The Shadows of Hill Manor

Prologue

April 2007

Something about the woods had felt different that day. Or at least, with the benefit of hindsight, Nathan had convinced himself that must have been the case. The whisper of wind between the trees; the ominous bird call echoing through the branches above their heads.

He shuddered as he stared out through the window, now that night had eventually fallen over the spinney; the same veil of darkness which seemed to have enveloped the whole estate in an eerie, menacing cowl. The dark silhouette of Hill Manor loomed like a sentinel above it all. It was still the same place he had grown up, where he and his younger brother had hitherto enjoyed a carefree, unrestricted childhood; but right now, he felt he didn’t really know it at all and he wanted to get as far away as he possibly could. Tomorrow pictures of their home would be splashed all over the newspapers and television, the name to be forever synonymous with unnatural death and crime of the worst kind.

Forever overshadowed by the old house and the terrible secret thrown up by the same soil supporting its foundations.

*

The Laurels, marketed originally as a modern residential development in a prime suburban location, stood just four miles north of Oxford. Constructed in the mid-1970s, it was the epitome of the boxy architecture that was so popular during the decade that taste had somehow bypassed. The settlement commandeered the former grounds of an eighteenth-century mansion house, the now sadly dilapidated Hill Manor, though sprawling woodland still remained at its periphery. It was close enough to the housing estate for the residents and their children to explore, and particularly popular for those with trail bikes but the house itself was a no-go area. Much of the high wall surrounding the once grand building had begun to crumble, its tall, rusting gates propped permanently open between worn stone pillars. The huge sash windows were now boarded up, the rafters exposed in many areas, with slates lying smashed on the overgrown terrace beneath.

Hill Manor’s last inhabitant, Eustace Hill, elderly great-grandson of the original owners, had died alone in the house, penniless and reclusive, over seventy years earlier. Said to have lain undiscovered for weeks, his body had made a meal for rats and visiting foxes, and little of it remained to bury by the time it was found by local police.

With no offspring to whom Eustace could leave the house, the place had gradually been reclaimed by nature and was now home to bats, nesting birds, and various rodents. The rotten floorboards were a potential death trap to anyone who might be foolish enough to venture over the threshold. But despite the numerous warning signs hammered into the ground, some of the older local kids would dare one another to enter, particularly around Halloween. Stories of the grisly demise of its former owner stoked their imagination and the thought that his restless spirit paced the rooms at once thrilled and terrified them. Plans to demolish the building imminently had made it even more of a draw of late and parents lived in fear of someone having a serious, if not fatal, accident eventually.

The Easter holidays were coming to a close, the weather warming nicely towards a promising spring. But after a fortnight of constant bickering and treating their home like a refuse tip, the boys at Number 14 had finally pushed their mother to her limits.

"Right. That’s it. You’re driving me up the bloody wall. Out – now." She jerked the leads from their respective PS3s, holding out a hand for the controllers.

"That’s so unfair. What are we supposed to do?" Nathan sat back, his mouth gaping in indignation.

"Use your imagination. You’re kids. Just stay away from the old house unless you want to break your necks." She narrowed her eyes in warning and watched with folded arms as the two boys slouched out of the front door, then she dusted off her hands and closed it behind them.

Cow. Sulkily, twelve-year-old Nathan steered his cobweb-bedecked BMX out of the shed. Come on then, moron.

Daniel followed, sticking up one finger belligerently behind his older brother’s back. They wheeled the bicycles out of the cul-de-sac and Nathan paused for a moment.

Daniel puffed out his cheeks. "Where we gonna go? Hey, why don’t we go up to the Manor? It would really piss her off . . ."

Despite feeling like defying his mother, Nathan had the good sense to heed her words. Hill Manor gave him the creeps, anyway.

Nah. Charlie Nolan reckons it’s full of bat shit. We’ll do a few laps of the spinney instead. Bet I can get round in half the time it takes you.

That’s not fair – your bike’s better than mine. And you’re bigger, too.

Excuses, excuses. Nathan grinned smugly. "You know what they say, squirt: a bad workman blames his tools. And size has nothing to do with it, anyway – I’m just better than you at everything. And you know it."

Huh. We’ll see about that.

As they entered the copse, Daniel leapt astride his bike and began to pedal for all he was worth, leaving Nathan standing.

Oi, you little git! I never said you could have a head start.

