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Back A Change of Circumstance Save as PDF
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover
  2. One
  3. Two
  4. Three
  5. Four
  6. Five
  7. Six
  8. Seven
  9. Eight
  10. Nine
  11. Ten
  12. Eleven
  13. Twelve
  14. Thirteen
  15. Fourteen
  16. Fifteen
  17. Sixteen
  18. Seventeen
  19. Eighteen
  20. Nineteen
  21. Twenty
  22. Twenty-One
  23. Twenty-Two
  24. Twenty-Three
  25. Twenty-Four
  26. Twenty-Five
  27. Twenty-Six
  28. Twenty-Seven
  29. Twenty-Eight
  30. Twenty-Nine
  31. Thirty
  32. Thirty-One
  33. Thirty-Two
  34. Thirty-Three
  35. Thirty-Four
  36. Thirty-Five
  37. Thirty-Six
  38. Thirty-Seven
  39. Thirty-Eight
  40. Thirty-Nine
  41. Forty
  42. Forty-One
  43. Forty-Two
  44. Forty-Three
  45. Forty-Four
  46. Forty-Five
  47. Forty-Six
  48. Forty-Seven
  49. Forty-Eight
  50. Forty-Nine
  51. Fifty
  52. Fifty-One
  53. Fifty-Two
  54. Fifty-Three
  55. Fifty-Four
  56. Fifty-Five
  57. Fifty-Six
  58. Fifty-Seven
  59. Fifty-Eight
  60. Fifty-Nine
  61. Sixty
  62. Sixty-One
  63. Sixty-Two
  64. Sixty-Three
  65. Sixty-Four
  66. Sixty-Five
  67. Sixty-Six

It went all the way back to the days when, as a rookie copper, Serrailler had seen his first mutilated corpse, that of a young man separated from his head, the latter having floated further downstream and caught up in reeds beside the riverbank. Inevitably, he had been shaken, but he had felt neither faint nor nauseous, and on returning to the station he had headed straight to the canteen where he had downed not only a pint of tea, but a plate of eggs, bacons and fried bread, and it had been the same ever after, was the same now, when he went straight to the basement canteen for breakfast.

‘Is there something wrong with me?’

‘Not exactly wrong,’ Cat had said, ‘but maybe idiosyncratic. Most junior doctors go off their food for a few hours after they’ve attended the aftermath of an RTA, or they faint their first time in the operating theatre, but we all react differently to trauma. Neurosurgeons are well known for going straight from probing into someone’s brains to enjoying a Chinese takeaway.’

Simon did not have long to eat. He had been at the site for three hours, and the team on the ground had finished their part of the job, the caravan had been set upright and towed into the field, the buckled door had been crowbarred open – it looked as if the same had happened to the victim’s head. The pathologist had pronounced death and set the rough time at between eleven the previous night and four in the morning. ‘Difficult to be more exact till I get him on the table. Blunt instrument or possibly a heavy axe. I’ll get back. Let’s have him in as soon as you’ve finished.’

Forensics had been hanging about outside, suited and booted, but before letting them into the caravan, Serrailller had stood still, and let his eyes do the work in the cramped space, the floor of which was tipped sideways, giving him a peculiar sense of being at sea. The place had been lived in. There was a television, which had crashed to the floor, some mugs and plates, only one of which had survived intact, a small pile of clothes – jumper, jeans, two or three shirts. Socks and underwear were pushed into the corner of a shelf. The door of the food cupboard hung open, revealing tea bags, ketchup, spilled sugar, long-life milk and a random banana. A grubby bedcover and pillow were heaped on the bench seat.

‘Guv?’