She nodded. She’d begun to hope that she’d got away with the incident in Karl’s mothballed brewery. The events of that particular night in Brighton had been months ago, and, perhaps naively, she’d started to believe that her recollection of them was becoming manageable, successfully boxed up and sealed away in her mind, like toxic waste. But instead the memory – and one moment in particular – had begun to leak into her dreams. It was the sensory memory that haunted her: the impact of the sword slicing into the man’s torso, the sickening sound as it caught his ribs, followed by his gurgling groan as he’d slid to the floor. And the last image she’d had of him: eyeballs rolling upwards in their sockets, mouth silently opening and closing like a dying fish in a wet market.

  ‘Yup. The ninja sword,’ she said finally. Jay had been there but he hadn’t witnessed it.

  Meanwhile, he shrugged on his jacket and wrapped an arm around her neck, kissing the top of her head. ‘You should see someone at work about that,’ he advised.

  ‘Can’t,’ she replied, looking up at him, ‘can I?’

  Their desperate fight in that building was something that had ‘never officially happened’. It was their secret. Forever. Boyd’s, Warren’s, hers and Jay’s.

  The old brewery had burned to the ground, the three bodies of the Russian mobsters inside had never been identified. The four of them had their pact. They would never speak of it again and they were never there. So confessing her flashbacks to a police shrink wasn’t really on the cards.

  ‘Then try not to think about it,’ he offered helpfully, kissing her again. ‘It’s done. We won. We got away with it.’

  Okeke shook her head. ‘It really is that simple for you, isn’t it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, they weren’t very nice men, were they?’

  To Okeke, Jay seemed to exist in a simple world of black and white. Good guys and bad guys. The bad guys had killed his friend Karl… and had been intent on killing him too, which meant they were fair game and had deserved what they got.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said, stepping back from her and adjusting his tie. ‘We gotta move on, babes.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, sipping her coffee. ‘You’d better get off to work or you’ll be late.’

  Today was his Big Day. His first shift at McGuire and Hampton. The Eastbourne-based private investigation firm had somehow managed to see past his lumbering Jason Statham-like exterior and spotted some potential. Jay had given up on his hare-brained notion of joining the police – to Okeke’s relief – and had scraped together enough NVQ credits to qualify as a PI gopher.

  He leant over her shoulder and kissed her lips, which she puckered sideways to meet his. ‘Maybe you should pull a sickie?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she replied. ‘Go on, bugger off. You don’t want to be late on your first day.’

  ‘Right.’ He kissed her again, grabbed his work bag and left the kitchen. A moment later the front door thunked heavily behind him.

  She gazed out of the kitchen window at their messy backyard, still cluttered with Jay’s unfinished furniture projects.

  Move on, Sam. They were Bad Men. And now the world has three less sadistic bastards living in it.

  5

  Boyd reached the top of the stairs to the CID floor, sweating already. Today was looking like another scorcher. He took the last step, ooffing like an old man as the persistent stitch in his side stabbed painfully at him once again.

  He pushed open the double doors and stepped into the familiar muted hubbub of the main CID floor. It was stuffy. None of the big windows opened properly. Instead, they magnified the sunlight spilling in, making the space feel like one big sodding greenhouse.

  Boyd stepped into Sutherland’s glass-walled office, which was even stuffier, if that was possible. He had only just dumped his jacket, loosened his tie and sat down when DSI Sutherland’s perfectly round head and Penfold-like thick-framed glasses appeared in the open doorway.

  ‘Morning, Boyd,’ he chirped with syrupy cheerfulness.

  ‘Morning,’ Boyd grunted.

  Sutherland stepped in. ‘Is this a bad time for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, umm… I only just...’ Boyd began.

  Sutherland ignored him and settled down in the visitor’s seat of what had been, up until a few months ago, his office. ‘Boyd, I have a couple of things to mention,’ he said.

  ‘Not departmental cost spreadsheets, please,’ Boyd cut in.

  Sutherland wafted his hand. ‘Oh, no, no, no – nothing like that.’

  ‘Thank Christ,’ Boyd muttered.

