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  Despite Ratty’s stillness, his eyes were dark and hollow, and he seemed even less substantial than he’d been the last time they’d met: he’d always been a shell of a man, but now the walls were thinner. Sooner or later, the drugs inevitably took their toll, and Goodhew could see that Ratty now viewed the real world from the other end of an ever-extending tunnel.

  Ratty ground the half-inch butt of his cigarette between his fingertips until it flaked to the ground. ‘I’m not talking to you. Right now, I’m nothing, and when things go bad that’s the best thing to be.’ He fanned out his nicotined fingers. ‘Trouble is like poison. You go near it and you get infected.’

  ‘That’s deep.’

  ‘What, coming from someone like me who’s never been out of it?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Well, there’s trouble and there’s trouble. I always have some, but only my own. And I know all about other people’s, but there’s a line.’ He turned his face away and scraped his thumbnail down the wall by his shoulder. ‘Can’t see it, can you? But it’s there, trust me. On one side is me, and what’s mine, and over there is other people’s shit. What I don’t do is anything that takes me over there. I can see what’s going on, but I don’t visit, if you get my drift.’

  ‘You don’t get involved?’

  ‘People get possessive about trouble, so they only want help on their own terms. And if they don’t want it fixed, getting in the middle of it is dangerous, even if it looks safe. That’s another problem: it can seem like nothing, but then—’ He walked his fingers from his side of the line to the other, then rubbed his hand across the wall in a small circle. ‘The line’s gone and you’re fucked.’

  Ratty pushed himself away from the wall, swinging his skinny body round until he faced Goodhew squarely. ‘So I look, but I don’t touch. I don’t let it seep over me.’

  He didn’t seem high, he emanated nothing but stale tobacco and paranoia. ‘Touch it and it stains you, Gary. Remember that.’

  Getting Ratty to make a statement was clearly not something to look forward to. Goodhew wondered if he could persuade Marks to drop the whole idea; this was unlikely to be the witness to swing a court case in any direction it wasn’t already headed. He sighed, but Ratty didn’t seem to notice.

  What path had the younger version of Ratty stumbled down to end up in such a bleak cul-de-sac? Goodhew looked away from him, and the first person he saw was a distant cyclist, standing up out of the saddle, pedalling furiously towards him. He saw a flash of orange swing from behind his back and realized it was the paper boy from the bus station. The kid was short; he’d noticed him on other mornings, struggling with his sack and the high seat of his adult bike. Had that been Ratty once, striving to get somewhere in life?

  Ratty was still talking, but Goodhew ceased to listen. The boy’s sack swung wildly as his shoulders swayed from left to right in an effort to move faster still. He was about a hundred yards away and his face burnt red from under his mop of blond hair. His mouth was moving. Shouting something, or just gulping air?

  Goodhew made a single instinctive step in the cyclist’s direction, hairs rising on the back of his neck: he knew something was wrong.

  At fifty yards, he heard the breathy squawk of the boy’s voice, all the words but one mangled to nothing in the gap between them. ‘Quick!’ was the one word he recognised.

  At twenty yards, the boy became more clear. ