All men lie. To their mothers, to their wives, to their lovers. And they quickly learn that no lie stands alone. Its very existence requires the support of other lies, which, together with that first dishonest moment, shift the world towards a false reality. There can be no return from this disagreeable state other than through guilt, confession and disgrace.
Women also lie. Mostly to themselves.
From A Natural History of Lies by J. Clarke
Storm
Across the steep wooded slopes, at a point where the Western Weald meets the Hampshire Downs, the forest waits for daybreak. The air is thick. Dry. Suffocating. The dense cloud overhead seems determined to hold on to the night. But, at last, a patch of grey dawn breaks through, casting its shadows deep into the dry cracks that streak across the forest floor. Bracken and bramble are in crisis, their lowly roots denied sustenance by the giant thirsts rising all around them. But they will prevail, for the deluge, long-promised, is here. A burst of dry lightning heralds its arrival. Deep in the forest something cracks and falls. Then the rain. At first, tight and hardened by drought, the alkaline soil proves impervious to the few drops that find their way down through the ancient canopy of beech and yew, hornbeam, hazel, sweet chestnut and alder. But more is to follow. Much more. And soon the parched ground is awash, tiny rivulets running in all directions, gouging their way towards the dried bed of a river-in-waiting. Withered leaves and tree litter are carried along with the flow. The riverbank swells, begins to crumble, flooding dusty burrows, dislodging tiny underground stores of hazelnuts and acorns, uncovering a single antler, a badger skull, a rusted can. And, close beside it, the slim fingers still delicate, a pale hand emerges from its shallow woodland grave.
Hedgehog
There are few untrodden places in the ancient woods of the southern counties. Over the centuries, footsteps have penetrated into the deepest gullies, the most perilous slopes, the most inaccessible clearings, in search of food, shelter, solitude. However, today, Watkins is only seeking food. And a recently drenched woodland is sure to provide it. Not everybody knows how to feed off the land. The supermarket chains have stolen that knowledge and wrapped it in cling film and recycled plastic. But Watkins is a seasoned forager and he knows where to look. After such heavy rain, dry roots and dormant mycelia spring forth with new life, so there is every possibility that his favourite mushrooms will be taking the opportunity to pool their resources and spread their spores wide. He can hear the stream close by, its girth swollen by the storm. The clearing should be straight ahead. Then half a dozen paces towards the water’s edge. That’s where they’ve been every year for as long as he can remember. He can already taste the damp, nutty smell of fresh hedgehog fungi. And, yes, there they are. Right where he’s been expecting to find them. What he hasn’t been expecting to find is the girl’s body, lying on the bank, face down, mud streaked across her naked back, her legs awkward as if she’s been trying to slither down to the water to cleanse herself. Watkins pauses, considers running away. Then he pulls out his mobile phone. The signal is weak but he manages to get through. Tells the people that need to be told. Then he kneels down beside the mass of mushrooms and uses his razor-sharp knife to cut their stipes, carefully, so as not to deplete the underlying matrix.
Ants
‘DI Sam Barnes. NCA. You’re the Attending Officer? Sergeant Boakes?’
‘Yes, sir. DI James was here earlier.’
‘Is that the guy who found her?’
‘Yes. Leonard Watkins. He was foraging.’
‘Foraging?’
‘For mushrooms. He’s given a statement.’
‘Right. I gather the dogs are on the way. I suggest you get a wider area cordoned off, before the ramblers start hiking through with their lunch boxes. Who’s the pathologist?’
‘Dr Moran, James Moran.’
‘Ah, yes. James. How long does he think she’s been here?’
‘About two days. Possibly three. Just before the storm. Probably buried and uncovered by the rain.’
‘Right. How the hell did they get her here? It’s bloody impenetrable.’
‘They might have brought her along the riverbed. According to Watkins, it often runs dry in the summer. So, probably not much to be found now. There’s been some ant activity.’
‘Nice. Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir… the ant activity. It’s clustered around a large wound.’
‘A knife?’
‘Of sorts. Dr Moran believes it’s the result of… He believes the young woman was recently operated on to remove a child. A baby.’
‘Jesus, fuck! Don’t you just love this job? I’d better get over there and take a look.’
‘Better watch out, sir. One of the young officers is projectile vomiting.’
Body
‘James. Hi. How’s it going?’
‘Ah, Sam. I thought I might be seeing your lot here sooner or later. Get fed up with cyberporn, did you?’
‘Couldn’t bear to spend any more of my life trolling around the rancid web. There’s a limit to how many freaks you can deal with in one lifetime. Although this might be turning into a joint exercise. So, what’s the story?’
‘Victim is a young woman who has recently undergone a C-section. Full-term or thereabouts. The wound was left open. Placenta and cord still partially adhering to the wall of the uterus. It’s a bit of a mess. You might like to wait until after the clean-up. Don’t want any more heaving around here. Contaminating the crime scene.’
‘I’m good. What do you think’s going on here?’
‘Well, the external incision is clean. Apart from the wildlife. Whoever did this probably considered completing the job and sewing her back up, but something went wrong. Can’t be sure, but it looks like the uterus ruptured during what might have been a natural birth. The incision is longitudinal so was probably done as an emergency to remove the child. I’ll be able to get a better picture back at the lab. The mess on her arm is probably the result of an attempt at transfusion, pulled out post-mortem. Death probably a result of hypovolemic shock. Judging from her colour, she bled out during the delivery.’
‘So, somebody fucked up a DIY Caesarean and buried the evidence? Any sign of the infant?’
‘Not as yet.’
Director
‘Ah, yes, the Downs body. Nasty business. Any further developments?’
‘Not much more than you already know, sir. SOCOs are still at the scene. And the dogs are on site sniffing around, but there’s not much hope of uncovering anything after all that rain. Forensics believe the body was transferred to the site prior to the storm and interred into a shallow grave. Quite near to where it was found. The bank of the river has fallen away along that stretch, so it will be difficult to pinpoint the exact location. Bloodied dressings have been found downstream. They’re checking the DNA with that of the woman… the girl: she can’t be much more than a child herself. As yet, there’s no identification. And nothing much to go on. Painted nails – nothing special. There’s a small heart-shaped tattoo on the left shoulder, so that can be checked for point of origin. And there are several piercings – all the usual places. The jewellery’s been removed. There’s still no sign of an infant. It might be worth investigating local antenatal records, although that would be a mammoth task. Sir, can I assume we’re linking this to the existing Hampshire investigation? The body, the pregnancy, would confirm practices way beyond mere sex trafficking, but…’