Boyd picked up his coffee. ‘Not today. Right then… what did you get from Andrew Westfield’s mother?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t eat or drink anything – so luckily not food poisoning,’ said Minter. ‘It was bloody rank there.’

  Okeke tutted. ‘Poor old woman.’

  ‘Did you manage to get a swab from her?’ Boyd asked.

  Minter nodded. ‘Evidenced and with Magnusson as we speak. She’s going to get it over to Ellessey.’

  ‘Good,’ Boyd said. ‘So then… tell me about the interview.’

  Okeke gave him a summary of the interview from her notes.

  ‘O’Neal’s going through the school’s registration list for Andrew’s year now,’ added Minter. ‘We’ll have a few names to chase up by the time we get back downstairs.’

  Boyd ran a finger over the bristles around his mouth. ‘Four schoolboys, thick as thieves and potentially with something to hide… ‘

  ‘She seemed to think Richard was the bad apple, leading the other three astray,’ said Minter.

  ‘If we’re giving this secret pact idea any credence,’ Boyd said, shrugging, ‘we’re looking for something bad enough for those boys to keep a vow of silence over all these years.’

  ‘Sexual assault?’ offered Okeke.

  ‘Murder?’ added Minter.

  Boyd shrugged again. ‘Could be.’

  ‘You think they could have killed another kid?’ Minter asked.

  Boyd nodded. The horrific James Bulger case had briefly occurred to him as Okeke had been relaying her notes. His mind raked back over it: the press coverage, the shock, grief and outrage that children could kill children. He remembered the heated exchanges on shows like Kilroy and This Morning.

  A talking point had been ‘Who had been the main instigator?’ with both boys pointing the finger at each other, claiming they’d been forced by the other one into taking part. If Mrs Westfield’s cautionary words about Richard being the ringleader were to be taken at face value, then, presumably, if whatever they’d done came out while they were all alive, he’d be the one with most to lose. All the more reason then for this Richard to decide many years later that some remedial action needed to be taken.

  ‘If it was something like that,’ said Boyd finally, ‘then there surely must be something we can dredge up from the time. A newspaper article or a case file. But I’m not convinced. Something that horrific would have made national news.’

  ‘It could be a lingering misper?’ Okeke said. ‘I could take a look?’

  Boyd shrugged. ‘Let’s not get sucked too deeply into anything yet. Magnusson raised a valid point… We’re just throwing theories around here. It might not even be murder. It could be something as simple as a grudge. Some kid was bullied at school and getting his revenge years later maybe?’

  ‘Murder’s a bit extreme, though?’ said Minter.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Boyd. ‘Lives can be ruined by what happens in the corner of a playground.’

  ‘And we’re also assuming whatever happened involving them took place during their school years,’ added Okeke.

  ‘Right, there’s that too,’ said Boyd. He was beginning to wonder whether the secret that Mark Meadows’ wife had mentioned was getting a little too much attention. However, for the lack of any other driving narrative, it wasn’t something they could ignore either.

  ‘We need to confirm ID on Andrew Westfield and find the other two… Robin and Richard,’ he said eventually. ‘If they’re on that school registration list, then we may be able to positively ID the third body in the box. And then… we can go down the path of looking into what those boys may have done together with a little more certainty.’

  ‘It could be something one of them had done and then told the others about,’ offered Minter. ‘Maybe he felt it left him vulnerable?’

  ‘It’s got to be worth trawling around in the past a bit,’ said Okeke.

  Boyd nodded. ‘If they were at the same school, then you’re looking at, what, five years.’

  ‘Seven,’ said Minter. ‘If you count the A-level years.’

  ‘We could also concentrate on the area where they lived,’ added Okeke. ‘They’d be too young to drive anywhere. So whatever happened would probably have been local to Harsham.’

  ‘Well, now there’s a thing,’ said Minter. ‘What if they’d nicked a car?’

  ‘A theft from thirty years ago? That’s a bit of a reach for murder, isn’t it?’ Okeke replied.