Daniel laughed gleefully. Sticking his feet out to the sides, he freewheeled erratically over the well-beaten downward slope, disappearing into the heart of the woods. Nathan glanced over his shoulder briefly at the crumbling building looming behind him. He thought of the other stuff Charlie Nolan had said about the place and shuddered. He for one wasn’t going to be checking it out any time soon. Mounting his BMX, he gave chase.

Holy shit!

Nathan slammed on his brakes as Daniel, a few yards ahead, jarred suddenly and went flying over his handlebars. He smacked to the ground with a thud. The younger boy groaned, hoisting himself into a sitting position. He appeared dazed, and looked round as if unsure quite what had happened.

His irritation replaced by concern, Nathan dropped his own bike and ran to his brother’s aid.

Y’all right, squirt?

Daniel rolled up his tracksuit bottoms and inspected his grazed knees. His palms smarted. Tentatively, he put a hand to the side of his face. It was stinging a little, but there appeared to be no major damage.

Yeah, think so. The stupid wheel got caught – must’ve been a tree root, or something. I didn’t see it.

Nathan picked up the bike, straightening the handlebars, and propped it against a tree. He scoured the ground where Daniel had fallen for evidence of the cause of the mishap. The light levels were dim, owing to the dappled shadows thrown by the thick canopy above, which shielded them from the brightness of the afternoon sun. Something black and shiny, no more than three inches wide, was jutting from the hardened soil next to his brother’s extended leg. Nathan prodded the slightly curved surface cautiously with the toe of his trainer.

What’s that? Daniel’s eyes were drawn to his brother’s foot.

Dunno, but it’s definitely no tree root. Nathan cast around for some sort of implement. Picking up a stone, he began to scrape the soil from the half-covered item. He peered at his discovery and frowned.

Weird. Looks like one of those old-fashioned door handles.

He continued to rake at the ground and suddenly hit something solid, but hollow-sounding.

Hey, look at this.

Daniel brushed himself off and rose to his feet. He bent down and stared at the ground where his brother was pointing.

It’s a bloody door!

Give us a hand. Nathan gestured beyond where Daniel was now squatting. Grab another stone or something.

Their interest piqued, the two boys scrabbled at the earth, eventually revealing a full-sized wooden panelled door, the type typically found in early twentieth-century terraced houses. It was attached to the round Bakelite handle that Nathan had initially uncovered. They looked at one another in eager anticipation.

D’you reckon there’s something underneath it, or is it just an old door someone’s buried for some reason? Daniel’s eyes shone. The discovery was almost worth his fall.

Only one way to find out. Nathan twisted the handle, but unsurprisingly the door didn’t yield. He thought for a moment. Here, you take that top corner and I’ll pull from the bottom. Let’s see if we can lift it up. On the count of three . . .

Together, the boys gave one almighty heave and the edge of the door gradually started to rise. The surrounding earth beneath began to fall away, causing a mini-landslide to trickle into the huge aperture revealed below. With another final supreme effort, they pushed the door wide open. It crashed against the ground. Nathan stood back, wiping his hands on his jeans. Gingerly, he leaned forward. Wooden steps led down into the hollow they had uncovered, which disappeared at an angle deep into the ground. His eyes widened.

Looks like some kind of den.

Daniel peered down into the darkness. His face lit up.

Shall we . . .?

Nathan thought for a moment. He was curious about the hole but common sense told him they needed to be mindful of the terrain. They didn’t want several tons of earth collapsing on top of them.

Okay, we’ll have a proper look. Better get a torch, though. It’s pitch black. I want to see where I’m treading.

Wait here. I’ll fetch one. The trauma of his earlier fall apparently forgotten, Daniel grabbed his bike and pedalled furiously back through the spinney. Within minutes he had returned, brandishing a flashlight.

Nathan held out a hand. I’ll go first – check it all looks safe and that.

Daniel looked on expectantly as Nathan inched his way down the steps, clutching the torch as he ducked beneath the low timber lintel bracing the entrance. Once at the bottom, he played the beam round the dugout.

What can you see? called his brother from above.

Nathan’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. The space was probably big enough to accommodate six people – eight, at a push. He scanned round, absorbing the arch of the roof, the dirt floor. Suddenly remembering a documentary he’d watched about people uncovering a tomb in Egypt, he felt a frisson of excitement. Maybe he’d find some priceless artefact. But the dank, foetid air was almost enough to make him gag, and on closer inspection, there seemed to be little of interest. The contents were sparse and looked decades rather than centuries old: an ancient oil lamp sitting on a small wooden table just inside the entrance, a filthy tin chamber pot tucked beneath it on the ground. A slatted wooden bench ran the entire length of the wall adjacent.

