Hobbes turned to Barlow. ‘Did you let him through, Constable?’

‘No, sir, I swear. It’s the first time—’

‘There’s more than one way through the woods.’ Fairfax laughed. ‘How’s that for a bit of philos—’

He couldn’t complete the word. Hobbes realized that Fairfax was drunk, badly so. His voice was softened and slurred by it.

‘Phil-os-o-phy.’ He slowed the word down, so he could pronounce it properly. He was proud of his effort. ‘There it is. Philos— Ah, fuck it.’

Hobbes came close. ‘Fairfax, you need to—’

‘I need to pee, actually.’

He was unzipping his fly as Hobbes grabbed his arm. ‘Get away from my crime scene, Tommy. Well away!’

‘But I thought – I thought you wanted my help. You need my help. You said so, didn’t you?’ Now he looked peeved.

Hobbes kept a tight hold of him and dragged him through the trees. ‘Give us a hand, Barlow! Come on!’ The constable hesitated, then joined Hobbes in the task. DC Fairfax had started to sing in a raucous manner. Show me the way to go home! His weight settled low in his body. He slumped down, so that the other two men had to hold him up forcibly.

It started to rain, hard, the drops easily piercing the canopy. Hobbes and Barlow were both soaked in a moment, and their burden was even heavier. Hobbes slipped, almost fell. Barlow had to help him up.

By now Fairfax was leaning against a tree trunk, muttering to himself.

Hobbes brushed some of the mud off his trousers and raincoat. ‘OK, Barlow, let’s get him out of here.’

‘Wait, sir.’

‘I need to get indoors. There’s nothing we can do here.’

‘But, sir, listen to him. Listen to Fairfax.’

Hobbes did so, holding his face close to the drunken man, but any words he could hear were slurred, free of meaning. ‘Tommy, what are you saying?’

‘There’s another …’

‘Come on, let’s have it.’

‘There’s another body.’

Now Hobbes fell quiet.

Fairfax gathered his words together, one by one. ‘Over there, on the pathway.’ A vague gesture. ‘I nearly trod in it. Flesh. Decayed.’ His head lolled to the side.

Hobbes wiped the rain from his face. His sight was blurred in the downpour.

Barlow said, ‘He’s pretty far gone, sir. Off his head. Do we believe him?’

‘Best make sure.’

The constable nodded, but he still looked doubtful.

‘Jump to it, Tommy. Show us the way. Let’s get this over with.’

Fairfax followed these instructions well enough, weaving a route between each tree trunk, below the low-hanging branches. He led them the way he had come, back into the dense overgrowth, further away from the police tape, from the lighted walkways. But soon enough they hit another path, one made by people over the years for their own use, the grass and plants trampled down into the soil. They walked along it a little way. Already Hobbes could smell the rot. But it didn’t smell like normal decomposition, or not the kind he was used to at any rate. He stopped breathing, to keep from throwing up. It really was a stench, and it rang a vague bell in his mind.