A little unnerved, Peabody trudged back up the path. It was now more defined because of Lucy’s comings and goings on her Ducati, which had ploughed a visible trail. He followed it back through the canyon between the piles of boxes, all the way to the desiccated tree where the eyeless doll was hanging. He shone his light around again, pausing several times on unidentifiable shapes, though almost always they became recognisable eventually: heaps of rubbish bags, rust patterns on abandoned fridges, twists of thorny weed hung with tatters. He allowed the torch to linger on the track that led back towards the landfill offices, wishing he could simply head over there, though it would take a good fifteen to twenty minutes.

Peabody realised that he was sweating, and he wondered why he’d bothered putting his gloves and anorak on. Still no rain had fallen, and when he gazed up, he saw stars rather than clouds. If anything, the waterproof was making him hotter and damper. He pulled his gloves off, followed by the anorak, scrunching it up so that he could carry it in one fist as he headed back. Just as he reached the top of the depression, there was a crackle behind him, like the snapping of a rotted branch.

He spun around, dropping his torch, and scrabbled frantically for it around his feet. As he did, he glanced up; no immediate cause of the sound was obvious, but he now realised that he could see the full length of the cleft between the heaps of boxes without using his light. He glanced east, to a hummocky horizon previously banded with indigo but now turning pale violet.

It wasn’t exactly dawn, but at least things were going the right way.

He glanced at his watch, which told him that it was shortly after four. He’d still be stuck here for the best part of another hour, maybe longer, but if the darkness was gradually receding, that would be an improvement.

Despite this, he stumbled on his way back down the slope, and when he tried to right himself, his left foot slid along a moss-slicked sheet of cardboard, landing him hard on his thigh. It didn’t hurt, but it infuriated him.

‘Dickhead,’ he muttered, as he got up and plodded on down to the bottom.

He was soon back by the tent, which rustled in the breeze. He glanced at it, and then up to the rim of the depression on its eastern side – and started violently.

The figure of a man was silhouetted on the gradually paling sky.

Peabody switched his torch on again, but powerful though the Maglite was, the beam didn’t reach far enough. Whoever the guy was, he was about sixty yards away.

‘Hello?’ Peabody shouted, circling around the taped-off area. ‘Who are you, please?’ There was no response. The figure remained indistinct and motionless. ‘You need to clear this area. This is an official crime scene.’