‘That’d be great.’

*

Squalls of rain attacked Jake’s car as he returned to the campground, accompanied by unexpectedly strong gusts of wind. Mr Taylor stalked off to the ground’s toilet block in response to the news that his son had indeed discovered a body in the vineyard,

‘Why don’t we all go and sit in my car?’ Jake suggested to Jamie and his mum. ‘I’ll run the engine so we’re warm and dry.’

‘Sounds good,’ Diane Taylor said, eager for a reprieve from her sodden tent.

‘Can I turn the siren on? Ooh, can I make the lights flash?’

Half an hour of questioning Jamie uncovered nothing more that might help Jake’s investigation, though he had definitely made a new friend. Jamie grabbed Jake around the waist for a quick hug goodbye as his father returned.

‘C’mon, mate, enough of that,’ James Taylor said, pulling at his son.

Returning to Dunton, Jake glanced toward the top of the rise above the vineyard. A single light hovered above the crest, the only indication of the sprawling manor lurking in the brume.

*

For the fourth night in a row Jake stood in the police station kitchen pouring boiling water over two-minute noodles, stomach rumbling. His options had been RSL Chinese, a half-decent takeaway or pizza. By the time he’d finally decided on a hamburger all three places were closed. At eight p.m. He’d sworn for a full thirty seconds.

Returning to his quarters Jake tried lighting a fire. More smoke poured into the room than went up the chimney as the firebox sulked from neglect. Jake coughed on a lungful of fumes from the melting lumps of fire starter. The white-and-grey painted cottage seemed less a building designed to trap warmth and more a series of tiny gaps calculated to allow it to escape. Even when he had managed to set a decent-sized log aflame the house refused to warm up sufficiently for Jake to feel comfortable in the bedroom.

Each evening he had to choose between shivering under four layers of blankets and stretching out fully, or curling up on a slightly fetid two-seater lounge in front of a fire. The former involved waking up regularly to reposition his blankets, while the latter had allowed him to sleep through the night once so far but also left him hobbling in the morning. He now alternated each night, uncertain which was better, or possibly, which was worse.

Sick of trying to coax the mealy wood to life he prepared to take a shower. The temperature was going to drop below freezing tonight, so he’d best get as warm as possible before hitting the hay.

Sheltering beneath four blankets in a post-shower glow, squeezing at his numb toes inside their layers of socks, he was finally alone—no noise, no distractions, just a battery-operated lamp, some fluttering moths and the occasional fizzle of damp wood for company. He sighed and picked up his phone.

The notifications bar showed twenty-five unanswered calls and multiple messages from a single number, all in the past seven days.