Marjorie nodded.

  ‘We’ve compared the body with the details you gave the police twelve years ago,’ said Okeke. ‘And I’m afraid it’s looking likely that it could be Mark. It was his rugby club tattoo that helped us make the link.’

  Marjorie nodded. ‘He was a keen player.’

  ‘What position did he play?’ asked Minter.

  ‘Prop forward,’ she replied. ‘He had the build. You know… chunky.’ She turned back to Okeke. ‘So how did Mark die? Where did you find him?’

  ‘We do need to wait for confirmation that it’s him,’ Okeke said gently. ‘Can you tell us a bit more about him? About the day he disappeared and what reason might he have had, if any, for taking off?’

  ‘None… really,’ Marjorie replied. ‘I mean, he went to work as usual that day and just never returned.’

  ‘What did he do, job-wise?’ Minter asked.

  ‘He was an estate agent,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘And there were no problems to speak of? Debts maybe?’ Okeke paused. ‘Marital issues?’

  Marjorie stiffened slightly. ‘To be honest, we weren’t getting on that well at the time,’ she admitted.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘You know. Arguments and the like.’

  ‘And what were they about, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Okeke said.

  Jim entered the room with a tray of mugs and a plate of chocolate digestives. Marjorie remained silent until he’d handed them out and left them to it.

  ‘Mark had a temper on him,’ she said eventually. ‘He could be a little too handy with his fists, especially after he’d had a drink or two.’

  ‘He was violent with you?’ said Minter.

  She shrugged. ‘Once or twice. That’s what we argued about. I’d decided I wasn’t having any more of it. I’d had enough.’

  ‘You said he could get “a little too handy with his fists” after a couple of drinks. Did he drink often?’ said Okeke.

  Marjorie shrugged again. ‘He liked a few beers with the lads at the club after a session. Once a year he used to go on a complete bender with some old friends of his. He called it their “annual review”. But the reunion was basically just a massive piss-up.’

  ‘Do you know who they were?’ Minter asked.

  She shook her head. ‘There were four of them – at first, anyway. Over the years the others dropped out, I think, and it was just Mark and the other one.’ She looked at Okeke. ‘Those were the times when he got particularly drunk… and violent.’

  ‘Okay, and what about this remaining friend? Do you have a name for him?’ She paused. ‘Or her?’

  ‘It was Andy… something.’ Marjorie frowned as she tried to remember his surname. ‘When he came back from those drinking sessions, Mark always seemed… different.’

  ‘How do you mean, different?’ asked Minter.

  ‘He was distant. Closed down. Angry. I met Andy once. I think it was the year before Mark went missing. Mark brought him back after one of their sessions because he was worried about him making his own way home.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Andy was blind drunk that night, kept rambling on about something or other.’

  ‘What something?’ asked Okeke.

  Marjorie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Some secret or other that Mark didn’t want me to know. He kept trying to shut Andy up. Told me to leave them be and go up to bed.’

  Okeke jotted that down. ‘Did you get a sense of what this secret could be? Was it about money?’

  Marjorie shrugged. ‘Could have been. I know that Andy was always asking Mark for money. Now he was a bit of an alcoholic, I’d say. But, anyway, by the way Mark kept telling him to shut up that night, I think there was definitely something going on.’

  ‘Right. And you say they were old friends?’ Minter asked.

  ‘Going way back, I think.’

  ‘Do you know what school Mark went to?’

  ‘Some grammar school near Harsham, his home town,’ Marjorie said.

  Okeke scribbled that down. Harsham was an hour or so from Hastings. The school would be easy enough to find.

  ‘Andy didn’t manage to make it to their last reunion,’ added Marjorie. ‘He went missing apparently.’

  ‘He was missing too?’ Okeke said sharply, looking up from her notebook.

  Marjorie nodded. ‘And that was only a few months before Mark went missing as well.’

  Okeke glanced at Minter.

  ‘Oh…’ Marjorie raised her hand. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘What?’ Minter and Okeke asked in unison.

  ‘His surname. It was Westford. No, that’s not right.’ She frowned. ‘Andy West… field. That’s it. Andy Westfield.’

