‘Ah! DCI Boyd… I was just about to email you my SOC report.’

  ‘Sully?’ Boyd did a double take as he addressed the man in front of him.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you out of the forensics suit and mask.’

  Sully was skinny to the point of looking unhealthy to Boyd. He had an Adam’s apple that bobbed like a fishing-line float, and frizzy almost albino-blonde hair on his head, so fine it was almost a mist.

  ‘Have you got a hard copy for me?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘We try and be as paper-free as we can here, sir. It’s all about the environment. I’ll email it to you. Think of the children.’

  Boyd couldn’t tell if Sully was being sarcastic or not. His Jack Dee-style dry delivery so far had been difficult to decipher. ‘I’d like a hard copy if that’s okay. I’m a big fan of making margin notes.’

  Sully huffed. ‘On my stationery budget, I suppose?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Sully sighed. ‘Right.’

  ‘You got any exciting bulletin points to flag up for me in the meantime?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘There were three distinct DNAs in the dried blood,’ Sully said, ‘and a mish-mash of contaminated DNA. I gave up trying on the wet samples; the seawater had turned them into stew.’

  ‘Nice. Well, that ties up with our investigation so far.’

  ‘The splatter markings in the cockpit are more likely windborne than arterial,’ Sully confirmed.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘They have a uniform spread direction,’ Sully replied.

  ‘So the blood…’

  ‘Was most likely post-mortem.’

  Boyd nodded. They both knew what that meant. It hadn’t been a fight then, but –

  ‘Dismemberment,’ said Sully matter-of-factly. ‘That’s what was going on in the cockpit, Boyd. The cutting up of bodies.’

  ‘Right. Thanks for that. Anything else that I should jump straight to in the report?’

  ‘There were finger, palm, feet and shoe prints on the foredeck. Quite a lot of those,’ Sully said.

  ‘Indicating more than three people?’

  ‘Hard to say, at least three distinct individuals. There could have been more. But certainly no less.’

  ‘So what’s the story you’re getting from this?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘That’s your job, Boyd, not mine,’ Sully replied, waggling his finger.

  ‘Off the record…’ Boyd smiled. ‘For fun. I’m not going to hold you to it.’

  Sully tapped his lips. ‘There were at least three people on board. A murder down below. Maybe two. Followed by lots of cutting up in the cockpit area. On the foredeck there are a lot of bloody trainer prints from what looks like the same person. But there are also other shoe prints, which… were probably made later. There are scuff marks on the side of the boat, the hull, the gunwhales – could’ve been caused by another boat bumping against it.’

  ‘A lifeboat?’

  ‘Possibly. A collapsible or inflatable one.’

  ‘And the hole in the hull – you’re certain that was definitely done with intent?’

  ‘Ah… yes. There are claw hammer dents in the fibreglass on the inside. It was definitely created from within. The fibres splay outwards not inwards.’

  ‘So somebody had a good go at trying to sink it then,’ muttered Boyd.

  Sully nodded. ‘Makes sense. Way easier than trying to clean up the crime scene. Just sink the whole bloody thing out at sea. Only, of course, the thing didn’t go down.’

  ‘Murphy’s law. Bloody boats – you want them to sink and they don’t. You don’t want them to sink and they do a Titanic on you.’

  ‘Right. I’m not really a big fan of sailing,’ said Sully. ‘All that drowning.’

  ‘It’s safer than flying, I believe,’ Boyd pointed out.

  ‘My parents kept nagging me to go on a cruise with them before the Covid outbreak,’ said Sully.

  ‘Floating plague ships not your thing?’ Boyd could think of a hundred ways he’d rather spend his holidays. With or without parents.

  ‘I saw The Poseidon Adventure when I was young. The thought of being stuck in a windowless cabin at the very bottom of a sinking ship…’ Sully actually shivered. ‘Anyway, cruise ships… You’re right, Boyd – they’re giant germ factories.’

  ‘So, what with all the lockdowns, they must have given up nagging you to go along with them, eh?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Sully’s face suddenly went blank. ‘They’re dead.’

