o’clock.’ She’s clenching and unclenching her fists, blinking too much, trying to control the panic. I don’t know what to do.
‘Shall I come round?’ I ask. ‘The kids are asleep anyway, Harry’s not here, and Jack’s upstairs.’ If she thinks it odd that my husband hasn’t come down, she doesn’t say anything.
‘Rachel!’ There’s a shout – Ian, the aforementioned hubby number two. He appears in my doorway, a large, oversized iPhone in his hand. His face is red, he looks a bit out of breath. He’s a big man, ex-army, or so people say. Works in the City, takes the train to Liverpool Street most mornings. I know because I see him through the window. He runs his own business, engineering, something like that. Always a jovial tie. I’ve heard him shouting at Clare in the evenings; I can never make out what he’s saying. I suppose it must be hard, being second best. I know I wouldn’t like it.
‘The police are on their way,’ he says, and at this Rachel breaks down, her body curling into his, his arms reaching out to stroke her back.
‘If there’s anything I can do,’ I say, and he nods at me gratefully over his wife’s head. I can see the fear in his own eyes, and feel momentarily surprised. It takes a lot to unsettle a military man. Unless he knows more than he’s letting on. He never did get on well with Clare.
DS Madeline Shaw
Monday 4th February, 7.45 p.m.
‘It’s my stepdaughter, Clare. She hasn’t come home from school.’
The call comes in to Chelmsford Police Station just after 7.45 p.m. on Monday night. The team are polishing off a tin of Quality Street left over from Christmas; DS Ben Moore is hoovering up the strawberry creams while DS Madeline Shaw targets the caramels. It’s the DCI who answers the phone, holds up a hand to silence the room.
When she sees the look on Rob Sturgeon’s face, Madeline picks up the handset, presses the pads to her ears. Ian Edwards’ voice is gruff, but she can hear the urgency in it that he’s trying to control. Immediately, she knows who he is – the Edwards family live in Ashdon, in one of the big detached houses off Ash Road. His wife Rachel works at the estate agency in Saffron Walden. She’s got one child from her first marriage: Clare. Madeline lives three streets away from her: they are practically neighbours.
‘She’s normally home long before now, school finishes at ten past four,’ Ian says, his words coming fast. ‘I’m afraid my wife is getting a bit worried.’ A pause. ‘We both are.’ DS Moore is making a face, delving back into the chocolate, but Madeline listens carefully. The DCI is asking questions, his voice calm – how old is Clare, when did you last see her, when did you last hear from her.
‘We’ve tried her phone, dozens of times now,’ Ian says. ‘It’s just going to voicemail. It’s not like her to do this—’ He breaks off.
Madeline is about to chip in, to tell Mr Edwards that she can come round – after all, she’ll be going home anyway – but the door to the MIT room swings open and Lorna Campbell pops her head round the door, her coat on even though she normally works until eleven.
‘Detective Shaw?’
Madeline slips off her headset. ‘Everything okay?’
Lorna raises her eyebrows at the team. ‘Report just in of a body found in Ashdon, in the field at the back that borders Acre Lane. Female victim. Guy called Nathan Warren phoned it in, says he was out walking, stumbled across her. You ready?’
The DCI’s face changes. Wordlessly, Madeline follows Lorna outside.
The girl is lying on her back in Sorrow’s Meadow. In the summer, despite its miserable name, the field is full of buttercups, bright yellow flowers shining in the sun, but in the winter it’s dark and barren. Clare Edwards’ golden hair is fanned out around her head like a halo, blood is soaking into the frosty grass around her skull. Madeline’s torch beam picks out the places where it’s already darkened, highlights the silvery trail of saliva that has frozen on the girl’s cheek. It’s freezing, minus two. She’s in her school uniform: jumper and skirt, a scarf and a little blue puffer coat over the top.
‘Call forensics,’ Madeline tells Lorna, her breath misting the air, little white ghosts forming above the body.
‘They’re on the way already,’ Lorna says, ‘the DCI too.’
‘Clare,’ Madeline says aloud, but it’s pointless; when she bends to touch the girl’s neck, her gloved fingers meet ice-cold skin, no hint of a pulse. For a moment, the policewoman looks away. She’s never had a case where she knew the victim before, even though her interaction with Clare Edwards has only been brief. A school assembly last December; Madeline had been called in by the head to do a routine safety chat. Clare had approached her afterwards, wanted to know more about her job, a career in the police. It had surprised her, at the time. Now, it makes her feel sick. Clare’s future is gone, over before it began.
The forensic team arrive and begin sealing off the area, their white suits bright in the darkness.
Gently, Madeline lifts the blonde hair, exposing the wound at the back of Clare’s head.
‘She looks so young,’ Lorna mutters quietly, and Madeline nods.
The torchlight lands on her rucksack, a black faux-leather bag, thin straps. Inside are a pile of school books; her name is all over everything, the neat blue handwriting re-emphasising Clare’s youth.
‘No mobile phone.’ Lorna hands her Clare’s wallet – a purple zip-up from Accessorize. Carefully, Madeline thumbs through her cards: her provisional driver’s licence, a Nando’s loyalty card, plus an old Waterstones receipt, long out of date.
‘Shaw. I’ve been on the phone to her mother. Fill me in.’
DCI Rob Sturgeon appears at her side; quickly, Madeline begins sliding the exercise books into evidence bags, turns to face him.
‘Have you told her yet?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, not until we’ve formally ID’d. Shit.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Is Alex here?’
They both look around, and spot DS Alex Faulkner a few metres away, talking to one of the forensics team.
‘Faulkner!’
At the DCI’s shout, Alex heads over, the expression on his face grim.
‘Looks like someone’s repeatedly slammed her against the ground,’ he says, nodding to Madeline. ‘Back of her head’s not a pretty sight.’
There is a blue ink stain all over Clare’s left hand, and her unpainted fingernails are dirty, from where she’s presumably clawed at the ground.
‘You don’t think there was a weapon?’ the DCI says, and Alex shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t look like it to me.’
‘Suggests unplanned, then,’ Madeline adds, and he nods.
‘Quite possibly. Fit of anger, perhaps. Crime of passion.’ There’s a pause. ‘We’ll be testing for rape, of course.’ He swallows, spreads his hands in the
