Gillard checked his watch. He’d have to hurry back to Mount Browne by six to brief Radar Dobbs. And it was already just past five. He would probably make it, given the rush hour was far less of a hold-up in these days of lockdown. As he put away the iPad and tidied up his notes, he noticed a silver Nissan Qashqai making its way down the lane towards the crime scene. At first he thought it was probably someone from the water company, but they normally worked straight office hours. As the Nissan squeezed past Gillard’s Vauxhall the driver stared at him. He was a big, bald, bullet-headed man in his mid-fifties with rectangular sunglasses, wearing a suit but with his tie loose around his thick neck. There was something about him that looked familiar. As the car continued to the dead end of Bourne Lane, Gillard made a note of the registration number, and drove off back to Guildford.

Who was he? He had a good memory for faces, but couldn’t quite place the man.

‘So are we dealing with a murder or not?’ Dobbs asked, sitting back in his chair with his hands cupped behind his head.

‘We’re awaiting full forensics,’ Gillard said, describing the modern aspects of the body and the prospect of a DNA sample from the comb. ‘But a few things stand out. One is that it is a recent death, probably less than five years. The fact that he was partially dressed, without jacket, shoes or socks, and probably wrapped in bin bags, is indicative that someone else was involved. He clearly didn’t bury himself, and even though his body was found within an embankment, it doesn’t look like he could have been swept down the river and deposited there from somewhere else.’

‘Is this something we can pass off to Hampshire?’

This was exactly the kind of comment that Gillard had expected from his boss. Bureaucratic jostling for position, attempting to pass the parcel on time-consuming and resource-heavy investigations to another equally overworked constabulary.

‘He was found in Surrey, sir, just.’

‘But Rissington Common is in Hampshire,’ Dobbs persisted. His short iron-grey hair and pencil-thin moustache made him look like a door-to-door insurance salesman from the 1960s. Light from the window behind him made his enormous ears look baby pink.

‘We’ve already committed resources, including our county archaeologist and Home Office forensic consultant,’ Gillard said levelly. ‘With respect, I think this case is ours.’

Dobbs turned a pen over and over between his fingers, like some mini-majorette. ‘I had a call this afternoon from Hampshire Constabulary, DCS Anderson. She wants to be kept informed of every development.’

Of course. Stella was bound to go over his head. That was just her style. ‘I’ve already told her that I would copy her in. It would certainly be useful to have Hampshire’s input on some of the locals.’