No Kiss For The Devil

1

‘You’ll have to leave your car down here.’ The constable was a hunched shape looming out of the darkness. Up close, he looked cold, wet and miserable, and sounded in no mood to argue. His gesture indicated which way she should go, a lane behind him, disappearing into the dark. Further on was a distant glow of arc lights, vehicles and movement, the area around it lost in the vastness of the Essex countryside, thirty miles from London. Radios crackled unseen, the voices snatched by the wind and lost in the night air.

It was starting to rain again.

Riley Gavin climbed out of her car and locked the door. She walked away without waiting. If he wanted it moved, he could come and get her.

She wished she’d put on a thicker coat and more suitable shoes. But the officious phone call that had dragged her from bed at three in the morning had omitted to warn her about the prevailing conditions, nor given any details of why she was needed. It had simply urged her to come, and given her careful directions on how to get there. The lack of information had left her with a feeling of dread, overshadowing any thoughts she might have had brought on by her instincts as a freelance reporter.

She trudged up the lane towards the lights, skirting the potholes and ruts she could see, fingers mentally crossed against the ones she couldn’t. It had been raining on and off for three days now, a persistent autumn deluge, and the topsoil was spongy and heavy, incapable of absorbing any more water.

Two men splashed past going the other way, carrying metal cases and muttering about the weather. Both were shrouded from head to toe in white protective suits. Another figure followed, this one in a uniform and peaked cap, dancing across the uneven surface in the wobbling wake of a torch. He was unravelling a roll of scene-of-crime tape as he went, replacing a strip fluttering brokenly amid the bushes bordering the track. He ignored Riley, too intent on his task and keeping his footing on the treacherous surface.

‘Who the hell are you?’ A voice challenged her and she looked up to see another uniform approaching. A torch beam hit her square on, the glare painful on the eyes.

She put up a protective hand just as another voice called out from over by the lights, ‘It’s all right. Miss Gavin? Over here.’

Riley stepped round the constable and decided they must have called out the awkward squad. Or maybe it was the weather making them all tetchy. She found herself alongside a tall figure in a yellow slicker and black rubber boots. He held out an arm to prevent her going too close, and kept himself between her and the focus of lights on a fold in the ground.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said, and introduced himself. ‘DI Craig Pell. We need you to make an identification.’ She recognised his voice from the phone. The spread of light gave her an impression of high cheekbones, a confident chin, and a lick of hair plastered across his forehead. His eyes were pools of shadow

Riley’s stomach lurched at the idea. When he had called, other than giving his rank, name and directions, he had rung off without elaborating. Now she had an instant foreboding.

Pell checked that her hands were empty, then handed her a white coverall suit. It was the same garment worn by SOCOs — Scene of Crime Officers — to preserve the integrity of the scene. He helped her into it, awkward when she stumbled against him and he had to grab at her shoulder to stop her falling. He mumbled an apology and snatched his hands away as if he’d been stung.

Riley wondered if he was always so clumsy.

Once she was zipped up, he handed her some overshoes, then turned and called out to a figure hunched in the hollow. There was an answering grunt and Pell took Riley’s arm and led her forward.

The scene was nightmarish. They were standing on the edge of a wide, shallow ditch bordered by a tangle of coarse bushes. A canopy had been erected to cover the immediate area, and the ghostly glow of lights gave the canvas the appearance of a large lampshade. The man below was hunched over something on the ground, but Riley couldn’t see what it was.

‘Tread between the tapes,’ Pell instructed her. ‘Stop when he tells you. Don’t touch anything you see and don’t take anything out of your pockets.’

Riley stepped down carefully, feeling the ground soft and slick beneath her feet. She came to a stop when the hunched figure raised a hand. He was muttering to himself, and when he stopped and turned his head, she saw he’d been talking into a small voice recorder. He clicked it off and beckoned her closer, moving crab-like to one side and indicating where she should stand.