‘So what’s the preservation like down here?’ asked Okeke.

  ‘Crap,’ Sully replied. ‘If you took a crime scene and put it in a washing machine and added several big buckets of pond water, you’d end up with what we’ve got. The cockpit, where the blood had a chance to dry out and leave permanent marks, has given us the most to play with. On the deck above too – we’ve got some trainer prints, thumb prints, hand prints in dried blood on the mast and sail. But down here –’ he hunched over and scooped up a handful of scummy water mixed with tendrils of algae and other undefinable contaminants – ‘all we’ve got is goulash.’

  ‘And there goes another meal suggestion,’ grunted Boyd.

  Okeke snorted beneath her mask.

  ‘Funny old thing,’ said Sully. ‘You never see CSIs invited to appear on Come Dine with Me or Master Chef. I suspect it’s got something to do with the work.’ He flung the muck off his fingers and back into the water. ‘Pity really. I’m actually quite a good cook.’

  ‘Looks like there’s less blood in this water?’ Boyd said, bringing Sully’s attention back to the task at hand.

  ‘Yup. It’s been diluted by the sea. In terms of DNA, it’s useless. There’s some dead marine life, fecal matter from the toilet. A bit of everything really.’

  Boyd nodded towards the end of the main cabin. ‘How about in there?’

  ‘The forecabin? Yeah, there’s some decent forensics in there actually. Let me show you.’

  ‘Does the water get any deeper?’ Boyd asked, looking down at the waterproof slippers he was wearing over his shoes. He didn’t fancy spending the rest of the day wearing socks and shoes that were soaked with this crap.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Come along, folks,’ said Sully. ‘Let me show you the en suite.’

  He stepped past the folded table and the mast, which ran down through the floor into the keel below.

  ‘Note the door and the hole in it,’ said Sully, pointing at the door leading to the cabin. It had been battered with something that had left round indentations in the wood veneer. The area around the handle was splintered and shattered.

  ‘Battering ram,’ said Sully. ‘I measured the diameter. It matches a standard marine fire extinguisher. We couldn’t find one, so I presume that was flung over the side.’

  ‘A murder weapon?’ suggested Okeke.

  ‘Quite possibly.’ Sully opened the door, stepped inside and closed it again. He ducked down so that his face appeared through the ragged hole. ‘Heeeere’s Jonnieeeeee,’ he sing-songed through the hole.

  Boyd sighed. It certainly wasn’t the first time a colleague had done that at a crime scene.

  ‘So someone bashed the door in,’ Sully continued, ‘suggesting, obviously, that there was someone cowering in here, and well –’ he opened the door – ‘here is clearly where they died.’

  He stepped to one side to reveal the A-shaped bed in the forecabin. The mattress and bedding were soaked and stained pink by the diluted blood. But, unmissable, was a large, oval, much darker stain that suggested a significant deposit of undiluted blood had had a chance to soak in, congeal and dry; it was now indelibly marked in the material.

  Boyd followed him in. For the first time he had to duck slightly as the ceiling stepped down six inches.

  ‘The boat was significantly lower in the water at the front than at the back, which – and I’m no marine expert here – I suspect is because of that.’ Sully pointed down and to the left. Where the floor planks met the moulded fibreglass of the hull slanting upwards, a ragged hole had been punched through.

  ‘The yacht has an inner and outer hull. It’s clear that someone used something like a claw hammer to smash a hole through them both. You can see the indentations where a round headed hammer was used. Then see those larger circles? They used the fire extinguisher again to try to widen the hole some more.’

  ‘Somebody trying to scupper the boat,’ said Boyd.

  ‘To hide the crime scene,’ added Okeke.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Sully.

  The gentle rocking was beginning to get to Boyd; he felt queasy. The overpowering menthol taste of the Vicks rub wasn’t helping much either. He tugged the mask down from his nose to get away from it.

  ‘Uh, you probably don’t want to –’ started Sully.

  Boyd inhaled.

  Which turned out to be a bloody huge mistake.

