The parking area at the Southwold entrance to the Cranwell Tors hiking trail consisted of a modest rectangle of scrubland which, following heavy rainfall, was often reduced to a quagmire. Even after a week and a half of fine weather, the assembled officers were obliged to slant their gazes downwards if they wished to avoid the shallow brown puddles which lingered amidst the tyre ruts. As she approached the large, wooden trail map by the side of the entrance gate, Shields' gaze was instead focused upwards; there came an inevitable yelped curse as her left foot wedged itself into the mud.
In contrast to the somewhat ad hoc nature of the car park, the map was a well-produced affair. Swirls of painted contour lines depicted the high, extensive landscape of the Cranwell Tors National Park. A series of thicker lines snaked their way between the hills. these representing a range of endurance-graded routes, each labelled by a letter. Route A was the easiest, a relatively low-altitude circle of not even five miles; route F was meanwhile a veritable monster - a fifty-mile endeavour which crested the very highest of the peaks and extended beyond the Wynmouthshire border.
"Done D and E. Keep promising myself to get round to F some day."
Shields turned, surprised. She hadn't realised that Bridcutt too had stepped away from the mill of officers congregated around the red Mini off to their left.
"Did C once I seem to remember," she offered in response.
Maybe it was the company she kept, the men she'd married, but Shields had little difficulty in telling an unashamed fib or two when the need arose. The truth was, she'd never even attempted route A.
"It was one of the main reasons I asked for a transfer up here," Bridcutt explained. "A city environment can kill a man. Needed to get out to the country. Needed to... you know, breathe a little."
As a seven-year-old, Shields and her mother had made exactly the same move - from the bustling city of Wynmouth up to the remote, distant market town of Branstead. Unlike Bridcutt, they hadn't uprooted themselves out of some romantic love of nature, however, but simply to be somewhere, anywhere, which wasn't Wynmouth. Not have that cursed, towering suspension bridge slip into view at the end of every street.
Bridcutt's gaze had meanwhile flicked coyly down to his feet. "Maybe we could head out for a little hike together some time..."
Had she heard right, Shields wondered? Had that been some kind of vague attempt at asking her out on date? Was that what young men did these days - they invited you for a lung-bursting slog in the drizzle rather than a crafty snog on the back row of the cinema? Personally, she preferred the latter.
Any other day, she'd have analysed his words more deeply. Analysed how she felt about them more deeply. That particular Wednesday just wasn't the day though.
She nodded back up at the map. "Joanne. I wonder which route she'd been planning to do. How far she got."
But Bridcutt had turned, his manner suddenly alert. "Oh-oh, here comes the boss."
Gooch was at that moment struggling to pass beneath the line of tape which had been tied across opposite lampposts at the entrance to the parking area, his flash Mercedes veered across the quiet residential street behind. A couple of uniforms hurried over to lend him a hand, pulled the tape as high as it would stretch.
Shields followed a pace behind Bridcutt as the pair trod their way back across the tyre ruts. It was her right foot which this time caught the unpleasant squelch of a lurking puddle. Oh well, at least her shoes were matching again now.
Upon becoming aware of his subordinates' approach, Gooch nodded a sombre greeting in their direction.
"Latest?"
It was Bridcutt who proceeded to fill him in. "The initial round of door-to-doors seem to have thrown up a potentially interesting snippet, sir." With a sway of the head, the constable indicated the street of new-build bungalows beyond the line of tape. "There's a lady lives just up the road who takes her dog out this way. Says yesterday morning around ten she remembers passing the Mini, and there was another car here too. An Astra, the same model as her son's. A white one, in need of a good wash. Then when she passed by again mid-afternoon, it had gone."
Gooch lit himself a cigarette while he reflected on this. "Renshaw might have planned to meet someone here, you think?"
"Possible, sir," responded Shields, "but I remember with Kirsty there were reports of a white Astra near the entrance gate too."
The inspector's bushy eyebrows lowered into a frown. "She entered the trail over at St Giles though."
"I know, I know. But I just wonder if..." The thought was a disquieting one, almost too terrible to be spoken out loud. "Well, if the murderer drives out to the entrance parking areas. Just, you know... Just sits there. Waits for unaccompanied young women to head out on the trail, follows them a few hundred yards behind."
A faint nod of the inspector's head conceded that it was a potentially interesting hypothesis. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, eh, sergeant. We don't know yet if the two cases are linked. We don't even know for sure if this second one is what we fear it is." He glanced up at the sky as if searching for some distant, surveying speck. "Still nothing from the helicopter?"
