitive nature.

  ‘Of course, but we need to watch out for links and red herrings, and that takes foresight and insight. The forensic stuff is only useful if we can pin it to a person or a place. Right, I think everyone is clear about their jobs for today. Rob you can come with me to Inglewood Hall. We better get going, the traffic will be building up by now. Have a good day everyone,’ she added. The others filed out, keen to get started. Despite the horrific circumstances surrounding Moira’s death, the undercurrent in the office was positive, and there was a collective desire to nail the bastard quickly. A buzz was forming in the media and Kelly had warned her officers off social sites, if they had accounts. All the journos knew was that Moira was naked, and that it was a homicide. Panic had to be contained. More could always be leaked later, in their own time, to stir interest and also, if needed, piss off their killer. Kelly grabbed her bag and jacket, and Rob followed her. They left the building and went to her car.

  ‘Here, take this. I want you to read every word to me out l
oud while we’re driving. It makes a difference,’ she said, handing him a copy of the coroner’s report.

  ‘Haven’t you read it?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I have. But you haven’t, and it’s an opportunity for me to take it in from a different angle. I might have missed something,’ she said.

  Rob felt foolish. He’d discussed the case with Mia last night and she’d asked him all sorts of questions. She hadn’t really been interested in his job when he’d been in uniform – apart from the uniform of course. But since he’d gone over to being a detective after passing his exams, she wanted to know everything. She was obsessed with crime channels and thought she was helping when she offered leads, methods and guesses. In fact, the murder of Moira Tate seemed to be gripping the whole of The Lakes. A whole host of people – strangers for the most part – were giving interviews to news channels and newspapers, and giving their opinions. It was the first time that Rob had experienced media attention, and he wasn’t sure about it. Mia had got so much wrong already, but perhaps that was Kelly’s intention when she chose what to feed the press in the first place. She was playing a game to irritate the killer – if he watched the news, and that was a big if.

  Several things had been kept away from the public arena, such as Moira’s fingers, the money, and the soil. And now they had the poem.

  ‘Will you let the press know about the poetry?’

  Kelly drove with the windows down, and the air that rushed in was warm. It was their best summer weather for years, and when the blue sky brought days and days of temperatures above twenty-five degrees, there was no better place on earth to be.

  ‘No. It’s titillation. The killer is a proud narcissist. He’ll be watching the news for some kind of recognition. I want to play it down, it’ll irritate him.’ Rob was chuffed that he’d guessed this correctly.

  ‘So you’re a fan of profiling then?’ he asked. Mia had plagued him with her take on the mind of a murderer, and he’d listened patiently, flabbergasted at how a little information could be so dangerously wrong. But, then, that was drama. He waited for Kelly to reply. He could listen to her all shift; she was serious but witty; formal but fair; accurate but inclusive; but most of all, she was a walking mecca of facts and knowledge.