  Boyd let his mouth drop open slightly, hoping it would come up with the right thing to say. He’d been on the receiving end of awkward platitudes for the last two and half years – everyone trying to avoid the obvious clichés but creating new ones instead. ‘Sorry to hear that…’

  Sully’s long and silent expression gave way to a smirk. He winked. ‘Just messing with you, Boyd.’

  Boyd frowned and shook his head. ‘Right. Hilarious. You’re very funny, Sully.’

  Sully grinned. ‘I know. I’m totally wasted here.’

  13

  An hour later, Boyd was busy making notes and underlining pertinent sections of the SOC report when DC Okeke called out to him from her desk.

  ‘What is it?’ Frankly he was relieved to set the bloody thing down for a moment and rest his eyes. Sully’s writing style was so dry he felt like he needed to bathe his eyes in Optrex. ‘What have you got?’

  She waved him over. ‘CCTV from inside the marina shop, guv. From the same time that departure form was rubber-stamped.’

  Boyd went to her desk and squatted down beside her. Okeke reached into a box of mini doughnuts on the desk, grabbed one and took a bite. ‘Let me just dial this back a few minutes.’

  The image on the screen flickered as it rewound, then she let it play again.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir, want one?’

  ‘Please don’t force me,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to be good but my willpower’s not great.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to put a gun to your head.’ She laughed and gestured towards the box. ‘Help yourself if you want.’

  He sighed, reached in and grabbed one topped with chocolate sprinkles.

  Unsurprisingly, the image quality of the CCTV footage was shockingly poor. They had three picture-in-picture angles to look at: a view from behind the shop’s counter that covered most of the store, its window and entrance; one view of the alcohol section; and one of the frozen-food aisle.

  ‘So here we are,’ she said. She pointed at the entrance. The motion was the usual stop-start, one-frame-every-half-a-second kind. A pair of feet appeared in the frame. The glass door opened, and a woman in jeans, an anorak and a baseball cap came into view.

  ‘A woman,’ he said softly.

  ‘Well done, guv,’ said Okeke, grinning.

  The woman made her way straight towards the counter and appeared to be talking to the marina manager for a short while. She pulled out a folded sheet of paper from her anorak and pushed it across the counter. The manager looked it over, then disappeared from view with it.

  ‘That, I presume, is this Border Force departure form?’ said Boyd. ‘I guess she’s making a copy of it.’

  The woman leant forward, elbows on the glass counter. Not looking up. Not looking around. Keeping the peak of her baseball cap low.

  ‘You notice that?’ he said.

  ‘Keeping her face down?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I think that comes under “suspicious behaviour”.’

  The woman glanced quickly over her shoulder towards the entrance.

  ‘She looks nervous to me,’ said Okeke.

  Definitely. He found himself agreeing. But why?

  The manager returned with the piece of paper and handed it back. The woman took it and tucked it away but lingered at the counter.

  ‘Are they talking?’ asked Okeke.

  Boyd narrowed his eyes, as if that might help him to see better. The resolution and frame rate were too poor to pick out lip movements. But the woman seemed to be gesturing or pointing at something.

  ‘They’re definitely saying something.’ Boyd looked at Okeke. ‘Is the woman behind the counter the one you interviewed?’

  ‘Looks like her, yeah, guv.’

  ‘And she didn’t recall talking to this woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing? No sense that she looked uncomfortable? Nothing out of the normal?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all.’

  The exchange was short. The woman with the baseball cap and the anorak turned round and headed for the store’s glass front door. As she pulled the door open, Boyd caught a blur of movement near the top of the image.

  ‘Pause it.’

  Okeke hit the space bar and the CCTV image froze. Boyd straightened up, wincing at the pain in his thighs – no doubt courtesy of all the Hastings inclines. He grimaced and resolved to take the sodding car tomorrow. He leant over Okeke’s shoulder and pointed at a smudge of grey.

  ‘Feet. In shot. See up there?’