Bridcutt shook his head. "Been up there almost an hour, sir. If she was on some hillside like Kirsty, I'm pretty sure they'd have spotted her by now."
Gooch lumbered off towards the Mini, a trail of cigarette smoke billowing in his wake. "Took her by surprise in some woods this time maybe? Was close enough to an agricultural outbuilding to drag her inside?" He glanced back at them. "Looks like we're going to have to call the dog team out. Get 'em up here first light tomorrow."
He paused his step at the driver's door, squinted through the window. There wasn't much to see: a half-eaten packet of Polos on the passenger seat, a few biscuit crumbs, an opened cassette case on top of the dashboard. Abba. As with Kirsty Hollister ten months earlier, Shields had little doubt that over the following days and weeks she'd come to know as much about Joanne Renshaw as she did a close personal friend. Would start to view her as one.
No, she reminded herself - they weren't just names. Not just case files. These were real women who'd so suddenly and brutally been torn from real lives.
*
Setting his tray down onto an empty table, Shivay observed that day's canteen offering with his usual sense of trepidation. Tinned peas, a blob of packet mashed potatoes and a slab of processed rubber with minimal fish content. Even after twenty years in the country, he still marvelled at the terrible diet of the natives. How a nation where dried blood sausage was considered a speciality could turn its collective nose up at all other cuisines of the world - label anything non-British as 'foreign muck' - was simply beyond him. Thank Ganesh for his Indian heritage. Thank Ganesh for Advika.
"Hey Gupta, got a tip for you."
Gazing up from the obscenity there on his plate, Shivay saw that the words had been uttered by Bob from yarn dyes who was seated at a neighbouring table.
The guy leant his corpulent frame further over towards Shivay, hushed his voice a little as if in conspiracy. "Tomorrow, 3.15 at Kempton Park. Nag's name's Trail of Fire."
Shivay feathered his fork into the mash, politely shook his head. "Thanks, but I've given up on all that."
"Nailed on the guy I know said. Last I checked it was 13 to 2."
The fork was raised to Shivay's mouth, its load of powdery lukewarm horribleness bravely swallowed. "Thanks again Bob, but like I said, I'm done with all that now."
Didn't the guy realise his insistence was like offering a shot of vodka to a recovering alcoholic? Push too hard and the other chap might wilt, tip it down his neck.
It came as a relief when Ken from the warehouse lowered his tray into the space directly across from Shivay, gave him the excuse to turn his shoulders from Bob.
"How's it going, Shiv? Didn't see you yesterday. Not under the weather I hope."
"Yea, had a bit of a high temperature as it happens. Phoned in sick, spent the day in bed."
Words which were apparently casual, banal, but which had escaped his throat as if scoffing out a succession of stones. He'd never been a natural in matters of deceit.
*
The letter made the short journey across the road to Branstead police station in the second post just before midday, whereupon PC Walsh waddled his way dutifully from the front desk to the CID room to place the missive on top of the thick, untidy pile of papers in the inspector's in-tray. Though Gooch would spend most of the day overseeing initial enquiries out in the field, he made a brief return to his office in the early afternoon. The typed square of paper which had been glued to the front of the envelope and which bore his name, rank and the station's address was unusual enough for him to squint his eyes in momentary intrigue, but then in that same instant the phone rang: the Chief Constable demanding a case update. After that there was a call of nature to attend to, this followed by a lengthy glare into the mirror as he combed his brush-over as neatly and fully as possible ahead of the press briefing which was due to take place on the entrance steps of the station. By the time the assembled throng of microphone-wielding hacks had finally dissipated, and the subsequent, sneaky pint of mild in The Mason's Arms been downed, the letter had completely slipped his mind.
There it would remain in his in-tray until the following morning.
*
As Shields shuddered open the back door, the slender, kaftan'd figure of her former mother-in-law glanced nervously across from the kitchen table. Nimble fingers first crushed the spliff butt into the saucer beneath her before flattening in a vain attempt at wafting away the incriminating odour.
"Thought I told you not to---"
"Had a nice day, Diane?"
Shields slung her shoulder bag onto the kitchen worktop, blew out a sigh as she surveyed the carnage around her. Crumbs everywhere, opened cupboard doors, some strange liquidy stain on the lino, a sink stacked full of dirty pots and pans.
"No, I haven't had a nice day actually, Margot. You want to know the truth, it's been a bloody terrible day, in fact."
