The waiting was unbearable. Waters said this time, ‘Mr Collinson? Where is Paul now?’

  The bird had ceased its song, and the eyes that looked back at him, directly at him for the first time since they had met, were as empty as the sky. Collinson raised his right hand, pointed and said, ‘In there.’

  He had called DI Greene on his mobile number. Halfway through the third sentence of his account of what had just taken place on the hill above Tyn-y-Capel, the detective inspector had interrupted and told him he was going to record this call and also he would be putting it on speaker in the main office. When all that was done, Greene said, ‘Please repeat what you just told me, for the record.’

  As he began to speak again, Waters could see Collinson sitting on one of the great stone slabs. Murray was standing a few feet away from him but they were not talking to each other. Waters said, ‘Seth Collinson is saying that his brother Paul, whom we also know as Saul, is buried here on the farm. He buried him himself, five years ago. In fact it will be five years to the day next Sunday.’

  Greene worked it out quickly enough – ‘On the twenty-first, which is the solstice.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Collinson says he put the body inside a Neolithic burial chamber here on the farm. It’s a well-known site…’

  Waters heard a female voice in the office say ‘No way!’ – he should have guessed Serena Butler would be delighted. Greene had said something Waters could not hear to a third party and then he came back onto the line. He said, ‘Detective Sergeant Waters – if I didn’t know you better, I’d say this was some sort of joke.’

  For Greene, that itself was an unusually light-hearted remark where an investigation was concerned; Waters understood what he wanted from it, and said, ‘No, sir. That is exactly what he has just told us. We’re still on the site where he says the body is buried.’

  Greene said, ‘I see. And do you believe what he has told you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Murray and I think it’s true.’

  The methodical, meticulous Greene was back in charge now. There was a short interval, no doubt while he re-arranged his notes to deal with this new development, and then, ‘And has Seth Collinson told you how Paul Collinson died?’

  Waters re-told it then, making no comment of his own, keeping to the facts as he had been given them by the elder brother. Early on the morning of the twenty-first of June five years ago, Seth had gone into one of the outbuildings on the farm and found that Paul had hanged himself from a beam. He cut down the body, and he had told Waters he thought it had been hanging there for an hour or two, no more. Seth Collinson believed his brother had killed himself at sunrise. At this point Waters had not shared with Collinson any details of Sylvie Favreau’s murder, but Collinson had said he understood why his brother had done it that way, and had looked at Waters for some sort of acknowledgement.

  Greene said, ‘And that fits in with James Leadsom’s version of events. Leadsom told him Ronnie’s story. Go on.’

  Collinson had told Waters he spent a long time with his brother’s body in the barn, deciding what to do. Paul had virtually no contacts in the outside world, not after fifteen years shut away on the farm. Who would miss him, other than his brother? On the afternoon of the same day, Seth took the body up to the hill and buried it inside the Neolithic chamber.

  Greene was writing. After a pause he said, ‘Was he alone when he did this? You’ve said there is a woman at the farm.’

  Waters said, ‘There is, sir. Her name is Fleur. I’d say she is Seth’s long-term partner. He’s been careful to keep her name out of his story but I’m certain she knows all about it.’

  Another pause, another careful calculation, before, ‘I see. I’m putting you on hold for a couple of minutes.’

  Murray had wandered a little further away from Collinson, and stood with his hands in his pockets like an inappropriately dressed tourist admiring the view. Collinson himself sat as before, perched on one of the slabs, his back towards Waters.

  How would Greene want to handle this? Presumably the couple of minutes would be used to speak to the senior investigating officer, and Waters tried to picture her face because he’d already realised some of the ironies and complications he had uncovered in the past hour. Of course, in one sense they’d got their man, but in a sense nobody could have foreseen and…

  He had walked a few steps further away and now he could see the woman, Fleur, was almost at the top of the footpath. She saw him, hesitated and then came on again. She had washed her face, brushed her hair and changed out of the dungarees into jeans and a smock top. A few feet short of Waters, she stopped and said with the air of someone ready for an argument, ‘Can I sit with him?’

  Technically, the answer should probably be no. Collinson had admitted a summary offence, preventing the lawful burial of a body, and although Waters didn’t know the maximum sentence for that, he suspected it could be a considerable one. The woman was a witness and a potential collaborator in the offence. He ought to keep them apart until they could be questioned; on the other hand, they’d had five years to get their stories straight. In the end this was a judgement call.

  He said, ‘Yes,’ and put up a hand towards Murray who was watching, signalling he had agreed. She walked across towards Seth Collinson and then sat next to him on the stone. As far as Waters could tell, no words had passed between them.

  Greene came back onto the line, and Waters asked how Freeman had taken the news. Greene said, ‘She’s in Norwich, she got a call this morning to meet with Commander Alexander. I haven’t informed her yet.