  21

  Boyd herded his team into the Incident Room. Okeke, Warren, O’Neal and Minter reeked of cigarette smoke as they filed past him.

  Boyd sniffed in Minter’s direction. ‘Surely not you too?’ he asked. ‘It’s a filthy habit, Minter.’

  Minter paused. ‘Very funny,’ he huffed. ‘I’m going to have to dry-clean my suit to get the reek of Okeke’s bloody car out of it.’

  They took their seats round the conference table and Boyd was just about to start the meeting when Sutherland poked his head round the door. ‘Mind if I sit in, Boyd? I’d like to catch up on things.’

  Sutherland looked hot and bothered; his white shirt was sporting damp patches under the armpits. Clearly he’d already had enough of being slowly baked alive in his glass vivarium.

  ‘Feel free, sir,’ Boyd said, and waved him in.

  Boyd went over to the one window in the room that could be cracked open just a couple of inches and opened it. The novelty of seeing blue skies over Hastings and feeling the sun on his face was beginning to wear thin.

  ‘When the hell is the air conditioning going to be switched on?’ he asked, shrugging off his jacket. The others shed theirs too.

  ‘July,’ replied Sutherland. He spread his hands apologetically. ‘It’s a budget thing. July for air-con, November for heating, Boyd. Sorry.’

  Boyd loosened his tie as he sat back down. ‘Okay then – updates, ladies and gents, please.’ He turned to Minter. ‘Let’s hear about Mrs Meadows first, shall we?’

  ‘Righto.’ Minter checked the notes in front of him. ‘Mark Meadows’ wife is Marjorie Barlow; she’s going by her maiden name now,’ he explained. ‘It was a very interesting interview, boss…’ He relayed a potted version of their conversation with her and took a swig from his water bottle when he was done.

  ‘So,’ Boyd summarised, ‘we have Mark Meadows and Andy Westfield, two friends from childhood, both going missing within months of each other back in 2011.’ He got up slowly and approached the whiteboard. He scribbled their names on the board.

  ‘I already checked LEDS,’ added Minter. ‘Westfield’s in the misper database too. He was the same age as Meadows.’

  ‘Who reported him missing?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘His mother. I skimmed the interview notes. She hadn’t heard from him for months. Normally he kept in regular touch, usually tapping her for money.’

  ‘He was an alcoholic, according to Meadows’ wife,’ Okeke added.

  Boyd scribbled ‘alcoholic’ and ‘money’ beside Westfield’s name. ‘So then, you say, according to the wife, Meadows and Westfield were in the habit of going for a reunion pint or several every year?’

  Both Minter and Okeke nodded.

  ‘And she mentioned something about a secret?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Yes,’ Okeke replied. ‘She said there was definitely something going on between them.’

  Boyd went back to his seat and eased himself down. The stitch in his side was particularly irksome this afternoon. He tried not to think it might be some gnarly tumour slowly eating away at him. Other explanations, he reminded himself, were still in the running.

  ‘You all right there, Boyd?’ asked Sutherland.

  He nodded. ‘Pulled a bloody muscle.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Sutherland, puffing up his chest. ‘Finally joined us on the old exercise front, have you? Well, see me afterwards and I’ll give you some tips on how to avoid the pitfalls. It’s very easy for a novice to overdo it, Boyd.’

  Minter choked on a mouthful of water and Okeke snorted.

  Boyd glared at them. He handed Okeke his whiteboard marker. ‘Note the secret on the board, will you?’

  Boyd scratched his beard as Okeke added ‘secret’ to the board. ‘So that’s two out of the three, then. And both disappeared in 2011, before that storage unit was taken on in 2012.’

  ‘So our serial killer may have stored them somewhere else for a while,’ suggested Magnusson.

  Boyd nodded, then added, ‘But can we stop using the term “serial killer”?’

  ‘Well, technically –’

  ‘Guv, we haven’t a hundred per cent confirmed the identities of the bodies yet,’ cut in Okeke. ‘Just saying.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘But it’s looking somewhat more likely now.’

