The Boat House. Mark Sennen

       Tuesday 26th February 2002. 4.05 p.m.

      The call came late afternoon on her day off, just as the twins were finishing their milk and marmite on toast. She left them with her mother, visiting for the week, and moved into the hall.

      ‘It’s tonight’s match, see,’ the voice on the end of the line said. ‘Argyle and Exeter. All available uniforms are at Home Park or mopping up the trouble makers in the centre of town. Down to you I’m afraid. You and a lad from D Section.’

      D Section she thought, so it must be somewhere on the water. The officer gave her the details. Yes, she said, she’d be there. Twenty minutes. Half an hour max. She hung up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back was mid to late twenties, red hair, bright eyes full of excitement, casual clothes. Time was if she’d received a call to go into work she’d have had to get changed. Put on a uniform. Not anymore. Not as of five days ago.

       Detective Constable Charlotte Savage.

      As a rank it was technically no better than that of PC, still …

      Becoming a detective was something she’d dreamed of since joining the force. After three years on the beat she’d taken maternity leave and on her return she’d made her mind up. She’d studied, passed the exams and now, as of Monday, she was a detective on the Major Crimes team.

      She blinked and pulled herself together. No time to be smug. Back in the living room she checked her mum was OK to look after the girls for a couple of hours and then grabbed her waterproof and left the house.

      *

      Twenty minutes later she was clumping along a pontoon down at Mountbatten, waterproof zipped up against a steady rain. At the end a large RIB pushed itself gently into the pontoon. Constable Nigel Frey sat at the rear of the boat, the wheel hard over, the motor idling.

      ‘Hurry up, Charlotte,’ Frey said, passing her a life jacket as she stepped into the RIB. ‘The tide will turn soon and we’ll not have long there. Plus I don’t want to be navigating back in the dark.’

      ‘Keep your knickers on, Nigel,’ Savage said, smiling. She’d been on the beat with Frey as a young probationer and they’d teased each other mercilessly. She accepted the life jacket and put it on. ‘I can always walk back.’

      ‘I doubt it. The place is only accessible by boat.’

      Savage sat down as Frey moved the boat away from the pontoon. He turned and then headed out into the Sound. A light wind had fluffed up little wavelets, but was doing little to disperse a low mist that hung over the bay.

      ‘Fifteen minutes I reckon,’ Frey said as he pushed the throttle forward. The RIB rose up onto the plane and began to bounce over the waves. ‘We’ll take the inside route past the Mewstone and then wend our way up the estuary to Cofflete Creek.’

      ‘And it’s a body, you say?’

      ‘Yes. Usually a couple of uniforms would go over the fields to check, but—’

      ‘The match, I know.’

      ‘Cheer up. This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

      Savage glanced back as a splash of water came over the bow. The spray caught Frey in the face and he grinned.

      Within a few minutes they were at the entrance to the narrow inlet that led to the twin villages of Newton Ferrers and Noss Mayo. Come summer, the place would be packed with visiting yachts, but at the moment many of the moorings were empty. A little way beyond the entrance the estuary divided, the right arm heading between the two villages – one on each bank – while the left arm plunged into a thickly wooded valley, the trees running all the way down to the creekside, where mud and rock lay exposed by the now falling tide. Frey turned

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