Serious eyes stared back at him as he caught an unwelcome sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Physically it was the same, good-looking face – high cheekbones, angular jaw – but overshadowed by experience. Lines around the straight mouth that had once been laughter lines, dark hair with a chipped-in fringe, cropped short at the sides to hide the first traces of grey. The same face, just a different person staring out from behind it.

He switched off the engine and leaned slowly back in his seat, listening to the bluster of the wind outside. His thumb gently turned the plain gold wedding ring that he still wore – that he would always wear – as he sat gazing out at the road.

Such a godforsaken place. The only silver lining was that Sergeant Pope wouldn’t be here. Taking comfort in that thought, he got out, grabbed a heavy overcoat from the back seat and made his way towards the promenade, a tall, gaunt figure, shoulders hunched against the cold.

The wind hit him as he reached the top of the slope. He gazed out at the broad, flat expanse of the beach, the yellow jackets of the officers working further down where an area had been cordoned off, and the restless grey water beyond. How he hated this place.

Turning left along the sea wall, he approached the young PC who stood shivering at the end of the path.

‘Morning, Josh.’

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Is Firth still down there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the witness?’

‘PC Gregg has him in the area car.’

‘Okay.’ Harland yawned. ‘Thanks.’

He trudged down onto the beach and walked slowly across the rough grass, his eyes routinely scanning the ground for anything significant, but there were only bleached crisp packets and old plastic bottles. What a dismal place for anyone to finish up. A ragged line of seaweed and other debris marked the upper reach of recent tides and he stepped over it carefully, leaving the grass behind as his shoes crunched across the shingle. The breeze was getting stronger again as he approached the fluttering tape line and he waved to PC Firth as she hurried over to meet him. Her round face was tense, and the wind had teased strands of her dark hair out from under her hat.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Morning,’ he nodded. ‘Been here long, have you?’

‘Not long, no, sir,’ she replied. ‘You were quick.’

‘Got the call on my way in.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘We haven’t touched the body yet.’ Firth indicated the area behind her. ‘Control says the tide’ll be in again by midday so we’ve just tried to contain things until the SOCOs get here.’

‘But it looks like a strangulation?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Firth agreed. ‘Can’t see much more without moving her, but there’s definitely some nasty-looking bruising around the neck.’

‘No sign of a rope or anything?’ Harland asked.

‘Not yet,’ Firth frowned, ‘but I actually thought it looked more like—’

She raised her hands to her own throat in a choking motion.

‘Okay,’ Harland nodded thoughtfully. ‘Any idea how long the body’s been on the beach?’

‘Hard to say, but she seems to be totally stiff. That makes it twelve to eighteen hours or more?’

‘Something like that.’

Harland turned and studied the high-water line behind him, then gestured to the taped-off area.

‘If it’s eighteen hours that means we’ve had two full tides – more if she’s been dead longer . . .’

He looked out at the distant waves that swept along the side of the estuary, waves that could easily move a body or wash a crime scene clean.

‘So, did you want to come and have a look?’ Firth asked.

She lifted the tape and Harland stooped under it, treading carefully as the ground became more slippery. They made their way down towards the water until they could see the body, lying between several large clumps of reeds.

Harland stepped slowly, studying the ground, then paused.

‘These are your footprints?’ he asked, indicating the tracks that led over to the dead woman.

‘Yes, just mine and the dog walker’s as far as I could see.’ PC Firth indicated the prints in the mud. ‘I tried to follow alongside his tracks when I went to check the body – did my best not to disturb the ground.’

Harland nodded thoughtfully, then picked his way over to the corpse, carefully stepping in Firth’s footprints. He quickly noted the runner’s clothing and the ugly marks on the side of the neck, but his eye was drawn to the smooth pattern of the mud that had swirled around the head and feet, partly submerging them. The pose of the limbs looked odd too – not quite the same as other bodies he remembered seeing washed up on beaches.

‘Firth?’ he called.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Look at the way the mud’s banked up smoothly against the side of her head, and here around her shoes.’ He crouched down and studied the undisturbed silt. ‘There’s a chance this is where it happened.’

‘What about the tides?’ Firth asked. ‘Wouldn’t they have moved the body?’

Harland got to his feet and pointed at the reeds.

‘These clumps may have done enough to keep her in one place,’ he mused, ‘and we’re far enough up the beach to avoid the worst of the waves.’

‘But not far enough to have preserved much evidence.’

‘True,’ Harland admitted. He took one last look, then turned to find Firth watching him, her expression unreadable before she quickly looked away. He stared at her for a moment, then dismissed the thought and began stepping awkwardly across the mud. ‘Let’s see what the SOCOs find when they lift her.’

He walked back onto the shingle and tried to scuff his shoes clean.

‘Now, tell me about this dog walker . . .’

7

Monday, 28 May

There was an air of hushed expectancy in the station briefing room at Portishead, and everyone looked up as Harland walked in, his phone ringing as he tried to fish it out of his pocket. PC Firth warmed her hands on a large mug of tea and smiled to herself, her eyes following Harland as he studied the name on the screen then turned away from them slightly, speaking quietly into his phone.

‘Can I call you back?’ he frowned. ‘Great, thanks.’

Ending the call, he turned back towards them, careful fingers pushing the hair from his forehead as his eyes flickered up to sweep the room.

‘Phones on silent everyone,’ he sighed, sinking into his chair.

DS Mendel was sitting across from him, studying a report. His broad frame loomed over the pages spread before him, the fingers of his free hand drumming softly on the table. He’d been busy this week, with DS Pope away on holiday, and things looked like they were about to get busier still.

‘Right then.’ Harland muted his phone and slipped it back into his pocket before addressing the room. ‘James, perhaps you can get us started.’

Mendel looked up from his papers and cleared his throat.

‘Thanks, sir. The body was discovered by a Derek Wells – local dog walker – who found her sometime after six. He phoned it in at six twenty-seven a.m. and the area car was on the scene about twenty minutes later, right Sue?’

‘Yes,’ Firth confirmed. ‘We were there about quarter to seven.’

‘PC Gregg took an initial statement from Mr Wells, and I’ve since interviewed him. He’s a bit spooked but everything he says seems to stack up . . .’ Mendel glanced across at Harland, who nodded in silent agreement. Derek Wells had been on the verge of going into shock when they’d spoken to him, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was involved.

‘So, we’ll want to take a look at him, but I really wouldn’t peg him as a likely candidate,’ Mendel concluded. He rubbed his square jaw with a large hand. ‘Moving on to the victim, we still need to arrange a formal ID but we’ve unofficially identified her as Vicky Sutherland. Single, twenty-eight years old, office administrator for some interior design firm in Bristol. She lived in one of those cul-de-sacs just back from the beach . . .’ He consulted his notes for the street name. ‘Riverside Park, isn’t it?’