  ‘I hope you and Murray told your people you might not be home tonight, because you probably won’t be. I have alerted North Wales and told them you’re going to need interview rooms. Take them both in, and use separate cars. I understand there is already a squad car present, so use that for the woman. I’ve also explained that we need to secure the site where Collinson says he buried his brother, in the event he is allowed to return to Tyn-y-Capel. At that point I believe my popularity rating in North Wales took something of a dip…’

  Greene’s sense of humour was the equivalent of a fine Muscadet – always on the dry side. Safely more than two hundred miles away, Waters allowed himself a smile.

  ‘… as the senior Kings Lake officer present, you will be taking some important decisions. Obviously you will interview Collinson under caution as he has already admitted a serious offence – you’ll have to use your judgement as far as his partner is concerned. Avoid arrests if possible but if you think it is necessary, make them. Keep in mind that we now have two investigations. The primary one is into Sylvie Favreau’s death. Collinson must have important things to tell us there, which is why you will need to exercise careful judgement in your interviews, because the other offence did not occur in our jurisdiction. It’s possible that the local force will want to take over questioning him at some point, so some diplomatic liaison will be required. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying, DS Waters.’

  He did, having already begun to work through those complications in his own mind. If at all possible, he needed to avoid talk of charges and arrests when interviewing Seth Collinson – a little honest sympathy might take him much further than any suggestion of officiousness.

  ‘… and you can call me at any point, day or night.’ Greene paused and said, ‘There was something else. Yes. Are there any animals at the farm?’

  Waters said with a note of surprise, ‘Er, yes sir. Two dogs. Why?’

  ‘Make sure arrangements are in place,’ was the reply, ‘There was once a cat that caused me no end of grief. I’ll tell you about that another time. Loose ends are the bane of our life. As soon as DCI Freeman returns, I’ll be updating her. She might want to call you herself, so be prepared.’

  There had been talk in the office for a week or two, and so Waters’ next question wasn’t entirely for the sake of making conversation. He said, ‘Do we know what the meeting in Norwich is about, sir?’

  Greene’s micro-pauses could speak volumes, and after one now he answered, ‘Not officially but I expect the future of the squad will have been mentioned. We’re coming up to our first anniversary. In that respect, your timing isn’t bad, is it, detective sergeant?’

  As they were having something of a chat now, Waters could not resist what had been on his mind – ‘I expect the DCI is going to find this a bit ironic, sir.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Waters said, ‘I remember her saying that the one thing she would never do again in her career, sir, was an exhumation. And now we’ve got one.’

  Greene said slowly, ‘Yes. Indeed we have…’

  Having come this far, Waters had to go on: ‘And it’s on a triple SI, sir. The burial chamber is a Site of Special Scientific Interest. I imagine that’s going to be complicated. Even more complicated than the last one, sir.’

  Greene said, ‘Thank you for pointing that out. As you are already well informed on the matter, I may leave that out of my briefing to DCI Freeman, and let you explain it instead.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you, sir.’

  Waters could hear raised voices on the line. Greene said, ‘There are some individuals here who wish to send their congratulations to you and Murray,’ and after that Waters could hear and recognise the voices cheering. It meant something, especially when so far away from home, to know that there are good people at your back.

  ‘… remember, any time, day or night. And well done to the pair of you. Good work.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Reverend Gregory Gray had positioned himself halfway along the path. At a signal from a parishioner down at the road, he turned and nodded towards someone inside the church, and moments later the funeral bell began its tolling. The Reverend then walked slowly towards the lych-gate, looking suitably solemn and impressive in full vestments – cassock, surplice and a plain black stole – and carrying in his hands a small, leather-bound bible. When the hearse and the single black limousine drew up by the gate, Gray was there waiting and he made the sign of the cross with his right hand.

  Mr Coe senior got out of the hearse, nodded to the vicar and moved in that stately manner unique to funeral directors towards the limousine. He opened the rear door and Chloe Favreau stepped out – small but elegant, all in black with a veil of fine lace covering her face. She went to the vicar and he welcomed her warmly, and when that was over, both turned to look at the coffin in the back of the hearse. On it lay a single, simple wreath of tiny white flowers, forming the letters of a name – Sylvie. The Reverend must have asked her a question; Chloe answered him and then the vicar spoke to Mr Coe. They were ready to begin.

  Chris Waters and Serena Butler were watching from the side of St Mary’s church. When the short procession passed them – the vicar and Chloe Favreau, the funeral directors with the coffin and the handful of villagers who had no doubt come to pay their respects at the suggestion of their priest – the two detectives followed at the rear. They too had dressed soberly for the occasion, and Waters had never seen his constable looking more conservative than she did on this morning in early August.

  Chloe Favreau had been right in one respect – it was easier to arrange matters while here in England than it would have been from Marseille. What she could not have anticipated was the time the authorities would require to process her application to have her sister reburied in the grave from which her body had been exhumed. More than once in telephone conversations with Detective Constable Butler she had said she could not have done this without the support of the Reverend Gray; he had been a rock, she said, in the times when she felt it was hopeless. That day, when she first saw the graveyard and the place where Sylvie had been at rest, a voice had spoken to her, telling her she would find nowhere better than this, and then, when she met the priest who had kept watch over Sylvie for all those years, she had been sure.

