‘God, Shauna, are you all right?’ she asked, but all Shauna could hear was the machine roaring like a lion, all she could see was the gang of workmen, the looks on their faces as they turned one by one to stare at her. But one of them was still watching the grab, and he stiffened as something caught his eye.

He put up a hand, waved. Stop.

The machine’s roar died to a shuddering halt.

One of the men turned back to the river. Then another. And another.

Shauna’s breath caught in her throat.

‘What . . . ?’ Chloe said, her hand on Shauna’s shoulder. Now she looked ahead, too.

‘What the fuck?’ asked one of the men loudly.

Shauna looked. Hanging out of the side of the grab was a skeletal hand and arm. The bones were a pale luminous green-white from years submerged in the river.

‘Christ!’ said Chloe, putting a hand to her mouth. ‘That’s—’

‘Holy shit! That’s someone’s arm, that is,’ said one of the men.

They all stood there, frozen, fascinated. Disbelieving.

‘Better call the police,’ said one of the other men, his face white as milk. ‘Tell them we’ve found a body.’

157

157

Night had fallen. The torch was weaving back and forth in Aysha Flynn’s hand, which was shaking hard. Its cone of light, feeble in the total country blackness of the night, was wavering all over the place.

‘Hold it steady, damn it,’ snapped Connor.

Aysha put both hands on the torch. Teeth chattering with nerves, she tried to do as her brother said.

‘This is wrong,’ she told him. ‘This is crazy.’

They were inside the tiny church near the gypsy camp, way out in the middle of nowhere. No one came here. It was near-derelict; no alarms, nothing. According to Connor, who’d looked it up, the church hadn’t been in use since Gilbert White trotted past it on his famous white horse in the eighteenth century. It had never been big enough to seat more than twenty people, tops. It had no electricity, no heating or light. It was a place of deep peace and tranquillity.

Tonight, it was being desecrated.

We’re going to be cursed for this, thought Aysha with a shudder.

Connor had brought a sledgehammer and a pickaxe along. Then he had led the way to the big gravestone at the top of the aisle, the one that lay right in front of the altar; last resting place of Polly James, 1745–1762, fiancée of William Cody. The inscriptions had almost been worn away by footsteps over the years, but Aysha could still read them, just about.

MAY SHE REST ETERNAL

Jesus! Spooky, or what?

Polly James had died the night before her wedding, it said. And then there was the old wedding rhyme:

Something Old

Something New

Something Borrowed

Something Blue