Charlie and Penny Warr always knew that they couldn’t have children of their own; it was something to do with Charlie, but they never dwelled on the details. Adopting had been a very quick and easy decision for them.

It was June 1987. Jack was four years and seven months old when Lillian, his social worker, walked him across the village green toward the little Devonshire pub where they’d all agreed to meet. Penny and Charlie watched for what seemed like an age, because Jack was constantly distracted by the world around him—he’d pause, look round, change direction, sit down—and all the while, Lillian gently encouraged him to keep on track. Little Jack smiled the entire time, his wide brown eyes taking in every detail.

“She’s wearing the same pedal pushers as me,” Penny whispered.

Charlie looked at his wife, noted the tears welling in her eyes, and they both burst out laughing.

“What a ridiculous thing for me to say! I’m just so nervous. Look at those amazing brown eyes, Charlie. Look at him looking. He’s so smart.”

Charlie put his arm around Penny’s shoulder and she slid along the pub bench, closer to him. They sat there, sipping lime and soda, watching their boy toddle toward them. And by the time Jack had covered that small patch of grass, they loved him.

Jack didn’t clearly remember any of this first-hand, but, like many memories that actually belong to someone else, this one had oddly started to feel like his own. As the train continued toward Devon, he could even recall the color of Penny’s pedal pushers and the smell of Charlie’s aftershave as he fell asleep in his big, working man’s arms.

At Rose Cottage, Laura watched the last of the evidence, including the cut hose pipe, being bagged and loaded into the back of a police van. She checked her mobile for the umpteenth time, but Jack hadn’t texted her back. In her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn’t; but, like many women in love with the wrong man, she couldn’t bring herself to give up hope.

Ridley stood with forensic pathologist William Fox, as the grumpy Aylesbury undertaker opened the back of his white van and the overwhelming smell of over-barbecued pork hit them both. The transfer journey to the London mortuary had only taken an hour and a half, but still, the driver clearly hated moving around the capital and couldn’t wait to get home.

Will backed away from the smell, slipping his jacket off as he moved.

“Bloody hell, Simon. You didn’t say it was a fire. That smell sticks to everything and this jacket’s new, you know!”

Ridley smirked to himself.

Will was only in his late thirties, but he was one of the foremost forensic pathologists in the UK. His mind was as sharp as his dress sense, he was loved by everyone and he showed an unrivaled passion for his profession. His sense of justice had originally taken him toward the police force, but his height, or lack of, his small frame and his aversion to physical confrontation forced him toward a behind-the-scenes job. And from the second he chose forensics, he shone brighter than anyone else in his class.