  She nodded. ‘Let’s see if they’re heading in or waiting.’

  She hit the space bar again and the jerky motion of the CCTV footage resumed. The woman emerged from the store and let the door swing shut behind her.

  She walked out of shot and was followed by two pairs of feet. The image revealed the lower half of both sets of legs as their path descended further into the camera’s field of view. But hip height was as good as it got before they disappeared completely. Boyd and Okeke watched the footage for another minute to make sure that there was nothing else, then Okeke pressed stop.

  ‘One woman. And two men waiting for her outside,’ she said. ‘They look like they were with her. Do you agree?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Looks like it’. As best he could make out, those legs did seem to belong to two men. But they couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Is there another CCTV camera on the boats in the marina?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s one covering the main jetty. The one the Magpie was tied up on. The owners were looking into it for me. I’ll chase it up and see if they found anything worth sending over.’

  ‘Good job. Oh… Okeke?’

  ‘Yes?’ She followed his line of sight and suppressed a grin.

  ‘Could I have another one of those…?’ Boyd nodded sheepishly at the box of doughnuts.

  It was getting late. Boyd had his coat over one arm and was making ‘getting ready to go’ noises when Minter appeared in front of his desk. Boyd wished he could just wave him away. His stomach rumbled loudly in agreement.

  ‘Boss, just a quick update on the mispers list.’

  Boyd sighed and sat back down. Minter’s ‘quick’ updates, he was beginning to realise, could take some time. ‘Are we down to less-than-stupid numbers?’

  ‘Under three thousand now.’ Minter pulled out a chair and sat down too. ‘I’ve got O’Neal crunching his way through them. Warren’s on his way back from Eastbourne.’

  ‘I’m sure common sense will prevail but, just in case it doesn’t, we’re looking for people with a possible Chinese connection, with an interest in yachting, who own a boat, and are ideally assumed missing from about three months ago, but not necessarily reported missing three months ago. It could be a misper report raised yesterday… if you get what I’m saying.’

  ‘Yeah, O’Neal knows all that, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure he does. But always worth double-checking, right?’

  ‘Absolutely, boss,’ replied Minter.

  Boyd eased his chair back, picked up his bag and stood up. He was six foot two, several inches taller than Minter. Minter, despite being infinitely fitter, stronger and undoubtedly more rugged than Boyd, seemed to shrink ever so slightly into his chair.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Boyd, striding towards the door. ‘Good work. See you tomorrow morning.’

  14

  Boyd had completely forgotten about the rescue dog.

  It all came flooding back to him as he opened the front door. He was supposed to have rung Emma to let her know whether he was coming home at lunch time to meet him.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered as he closed the front door behind him.

  ‘We’re in here,’ she called out.

  He hung his coat up, flung the car keys onto the hallway shelf and steered himself into the lounge. Emma was sitting on the wooden floor at one end, a white-and-ginger-patched spaniel was sitting at the other. One of the patches surrounded his right eye – he could have been in a Kiss tribute band.

  ‘You two fallen out already?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s very nervous,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, he just needs to be broken in with a good ear ruffling, Ems.’ Boyd strode towards the dog. As Boyd approached and loomed over him, Ozzie began to issue a low warning grumble.

  ‘Dad, careful. You’re scaring him.’

  ‘He’s just –’

  The grumble became a full-on growl, stopping Boyd in his tracks. ‘Okay, maybe I am a bit,’ he conceded.

  He backed up and sat down on the floor beside her. ‘How long have you two been like this, staring at each other from across the room?’

  ‘A couple of hours. The Spaniel Aid lady said you’ve got to give them time and space to settle in.’

  ‘Did she mention anything about bribing him with food?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a half-eaten doughnut wrapped in tissue. He’d planned to finish it on the walk home.

  ‘Um, Dad… he’s meant to be on dried kibble. Very plain food.’

  ‘Aw, come on. Just this once. Call it a welcome home cake.’

  Boyd peeled the tissue away and placed the caramel-topped doughnut on the floor in front of him. ‘Here you are, Ozzie,’ he said softly. ‘Come and get it.’

