‘I’ve just watched you eat all my naan bread as well as your own.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Tris. Prawn bhuna is my Kryptonite. I once ate four in one sitting. Saying that, there was barely enough to fill a gnat’s hat,’ he added, throwing a dirty look over to the bar, where Len, the perpetually miserable landlord, was polishing glasses.

  Tristan stared moodily at the last of his lager.

  ‘We’re in business together. And I just feel like Kate’s shutting me out of things. She did all of this internet research the other day, and she was supposed to share it all with me, and she hasn’t.’ He picked up his phone. ‘And I said to her, text me when you’re done and if everything is okay. Nothing.’

  ‘She might still be at the doctor’s surgery, and she’s a complicated woman, Tris. Think of everything she’s been through in her life. She must have trust issues. Is she seeing anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Kate never talks about that side of her life. I don’t think she is.’

  ‘And it’s still early days with your business. You’re transitioning from being Kate’s research assistant at the university to being her equal partner in the agency. Think about it for a minute. You both went out today on the moors to try and retrace Charlie’s steps. This tiny little boy could have wandered out and got lost on the moors or strayed into the bog land. Did you really need to jump up and down on it like you were on a trampoline?’

  ‘No,’ said Tristan, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘Exactly. That’s the thing to remember, you are private detectives. You’ve pledged to do your duty and right wrongs. And don’t forget, Kate was a police officer in London. She might have lost colleagues in the line of duty. She has probably seen colleagues die. I know I did.’

  Tristan rubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘God, I’m an idiot,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up. We all make silly mistakes. In fact, I’m about to make one now.’ He turned to the bar and shouted, ‘Len, give us another prawn bhuna, three poppadoms, and a naan bread.’ He turned back to Tristan. ‘What? I told you the portions were tiny.’

  ‘Do you want mango chutney?’ shouted Len.

  ‘Yes, but next time you can make sure this ramekin is filled up to the brim!’ Ade held the empty mango chutney ramekin in the air. Len muttered something and disappeared through the door behind the bar. ‘I’ve seen him at the cash and carry buying that mango chutney in a huge catering jar. The least he can do is give you a proper portion.’

  ‘Maybe I’m too immature. Maybe I’m not ready yet for all this,’ Tristan said.

  ‘You did those private detective training courses?’

  ‘A month at an old polytechnic. Police officers train for years,’ said Tristan with a sigh.

  ‘Now stop this,’ said Ade. ‘Do you know how many people would kill for your opportunity? It will be a pretty poor showing if you quit and throw in the towel, over what? A silly row. You started off as a cleaner at the university, and it was Kate who saw something in you. Now pull yourself together. Do you want another pint?’

  Tristan checked his phone.

  ‘Kate’s just texted me. She says she’s going to take a couple of days off, and she’ll ring me. That’s it.’

  ‘See? That’s good. I think she just needs a rest. Time to recuperate. She got very peaky on the moor… Is that a yes for another pint?’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Tristan. Ade picked up his bag and went up to the bar. Tristan stared gloomily at the jukebox with its spinning lights. Another text message came through, and for a moment he hoped it was Kate with something more personal, but it was from his sister, Sarah, asking if she and Leo could stay another night at the flat. Apparently, their house was still stinking from the paint.

  Ade came back a few minutes later with their drinks.

  ‘Thanks for coming with us today,’ said Tristan.

  ‘No problem. It felt good to be detecting.’ He took a sip of his beer.

  ‘What do you think happened to Charlie?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. The logical thing would be that Charlie fell in the river, but after fifteen years on the force, logic sometimes goes out of the window. You wouldn’t believe some of the cases I worked on and the weird and messed up things that happened.’