It had been one spent mostly in the company of Joanne Renshaw's friends and colleagues. A series of sad, terrified faces there before her, tears never far from their eyes as they described what a fine young woman Joanne was. How kind and considerate. How beloved by her young charges. But no, none could recall her mentioning that any man had recently entered her life, nor knew anything about a white Astra.
Margot had meanwhile scraped her chair back, risen a little woozily to her feet. As she began to gather her things - spliff papers, lighter, cannabis tin, rolled up yoga mat - her turned expression was a slightly glazed but undeniably concerned one.
"Sorry to hear you've had a bad day. You know, I often think you should---"
"How were the boys?"
Margot remained mute for a moment, surprised by her former daughter-in-law's interruption, her reluctance to embrace sound counsel.
"Oh, you know..." She twisted her head towards the hallway; from the opened living room door could be heard the theme tune of Blue Peter. Assured that neither Jamie nor Lee was within earshot, she scrunched her face into a wince. "Uncooperative, let's say. Completely unwilling to tap into their creative sides." She snatched a quick breath, attempted once more to offer her worldly wisdom. "I really think you ought to---"
"Well, thanks for coming by at such short notice."
Shields didn't care what Margot thought she ought to do. Just didn't care at all.
With a resigned nod, Margot slouched into the hallway to say her goodbyes to the boys. As she swayed off towards the back door a few moments later, Shields made a point of blocking her way, fixing her with a no-nonsense glower.
"Please don't smoke cannabis in front of my sons ever again, okay."
The returned gaze was unflinching, Margot's words too swift and forceful to be interrupted this time.
"I just think if you learned to unshackle yourself it would help unshackle them too."
Now it was Shields who remained wordless for a moment. Just what the hell was that supposed to mean?
Margot had meanwhile managed to swerve past her, was pulling open the back door.
"Oh, by the way, the babysitter called. About half an hour ago. Said the stomach bug's turned into full blown gastroenteritis. Some meat product, no doubt. You carnivores just don't have any idea as to all the chemicals and poisons you allow inside your bodies. Spent all day over the toilet bowl, she said. Upshot is, she won't be available till next week at the earliest."
Shields thrust her eyelids closed in utter frustration. That was the last thing she damn well needed.
"Listen, there's a young woman I know from the yoga club. Divorcee, like yourself. Down on her luck, let's say. Could use the money." A hand gestured back towards the kitchen table. "Wrote her number down on a scrap of paper for you. Name's Jessica."
Shields felt her lips stretch into a bitter smirk. "That your way of saying you're not on for it tomorrow?"
"No, it's my way of saying I think you and Jessica could really help each other out."
A hand reached out to Shields' upper arm, gave a gentle squeeze.
"Just give it a try, Diane. Believe me, I've got a sixth sense for these things. You two have far more in common than either of you will probably ever realise."
At the click of the closing door, Shields slipped a Silk Cut from the packet she'd moments earlier fished out of the glove compartment of the Marina. Stepped over to the gas hobs, lit herself up.
*
The story was second on the regional news bulletin that evening. Advika wasn't sure what the first was about exactly - something involving a pot-bellied white man in a suit and some important-looking building somewhere. It was only when a photo of Joanne flashed suddenly onto the screen that she knew the story had changed. Fortunately, Prisha was at that moment in the kitchen slurping down a couple of sneaky spoonfuls from the pan of tomato curry which was on slow simmer awaiting Shivay's return from work. Though Advika would feign ignominy at such acts of subterfuge, secretly they provided her with a rare glow of maternal satisfaction.
"Prisha! Leave the curry alone and get in here would you!"
The photo was a facial close up, slightly blurred as if enlarged from a wider range shot. Framed by a wall of in-bloom jasmine, Joanne's face was tilted a little to the viewer's left, her smile a sweetly coy rather than a flirtatious one. Her hair was pulled up at each side by white decorative clips as if the shot had been taken at a formal occasion - a wedding reception or some such.
"Well, what are they saying?"
Beside her, Prisha had perched herself down onto the settee, her body weight pitched forward in full concentration.
"Shush mum, I'm trying to listen."
The facial shot soon gave way to a panned sweep of a terraced street. It took Advika a moment to realise that it was the exact same one right there outside the living room window.
"That's our street!"
"Shush, mum!" The rebuke was even sharper this time.
Advika had of course been aware of the TV van's arrival earlier that afternoon. She'd observed with her usual mix of suspicion and curiosity as one of the two figures had set up his tripod and the other had rehearsed his microphone-clenched spiel. Even so, it still felt strange that her own personal curtain-twitched view of the street was being transmitted into countless people's homes, almost as if her privacy had somehow been invaded.