  7

  As they drove back to the station, Boyd did his best to keep the conversation firmly on the subject – ‘initial impressions of the crime scene’ – rather than his stumbling, hurried exit from the boat and subsequent retching over the side. It hadn’t been the most impressive first day for a veteran detective.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘it looks as though it started with an act of violence in the cockpit. The spatter patterns suggest a lot of motion at the time. Swinging arms, legs, so most likely some sort of struggle. But then, as you said, this is outdoors and at sea, so the wind could have been responsible for carrying the blood droplets some distance.’

  Okeke nodded.

  ‘And then,’ continued Boyd, ‘there’s the smashed-in door below deck, the blood on the mattress in the forecabin.’

  ‘Agreed. There’s a lot of blood on that mattress, so the body was probably left there for some time,’ Okeke added.

  ‘Right. So what does all this suggest?’

  ‘Could it be just two people involved?’ she asked.

  ‘A couple? Yes. I suppose. He finds out something from her and in a rage attacks her in the cockpit. She escapes down below and he kills her in the cabin?’

  ‘Lot of gender assumptions there, guv,’ huffed Okeke.

  ‘Well… yes,’ he conceded. ‘Sorry. It is possible it happened the other way round. It’s just less likely.’

  ‘What about the prints on the foredeck?’ she asked. There’d been some trainer prints, barefoot prints, a whole palm print and a number of smears that didn’t look as though they were going to yield anything usable.

  ‘You thinking maybe there were other people on board?’ he said, nodding. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Or maybe that was the killer – pacing around afterwards?’ she suggested. ‘Wondering what the fuck he’s going to do now?’

  Okeke turned right off the promenade road, round the White Rock theatre and uphill towards Bohemia Road. Boyd was beginning to get his bearings now. This was the West Hill they were ascending. Hastings was, he thought, basically a town that nestled between two hills like a peanut lost down a cleavage.

  ‘How are you feeling now, guv?’

  ‘Like an idiot,’ he replied. He turned to look at her. ‘It was the rocking. Not the blood. I get seasick.’

  She smiled and clacked her tongue.

  ‘Really badly,’ he added.

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do,’ he huffed, hunching his shoulders and looking out of the passenger-side window again. ‘I do say so.’

  He could hear her chuckling beside him.

  ‘Oh, yes… Ha ha, very bloody funny,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sorry, guv,’ Okeke said, sounding more amused than apologetic.

  Back at the station Boyd swept into their recently acquired Incident Room to see how things were going with the other three members of the team.

  DS Minter and two younger lads – DCs Warren and O’Neal – had set up the Big White Board and brought in some office chairs and some tables on which to set up their computers.

  ‘Aaaand we’re back!’ said Boyd, throwing his coat onto the back of a chair.

  He pushed the chair across the room to a table that had been placed beneath a window. He brushed the blind aside and savoured the spectacular view of the rear of the local Travelodge. On the windowsill was a skeletal spider plant in a pot of dried soil, and someone’s dirty coffee mug, the contents of which seemed to be growing a furry blue skin that would have thrilled forensics. He grabbed the mug and the dead plant and dropped them into a bin.

  ‘This’ll be my desk, ladies and gents. The rest of you feel free to fight among yourselves.’

  Somebody from IT had kindly placed a laptop on his table, even plugging it in. Boyd scanned the room; the furniture and basics were all there – they were about good to go.

  ‘I want the meeting table in the middle,’ said Boyd. ‘Then individual tables as you want them.’

  He checked his watch and saw that it was coming up to one o’clock.

  ‘Right. Off you lot go and do what you do for lunch. Back here at two o’clock sharp for a team meeting and you can let me know what you found out this morning.’

  He watched them gather jackets and coats and head for the door. Okeke lingered at the rear, holding the door open. ‘Want me to pick you up something, sir?’

  ‘What is there to have?’

  ‘There’s a half-decent canteen on the top floor, sir. But an even better option is the chippy down the hill at the pier. That’s where we all normally go.’

  Boyd patted his generous waist with both hands. ‘I’ll give the chips a miss for now. Might take a look at the canteen, though.’

