They set off on the short demarcated route leading to the cluster of men round the stone box, stepping with care on the metal trays laid down to protect the ground and any clues it might ultimately yield. ‘Good description,’ Fielding said, nodding towards the craggy man with the pronounced eyebrow ridge and distinctive beak of a nose. ‘I take it there’s some history there?’

Paula nodded. ‘Mutual antipathy, it would be fair to say. We thought he was a patronising obtuse bastard. He probably thought we were a bunch of smartarses.’

‘Some validity on both sides, I suspect.’ Fielding forged ahead and called out, ‘DCI Franklin? I’m DCI Fielding from Bradfield.’

He swung round, his scowl lifting as he took in Fielding’s trim figure and groomed appearance. Then he saw Paula and his face clouded again. ‘DC McIntyre,’ he said, ignoring Fielding. ‘They split you up, then, you and DCI Jordan?’ He delivered each word in a Yorkshire accent heavy as a paving slab. The other officers around him stopped what they were doing to catch the cabaret.

‘It’s DS McIntyre,’ Fielding said, to Paula’s surprise. ‘And you don’t have to bother your pretty little head about the threat from DCI Jordan any more. I’m the person you have to deal with now.’

Franklin smirked. ‘Is that right?’ He stepped back and made a sweeping bow. ‘Well, be my guest.’

As he moved aside, they were confronted with what remained of Bev McAndrew. It was as if Nadia Wilkowa had been transplanted from Gartonside to the high moorland of West Yorkshire. Only when she got past first impressions could Paula discern the differences. Bev’s body type was different – she was an apple to Nadia’s pear – and her shoulders were broader, the muscles more defined. But as far as identifying her from her features was concerned, it was a non-starter. Again, the victim’s face was a mash of bloody tissue, the white of bone showing through on cheeks and jaw. Determined though she was to reveal no weakness in front of Franklin, Paula couldn’t help biting her lip.

‘She’s the twin of the one we caught on Monday,’ Fielding said, her voice blank of any emotion. ‘I think that makes her ours.’

‘Not to mention that this looks more like a body dump than a crime scene,’ Paula added. If this was going to turn into a turf war, better to get all the cards on the table as soon as possible.

But the response from Franklin was not what she expected. He dug his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. ‘And according to her ID, she’s come from your patch. Be my guest, ladies. You want us to process the scene or do you not trust us?’