"Looks like an old air-raid shelter. Just think – I might be the first person down here for about sixty years! Yeah, pretty sure that’s what it is. The walls are made of that corrugated iron stuff. There’s a couple of old bunks and a bench. And it stinks down here, man. I s’pose people must’ve just used the corner to piss in."

The rusting frame of bunk beds lined the wall opposite the bench, their mattresses absent, revealing the unforgiving metal mesh which would have supported them. It had been bad enough when he and Daniel were forced to top and tail at their cousin’s house last summer. He wondered how anyone could possibly have slept on such things, especially with the threat of being bombed at any moment.

The air in the shelter was icily cold. Nathan’s breath was visible in the rays cast by the flashlight. Something caught his attention from the depths of the bunker. He had the sudden sense of a pair of eyes observing him and felt strangely discomfited, gooseflesh rising on his arms. Peering into the gloom, he grew rigid with fear. There, in the gap between the bench and the beds, stood a small but unmistakably human form. Nathan caught his breath. He could make out no words, but could have sworn he heard someone whispering. His imagination began to run away with him. Heart racing, he stumbled backwards, almost missing his footing.

Shit!

Daniel, who had been hopping from one foot to the other above, could contain himself no longer.

What’s up? Here – I’m coming in. He clambered down the steps, shielding his eyes from the torch beam as Nathan turned it towards him.

Point it the other way, you idiot. I can’t see a thing. Daniel backed towards the bench on his left, screwing up his face. Eugh. You’re right, it does stink.

Daniel’s foot caught on something poking from beneath the bench. Freeing his trainer, he peered down to see what looked like heavy-duty, translucent polythene sheeting.

Hey, they never had plastic during the war, did they?

Nathan shrugged. Search me. Why? His heart still hammering, he looked around uneasily. He could have sworn there was someone down there, watching him – but how could there be? He’d been reading too many Point Horror books. He felt foolish now. Thankfully Daniel didn’t seem to have noticed how spooked he’d been or he’d have had a field day telling his mates.

Daniel tugged at the sheeting. It seemed to be caught on something.

Here, give us a hand. There’s something under the seat.

Nathan propped the torch on the upper bunk, creating a fan of light on the opposite wall. The two boys pulled at the thick plastic, which after its initial resistance suddenly jerked free.

The smell released was pungent, sulphurous: something akin to rotten eggs.

Daniel let out an involuntary squawk. They both recoiled simultaneously in shock. Nathan inadvertently knocked the torch from where it had been balanced. It clattered to the dirt floor. There was an ominous click and the boys were left in what felt like a thick black void.

"Nath! What the—! I can’t see a thing." Daniel’s voice was reduced to a whimper.

’S okay, ’s okay . . .

Nathan dropped to his knees, his heart hammering. He groped around before eventually managing to locate the torch. With trembling hands, he fumbled with the switch to restore illumination, but his fingers seemed to have lost all coordination and the torch fell from his grasp. It rolled across the floor, spinning and landing in the perfect position to highlight what lay beneath the bench.

Time seemed to stand still. Scrambling to retrieve the flashlight, Nathan drew back, grabbing his younger brother reflexively by the arm. The two boys were rendered momentarily speechless as they stared down in horrified disbelief at their discovery.

There was no question. The plastic had been wrapped around the badly decomposed body of a child.

Chapter 1

April 2007

The morning air was cool, but watery sunshine had gradually started to seep through the clouds. PC Simon Warner had parked his vehicle in Winchester Road. Turning into Lime Tree Avenue, he walked slowly, scanning the numbers on the doors. It was a pleasantly quiet suburban road of neatly maintained post-war terraced houses, lined with brutally pollarded lime trees; evidence of nature fighting back could be seen in the form of fresh green shoots, sprouting from the spindly twigs emerging haphazardly from their tops like fledgling dreadlocks. The street ran perpendicular to the Woodstock and Banbury Roads. Number 37 stood out from the rest for all the wrong reasons, just as his DI had predicted it probably would.