  She nodded and headed off after the others. He listened to their receding footsteps and the fading exchange of banter as the door swung shut, leaving him alone in the quiet of the Incident Room.

  This is what you’ve needed, Bill. Only Julia called him that. You spent nearly two years moping around at home. That’s more than enough, love.

  She was right. He’d probably been ready to get back to this six months ago, maybe even a year ago. He just hadn’t realised it.

  ‘Quite right, love,’ he said, picking up a pile of empty box folders and stacking them along the windowsill.

  8

  ‘Okay, everyone. Settle down, settle down. There’s a bit of housekeeping to go through first, then we’ll fill you in on our investigation this morning.’

  Boyd gestured to the dark-haired officer who was taking a seat to his right at the central meeting table. ‘DS Steven Minter will be my office manager and inquiry team leader.’

  ‘Righto,’ Minter replied, his Welsh accent slight but still unmistakable. Apparently he’d turned down playing rugby for Swansea and joined the police. By the look of him, Boyd reckoned he could still hold his own on the pitch with that solid physique.

  Boyd smiled and turned his gaze to DC Eddie Warren. He looked, to Boyd, as though he’d just finished his GCSEs and was enjoying his first work experience with the grown-ups. He was in his late twenties and obviously competent enough to have become a detective, but he looked so incredibly young. Put him in a school blazer and a tie and he could easily go undercover in a sixth form common room. He was spindle-thin, had a mop of floppy wavy auburn hair and had begun an embarrassing experiment with what looked like a pitiful attempt to grow a handlebar moustache.

  ‘Warren, you’re my exhibits officer,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Warren nodded enthusiastically.

  Next, Boyd turned to DC Darren O’Neal, another young-looking officer. Boyd mentally shook his head as he glanced around at them; they looked young enough to be friends of Emma’s. O’Neal was stocky and short and reminded him of the chirpy chappy who delivered the weather for Charlie and Naga on the morning news.

  ‘O’Neal – you’ll be disclosure liaison… if we get a suspect to charge. And, Okeke, as you may have guessed you’re CSI and crime scene manager liaison. The usual rules apply: no gossiping with non-team members, no comments to press, all inquiry tasks go via Minter’s action log but that doesn’t mean to say don’t use your initiative if you see something I’ve missed. What else…?’

  Boyd hadn’t made this speech in some time. It was funny how quickly a routine could fade from memory.

  ‘Umm…’ He was dimly aware his small audience were exchanging glances as he tried to remember what was missing.

  Okeke stepped in to save his bacon. ‘Guv, what about press liaison? Are you handling that? Or is that Sutherland?’

  ‘Ah yes. Thanks, Okeke. To be advised.… I suppose it’ll depend where this inquiry heads. If it’s a straightforward murder, then it may just pick up some local press. If it’s controversial in any way… then…’ He shrugged. ‘Sutherland or even Hatcher may end up with their faces on the evening news.’

  ‘Sir, is it likely to be?’ asked Minter.

  ‘TV worthy?’ Boyd shrugged again. ‘Who knows? I suppose it’s down to how slow the news is and whether they have anything more interesting to cover.’

  ‘If it’s a migrant attack, though, boss?’ said O’Neal. ‘That’ll be –’

  The phrase sounded ridiculous to Boyd. ‘Migrant attack? What the hell’s that?’

  ‘When they swarm a rescue boat, sir, and take it over.’

  ‘Has that ever happened?’ Boyd looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, is that a thing down here?’

  O’Neal shrugged. ‘It happens. You get gangs of migrants giving the locals trouble.’

  Okeke shook her head and rolled her eyes. Boyd suspected the same divisions existed down here in East Sussex as they did in London – those who saw racism and those who didn’t.

  ‘The Channel’s crawling with migrant boats,’ added Warren. ‘The yacht could easily have encountered one of them.’

  ‘And what? Been attacked? Like Blackbeard’s gang of hearty pirates?’

  ‘Just saying – it happens, sir.’

  Boyd managed to contain his dismay at that statement to an eye roll. ‘What about the time of year. I thought migrant boats were a summertime thing?’