The reporter was now framed in front of Joanne's house, his expression sombre, his tone subdued. In the background the neighbour woman with all those screaming kids could be seen shuffling past with shopping bags in her hands, a couple of her hell-spawn scuttling along in her wake.
"Well?"
"I said shush, mum, okay!"
Footage had now moved to a tiny, muddy-looking car park beyond a line of police tape. After a momentary lack of focus, the camera closed in on a group of officers gathered around a small red vehicle. Joanne's Mini.
There was a second facial shot then, so sadly familiar: that other poor young woman who'd gone missing on the hiking trail, had been found butchered like a Red Sindhi on one of the hillsides. That shy, heart-breaking smile beneath the university mortarboard - the same shot which the previous June had saturated not just the local media but the national bulletins too.
And yes, the face of the head detective which now appeared on the screen - this was familiar too. As round as a full moon, as pink as raw meat. Tufts of brushed-over hair wafted skywards in the breeze as the journalists thrust their microphones towards him.
And then, strangely, there was an image of car - a representative still, one perhaps taken from a magazine. This was also strikingly familiar.
"Isn't that the same model as your father's?"
Prisha finally turned her gaze from the screen, her expression pensive, perplexed.
"A white Vauxhall Astra, yes."
*
As they'd ambled into the farmhouse for their early evening break, Pitman had instructed Billy to make them both some beans on toast while he caught the regional bulletin in the sitting room. He was surprised therefore when his son followed him through less than a minute later, just as he'd thumbnailed open the bloody damn gas bill which was waiting for him on the desk.
"Haslet's about to go off. Thought we'd better eat it today."
Billy held a plate in each hand bearing a hastily slapped together sandwich. Pitman was even more surprised when his son sat down beside him on the sofa and concentrated on the snow-filled screen before them; the lad rarely showed much interest in the world beyond their fields.
Other than the dried, shrivelled haslet, the sliced bread which encased it didn't look exactly fresh either. Hunger was hunger though, and so it was that both chomped noisily away as the newsreader described the latest corruption scandal involving a high up member of the Wynmouthshire county council.
"Bloody politicians! Always taking us taxpayers for a ride. Need locking up, the lot of 'em."
Pitman's indignation was short-lived, however. Suddenly there she was. Joanne. The sight of her photo there on the screen was in many ways even more heart-breaking than that of the slashed, lifeless body he'd left amongst the undergrowth.
His jaw muscles ceased their labours, a mush of half chewed sandwich jammed in his molars. The newsreader proceeded to inform him of things he hadn't known, couldn't possibly have known. Details which added flesh and contour, animated that shadowed, bloodied form amidst the ferns.
A primary school teacher.
For the love of Christ, she'd been a primary school teacher.
As the bulletin moved on to other matters - a gas leak over in Littleford - Pitman swallowed down the remainder of his sandwich pensively.
They were looking for the driver of a white Astra. Interesting, yes. It could only be hoped that for whatever reason - fear, lack of awareness - the owner wouldn't come forward.
Placing the crumb-strewn plate onto the settee beside him, he raised himself to his feet. "Come on son, better get back to it."
The voice which came from behind him as he stepped away to the door was sudden and determined, much like the chime of a church bell.
"All this business with Joanne. I'm going to help you, dad. Do all that I can."
*
Shields was perched on the hallway chair with the phone receiver pressed to her ear. The reflection which gazed back at her from the mirror on the opposite wall was one of ever deepening frustration.
"Let me guess. Patty doesn't want you to."
"Not with Patty any more, actually," came the reply.
Another one bites the dust, reflected Shields. In all his pathetic life, had Zach ever had a relationship which lasted longer than the passage of the Earth around the sun?
"Differences of life choice," he clarified.
"She wanted a kid and you didn't."
"Pretty much, yea," he admitted. "Kept telling her I've already got one."
"Oh, so when it suits you, you remember you're a father then?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Really? He wanted to know what that was supposed to mean?
Her instinct was to launch into some long, screeching diatribe ridden with four-letter words. She hadn't phoned him to have an argument though, just to ask for a minimum of help. She should have known that was expecting way too much.
"Just tell me then, Zach, why exactly can't you come and keep an eye on the boys tomorrow?"
She braced herself for whatever miserable excuse it was the second of her ex-husbands was about to come out with.