  Minter frowned. ‘Well, not if they’d run someone over. Or caused a fatal RTA and fled the scene.’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘Okay, enough. Fine. Dig back a bit. Pull up any mispers, murders, assaults, manslaughters, RTAs… from 1986 to, say, ’96? And in the Harsham area. But, let’s not get tunnel vision here. We’re sitting on a big fat assumption that at least two out of four schoolboys took a secret to their graves. The priority here is to figure out who the bodies in the boxes are.’

  26

  ‘Here you go, boss,’ said Minter, handing the list to Boyd. ‘O’Neal managed to find five Richards and two Robins.’

  ‘And just checking… Andy Westfield and Mark Meadows are on the list too?’

  Minter nodded. ‘I can’t believe how many Marcs with a “c” there are in this list, though. Was there a super-famous Marc around when they were all born?’

  ‘Marc Bolan maybe?’ Boyd suggested.

  Minter looked at him blankly and shrugged.

  ‘Never mind,’ Boyd said. ‘Run the names O’Neal has highlighted through LEDS. Also, you might want to get back in touch with the school to see if they have copies of any of their old school reports.’

  ‘Righto,’ Minter said. ‘On it, boss.’

  Boyd looked at the accumulated notes on his desk, his mind running through the theories that had been voiced up in the canteen. They had two very probable IDs now – Mark Meadows and Andrew Westfield – provided the DNA was matched with Westfield’s mother. The third body would hopefully belong to either the Richard or Robin on the list. If it was… then all well and good. But if not, then what? Could it be sheer coincidence that two boys from the same school gang happened to be murdered within a few months of each other twelve years later?

  Coincidences happened, of course, and when they did, they had a habit of blindsiding an investigation. If the last John Doe turned out to be someone else, then it would be back to the drawing board. They were going to have to consider other investigative tangents: commonalities between Meadows and Westfield that had nothing to do with childhood friendships and more to do with adult life choices that would have put them in the wrong place at the wrong time. Serial killer territory? God, he hoped not. As Her Madge had said… Sussex Police were going to pick up something of a reputation.

  Okeke started with the Sun’s news archive. The tabloid had an insatiable appetite for grisly news stories, particularly ones with some kind of shock value attached. She tapped in a string of keywords that she thought might yield something useful: ‘1980 .. 1989’, ‘Harsham Grammar’, ‘Harsham Town, ‘murder’, ‘missing’, ‘body found’, ‘feral youths’, ‘hit and run’.

  While the searches returned a slew of articles that ticked a couple of boxes, she found herself sidetracked by the headlines. There had been a wave of outrage going in 1988 directed at Acid House and a pandemic of pill-popping.

  ‘Acid Party Army of Baseball Bat Brutes!’ stood out. There were various others.

  She shook her head at the shouty capitals. It seemed that every decade had its own enemy for the red tops to jab their fingers at. Apparently outrage sold as many newspapers back then as it did mouse clicks now.

  The detour into the past – before her time, before she was born even – led her to consider another possibility. Could drugs have played a role in whatever had happened? Could they have been on some crazy hallucinogenic trip? She jotted the thought down. She was still lost in one hyperbolic horror news story after another when Minter tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Shit,’ she said with a start. ‘What time it is?’

  ‘It’s nearly home time,’ Minter said, waving several pages of printed text in her direction.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re various school reports on our Richards and Robins.’ He waved them at her again. ‘Harsham Grammar were very keen to assist.’

  ‘Is there anything helpful in there?’ she asked.

  ‘I should say so, potentially.’ Minter held up one of the sheets. ‘This is a school report for one Richard Philip Leeder,’ he told her. He had underscored several lines with a highlighter. ‘Let me read it out to you,’ he said.

  ‘No need – I can read it myself,’ she said, swiping it out of his hand.

  ‘Snatchy, snatchy,’ he tutted. ‘That’s not a good look, Okeke, and not at all becoming for a potential detective sergeant.’ He grabbed it back and cleared his throat. ‘Ahem…’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s –’ she muttered.

