Early the next morning Erika travelled to Hayes Quarry with an expanded team, including forensics and uniform officers in a convoy of police vans. They parked close to where Erika had been with the Marine Recovery Unit almost three weeks previously. It was a freezing day, and everyone was rugged up in winter gear. Police tape was put up, closing off a large square of grass approaching the quarry, and its perimeter, including the swathe of overgrown land around the cottage.

The first part of the morning was spent clearing away undergrowth and brambles. Council gardeners set to work with uniform officers and the air was filled with the high-pitched whine of strimmers. Erika waited impatiently outside one of the large support vans with Moss and Peterson. Her phone rang, but it cut out as soon as she pulled it from her pocket.

‘That’s the third call like that this morning, a withheld number,’ she said irritably peering at the screen.

‘Marketing bastards, I bet,’ said Moss. ‘I had a spate of getting them every evening when I sat down for dinner. It drove Celia mad.’

‘I’ve had them too,’ said Peterson blowing into his cupped hands with a stream of vapour.

’Just calls or text messages too?’ asked Erika. ‘I had a blank text delivered at four thirty. Again a withheld number.’

‘I’ve never had a text message from a withheld number,’ said Peterson.

‘Yeah all your hotline bling girls leave sultry voicemails,’ grinned Moss.

‘Piss off,’ he laughed.

DI Crawford approached them with a tray of tea, and they went quiet.

‘Thanks,’ said Erika as they all took a plastic cup.

‘All very exciting,’ he said pulling a silly face. ‘I was here the first time we searched the quarry, in 1990,’ he blew out his cheeks theatrically and tipped his head toward the waters edge. ‘Makes you realise how fast your life goes.’

‘How old are you?’ asked Moss.

‘Forty-seven in the new year,’ he said.

‘What about the Cottage? Can you remember it being involved in the search?’ asked Erika.

‘It was searched, I remember that. But they found nothing, I think they thought it was abandoned.’

‘But Robert Jennings was squatting there,’ said Peterson blowing on his tea.

‘Often with squatters you don’t know they’re there. They live in squalor, don’t they? Hence the term squatter,’ He rolled his eyes for Moss’s benefit, and went off with the tea tray.

Erika’s phone rang again and she saw it was the same withheld number. She let it ring out and then stuffed it in her pocket. Moments later it buzzed to say she had a voicemail.

‘What do you think of him?’ she said.

‘He irritates me,’ said Peterson.

‘Makes me feel like I’ve got an extra tit,’ added Moss. ‘He’s always in front of me, asking questions, poking his nose in.’

‘It’s his job to ask questions and poke his nose in,’ said Erika.

‘But he never seems to be actively pursuing anything,’ said Peterson.

‘He’s got this annoying way of making jokes, always there with a stupid chirpy little know-it-all comment,’ added Moss. ‘I know it’s harsh.’

‘Yes, there’s something about him,’ said Erika. She didn’t mention about him coming back to the station on Saturday. There was a nigh pitched buzz and the sound of wood cracking, and a large lump of the undergrowth fell away exposing half of the cottage. They turned and watched as more bunches of dead vines were pulled away.

‘It looks in better nick than I thought,’ said Peterson. The chimney stack had collapsed, but the roof looked intact. Most of the windows were broken, but again, the frames remained.

A small unmarked mini bus appeared driving slowly through the gap in the two support vans, and came to a halt. They recognised the tall blond man who climbed out from the drivers side. It was Nils Åkerman, one of the Crime Scene Managers they had worked with before. He spoke perfect English with only a hint of a Swedish accent. His sense of humour could be dark, and even if Erika didn’t always get his jokes, his eyes always shone kindly.

‘I feel like this is a real long shot, Nils,’ said Erika as they all shook hands. ‘Thanks you for coming.’

‘The odds might just be in our favour today,’ he said. ‘My team are raring to go.’ Erika showed them where they could get close to the house in their car, adding, ‘They should be finished up clearing the area soon, so you can get into the front door.’

‘I’ll go in, and we’ll have a good look, and then you can suit up and join us,’ said Nils. He went back to the mini bus and set off again, navigating over the rough ground to get closer to the cottage.

‘Have we had any luck from the utility companies?’ asked Erika.

‘It’s been effectively off the grid for years,’ said Peterson. ‘It does have a water supply, and the person I spoke to at Thames water thinks that it could have had a septic tank. It’s not part of the sewage network,’ said Peterson.

‘Ok. We need to find that septic tank, and then…’

‘Someone is going to have to shovel through the shit,’ said Moss. ‘I dread to think what a thousand gallons of shit looks like after twenty-six years.’

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said DI Crawford appearing behind them. ‘Any waste will be long gone.’

‘It’s what’s left behind that I’ll be interested in,’ said Erika. ‘You seem to know the most about septic tanks. Can I put you in charge of tracking it down?’

‘Yes, Boss,’ said Crawford. He went off, looking rather sour. Moss suppressed a grin.

 

 

31

 

 

As DI Crawford tramped through the undergrowth surrounding the cottage and beyond looking for the location of the septic tank, he reflected on his life. He was an okay copper. He’d worked hard, too hard at times, but he’d never reached the heights he’d aspired to, or felt he deserved. He’d dreamed of reaching the rank of Superintendent, or Chief Superintendent, but his dreams had fallen short and he was still a Detective Inspector at forty-seven.

He’d just come off a case where he had to take orders from a Superintendent fifteen years his junior, and it made his blood boil.