  ‘Did you know,’ Sutherland began, ‘that DI Fox has requested a transfer to Brighton?’

  Boyd shook his head. That was the first he’d heard of it. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘He said he feels he’s got more chance for a promotion over there than he has here,’ replied Sutherland. ‘Said he’s felt overlooked. A bit of a spare wheel.’

  Boyd pursed his lips. That was fair enough, he thought. Fox had been ditched from Flack’s team – Flack had given no reason that Boyd knew of – and had been a ‘floater’ on the CIDs main floor ever since. Boyd could have, and probably should have, made more use of him, but… instead he’d got into the habit of using the same small team: Minter, Okeke, Warren and O’Neal. The dynamic between them worked well and tossing into the mix a DI who he didn’t really know that well, who was also a rank above the perfectly capable Minter, would have meant shuffling the pecking order and probably also result in a few out-of-joint noses.

  ‘Well anyway, Fox has put in for his transfer,’ continued Sutherland. ‘It’s a done deal. Which means –’

  ‘Which means,’ cut in Boyd, ‘there’s room for internal promotion?’

  Sutherland nodded. ‘And I’m guessing you’ve got a suggestion for me?’

  ‘DS Minter,’ replied Boyd, without hesitation. ‘He SIO’ed the Argyle House case and he did a fine job with it.’

  ‘In between prancing around in budgie smugglers,’ said Sutherland with a chortle.

  Boyd grinned. ‘He assures me his modelling gigs are mostly knitwear now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sutherland asked. ‘He’s not planning a repeat performance … or worse? I can’t have my DIs running around in leather thongs now, can I?’

  Boyd pulled a face. ‘I suspect that pier gig has given him PTSD. He told me he’s being a little more circumspect about the bookings he accepts going forward.’

  ‘Well, I should ruddy well think so,’ Sutherland said. ‘Sussex Police has a serious reputation to protect.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Boyd said. ‘Now can we talk about Okeke?’

  ‘What about her?’ Sutherland asked.

  ‘I’d like to recommend her to rank up and take Minter’s place,’ Boyd said.

  ‘To detective sergeant?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘She’s long overdue.’

  Sutherland made a gurgling sound. It was the kind of uncomfortable noise that Boyd would have made paying for a meal out in London. ‘She can be arsey,’ said Sutherland.

  ‘She can be difficult,’ Boyd agreed, ‘but I think that’s a good thing. She’s definitely no pushover. You’ll be glad to have her as a DCI one day. Trust me.’

  ‘God help me,’ Sutherland muttered.

  ‘To be honest, she should have been ranked up to sergeant when she transferred from Kent. She’s more than capable of the role,’ Boyd pressed. ‘It’s not going to add to your budget. She’d be filling a vacant slot.’

  ‘I suppose you want to promote Warren. And O’Neal too?’ Sutherland grumbled.

  ‘Relax. It’s just Minter and Okeke,’ Boyd said. ‘The other two need a few more years under their belts.’ He shrugged. ‘Although Warren’s showing promise.’

  ‘He’s got his court appearance today, hasn’t he?’ Sutherland said.

  Boyd nodded. ‘I’m going in with him in a bit.’

  Sutherland took a deep breath. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Send me your forms for them both and I’ll get them booked into the NPPF exam in August.’ He stood up.

  ‘You said there were a couple of things you wanted to talk about?’ Boyd reminded him.

  Sutherland paused. ‘Oh yes, the other thing…’ He puffed out a breath of air and his round head seemed to shrink slightly, like a punctured balloon. ‘Hatcher’s coming back.’

  Boyd waited until Sutherland had left what was soon to be his office again, then wandered out onto the main floor to find Warren. He wasn’t at his desk. Boyd nudged O’Neal, who was sitting at the next desk along, and the young man removed his headphones.

  ‘Where’s the Boy Wonder?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘In the bog.’ O’Neal looked up at him. ‘He’s shitting himself about the court appearance. Literally.’

  Boyd entered the gents to what sounded like someone emptying a bag of potatoes into a well.

  ‘Is that you in there, Warren?’ he called out.

  ‘Uh, yessir,’ came the muffled reply from one of the cubicles.