Mr Painter’s been through a hell of a lot. Don’t be surprised if you find him a bit prickly. My predecessor did nothing to improve his opinion of us, I’m afraid. Tread carefully, she had warned him.

Looking more like an adolescent choir boy in fancy dress than a bona fide police officer, the young constable creaked open the rusty gate apprehensively, picking his way through the tangle of weeds pushing up between the paving stones. He paused to collect his thoughts, before pressing the doorbell. Its tinny ring could be heard echoing through the hallway on the other side. He stood stiffly, hands half-covered by his sleeves, mentally rehearsing what he was about to say. The occupant’s silhouette came suddenly into view through the filthy frosted amber window at the top of the door. Warner could hear him fumbling with the chain. A dog barked briefly from within, but was silenced almost instantly by a surly utterance from its owner.

A thin, grey-haired man screwed up his eyes against the daylight as he opened the front door, its faded, peeling paintwork and cracked glass a further hint of what lay within. The man was tall but stooped with age. He peered in blatant irritation at the slight, youthful stranger standing on his step, his eyes travelling from Warner’s head to his feet and back, clearly noticing the new jacket, which was at least two sizes too big.

The moment of truth. PC Warner’s palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his trousers.

Erm . . . Mr Painter?

Who wants to know?

I’m PC Warner, from St Aldates Constabulary? Warner shrivelled inwardly as he thought how ineffectual he must sound. Erm . . . I have some news for you. There was an awkward pause. He couldn’t deliver this bombshell on the doorstep. Could I—? I wonder if I might come in, please?

The old man narrowed his eyes. Got any ID?

Warner recalled his DI’s warning about Painter being potentially uncooperative. He’d heard the stories of the man’s hopes having been raised and repeatedly dashed over the years. It was understandable that Painter wasn’t welcoming him with open arms, but this wasn’t making him feel any better about the information he had to impart. He hated confrontation.

Flustered, the young officer rummaged in his inside pocket and eventually produced an identity badge. He looked at Painter hopefully. The man shrugged, gave an exaggerated sniff, and, turning on his heel, shuffled back into the dingy hallway. Warner hesitated.

Painter called over his shoulder gruffly. Well? You coming in then, or what?

The little terraced house was dimly lit and offered little in the way of creature comforts. The plastic light shade dangling from the vestibule ceiling was cracked and laced with cobwebs. A threadbare carpet led the way into a poky living room, which was sparsely furnished, with a bulky old-fashioned TV set in one corner. The air was thick with the odours of stale cigarette smoke and dog, the ceiling and walls stained yellow with nicotine. A thin, gangly mongrel with a rough grey coat – almost a canine version of its owner – was sprawled on the filthy hearth rug. The animal lifted its head and emitted a warning growl as they entered the room.

Shut up, Tucker, grunted Painter. Obligingly, the dog flopped back down but continued to watch the intruder in his home mistrustfully.

’Scuse the state of the place – afraid I’ve let things go a bit, as you can probably see. The older man rolled his eyes resignedly. It was an apology he was obviously used to uttering. He pointed to a battered, dog-hair-smothered armchair, its cushions peppered with cigarette burns. Have a seat.

PC Warner thought it impolite to decline and, giving the dog a wide berth, lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of the proffered chair. At least he had a spare pair of trousers; these would have to go straight in the wash when he finished his shift.

Painter ensconced himself on the settee opposite and eyed his visitor with some curiosity. After running a hand through his greasy, thinning hair, he pulled a cigarette from the packet in his shirt pocket. Flicking a lighter, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

What’s this all about, then?

The young policeman’s heart quickened. There’s been . . . a discovery.

How the hell should he phrase this? He took a deep breath. He just needed to spit it out.

That is to say, the remains of a young girl have been found.

PC Warner wanted to kick himself. It had all come out in a rush. Every muscle in his body tensed as he watched for Painter’s reaction.

Painter nodded slowly. He spoke through the fog of smoke he was generating, the vapour pouring from his nostrils like a world-weary dragon.

And I s’pose they think it could be our Kimberley?

It’s a distinct possibility, yes. I’m sorry, I know this can’t be easy for you. I’m aware your hopes of finding her have been falsely raised in the past and understand your relationship with us has been, well, a bit strained.

Painter spluttered a huge guffaw. Huh! You can say that again. Did that arsehole Bennett send you? Didn’t have the nerve to come here again himself, I dare say.

It was before my time, but I believe DCI Bennett took early retirement – quite a few years ago now.

Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, if you ask me. A right friggin’ chocolate teapot he was – him and that drippy sergeant . . . what was his name? Henderson, wasn’t it? Neither use nor bloody ornament, the pair of ’em.

Warner didn’t acknowledge this last remark. It would be unprofessional to pass comment on a senior officer, whatever the rumours may have been. He cleared his throat.

Sergeant Henderson moved from the area not long after DCI Bennett left. The case has been re-assigned to DI Shelley, but she’s on annual leave at the moment. He thought of his DI and for the first time that morning felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile. "She’s very good . . ."

"She? Painter looked incredulous. They’ve got a woman in charge now?"

PC Warner bristled. He hated misogyny anyway, but had nothing but admiration for his DI, who was always fair and measured in her approach – more so than many of the male officers he’d come across so far. In fact, secretly, he had a bit of a crush on her, despite the fact she was old enough to be his mother.

I can assure you, Mr Painter, that DI Shelley is a first-class officer, with an excellent track record. If anyone can solve a cold case, she’s your man – if you see what I mean. He groaned inwardly at his clumsy choice of phrase, his cheeks colouring.

Painter sat back, frowning. "So, they’ve found a body, you say?

Yes. They’re carrying out a fingertip search of the surrounding area in case there are any more out there. There are several unsolved missing child cases in the Oxford area going back quite a few years, and this could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for. It’s a pretty densely wooded location, though, so it may take some time to do a thorough search.

Malcolm Painter nodded, slowly absorbing this information. And what exactly makes them think it could be Kimberley?

Warner blanched. A single bead of perspiration trickled down his temple and he raised a hand to swipe it away. His eyes were drawn suddenly to the framed photograph in the centre of the mantelpiece. He’d seen the photo from the case file, so he knew what she’d looked like. But seeing the same picture in the house where the little girl had actually lived really brought it home to him. His stomach clenched as he remembered the shocking sight of the tiny, angular skeleton forced into the foetal position, its fragile limbs contorted unnaturally. Even in his personal life, he’d been fortunate enough to have no first-hand experience of death thus far, and had found his encounter with the remains of such a young child deeply disturbing. It would be burned into his consciousness for eternity. How those poor kids who’d found her must be feeling, he couldn’t imagine. It was the stuff of nightmares.

Warner swallowed down the knot which had risen in his throat.

I’m so sorry. I’m afraid the body has decomposed too badly for visual identification. Further tests still have to be carried out. But there were certain items accompanying the . . . the remains . . . that might be recognisable. If you feel you could accompany me to the station, maybe you might be able to identify—

Painter stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him and eased himself to his feet. He nodded solemnly. Okay. I’ll get my coat.

PC Warner glanced back at the sad little house as they made their way along Lime Tree Avenue towards where he’d parked the patrol car. So that was where she’d spent her short life, poor Kimberley. He knew in his gut it must be her. She’d be almost thirty now, if she’d lived – about the same age as his older sister. The whole thing had really got to him and he hoped fervently that with time he’d get used to dealing with cases like this. Because, being realistic, he knew that sadly there would surely be more.

Sudden movement in the upstairs window drew his attention.

Was that—? Had someone been looking down at them? He pulled up sharply, trying to focus beyond the grimy glass. A cold feeling crept along his spine.

Mr Painter, was there anyone else in the house with you just now?

Nope. Just Tucker. He’s my only company these days.

Painter shot a look over his shoulder, following the trajectory of Warner’s gaze. His mouth spread slowly into a smile. He turned back to face Warner, fixing him with a strange look.

Well, most of the time, anyway.

*

St Aldates Station was only a relatively short drive away, but for Painter the journey seemed interminable. The morning traffic was heavy, and the young police officer drove at a steadily sensible twenty-five miles per hour, stopping all too frequently to allow other drivers right of way.

Not bolshy enough to abuse his blue lights yet, Malcolm concluded.

He glanced sideways at the constable, who was sitting bolt upright behind the wheel. Feeling the weight of Malcolm’s stare, the lad smiled nervously, shifting a little in his seat. There was a huge gap between his neck and the collar of his shirt. He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone be involved in a murder investigation. Bitter experience had made Malcolm cynical of the police and the tendency many of them seemed to have of exploiting their status, not to mention treating everyone as a potential criminal.

