Grace made a number of notes. Bit by bit, the case against Niall Paternoster was building. A ‘no body’ murder was acknowledged by all SIOs as the hardest to prove. It required compelling circumstantial evidence to convince the Crown Prosecution Service to agree to proceed – the notoriously demanding CPS solicitors were always reluctant to commit to the expense of a prosecution case and all the costs of a trial without a degree of certainty that they would win.

But Grace was feeling uncertain. His early instincts, from his meeting with Paternoster, felt right. Maybe the bone that had been found would prove it beyond any doubt. But he felt there was something still missing.

He looked down at his what3words app.

They were almost at the scene.

Grace knew this forest from his earliest childhood days, when they’d had occasional school outings here, running around and being mindful that there were adders living in the sandy brush. And dense woodland was historically a deposition site for murder victims.

Branson was braking hard and indicating. Moments later, he swung in left.

A cluster of vehicles, including the large white CSI van, in the sandy parking area confirmed they were in the right place, as did the outer cordon of crime scene tape just beyond them.

71

Friday 6 September

Few police officers would disagree over what was the most shit job in the entire force. A minority might suggest it was being on public order duty during a riot, but at least that could be mitigated by the potential for getting into a fight – a good old roll-up, which most young, eager officers enjoyed. One of the money-can’t-buy perks of the job.

But to be delegated the duty of a crime scene guard was universally agreed to be the most numbingly boring. In the city, in daytime, the task tended to be given to PCSOs – the lower cost Police Community Support Officers. But PCSOs weren’t considered as robust as fully trained coppers, and they didn’t do night duty.

Togged up in their white protective oversuits, shoes, gloves, headgear and masks, Grace and Branson approached the poor sap of a PC who was the current scene guard. The officer watched them with interest, probably the only excitement and break in the monotony he’d had in the past hour or more.

Aware of the man’s vigil, as Grace showed him his warrant card he asked sympathetically, ‘How long do you have to go?’

Presenting the two detectives with the log to sign, the hapless young PC said, ‘Midnight, sir.’

Grace smiled at him. ‘Done it myself. It’s not much fun, is it?’

‘Not really, sir, no. But,’ he added hastily, ‘I don’t mind. I’m hoping to be a detective one day, so it’s interesting to see a crime scene like this.’

‘What’s your name?’ Grace asked him. ‘I’ll remember it.’

‘Conall Bartlett,’ he said. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You’re Graham Bartlett’s son, right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your dad was my boss once, some years back. A great copper.’