  ‘It’s all year now, sir.’

  ‘If you read the Sun, it is,’ muttered Okeke.

  ‘Well, we’re not going to jump to any assumptions yet, Warren,’ said Boyd. ‘We’re at the gathering info stage. Speaking of which… Okeke, where are we with Sully and his merry men?’

  ‘The forensics report is being put together. As he said, there’s a lot of messy cross-contamination with the blood samples due to weather, the seawater, that kind of thing. So they’re still at the boat, taking swabs at a number of different locations.’

  ‘Did he give you an ETA?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she replied. ‘Or the day after.’

  ‘Anyone got anything on the boat?’

  Minter cleared his throat. ‘Yes, boss. The yacht has a berth in Sovereign Harbour Marina, Eastbourne.’

  ‘And have we got an owner?’

  ‘Not a name, sir, no. But we have a company.’ Minter checked his notes. ‘McGuire Mackintosh – they pay for the marina costs but I don’t know yet whether the company actually owns the boat.’

  ‘Okay, good. Someone check Companies House and let’s get a name. The boat… what’s it called again?’

  ‘Magpie,’ said Okeke.

  ‘The Magpie may be just some corporate entertainment toy, or she could be some tax-dodger’s asset-hiding wheeze.’ Boyd checked his watch. It was three thirty. ‘Who fancies a drive over to Eastbourne?’

  The room was perfectly still.

  ‘No one?’

  ‘It’s the traffic, boss,’ replied Minter. ‘At this time of day, the A27, you’ll be smacking right into rush-hour traffic coming back from Brighton. It’s a crappy single-lane road.’

  Okeke raised her hand. ‘I’ll go.’

  Boyd smiled. ‘Thanks. Take someone with you. Take O’Neal. Okeke, you lead; O’Neal, you’re along for support. See if you can get hold of a marina manager on the way there and tell them to make sure they stick around for you.’

  Okeke nodded, as did O’Neal.

  ‘Warren? Make a start on compiling recent misper cases for the area. Minter, if you could open up an action log, get a crime scene timeline from the CSM. Who’s the crime scene manager here?’

  ‘Leslie Poole, boss,’ replied Minter.

  ‘Right.’ Boyd clapped his hands together. ‘That’s the first meeting done with. Back to your desks, people.’

  They all started to rise, pushing their chairs back noisily, as Boyd had one last thought.

  ‘Can someone get a coffee machine in here?’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Well, I saw Flack’s team had one of those Nespresso ones…’ Boyd added.

  ‘That’s Flack’s from home,’ said Warren.

  ‘Ah, right. A kettle and instant it is, then.’ Boyd could just imagine Emma’s face if he suggested relocating their machine to the station.

  He stood up and grabbed his notepad, glancing at his hastily scribbled to-do list. Item number one was to check the Inquiry Team budget with DSI Sutherland. Each police force had its own in place, and even that varied from station to station when it came to financial considerations like overtime hours and material costs. He’d have to talk to Sutherland at some point about what sort of discretionary budget he’d get to play around with. Although that particular conversation was almost certainly going to be pushed uphill to the Chief Super or ‘Her Madge’ as they discreetly referred to her.

  He’d asked Minter earlier: ‘Why “Her Madge”?’

  DS Minter explained. ‘Her full name’s Margaret Hatcher. She knows we use it behind her back. I think she actually likes that. But… it’s best not to say it within earshot, boss. She’ll rip your balls off.’

  Boyd had smiled. The iron lady and wannabe queen. Her Madge. Obvious, really.

  He had a couple of hours of paperwork – the usual investigation set-up box-ticking – left to do before he could call it a day.

  But, administrative tedium aside, he had to admit that after two years of compassionate leave and a lot of long dark days it felt good to be busy again, to get his mind off Julia and Noah for a while.

  9

  Oh God, no. Oh God, no.

  Boyd was staring at too much blood. Fatal amounts of it. Not just blood. Solid matter. She was right beside him unable to look back, unable to move, only able to stare up at his face and whisper over and over.