Porter found the snowdrops again at the first attempt, and they’d started from there, radiating outwards in a grid. He looked back at them now, still visible even at a distance. They stood out proudly, surrounded by mud the colour of discarded coffee grounds, their bowed heads a white blemish on a dark canvas. He’d naively thought they were more than just Mary Locke’s marker. That they were the X that marked the spot. No such luck, though. The dogs had breezed past them as if they weren’t even there.

He looked around for Styles and saw him behind a line of trees, their trunks thin and straight like prison bars, walking slowly alongside the officer in charge of the ground-penetrating radar device that always reminded Porter of a chunky lawnmower. He felt the insect-like buzz of his phone. Voicemail from his mum. Why the hell had it not rung first? He tapped the screen to call her back, but the handset never made it to his ear.

Styles was at least forty feet away and facing the other direction, so Porter couldn’t hear what he was saying to the officer beside him, but the body language told him all he needed to know. A hurried pat on the shoulder, head twisting left and right, searching for Porter, finding him, summoning him with an excited flapping of the hand.

Porter picked his way through the tree roots that clawed at his feet, pushing aside the low hanging branches that whipped back angrily at the space he left behind. By the time he reached Styles three others had beaten him there, and they stood around the GPR like vultures round carrion, looking expectantly at the ground. No carcass to pick at, just mud, churned up to the consistency of cake mix by the elements and heavy boots.

Porter broke the silence. ‘Well? What have we got?’

The officer with his hands resting on the GPR cleared his throat. ‘Something worth digging for, guv. Could just as easy be a bird under there, a dog even. More than likely will be, but we’ll soon see.’

He dragged the GPR backwards, took a roll of police tape from his backpack and started marking out an area roughly six feet square. Porter took a step back, heard the buzz of an insect. No, not an insect. He looked down, realising his phone was still in his hand, his mum’s voice a faint tinny squawk as she tried to get his attention. He lifted it back up, took a step away from the circle and spoke without taking his eyes from the square of dirt inside the tape.

‘Hi, Mum … No, I haven’t listened to it yet … Yes, I knew I’d rung you back, but … No, listen, Mum, I’m going to have to call you back. Something’s come up.’