  It was 9pm when Tristan left the pub and set off home, and he felt a bit better after a few drinks with Ade. It wasn’t until he was in the kitchen turning on the tap that he remembered the text from Sarah. The water squealed through the pipes. He waited for the sound of Leo’s screaming, but thankfully, the house remained silent. He crept upstairs to his room, the stairs creaking. A coloured light was playing across the ceiling of the landing, and when he rounded the corner of the stairs, the door to the spare room was open. Sarah was lying flat out on the bed, fast asleep with her mouth wide open. Leo was sitting up beside her, holding a plastic brick. He looked at Tristan for a moment, wide-eyed and cute, and then went to shove the brick into Sarah’s open mouth.

  ‘No, no, no,’ whispered Tristan, hurrying over and scooping him up off the bed. He took the brick from Leo’s tiny hand and put it back in the toy box. Sarah shifted and carried on snoring. He covered her with a blanket and carried Leo to his room.

  ‘Here we go. Why don’t you cuddle up with me for a bit, and we’ll get you off to sleep,’ said Tristan. He put Leo down against the pillows on his bed and then quickly got ready for bed. He slid in beside Leo, who looked at him with wide blue eyes. Leo reached out and poked at the eagle tattoo on Tristan’s chest.

  ‘Why can’t you sleep?’ said Tristan. He got comfortable with Leo lying in the crook of his arm.

  Tristan pulled up Google Maps on his phone and looked at the Devil’s Way gorge. He swiped with his fingers and if he zoomed in very close, he could just make out the blurred branches of the Pixie Tree and the coloured rags festooning its branches. He thought back to the elderly lady with the withered and twisted back bones. He zoomed out and saw that the whole area was covered in thick undergrowth and trees, spreading out for a mile or so towards the road leading up to the Devil’s Tor and the open moorland. As Tristan zoomed out further, he saw a pin in the map with the name DANVERS FARM, and some contact information. Leo was now asleep on his left shoulder and snoring lightly. Tristan’s eyes began to droop, and he fell into a troubled dream, where he was trying to find Leo amongst thick undergrowth.

  He seemed to search for hours, stumbling through the mud in the dark woodland, and then he burst into the clearing with the Pixie Tree. The old lady with the twisted and hunched back was standing beside the dank pool, cradling Leo in her arms.

  32

  A week passed, and Kate worked hard at getting well. She was impressed that Tristan had stepped up and taken responsibility for the agency and the caravan park. He’d sent her a couple of messages during the week, checking in, but apart from that, he let her be. When she woke up on Monday, it was the first morning she felt back to her old self. Almost. She lay in bed for a moment and knew that she had to try and swim.

  Kate emerged from the dunes with her heart racing in her chest. The sand grew wet and solid as she made her way to the water’s edge. The beach was empty, and the waves seemed huge, although she was used to bigger. The first wave crashed down a few metres from where she stopped to pull on her goggles, and the surf surged up to her knees. Kate put her hands down and felt the pull as the water dropped away, leaving her on the wet, shifting sand, with a few strands of green seaweed between her fingers. She took a deep breath. It was just water.

  John’s words came back to her. You can just paddle. Her throat was suddenly dry, and she swallowed and looked around. The beach was completely empty. Was this a good thing? What if she got into trouble again? No, this was ridiculous. She was a strong swimmer. Kate took a step and then two more. Another wave crashed in, bigger than the last, and it surged up and around her hips, jostling her on her feet. Kate gritted her teeth and engaged her arms and hips, pressing her weight into the sand as she moved against the current. And then, another wave came barrelling towards her, and she dove into it. The water enveloped her, and Kate swam off, kicking out vigorously. She felt sleek and fast, like an arrow cutting through the surf under the breaking waves. Kate could see down to where the sand rapidly fell away to a rocky gloom. The roar of the water came and went as she broke the surface every four strokes to breathe. Kate swam, her body surging toward the horizon, and she felt the freedom she’d craved over the past couple of weeks. She was far out, moving against the swells of water as they rolled toward the shore. Kate slowed and allowed herself to float on her back, rising and falling with the waves. She felt the warm fingers of the sun’s rays as it broke the horizon, and she suddenly felt her zest for life return. Kate looked back at her home and the office sitting on top of the rocky cliff. Cold and warm currents moved on either side of her. This was her life, the life she wanted to lead, and it was hard won. There wasn’t another moment to waste on insecurities or sadness.