  ‘Richard is a natural leader and appears to be one of the more influential pupils in his year, with a firm hold over a number of boys in his class. While Richard is clearly intelligent and we predict he will effortlessly do well in his exams at the end of the year, we are concerned about him leading others astray…’

  Okeke held her hand out for the sheet of paper.

  Minter ignored her and grinned. ‘Wait – this is the best one.’

  ‘On several occasions this term, we’ve had cause to discipline him over reported incidents of bullying boys in a lower year group. While the incidents were of a relatively trivial nature, I’m concerned that his behaviour has the potential to escalate…’

  Minter finally handed Okeke the page.

  ‘I think we may have found our Richard,’ he said.

  27

  Boyd was quite happy for Her Madge to take the press conference instead of him. He wasn’t in the mood, or right headspace to stand behind the small lectern and deliver the press briefing, and Hatcher had decided to step in and do it. Boyd wondered if Sutherland had shared his supposedly confidential Bad News with her and she was doing her bit to take some of the weight off his shoulders, or whether she was keen to demonstrate to the force and her superiors based over in Brighton that she was back, match fit and on everything – Sussex East-wise – like a rash.

  Nonetheless, she’d insisted Boyd be close by in the room and ready to consult, or more likely, pass the ball to, if a question popped up that she couldn’t answer.

  Boyd handed her the crib sheet before they entered the press room – changed at the last moment, as a result of a call from Dr Palmer, to show the familial DNA swabs were a match and the wording on the crib sheet had been changed from ‘likely identities’ to ‘identities confirmed’.

  Hatcher had looked pleased when Boyd had pointed out the last-minute change.

  Now, standing behind the nest of microphones, she raised her hands to quieten the room and draw cameras and attention to where they should be – on her.

  ‘Thank you all for attending at such short notice. I’m going to start by giving you a brief update on the three male bodies found in…’

  ‘Thanks.’ Boyd took the mug of coffee from Charlotte and budged up to make room for her on the couch.

  ‘Don’t forget: no more eating and no breakfast tomorrow,’ she said softly as she kicked her slippers off, pulled up her feet and snuggled up beside him.

  They could hear Emma in the kitchen pouring herself a late-night bowl of Weetos, giving them a brief window of opportunity to talk about… it.

  ‘I put that sachet of CitraFleet on your bedside table so you don’t forget it in the morning,’ Charlotte told him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ she asked.

  ‘Nah.’

  She nudged him.

  ‘Okay, well, maybe a little,’ he conceded.

  ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow,’ she said firmly. They’d already discussed this and Boyd had been adamant that he’d be okay going to the hospital by himself. He had the letter telling him where to park and where to go.

  ‘I can manage,’ he told her again. ‘I’ll pull my Big Boy trousers on and I’ll be fine.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘You know what it’s like,’ he told her. ‘Endless waiting around and I won’t get any news tomorrow anyway. It’ll be a bit of lube and “Up we go, Mr Boyd”…’ He did a Carry On comedy whistle as he raised his index finger. ‘Then: “Off you trot, Mr Boyd.”’

  Charlotte didn’t laugh. ‘I’m coming, Bill,’ she repeated in a voice that suggested the matter was settled.

  They heard Emma rounding up the dogs and making her way back to the lounge.

  ‘They might tell you if they see something,’ Charlotte said in an undertone. ‘I want to be with you if that happens, Bill.’

  Emma entered the room, bowl in one hand, phone in the other, the dogs in her wake.

  ‘You chatting to Dan?’ Boyd asked, changing the subject sharply.

  Emma sat down in the armchair opposite. ‘We’re texting,’ she said.

  ‘And how is Danny Boy?’ he asked her.

  Emma placed the bowl down on the side table and resumed tapping something out on her phone screen. Ozzie and Mia were sitting stock-still beside the table, their eyes glued to the bowl of Weetos.

  ‘Looks like you’ve lost her,’ Charlotte said to Boyd softly.

