At six fifteen on a Sunday morning, the air was cold and the sky cloudy. The full moon struggled to be seen where the perimeter was steep and muddy, scattered with tightly closed daffodil buds. Inspector Davies struggled on the rain-soaked ground. He dug the heels of his shoes into the boggy terrain; the last thing he needed was to go all the way down this mound. Davies was following the watchman to where Sam Jones and the psychiatrist were standing. There was enough light for him to see that it was a pathetic little bundle that held their attention. From the colour of the middle-aged watchman who was guiding him, DI Davies knew it was going to be bad, even allowing for the fact that the security guards didn’t view scenes like this every day. And in spite of his twenty-year experience in the Met, neither did Davies.

The scrap yard hadn’t accepted any new deliveries for months and was usually deserted, used as a storage facility. It was badly lit, next to an area known for muggings and assaults. Occasionally, in summer, kids would break through the wire and play among the old fridges and car parts. It wasn’t exactly Disneyland and, in winter, even the bravest little toe rag found something better to do. The two nightwatchmen hired from a local security agency felt there was precious little of value to guard, and only patrolled round the site when the mood took them–once a week at most.

WPC Sam Jones scanned the skyline, her eyes seeking out Andover House. Most of the windows in the high rise were in darkness, but the lights shone out from one flat. To Sam they felt like a beacon for sadness and destruction. Her eyes flicked back to Matthew Cook. He looked cold. Irrationally she wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and finally take him home. The only thing she could do for the child and his mother was to get this murder inquiry wrapped up as quickly as possible. Sam knew that the last moment of peace Donna would ever know was when she held her little boy’s hand in the bus station days ago.

Clambering towards the body Sam said a silent prayer and fumbled for her radio. She called for the police doctor and the identification boys, even though someone had probably done so before her. They were taking their time. The rain came down even harder, making it difficult for the operator to hear through the poor signal. Sam repeated the request for technical backup, asking loudly where the hell they had got to, her voice cutting through the night air. The rain was seeping into her clothes and running down her face, but she was grateful for it, as it camouflaged her tears.