About time. It had been a long day and driving on the moor in the pitch blackness wasn’t my idea of fun. The memory of how I’d let Wainwright outmanoeuvre me still burned. Given his reputation I should have known better. A misty drizzle flecked the windscreen, refracting the glare from my headlights as I pulled into the pub car park. A flaking sign hung outside, the words The Trencherman’s Arms faded almost to nothing.
The pub wasn’t much to look at from the outside, a long, low building with peeling whitewash and a sagging thatched roof. First impressions were borne out when I pushed through the scuffed and creaking doors. An odour of stale beer complemented the threadbare carpets and cheap horse brasses hanging on the walls. The bar was empty, the fireplace unlit and cold. But I’d stayed in worse places.
Just.
The landlord was a sour-faced man in his fifties, painfully thin except for a startling pot belly that looked as hard as a bowling ball. ‘If you want food we stop serving in twenty minutes,’ he told me with poor grace, sliding a broken key fob across the worn bar.
The room was about what I’d expected, none too clean but not bad enough to complain about. The mattress squeaked when I set my bag on it, sagging under the weight. I would have liked a shower, but I was hungry and the shared bathroom had only a rust-stained bath.
But food and freshening up could wait. My mobile phone had a signal, which was a bonus. I pulled the hard-backed chair next to the room’s small radiator as I called home.
I always tried to call at the same time, so that Alice could keep to something like a routine. Kara worked three days a week at the hospital, but her hours meant that she was able to pick our daughter up from school when I was away. She was a radiologist, a fact that had been the source of many long discussions between us when she’d become pregnant. We’d not planned on having children for another few years, by which time I hoped to be getting enough police work to supplement my university wage so Kara could stay at home and look after the baby.
Naturally, things hadn’t turned out quite as we’d planned. But neither of us regretted it. Even though Kara didn’t really need to work any more, I hadn’t argued with her decision to go back part-time when Alice started school. She enjoyed her job, and the extra money didn’t hurt. Besides, I could hardly object, given the demands of my own career.
‘Perfect timing,’ Kara said when she picked up. ‘There’s a young lady here hoping you’d call before she goes to bed.’
I smiled as she passed the phone over.
‘Daddy, I did you a picture!’
‘That’s great! Is it another horse?’
‘No, it’s our house, except with yellow curtains because I liked them better. Mummy says she does too.’
I felt some of my anger and frustration slough away as I listened to my daughter’s excited account. Eventually Kara sent her off to brush her teeth and came back on the phone herself. I heard her settling down into the chair.
‘So how did it go?’ she asked.
Being outmanoeuvred by Wainwright no longer seemed so important. ‘Oh . . . could have been worse. Terry Connors is deputy SIO, so at least there’s a familiar face.’
‘Terry? Well, tell him to give my love to Deborah.’ She didn’t sound too pleased. ‘Do you know yet how long you’ll be there?’
‘At least another couple of days. I’ll be at the mortuary tomorrow, but they’re going to start looking for more graves, so it depends on how that goes.’
We spoke for a while longer until it was time for Kara to put Alice to bed. Wishing I was there to read her a story, I washed and changed before going down to the bar. I’d forgotten the landlord’s warning that they would be stopping serving food, and the twenty-minute curfew was almost up. He looked pointedly at his watch as I ordered, mouth set in a disapproving line.
‘Another two minutes and you’d be too late,’ he snapped.
‘Lucky I was in time, then.’
Tight-lipped, he went off to get my order. There were other people in the bar now, more than a few of them police officers or connected with the investigation in some way, I guessed. There was only one free table, so I took my drink over to it. A solitary young woman sat at the next table, absently forking up food as she read from an open folder next to her plate. She didn’t look up when I sat down.
The landlord came over with cutlery. ‘You can’t sit here, this table’s reserved.’
‘It doesn’t say it’s reserved.’
‘It doesn’t have to,’ he said with petty triumph. ‘You’ll have to move.’
I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I looked around for somewhere else to sit, but the only space nearby was at the young woman’s table.
‘Do you mind—’ I began, but the landlord pre-empted me by slapping the cutlery down.
‘You’ll have to share,’ he declared before stalking off. The young woman looked from him to me in surprise.
I gave an embarrassed smile. ‘Service and charm. This place has it all.’
‘Wait till you try the food.’ She closed the folder, looking irritated.
‘I can find somewhere else if it’s a problem,’ I offered.
For a second I could see she was tempted, but then she thought better of it. She waved a hand at the chair.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ve finished anyway.’ She set down her fork and pushed away her plate.
She was attractive in an unobtrusive way. She wore old jeans and a loose sweater, her thick auburn hair pulled casually back with a plain band. She struck me as someone who didn’t worry too much about how she looked, but didn’t have to. Kara was the same. She could throw on anything and still look good.
I glanced at the folder she’d been reading. Even upside down I’d recognized what looked like a police report. ‘Are you here on the investigation?’ I asked.
She pointedly picked up the folder and tucked it into her bag. ‘Are you a reporter?’
There was frost in her voice. ‘Me? God, no,’ I said, surprised. ‘Sorry, my name’s David Hunter, I’m a forensic anthropologist. Part of Simms’ team.’
She relaxed, giving me a self-conscious smile. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I get a little paranoid when anyone starts quizzing me about work. And yes, I am on the investigation.’ She held out her hand. ‘Sophie Keller.’
Her grip was firm, her hand strong and dry. She was clearly used to negotiating her way through the traditionally male police environment.
‘So what do you do, Sophie? Or is that being nosy again?’
She smiled. She had a good smile. ‘I’m a BIA. That’s Behavioural Investigative Advisor.’
‘Right.’
There was a pause. She laughed. ‘It’s all right, I’m not sure what a forensic anthropologist does either.’
‘Is a BIA like a profiler?’ I asked, reminding myself to be diplomatic. That wasn’t a field I had much faith in.
‘There’s a psychological aspect, yes, but it’s a little broader than that. I advise on offenders’ characteristics and motivations, but I also look at strategies for interviewing suspects, assess crime scenes, things like that.’
‘How come I didn’t see you at the grave today?’