She plucked a book from the top of the nearest pile. Flicking through its pages she saw image after image ringed in red marker. She opened a second, almost afraid to look. Photo upon photo of the skeletons of birds and animals. Ancient human burials in peat bogs – all ringed in red marker pen. Clare could feel the palms of her hands beginning to sweat. This was everything Stuart Craig had said about Beth and more. It was time to leave.

She headed for the door, but as she got to the hallway she heard footsteps clattering across the uneven concrete path, accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing. It was Neil – he sounded out of breath.

Before she had time to think she found herself darting up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She headed through the first door that she came to, pulling it gently closed behind her just in time to hear the front door open. It slammed shut with a jolt that shook the house. Standing stock-still, her every instinct was telling her to keep calm, to breathe, but to get out. And then she heard a quiet metallic click as he dropped the catch.

From somewhere below her she heard a muffled thud. It sounded like something heavy being dropped on the piles of bills and junk mail that had been dumped on the hallway table.

She switched her phone to vibrate and held her breath. She didn’t know what was going on with Neil. But one thing she knew for sure was she had no intention of confronting him about it now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Stone knew that the first few hours in a murder inquiry were always the most important. If the right decisions were taken at the start it could shorten an investigation by months or even years. If the wrong decisions were made it could mean a killer went undiscovered. And that could cost lives.

He could leave Ray and SOCO at Weaver’s Close to get on with it. They knew the drill as well as he did. He already had family liaison on the case and they’d contacted the relatives – one brother in Surrey somewhere. You had to know where to put your resources. And his time was best spent elsewhere.

As he climbed into his Volvo he noticed a well-dressed, middle-aged woman hovering just outside the crime scene cordon. Stone climbed out of his car again and spoke to the young constable who’d called the case in. He informed him that it was Sheila Foggarty, the woman he’d been dispatched to interview about the brick-throwing incident at the dig site, but, as he told Stone without much joy, she’d point-blank denied knowing anything about it.

Stone walked towards her. ‘Mrs Foggarty.’

She nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Yes.’

Stone flashed his warrant card. ‘DCI Stone. Can I have a word, please?’

‘If you must.’