Gabriella was calling again. He knew, deep down, he should answer. But not with another dead girl lying on a tarp, hidden from view by a tent. Not with so many of the vigil walkers still hovering at the edges of the police tape, watching with curiosity and eager cameras. Not with the commander so close, able to overhear.

Even when he wasn’t looking at the body, his mind’s eye saw the bloated corpse of Bree Wilkins, her lank blonde hair such a stark contrast to her purple face. She had been dead for days.

This was not a ritual killing. There was nothing I could’ve done. She killed herself.

She simply killed herself.

Except, how has no one found her until now? That body is old.

Agatha finished talking to Forensics and walked over to Con.

‘Cornelius,’ she said, ‘why are you shaking?’

‘It’s cold,’ he said.

‘Then why are you sweating?’ She shone her torch in his face. ‘Good Lord, man.’

He raised his arm to shade his eyes and she grabbed his hand, her fingers pressed around his wrist. She pulled him closer.

‘Go back to the Inn, Cornelius,’ she said firmly. ‘Everything can wait until tomorrow.’

‘But —’ he began.

‘Do not argue with me.’

‘I don’t —’

‘Go,’ she snapped. ‘Before I have one of the other officers take you home. You,’ she pointed at Murphy. ‘You came with him?’

Murphy rose to his feet and nodded warily.

‘Cornelius, give him your keys: he can drive you back. There shouldn’t be any civilians this side of the tape.’

Con straightened. ‘I’m fine, commander —’

‘We’ll talk about this later. Go.’

‘Commander, Gabriella was here tonight, with the vigil. She said she had something important to tell me, about the statue. Maybe you should speak with her.’

‘Gabriella Pakinga is not a part of this investigation anymore,’ said Agatha. ‘Anything she has to tell me can come through the appropriate channels.’

Con hesitated, glancing back towards Bree’s body, then turned towards the trail.

Suddenly Agatha caught his arm and spun him around to face her. With surprising strength she nudged his foot outward, putting him off balance. ‘Are you having bad flashbacks?’ she asked fiercely, directly into his face.

Con, keeping hold of her to regain his stance, nodded, then grew angry, both at himself and at her dirty trick – she had dislodged the truth by physically throwing him off balance, forcing him to lean on her.

He pulled himself away from her grip. ‘No,’ he said, too late.

‘Get a good night’s rest, Badenhorst,’ said the commander, the ferocity leaving her as fast as it had come. She sounded as tired as Con felt. ‘I’m sorry for not taking better care of you.’

Con walked off down the path, ignoring the questions of the civilians still watching, the media who swarmed towards him. Murphy walked alongside him, big loping steps, glowering at anyone who approached.