  It was to be a short and simple ceremony. The covers of the grave had been removed in readiness and the group assembled around it as the pall-bearers supplied by Mr Coe and sons began to lower the coffin into the ground. Waters, watching with Serena from respectful distance because they were neither family nor friends, wondered whether it was maple wood again.

  The Crown Prosecution Service had decided, after deliberations lasting several days, that charges would not be brought against Ronnie Leadsom, James Leadsom or Seth Collinson. Whilst it was accepted that none of them had been guilty of the murder of Sylvie Favreau, there had undoubtedly been a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice in concealing the identity of the man who had killed her – Paul Collinson. But any prosecution must also be seen to be in the public interest, and it was felt that imprisoning any of the three men named after so many years had passed would serve little purpose. Denise Sterling had commented that somebody somewhere must have said they’d all suffered enough, one way or another, and there was truth in that. Those ripples, Waters, they go on forever, remember? It was left to the ever plain-spoken Murray, however, to suggest that the CPS might also have taken into account the sort of publicity that might surround an attempt to prosecute someone like James Leadsom. A legal team like his might raise the prospect of a rather high-profile acquittal and the attendant headlines.

  The coffin had been lowered – Sylvie Favreau had been returned to her place of rest. Her sister stood by the Reverend Gray as he spoke to the living who stood around the grave. Waters could hear some of the words as he continued to reflect on the events of the past few weeks.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Allen had been furious at the CPS decision. There had been raised voices behind closed doors at Lake Central, and the word was he had been insisting that DCI Freeman must present the whole thing again to the CPS – failing that, Allen would do so himself. This was not, apparently, down to the senior officer’s having a sudden and unexpected passion for justice – it was more to do with something called the cost to convictions ratio recently introduced by Assistant Chief Constable Devine. Fortunately, a day or two later the investigation had attracted the attention of the national press. A tabloid made it front page news under the headline “Norfolk Cops Crack Famous Cold Case”, and the superintendent’s phone was ringing all day long. He was able to make a number of public statements commending the brilliant work and the dedication of his officers. After that, peace returned to the corridors of power at the police station.

  Denise Sterling had said quietly to Waters one afternoon that Freeman didn’t seem too bothered by the decision of the Crown Prosecution Service. He understood why she had said that to him, and replied to her with, ‘I’ve certainly known her to try harder.’ It was true. Freeman could be relentless and push her officers more forcefully than Waters ever thought he might in her situation, but on this occasion she had accepted the decision not to prosecute as if it were no more than another parking fine – a nuisance but nothing more. She had also met Ronnie Leadsom officially and reported that in her view, as the SIO, he was not fit to be interviewed; ultimately this made little difference as their prime suspect had been buried in North Wales for five years. The local force had dealt with the exhumation, and forensic examination of the skeleton had revealed very definite fractures of the cervical vertebrae. Freeman had commented that Paul Collinson had probably died a quick and relatively painless death, and that that was something he had not deserved. From that point onwards, Waters had the feeling she was only interested in wrapping up the case as quickly as possible.

  He heard Gray’s voice saying ‘… and we ask His blessing for the work we do today. May she rest in peace here until that other day, that glorious day when the souls of all believers who have departed this world will rise up once more and be reunited in love and life eternal in the next. Amen.’

  That seemed to be the end of it. The parishioners walked silently back onto the path and filed past the two police officers. Gray stood with Chloe for another moment and then left her alone by the grave. He stopped by them and Serena said in a low voice, ‘Thank you. That was very moving.’

  Waters had to look and saw that she was quite serious. The vicar regarded her in an almost fatherly way, and then with one hand still holding the bible and the other palm upwards towards her as if he was ready to take her own hand, Gray said, ‘Never forget. It is an open door.’

  Gray nodded and walked on towards the church. Waters was still looking down at Serena. She frowned and said, ‘What? I was just saying…’

  Now the churchyard was almost empty – just the two of them, and Chloe Favreau at the graveside. A breeze stirred through the tops of the elm trees, shifting the pattern of light and shade beneath them. Waters thought how difficult a decision it must have been for Chloe to leave her twin sister here in a foreign land, in some corner of a foreign field, and yet he felt she had made the right choice. In some strange way, in simply resting here for so long, Sylvie Favreau had made the churchyard of St Mary’s, Stone Warren, her own.

  Music was playing faintly. They both heard it, looked at each other and then towards Chloe. She was holding her phone in front of her and towards the open grave. It was a song that lasted three or four minutes but not one that either of them recognised.

  When it was over, she turned and came towards them, still holding her phone. Serena asked what she had played and Chloe said, ‘Oh, it is something she would ’ave liked. Something that seemed to fit, you know?’

  Having been strong for so long, she was now close to tears. Serena put a hand on her arm, told her she could have done no more for her sister and how beautiful the service had been. Chloe thanked her and said, ‘It is called “I’ll Never Let Go”. The singer, he ’as a name that means love – Amor, Latin for love. He sings about “the missing piece of me…”. That was Sylvie for me, all those years. The missing piece.’

  She looked up at Waters then and said, ‘You ’ave found her and brought her back to me. I must say thank you once more.’