He sat in silence, staring unseeingly through the car window, contemplating what might confront him upon arrival at the station. He’d waited for so long to bring his daughter home and hardly dared hope that she had, indeed, been found after all these years. Years of anger, frustration, and heartache had taken its toll on his health and marriage, and ultimately sent his wife to an early grave. He was too tired now to care much about his own life, but knew he’d never give up entirely until Kimberley had been found and laid to rest. That was the one final purpose of the pitiable existence he now led. In truth, it was the only thing keeping him going.

Though he had never told anyone, Malcolm was convinced he felt Kimberley’s presence everywhere in the house. It had started after Mary passed away. He was sure he had seen her on several occasions: a fleeting shadow moving through the hallway; a glimpse of movement from the corner of the room, which would quickly vanish as he turned to look. He’d come to recognise when she was drawing close. Immediately beforehand, the distinctive aroma of rain-soaked soil would permeate the air. It was very odd. But he wasn’t unnerved by it. He actually found it comforting.

It hadn’t been the same when Mary died; it was as if once her life had been extinguished, nothing of her remained. But Kimberley’s soul was restless. She had unfinished business. Malcolm had convinced himself that she’d never find true peace until her earthly body, or what was left of it, had been returned to him and given a proper burial. He’d never been a believer in the hereafter before, always scoffed at the notion, if the truth be told, but Kimberley’s loss had made him think otherwise. It had given him hope that one day they’d be reunited.

The unwelcomely familiar smell of the police station hit him as he followed the young constable through the double doors: cleaning fluid and vending machine coffee. It wasn’t a particularly offensive odour, but its grim associations were. Like the overpowering aroma of lilies in the florist’s, all it ever conjured up now was the painful recollection of Mary’s funeral, and would always send him plummeting to the depths of despair. Funny how scents, good or bad, could instantly transport you to another place or time.

Malcolm’s stomach churned. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he raised a hand to his mouth as he felt bile rise from his gullet, its bitter tang hitting the back of his throat. In his mind, he replayed his visits here all those years ago. Those ridiculous allegations and the lengthy, distressing questioning at the hands of Bennett and his bumbling sidekick.

He looked about him. Things hadn’t altered much, although the aluminium ashtrays were no longer a fixture, he observed. The unnaturally white glare of the fluorescent lighting showed up the stains on the polystyrene ceiling tiles.

Obligatory Crimestoppers posters, with telephone numbers inviting dutiful members of the public to report wrongdoings, adorned the wood-panelled walls. All that appeared to have changed was the inclusion of a web address. A couple of dubious-looking individuals sat waiting on rickety plastic chairs, scowling first at one another, then at the unsmiling desk sergeant, who seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact with them.

The sergeant, ostensibly absorbed by the paperwork piled up on the counter, looked up sharply as they entered and nodded to PC Warner. Without a word, he indicated a doorway leading off the main reception area. Malcolm was shown into a small side room. Several items had been laid out on a trestle table, everything meticulously labelled and placed into clear plastic evidence bags.

Take your time, Mr Painter, said PC Warner, studying Malcolm’s face as he led him into the room. Have a good look.

Painter sent him a withering glance, then began to examine the exhibits. His eyes darted about as he tried to take in what was spread out before him: various scraps of shredded, dirty fabric; a cherry-red hair-slide; a child’s multi-coloured plastic bracelet; a battered navy-blue shoe . . .

The old man’s pulse began to race. The air suddenly seemed to crackle with electricity; the scent of damp earth that sometimes filled his home flooded his nostrils. Malcolm’s head swam, his vision blurring.

It’s her. His voice was barely more than a croak. He choked back the bile that threatened to resurface. That’s her shoe. I used to clean them for her every Sunday evening. I’d know it anywhere.

He staggered a little and stepped backwards, clutching at the edge of the table for support. Painter looked up at the young officer, tears welling in his eyes. Where was she found?

PC Warner shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

An abandoned air-raid shelter. In what used to be the grounds of a mansion house called Hill Manor. About three miles from here. He hesitated. A couple of young lads from the housing estate nearby were riding their bikes in the spinney, and . . . well, they saw something sticking up out of the ground and came across the entrance—

"Kids, you say? Malcolm snapped back his head, his eyes widening in anger. Kids found her? And your lot haven’t managed to uncover anything for nearly twenty years? Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking priceless."

Mr Painter, I realise this must all come as a terrible shock to you—

"A shock?