  Kate gave two strong kicks and started to swim back. The sun was warm on her hair, and as the shore came closer, she rode the growing swells, feeling her heart pumping and the zing on her skin from the salt water. A wave rose up behind her, and she caught it as it broke, her feet wheeling under her, pulling along the sandy bottom, feeling the exhilaration of riding a wave until the sand was gritty and firm under her feet, and she was safe again on dry land.

  When he arrived at the office, Tristan was surprised to see Kate at her desk. She was drinking coffee and looked more like her old self again. Her hair was still wet, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the sea.

  ‘Morning, how are you doing?’ he asked. He still felt embarrassed after their disagreement.

  ‘Much better. Sleep, antibiotics, lots of cheese on toast, a swim and an AA meeting all seem to have done the trick.’

  ‘Is this you finally divulging your beauty secrets?’ he asked. Kate laughed.

  ‘Yes. I also owe you an apology.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘No. I do. I was ill and feeling weird, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You are my colleague, and I hope, my friend.’

  ‘Of course. I felt like I was being immature with the whole bouncing on the bog land. We were working.’

  ‘Tris. It’s fine. Shall we agree to move on?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling huge relief.

  ‘Good. Now. I’ll make you a nice coffee, and you can fill me in on what’s been happening.’

  ‘It was a quiet week for the Charlie Julings case. But two caravans were left in a bad state when we did the changeover. Two windows smashed, a broken bed frame, and someone tried to flush a nappy down one of the toilets.’

  ‘Yuck.’

  ‘That’s all sorted, and then last night we had a flurry of emails. Joel is back from his holiday and wants to meet tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Ok, good. Thank you for stepping in and dealing with everything.’

  ‘No problem, that’s what we’re in business for,’ said Tristan, feeling a sense of pride from the praise. ‘We also heard from Maureen Cook, the lady who runs the writing group who was friends with Anna Treadwell. She would be happy to meet this afternoon.’ Tristan hesitated, not knowing if Kate was now back at work fully. ‘I can go on my own.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. We’ll both go and meet her,’ said Kate.

  ‘Okay. We also had a message from a man called Bernard Crenshaw.’

  ‘Yes! I’ve been messaging him this week. I didn’t get the chance to tell you about the crime scene photos I found last week. I discovered that Bernard was the crime scene photographer because he’d caught himself in one of the pictures.’

  Tristan listened as Kate filled him in on the photos she’d found on Reddit, and she pulled them up on her iPad. He swiped through them and felt sick when he saw the close-up shot of Anna’s destroyed head and neck. There was also a photo of the clawhammer that they’d found in the garden.

  ‘I sent Bernard a few Facebook messages. I thought he was ignoring me. I also included our website. Maybe that did the trick.’

  ‘What do you want to ask him about?’

  ‘You can see in the crime scene photos that the contents of her handbag or a bag are strewn across the floor. There’s an old mobile phone and a thick notebook that looks filled with papers. There’s a big elastic band around it to keep everything inside.’

  ‘Are you thinking he saw the contents?’

  ‘No. When that room became a crime scene, everything in it became evidence. I need to find a way in, a way to find out if those things, her notebook, which could contain information about her work in the months leading up to her death, and phone are still being stored by the police,’ said Kate.

  ‘Could someone have come forward to claim Anna’s belongings? It’s almost ten years since she was murdered,’ said Tristan.

  ‘It should still be an open case. The police haven’t caught who did it, so the evidence would still be held by the police.’ Kate had the business emails open, and she saw the reply from Bernard.

  ‘He says he’s around all this week, and he’s in Taunton. How about now?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Okay, let’s go to Taunton and then this afternoon, we can pay a visit to Maureen Cook,’ said Kate.

  Tristan grabbed his bag and keys, happy that things were okay with Kate again.

