It was strange for him to arrive at this time – he was usually early in, late out, stretching the hours away at both ends of the shift – but he wasn’t looking forward to work today. And unless Forensics came up with something significant, he had nothing good for his pointless daily report.

The hot coffee was burning his hands.

It had started so well – a challenging case to distract and occupy his mind, the opportunity to work with Mendel again – but now Blake’s interest meant it was becoming political. He had seen the signs already, but today . . . Today, things would be worse.

The pain in his hands was agonising, but he forced himself to wait.

Outside, the downpour continued. It wasn’t going to ease.

Slowly, he peeled his scalded palms away from the cup, supporting it between the tips of his fingers, breathing through the discomfort, mastering it. He could endure it. He could endure the coming hours.

Rain blew in as he opened the door and climbed out.

PC Gregg looked up as Harland stalked in.

‘Morning, sir,’ he smiled.

‘Morning, Stuart.’ Harland frowned, shaking his arms irritably, water dripping from his sleeves onto the floor. ‘Did you finish going over that CCTV footage from Avonmouth?’

‘Should finish it this morning. Nothing useful so far, though. Sorry,’ he said apologetically.

Harland shook his head. Another dead end for the report.

‘Worth a try,’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, with a bit of luck Forensics will get something off the body.’

He prowled down the corridor to his office and shut the door behind him. It was a small room, dominated by a large desk and two huge filing cabinets that made the limited space seem even more cramped. The walls were off-white, bare except for a pair of laminated fire-safety notices by the door and a print of an Alpine lake in a simple wooden frame. A coat stand in the corner displayed a spare pair of trousers, as well as a new shirt, still in its cellophane bag.

Water was already seeping through his jacket as he slipped it off and draped it over the radiator to dry. Slumping down into the chair, he switched on his screen and took a careful sip of coffee. There were a few new emails but nothing urgent and, more importantly, nothing from the lab. He slid a printed sheet of paper from under the phone and ran his finger down the list of names until he found what he was looking for and dialled the number.

He sat back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes as he waited for an answer.

‘Good morning, this is DI Harland from Portishead. Has Doctor Brennan come in yet?’

He leaned forward, pulling a notepad and pen towards him.

‘No, I can hold on . . .’

His eye fell on the tiny, gold-framed photo of Alice beside his screen. Blonde hair, demure expression and mischievous eyes . . . For a long time after he returned to work he’d kept that picture in the drawer, unable to look at it. This morning he felt a renewed sense of loss as her face smiled out at him from years ago. He’d tried to bury his feelings, but the part of him that cried out for her rose starkly in his mind once more.

‘Hello?’

The quiet voice on the other end of the line snapped him back to the present.

‘Morning, Charles . . . Tell me you’ve got some good news.’

‘Patience is a virtue, Graham. We’ve only done the preliminary workup and there’s still a lot to go over.’

‘That doesn’t sound encouraging.’

‘It is what it is. Want me to run through the headlines?’

‘Please.’

‘Okay . . .’ Brennan started reading through his notes. ‘Cause of death was asphyxia – she was strangled, and it was hands-on-the-throat as you said. Killer was probably male, judging by the force used and the size of his hands. Oh, and I can’t be sure yet but I think he may have worn gloves.’

‘Really?’ Harland scribbled in his notebook. In warm weather, gloves suggested something premeditated.

‘Yes, thought you’d like that,’ Brennan said. ‘We’ve narrowed the time of death to somewhere between three a.m. and nine a.m. the day before, so the body had probably been out there for twenty-four hours or so when it was discovered. It’ll be hard to get more specific – the tides haven’t done us any favours.’

‘Do you think she may have been washed up from somewhere else?’

‘No. Her lungs were absolutely dry, and there was a clog of undissolved mud in her mouth. It looks as though she was killed right there where you found her.’

‘That’s what we thought,’ Harland agreed. ‘Anything else on the body?’

‘She appears to have taken a serious blow to the stomach. Did you see the bruising?’

‘No . . .’

The door opened and DS Pope wandered into the room. Harland’s shoulders sagged. Somehow Russell Pope just didn’t look like an officer – below average height, slightly chubby figure, with glasses that made his eyes appear small.

‘Morning, sir,’ he mouthed, with a bland smile. His thick hair seemed lighter since the holiday and he was undoubtedly pleased with his tan.

‘Something hit her very hard,’ Brennan was saying. ‘It looks like there was a bit of a struggle but this blow was much worse than the usual knocks and grazes you’d expect to find – one of her ribs was pushed right back into the abdomen.’

Harland nodded and continued to make notes, aware of Pope hovering in front of his desk.

‘I’d say that it happened just before she was killed,’ Brennan continued. ‘But there’s no sign of any interference with the body after death, sexual or otherwise.’

‘Sorry, Charles, just a moment.’ Harland put his hand over the mouthpiece and stared up at Pope. ‘I’m on the phone.’

Pope just nodded.

‘No rush,’ he shrugged, oblivious.

Harland glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the call.

‘So, no DNA then?’ He sighed.

‘Nothing so far.’

‘And the fragments of plastic?’

‘They’re all consistent with the type of sports watch a runner might wear,’ Brennan said. ‘The pieces under the body suggest there may be a small patch of ground that wasn’t swept clean by the waves but we’ve not found anything else in it yet.’

‘Keep looking, will you?’ Harland continued to make notes but his eyes were following Pope around the room.

‘Don’t worry,’ Brennan replied. ‘Look, I have another call waiting, can I get back to you on the rest of it?’

‘Of course.’ Harland put his pen on the desk. ‘Thanks, Charles. Bye.’

He put the phone down as Pope turned to face him with his usual watery smile.

‘Things going badly?’ he asked, with a monotonous contentment that Harland had learned to detest.

‘Today hasn’t started that well,’ Harland answered truthfully, but the irony was wasted on Pope. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

‘Well, first day back after two weeks lying in the sun . . .’ he gave a knowing nod ‘. . . I thought I’d better roll my sleeves up and help you out.’

Harland stared at him coldly but said nothing.

‘The murder on Severn Beach?’ Pope prompted him. ‘I’ve been hearing all about it ever since I got in this morning.’

‘I’m not sure that would be the best use of your time,’ Harland began. ‘Mendel’s up to speed on it already and the team are making progress.’

‘Didn’t sound like it from that phone call,’ Pope said. ‘Strangulation, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It’s probably a sexual assault gone wrong,’ Pope decided. ‘They had something similar happen over in Newport a few years back – although I think they caught the guy who did that, I’ll have to check – but this’ll turn out to be either a boyfriend or most likely an opportunist pervert, you’ll see.’

Harland put down his pen again.

‘I think Mendel can manage for now,’ he said, firmly. ‘Go and see what else he had on before this cropped up; see if there’s anything you can take off his plate.’

Pope assumed a puzzled frown.