Dead Scared

Bank of the River Cam, five years earlier

ARECENT SUMMER STORM had shaken millions of leaves from the willow trees. They were floating in the still backwaters of the river, looking almost solid enough to walk on. They adorned the moored punts lining the river’s edge and covered the banks like a dappled green carpet. Already the heat was building again, making the damp earth steam.

DI John Castell took off his jacket and slung it over one shoulder. He loosened his tie. The air was thick with sugar stealers and tiny green flying insects. Several of both clung to his shirt and his hair. He left them where they were, rather enjoying the unusual experience of being garlanded by nature.

As he stepped beneath the canopy of one of the larger trees he felt as if he were entering an enchanted tropical forest. Here, hidden from the world by a sphere of green, a woman was waiting.

Her dress was long and made from a light, floaty fabric that managed to cling to her curves and sway in the breeze at the same time. Her hair was long too. She was like a creature from another time. Little more than twenty years old, she was far too young for him and it just wasn’t going to have to matter.

‘Hey, buddy,’ said one of the two men with her, the men he’d come to meet. ‘I’d like you to meet my sister.’