  33

  Bernard Crenshaw offered to meet them in a coffee shop opposite his house in Taunton. Kate had only given him the information that she was a private detective working on a historical murder case that might interest him. His replies had been short and blunt.

  They arrived at the coffee shop just before ten and ordered lattes. They’d only just found a spot in a couple of chairs in the window when Kate saw the front door of a terraced house opposite open, and Bernard came out wearing shorts and a thin woollen jumper.

  ‘He doesn’t know what we look like,’ said Tristan.

  ‘And we don’t have a phone number for him,’ said Kate.

  The coffee shop was quite busy, and Bernard joined the queue and perused the drinks menu on the wall above. He was quite a sprightly older gentleman, in his early sixties, but thin. Bernard placed his order but didn’t look up and around the coffee shop or take out his phone. He waited at the end of the counter with his back to them.

  ‘I’ll go and talk to him,’ said Kate. She often wondered if it was easier in a place like America to introduce yourself as a private detective, where people took the concept of a PI seriously. In the UK, social contact with a stranger was much more nuanced. In fact, it was all about nuance. Bernard would make a snap judgement about her, based on class, sex, if she was guarded or friendly, sexually desirable or past it. Kate knew she needed to pitch this right.

  Kate smoothed her blouse and got up from the table, hooking her handbag over her shoulder. When she approached him, she saw he wasn’t engrossed in his phone like the other customers waiting for their coffees. He was staring out of the window, deep in thought.

  ‘Hello, Mr Crenshaw?’ she said, smiling. He was tall, and he wore bifocal glasses. Kate noted he had to dip his chin down to his chest to peer at her through the top of the lenses. ‘I’m Kate Marshall. I’m a private detective… ex-Met police officer. I was a detective inspector. We’ve been messaging.’

  ‘How do you do?’ he said, offering his hand. They shook. His coffee order was called, and he took the cup from the barista. He went over to the milk and sugar station, and Kate followed.

  ‘And what can I do for you?’ he said, picking up a sugar sachet and one of the little wooden stirrers.

  ‘I’m working for a woman whose grandson went missing.’

  ‘I don’t deal with missing persons,’ he said, tipping in the sugar and stirring his coffee vigorously.

  ‘But you did attend the murder scene of the social worker investigating the family.’

  He hesitated and put the lid back on his cup, and Kate knew she had his interest.

  ‘I’m not police. I’m a forensic photographer. I can’t show you any photos. Whatever it is.’

  ‘You don’t need to. I found the photos you took of the crime scene posted online.’

  He turned to her and looked irritated.

  ‘Really? Bloody hell. Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know who put them online. It was a Reddit blog.’

  ‘No, the victim. Who was it? And where?’

  Kate kept her voice low, trying not to be too graphic with her explanation as customers milled around them. He listened for a moment and seemed quite impressed.

  ‘You have an agency in Ashdean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of you...’ The penny seemed to drop, and he looked down at her through his bifocals again. ‘Yes. The Nine Elms Cannibal? That’s you?’

  ‘It is,’ said Kate. She could tell by the shock that crossed his face that he knew her backstory.

  ‘I’m happy to talk to you, but I’m unsure what I can help with,’ he said.

  ‘If you can remember anything at all, it would be beneficial. My associate is over here,’ she said, indicating Tristan. ‘Could we sit down for a moment?’ she asked, pointing to the armchairs in the corner.

  ‘That’s not everything from that particular crime scene,’ said Bernard when he was sitting opposite Kate and Tristan. He was holding Kate’s iPad with the crime scene photos she found on Reddit. ‘I photographed the journey her assailants took out of the house. Whoever did it carried the claw hammer down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood, bone, and brain. And of course, footprints.’

  ‘Do you think two people carried out the attack and murder?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Yes. There were two sets of footprints. If I remember correctly, we thought it could have been a male and a female. There was a larger print, which was found to be a man’s size trainer. The other print we lifted came from a lady’s branded trainer, which I never thought could be so specific.’