  Boyd bounced his brows in a way that said, Kids, eh? He picked up the TV remote and flipped over to BBC One. The local news was on and he was treated to an image of Her Madge in the station’s press room behind a bank of microphones. He’d forgotten that today was the day.

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ he said, raising the volume slightly.

  ‘… found in a storage unit located near Little Fritton. At this stage we are treating this as a murder enquiry. The identities of two out of three bodies have now been confirmed, and their families and loved ones have been informed.’

  Hatcher looked up from her script. ‘Thank you. I’ll take a couple of questions.’

  She pointed at someone off-screen.

  ‘You say three bodies… Are we looking at another serial killer in Sussex?’

  She shook her head. ‘At the moment we are keeping open-minded about the investigation. All three victims were male, white and potentially in their thirties… and we strongly suspect they were known to the killer.’

  She moved onto another reporter. ‘Yes?’

  The question was inaudible on TV.

  Hatcher shook her head. ‘No, at this stage we don’t have a suspect, but we are pursuing several promising lines of enquiry.’

  Charlotte nodded at the TV. ‘Is this one of yours?’ she asked.

  Boyd nodded.

  ‘Three bodies in a storage unit?’ She looked at him. ‘Like in one of those storage warehouses?’

  ‘Yup. And we have IDs confirmed, by the sounds of it.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  He could see she was reliving the traumatic memories of what had happened to her last year. Her ex-husband was dead and buried, literally. Her decades-long ordeal of abuse and the fear of being found by him was all in the past. But it was a very recent past and she was, quite understandably, still seeing the ghost of Ewan Jones in every shadow. She was last to bed every night, checking the downstairs doors and windows sometimes several times – a habit she’d got into at her own place and brought with her to Boyd’s house.

  Boyd squeezed her hand.

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ he said softly. ‘We’re not looking for a random predator roaming East Sussex. We’re looking for someone with a grudge.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘Those murders happened a while back. We’re not expecting any more.’

  28

  ‘This won’t hurt, but it may feel a little weird.’

  ‘No kidding,’ muttered Boyd. He felt gloved hands on his behind. ‘Sorry, I should’ve waxed or something. It’s probably a bit of a jungle down there.’

  The consultant was too busy lubricating his camera and setting up the screen to respond. The anaesthetist smiled on his behalf. ‘Relax, we’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Here’s some gas and air,’ said the anaesthetist, handing Boyd a tube to suck on. ‘To use if it starts to get uncomfortable.’

  Boyd took a hit straight away. He wasn’t going to wait until he needed it. He was lying on his right side, the one that didn’t hurt, but it meant he was staring at the wall, not the screen. And he wanted, out of morbid curiosity, to see what the inside of his bowel looked like.

  He glanced over his shoulder into the eyes of the consultant.

  ‘Keep perfectly still please, Mr Boyle.’

  ‘Boyd,’ he corrected him. He held his position. Over the doctor’s shoulder, he could see a small LCD screen mounted on a wheeled stand. The image was unpleasantly clear.

  ‘I did take the powdered drink,’ he assured the doctor.

  ‘Relax, I can see that. It’s a nice clear run… Okay, bend in the road coming up. This might get a little uncomfortable.’

  Boyd sucked again on the tube in anticipation. Then he felt it: a small stab of pain followed by a wave of a nausea.

  ‘Think I’m going to be sick,’ he mumbled.

  ‘That’ll be the gas,’ said the anaesthetist, patting his shoulder. ‘Little sips. Not gulps.’

  Boyd fought the urge to throw up. Not that he had anything to give. He’d had nothing to eat since seven o’clock last night, even though Emma had pestered him to help her finish off the apple pie that was in the fridge. She was still wholly in the dark about all this and Charlotte had covered for him, insisting she was starving and that she’d help her out with the last slice.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Boyd twisted his head to look back over his shoulder.

  ‘And there we have it…’ The consultant twisted the camera and took several close-up shots of what looked like a dark purple Twiglet.