  ‘The third one could be another school friend?’ suggested Warren. ‘In on this secret?’

  ‘The Ellessey write-up indicated all three men were about the same age,’ Magnusson confirmed. ‘Mid thirties.’

  ‘Okay. Well, let’s run with that. School mates. Potentially,’ muttered Boyd. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘So that really could rule out a serial killer, then,’ said Okeke.

  ‘The definition of a serial killer is more than three victims across a time span greater than thirty days,’ said Magnusson. ‘So, by that definition, our killer is a serial killer.’

  ‘They’re most often random profiled victims,’ Okeke corrected. ‘As in, not known to the killer but strangers of a certain type.’

  ‘Okeke’s right,’ said Boyd. ‘If all three of them were known to him, then it’s not a serial killer in the classic sense.’ He absently tapped a pen against his chin. ‘Since Meadows and Westfield knew each other… the chances of both being randomly selected victims of a type seems highly unlikely.’

  ‘But still possible,’ said Magnusson. ‘If they had similar traits? A similar lifestyle?’

  Boyd tilted his head from one side to the other, to indicate he was at least giving her suggestion consideration. ‘This secret, though... If we’re going to give that some weight, it’s another factor that links the pair of them.’

  Magnusson settled back in her seat noisily. ‘If we’re giving this notion of a secret serious consideration. Although, personally, I much prefer to deal in facts.’

  ‘That was Mrs Meadows’ word, right?’ asked Boyd.

  Minter and Okeke nodded.

  ‘And did Mrs Meadows say if this secret went back all the way to childhood?’

  ‘She didn’t say that,’ said Minter. ‘But she did say that four of them got together every year for a while before they started dropping out.’

  ‘So then…’ Boyd mused, absent-mindedly tapping his chin with the biro again. ‘Four men, possibly linked by a shared secret that possibly goes all the way back to their childhood. And three of them are now dead.’

  ‘That’s a lot of speculative “inking in”,’ said Magnusson. ‘Just saying.’

  ‘That’s what we do on our side of the floor,’ cut in Sutherland. ‘CSI do facts; CID do theories.’

  ‘Let’s just indulge it for the moment,’ said Boyd coolly. ‘A secret that four men know about. Three of them are dead. Either the fourth one killed the other three… or…’

  ‘Or?’ prompted Sutherland.

  ‘There’s a fifth person who wants all four of them dead,’ Okeke said.

  Sutherland turned her way. ‘Now that is inking in, detective.’

  ‘It could have been a playground pact,’ Warren suggested.

  Sutherland cut in again. ‘Good God, let’s never use that phrase again. If the press catch wind of that, it’ll be all over the place. They love a bit of ruddy alliteration.’

  Boyd twisted carefully in his seat and looked back at the board.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out what schools Meadows and Westfield attended. If it’s the same school, then maybe we’re looking at something that happened when they were school age. If they didn’t go to the same school, then they might have met each other through some club or other. Maybe they were just friends because they knocked around the same neighbourhood?’

  ‘Maybe they became friends later in life?’ added Warren. ‘Like university or something?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Boyd. ‘Perhaps I’m leaning too hard on the childhood angle?’

  ‘Meadows’ wife was quite specific… that their friendship seemed to go back a long way,’ said Okeke.

  ‘Right.’ Boyd nodded. ‘Well, let’s give the school a try and we’ll go from there.’

  ‘I’ll take that,’ volunteered Okeke.

  ‘No,’ replied Boyd. That was going to be relatively easy work and Okeke was good at the more important face-to-face stuff. ‘O’Neal. You check the schools.’

  ‘Right, chief,’ O’Neal replied.

  ‘Minter, Okeke… you go and interview Westfield’s mum. Let’s find out some more about him. Did he have money troubles? Was he actually an alcoholic? And, yes, dive into his childhood. Did he have any particularly close friends. Get names if she can remember them.’

  ‘Righto,’ Minter said.

  ‘Warren?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘We really need to know who body number three is. Keep trawling the misper database and liaise with O’Neal. Remind me – how old was Mark Meadows when he went missing?’ he asked Minter.