"Me and the guys, we've booked a studio down in Wynmouth for tomorrow. Going to record a demo, a four-track EP. You know, something we can send to record labels to sell our sound. We've developed this sort of reverb vibe, could be---"
"Can't you just unbook it?"
Zach and his damn musical ambitions! How many bands had he been in? How many different styles? Prog rock, punk, post punk, synth pop, God alone knew what else. Nothing had ever come to much of course. Oh, a mother like his, he'd never had any difficulty in... how was it she'd put it earlier? - tapping into his creative side. Only, he tapped into it just a bit too much, completely forgot that a father needed to have a practical side too. A concrete side. A steady income side. For Christ's sake, the guy was now 40. 40! Didn't he realise that nobody ever became a rock star at 40?
"Well no," he replied, "we can't just unbook it. Already paid a deposit, see."
But it was difficult to hear him; from upstairs had come a rumble of thudding feet, a roar of shrieking, brattish voices. A moment later, Jamie's bespectacled, six-year-old form appeared at the top of the stairs, one thrummed with rage and indignation.
"Mum! Lee's stolen my Action Man!"
At which point Shields rested down the receiver, sprung to her feet and yelled up the stairs the unequivocal command that Lee was to give the bloody thing back immediately and if there was any more carrying on they could forget about fishfingers for tea and would just have to make do with stale bread instead. Satisfied that peace had been restored, temporarily at least, she snatched up the receiver once more.
"That Jamie's voice I just heard?" enquired Zach.
"Yea. A minor fraternal spat, let's say. They have about a hundred a day."
"How is he?"
"Why don't you come round and ask him yourself some time?"
If Shields' tone had sounded accusatory, that was because she'd intended it to.
"Will do," he replied. Then, as if trying to convince himself more than her: "I will do, Diane. It's just I've been a bit... well, busy of late."
Busy! The lazy sod didn't even know the meaning of the word.
"This new material we've been working on for the demo, it takes time." A sigh then hissed into her ear. "Look, why not just ask my mum to come round again? She thinks the world of Jamie. Lee too."
But as an affirmation it was one Shields was far from convinced by. A month could go by without so much as a call or a visit. Margot had once even forgotten Jamie's birthday; almost always forgot Lee's.
"I think they're a bit too much for her, Zach."
A polite euphemism for saying that she simply didn't trust the woman.
"What about Dave's mum then?"
At this, an aggressive whoosh escaped Shields' lips like a missile launched from a jet fighter: "No!"
"Yea, right. Forgot you two don't exactly see eye to eye."
"Congratulations, Zach! You've just won the understatement of the year award!"
Not just that. The understatement of the decade award. The century. The entire damn millennium.
"What about Dave himself then? Heard he lost his job again, won't have anything better to do."
"He lost his job? Never told me."
From the other end of the line came an ironic chuckle. "Why would he? You're his ex-wife and the mother of his son. You're the last person he's going to flipping well tell."
"No doubt hit the bottle again."
"Yea, heard that too."
Dave on the bottle was even more untrustworthy than Margot with her spliffs. No, no, no!
"What about that neighbour two doors up?" Zach suggested. "What's her name? Anne?"
"Hannah," Shields corrected. "She and Geoff have headed off to the coast for a few days."
"You'll just have to take a sicky then."
"I can't, not right now. Something's come up."
"That missing woman I just saw on the news? You don't think---?"
"Yes, that's exactly what we're thinking."
Upstairs, fraternal warfare had once more broken out. Shields was forced to offer a hurried goodbye, slam down the receiver. That number Margot had given her, she'd just have to give it a go, trust to luck that this Jessica woman was vaguely reliable.
Before rising to her feet to bellow out another dark maternal threat, she found herself gazing once more at her reflection in the mirror. The figure staring back at her seemed a little unstitched somehow. Ragged, roughened at the edges. A rag doll that had been dragged through a hedge.
Those next few days, those next few weeks, however long it might be - she wondered just how on earth she was going to get through them.
*
At the sound of the car door closing outside, Advika was up on her feet in a flash - a blur of brightly coloured sari hurrying out to the hallway. Ahead of her, Shivay's tall, lithe form slinked in through the front door. As he swept the soles of work boots on the doormat, the smile on his face immediately evaporated at her cannonball approach. There wasn't even chance to chime out a greeting, ask how she was, how her day had been, what Prisha was up to.
Her question was sudden, apropos nothing.
"Where were you yesterday?"
His high, handsome forehead wrinkled into a frown.
"At the factory of course. Why?"