  Ozzie, sitting very stiffly in front of the fireplace, remained wary and uninterested.

  ‘There, your cheap attempt to buy his love has failed miserably,’ said Emma.

  ‘Give it a second. The smell’s got to reach him first.’

  ‘Errr… Dad? You know he can see it, right?’

  ‘Yes, but he won’t know it’s food until he can smell it, will he?’ replied Boyd. ‘I could have put down a balled-up sock as far as he’s concerned.’

  Ozzie’s wet nose began to twitch, his muzzle lifted as he probed the air in front of him and he leaned forward slightly.

  ‘Aha!’ he said smugly. ‘See? Everyone has a price.’

  ‘Come on, Ozzie,’ coaxed Emma.

  Boyd eased the doughnut further forward. ‘Come on, Oz. How much do you want this delicious, yummy thing, hmmm? Not just any doughnut, old boy – it’s a deep-fried, caramel-topped and lovingly sprinkled Krispy doughnut.’

  The sales pitch seemed to be working. Ozzie got up, took a step forward, then another.

  ‘That’s it, you bribable old bastard – come and get it,’ he cooed gently.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ Emma scolded. ‘Poor thing’s been through a rubbish few days.’

  Ozzie took another few wary steps, then halted a foot short of the offering.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ muttered Boyd. ‘Just take the bloody thing, mate, and let’s be friends.’

  ‘He’s been abused in the past, Dad, remember? He’s been beaten, thrown out, left to rummage in dustbins. You can’t blame him for being wary.’

  Ozzie stretched his head forward. Finally a pink tongue shot out and took a testing swipe at the caramel topping. The decision process was pretty rapid. He lurched forward and downed the half doughnut in one gulp. Then, quick as a flash, he was back in his spot in front of the fireplace.

  15

  Boyd was trying to decide whether or not he should invest in a bicycle for his morning commute. It had occurred to him that if he didn’t have to stop for any red lights or old ladies, he could probably get all – if not most – of the way to the police station from his house on the hill without a single pedal.

  Of course, the corollary of that was that he’d be peddling uphill like a bastard all the way back home.

  Sod it, he thought. The walk would give him a bit more thinking time, and he supposed his thighs would get used to it at some point.

  As he headed in, to what would be his third day at work, he realised that it already felt as though he’d been there for weeks. He’d expected to get to know the CID department gradually as he fumbled his way around the new job, new town, new home… his new life. But instead he was getting a frantically crammed crash course.

  Oddly, though… it all felt invigorating rather than draining.

  He emerged from the end of the fabulously Dickensian-looking George Street to see the apron of seafront parking and the sea beyond. It was lively this morning, and high tide too; waves were surging their way up the beach and throwing up rooster tails of froth onto the long shingle berm at the top.

  Four weeks ago, the prospect of packing, moving and meeting new colleagues, let alone heading up an investigation, had been a mountain he’d thought he couldn’t climb. Four weeks ago, just getting out of bed, putting on a dressing gown and making a cup of tea had been a project that needed careful evaluation.

  What most people don’t seem to get, Boyd thought, is how bloody exhausting grief is.

  He arrived at the station at five to nine, flashed his warrant card at reception and buzzed through the side door, with just enough time to take a piss and grab a coffee from the canteen upstairs.

  He was mid-flow, his mind a million miles away in what now felt like another lifetime, when he was jerked unceremoniously back to the present.

  ‘Boss.’

  He turned to see Minter at the urinal next to him, promptly unzipping and letting rip. ‘I think we’ve got a hit on one of the mispers. It –’

  ‘Errr… Minter, I’m busy…’

  Minter either didn’t hear or didn’t care. ‘It only came in a fortnight ago and you won’t believe how it flagged up –’

  ‘Mate, I’m actually having a piss right now. Time and place?’

  ‘It was bloody typo error that –’

  ‘Can I just have five. Bloody. Minutes. Please, Detective Sergeant?!’