  ‘Thirty-six, boss.’

  ‘Right. So John Doe number three looks as if he was boxed up about five years ago. So carry on with the search – white, male and mid thirties – and look at records from four to six years ago.’

  ‘And Okeke… can you get a DNA swab from Westfield’s mother while you’re there? We need to confirm that the body is definitely her son.’

  ‘On it, guv,’ Okeke replied.

  ‘You still don’t have a one hundred per cent DNA certainty that Mark Meadows is one of those bodies,’ cut in Magnusson sharply. ‘You’re working on an assumption, Boyd.’

  Boyd did his best not to grind his teeth too obviously. ‘Yes, Magnusson. Admittedly, it’s an assumption. But it’s a promising enough one to run with at the moment.’

  Magnusson raised her brows sceptically and tucked her chin into her neck in a way that irritated him.

  ‘We’re still waiting on some bits and pieces from Ellessey, aren’t we?’ he asked her.

  ‘Only the DNA swab from the coffee cup. And potential forensics on that storage unit registration form,’ she replied.

  ‘Chase them up, will you?’

  Her chin disappeared deeper into her thick neck. ‘Of course… sir.’

  22

  Boyd’s personal phone buzzed on his desk with an unknown caller ID. He let it roll over to voicemail. Being an unknown, it was more than likely he was going to be informed by some AI spam-bot that he’d recently been involved in a traffic accident.

  It started buzzing again.

  He picked it up, intending to remain silent so that the bot would figure out his number was a waste of time and move on.

  ‘William Boyd?’ It was a female voice. A human one.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name’s Kath Middleton. I’m ringing on behalf of Dr Chudasama from the oncology department.’

  It took him a moment to assemble that in his head. ‘Oncology. The cancer people?’

  ‘Yes, at Conquest Hospital.’ Her voice sounded vaguely apologetic. ‘I’m calling about your stool sample. I just need to check a couple of details before we can talk…’

  Boyd got up and wandered over to the window that overlooked the car park at the front of the station, away from the other desks. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Can you confirm your date of birth, please?’ she asked. ‘And the first line of your address.’

  Boyd did so.

  ‘Thank you, William,’ she replied. ‘Your sample was sent to us by Dr Ho from Ore Surgery and it’s just been tested –’

  ‘Blimey, that was quick. I only made the…uh… deposit yesterday.’ He put a smile into his voice. ‘And there was me thinking the NHS was backed up for months.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she continued, ‘that a couple of positive markers turned up in the sample.’

  ‘Positive markers… meaning?’ he asked.

  ‘It means we’d like to take a closer look at you, William.’

  ‘Are we talking –’ he looked around to make sure no one was nearby – ‘cancer?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘The positive markers can mean a number of things.’

  ‘But they include cancer?’ he pressed.

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes. Among other things. Dr Chudasama has requested that you come in for a colonoscopy as soon as is convenient.’

  Convenient seemed a vaguely reassuring word to hear. So not that urgent, then. ‘Well, I’m quite busy with work at the moment,’ he tried. Refraining from mentioning that in fact it was three dismembered, desiccated bodies he had, figuratively, in his in-tray.

  ‘It’s quite important,’ she responded.

  Okay, so possibly urgent.

  ‘Colonoscopy,’ he said cautiously. ‘Is that the camera up the…’ He paused. ‘Back passage?’

  She laughed politely. ‘Yes. It’s not as uncomfortable as it sounds, though. It can be done with a local anaesthetic if you’re… uh…’

  ‘Not used to that sort of thing?’ he helped her.

  ‘Indeed. We’re ideally looking at some time in the next couple of days. It’s best to investigate these things as quickly as possible to rule out anything serious. How does Thursday morning sound?’

  The day after tomorrow. They really weren’t hanging around.

  ‘All right. Yes. Okay,’ he heard himself say.

  ‘Great. I’ll book you in for nine. We’ll prescribe you CitraFleet to be taken on Wednesday evening and on Thursday morning. Full instructions will be with the pack.’