  ‘Is this nerves? Or have you eaten a dodgy kebab?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Just a bit of anxiety… I think,’ Warren replied.

  ‘You’ll be fine. They may not even call you up to the stand today,’ Boyd reassured him.

  ‘Hopefully,’ Warren said, sounding doubtful.

  ‘Look, we’ve got an hour before we need to head over to the court. Do you want to practice giving your evidence?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘What… now?’ Warren asked.

  A short squeak from the cubicle punctuated the silence.

  ‘What! No, Warren, not right now.’ Boyd grimaced. ‘My office… when you’ve finished!’

  He stepped back outside, flapping a hand in front of his nose to chase away the fumes that had followed him and was almost bulldozed by Minter and Okeke hurrying towards the double doors.

  ‘What the –?’

  ‘Got us a shout, boss,’ said Minter, pausing. ‘Bodies in a storage unit.’

  ‘Bodies? Plural?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Plural.’ Then Minter wrinkled his nose.

  ‘That’s Warren, by the way,’ Boyd said. ‘Not me.’

  6

  Okeke pulled up outside the yellow-painted cinderblock wall of the imaginatively named Best Price Storage, which was in fact a large warehouse backing onto the barns and outhouses of a neighbouring farm in Little Fritton.

  The sun was out in force this morning and made the yellow wall look insanely cheerful, like a soft-play centre for kids. The vehicles parked on the gravel outside were mostly Sussex Police ones. There were two squad cars, a CSI van, a civilian car that Okeke recognised as the SOC manager Leslie Poole’s, and a white transit van marked ‘Holmes Removals’.

  ‘Okay, division of labour… Who’s doing what?’ she asked, pulling up the handbrake and switching off the engine.

  ‘I’ll interview our finders,’ replied Minter. ‘You go and check out the bodies and trade theories with Sully.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Christ. Please don’t tell me you’re going all Boyd on me.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘The first sight of blood and you…’

  ‘Oh, behave,’ Minter replied. ‘You’re the one with the medical knowledge.’ He opened the passenger-side door. ‘And you’re the only one who has even half a chance of understanding Sully’s rambling monologues,’ he added before stepping out and shutting the door.

  ‘Well, maybe some of it,’ she muttered to the empty front seat, then climbed out and looked around at the rustling green farmland. There were heads of broccoli as far as the eye could see. Little Fritton really was in the middle of nowhere.

  Minter glanced at her, reading her mind. ‘No danger of a cuppa round here, I’m guessing.’

  She smacked her dry lips. The day was getting unpleasantly warm and muggy already. ‘I could murder an ice cream.’

  They waved their lanyards at the officer waiting outside the warehouse and stepped inside the front door and into a small office. An agitated civilian was sitting on a chair behind a messy desk, nursing a steaming mug of coffee in both hands.

  Minter nudged Okeke. Or maybe there is, he hoped.

  They approached the desk and introduced themselves.

  ‘Are you the one who called this in?’ Minter asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘I’m the owner.’

  Minter pulled out his notebook. ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘Gareth Jones.’

  Minter nodded approvingly. ‘Gareth Jones,’ he repeated, emphasising his Welsh accent. ‘Good solid name, my friend. And are you the owner of the farm too?’

  Jones nodded. To Minter, he looked to be in his fifties. His curly greying hair formed a misty horseshoe round a wide tanned bald spot. He had the ruddy and weather-worn complexion of a farmer used to 4 a.m. starts and late finishes.

  ‘One of the bidders found the bodies in Unit Thirty-Seven,’ Jones explained. ‘And I’m the one who called the police.’

  ‘Bidders?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘Yes. I was auctioning off some of the units this morning,’ Jones explained. ‘Their leases lapsed and we haven’t been able to get hold of the renters.’

  ‘Did you get their names?’ asked Okeke. ‘The bidders who got the Unit Thirty-Seven.’

  ‘No, but they’re outside in the car park,’ Jones replied.

  Minter turned to look at her. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere to be?’

  She raised her brows at him, then turned to address Jones again. ‘Where’s the unit?’ she asked.

