‘Very important,’ she agreed, but her smile had fallen, and she looked bleak. In all their years at school together, he never remembered seeing that particular expression on her face. It must have been a bad break-up.

‘Catch you later, Emad.’

16

Present Day
Emad

‘Can I have a unit to deal please, immediate response, Minstead House, we have reports of an apparently lifeless male in the pond,’ came the call over the radio.

Emad, in the passenger seat, picked up the handset. ‘Control from GU22, show us assigned, ETA five minutes.’

‘Do you know the place then?’ PC Damian Jackman was driving, in a far more flashy way than Emad thought necessary.

‘Been there as a kid. Know where it is, mile or so outside Minstead Village, right?’

As they drove up the long, tree-lined driveway to Minstead House, Emad only partly registered the verdant parkland with deer nosing around tree roots and the occasional bunny hopping away in fright; the first glimpse of the white bell tower appearing at the brow of the hill, and the car park full of visitors’ cars, the sun glinting silver off their roofs.

Instead his thoughts were torn between anticipation about seeing his first real dead body and the memory of the expression on Gemma’s face that morning when she’d told him about her cheating ex.

They rounded the corner, the turrets and pale, primrose-coloured stone of Minstead House looming up ahead of him. He had a deeper flash of memory: his mum bringing him here when he was a little boy. It had been a hot, sunny day much like this one, but inside the house had been dark and cooler – and, to his nine-year-old self, boring. Apart from the kitchens, which were fascinating. Plaster deer and pig carcasses, stuffed pheasants and geese hanging from hooks in the ceiling, wax fruit in bowls, fake loaves being pushed into a real furnace by a waxwork lady in a mobcap.

Damian parked at the front of the house, ignoring the curious looks of a bottleneck of tourists congregating at the main entrance, waiting to buy their tickets, and marched up to the desk. Emad had to force his attention back to the matter in hand.

A flustered and sturdy receptionist stood up as soon as she saw them come through the glass entrance doors. ‘This way, Officers,’ she said officiously after Damian had introduced them. She lifted up the counter with an arthritic-looking hand, the flesh of her ring finger puffing over and almost obscuring a wedding band. Her name badge read ‘Angela Carruthers’.

‘Wait a second,’ Emad said, leaning over the counter so that the queuing tourists couldn’t hear. ‘Are you continuing to allow visitors inside?’ He glanced at Damian, unsure if this was acceptable protocol or not. Damian’s face looked impassive, suggesting that he didn’t have a clue either. And he’d been a PC for a year.