  Jones nodded at the only other door in the small office. ‘Through there.’

  Okeke stepped over to it and pulled it open. ‘I’ll have a coffee, Minter, if there’s any danger of one.’ She disappeared into the warehouse beyond.

  Minter pulled up a spare seat and sat down. ‘Right then,’ he said to Jones. ‘Talk me through this auction, will you?’

  Okeke spotted Unit 37 immediately. Halfway down the dimly lit passageway she could see Leslie Poole armed with her clipboard, and next to her a uniformed officer standing in the glare of a brilliant light, which was spilling out through a pulled-up shutter door. She headed over to them.

  ‘Morning, Leslie,’ she said.

  Leslie greeted her with a smile. ‘Morning, Sam.’ She held out her clipboard for Okeke to sign. ‘It looks like an archaeology dig in there.’

  Okeke peered into the unit and saw a figure in white overalls squatting over a blue storage crate. A plastic sheet had been spread out on the floor and on it were what looked like several brittle parts of a desiccated body: a number of limb portions that looked like dried branches, and three heads that could have been props from an old Hammer Horror movie.

  Okeke pulled on a pair of gloves and stepped inside.

  Karen Magnusson looked up cheerily at her. ‘Ah, hello there, Samantha. It looks like we have three bodies… All in kit form.’

  Okeke joined her and squatted down beside the open storage crate. It was filled with granules of gritting salt. Poking out where Magnusson had been carefully digging, she could see the leathery nub of what looked like the top end of a humerus bone.

  ‘There are twelve crates in total,’ declared Magnusson. ‘I’ve dug into four of them so far.’

  ‘Where’s Sully?’ Okeke asked, peering around.

  ‘He’s on leave this week,’ Magnusson said behind her mask. Her eyes wrinkled with a smile. ‘He’d have jolly well loved mucking about with this one.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Okeke examined the limb that was gradually being exposed as Magnusson scooped out grit. It looked like a joint of serrano ham; the flesh clinging to the bone was a rich, dark burgundy.

  ‘By the flaying and splintering of the bone, I’d say these bodies were dismembered using an axe or machete. A lot of elbow grease went into breaking them down enough to fit into these crates.’ Magnusson gently eased the humerus out of the grit. It came with the lower arm still firmly attached by the dried flesh, and was followed by a wrist and a complete hand. The fingers were curled like claws, halfway towards forming an accusatory fist.

  ‘I love the dismembered ones,’ said Magnusson gleefully. ‘Especially multiples. You get a satisfying puzzle to piece together.’

  Okeke glanced over at the heads on the sheet of plastic.

  ‘Those were all in the top crate,’ said Magnusson, following her gaze. ‘But, looking at that one, it’s far more recent than the other two.’

  The withered flesh on the one she’d pointed out looked significantly paler than the others and sported a full head of short blonde hair.

  ‘Do you know if they are male or female?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘They’re all males,’ Magnusson replied confidently.

  ‘Are there any obvious indicators of cause of death yet?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘Apart from being chopped up into human kindling, you mean?’ Magnusson snorted, then she pointed to the paler head. At its crown was a very clear canyon where the skull had caved in. ‘That looks like blunt-force trauma to the head with a blade. Probably from the same tool that was used to dismember them. Same for the other two.’ She lifted one of the older, darker heads and, with the side of her gloved hand, she made a slow karate chopping motion. ‘One big mighty blow, probably from behind.’ She turned the head round to show Okeke the shrivelled face. ‘And this is interesting.’

  ‘What?’ Okeke asked, studying it.

  Magnusson reached in between the two rows of teeth, which were set in an unpleasant long-toothed snarl caused by the receding gums, and pulled out a small handful of dried twigs and leaves. ‘Apparently he was munching on forest floor at the time of his death.’

  ‘So, was there any particular reason for the auction of these storage units?’ asked Minter.

  Gareth Jones shrugged. ‘Once every quarter… if there are clients who have lapsed on their payments, we send them a notice that we intend to sell their contents. They either pay their arrears or let the unit go. Most often it’s the latter.’

  ‘Really?’ Minter asked, surprised.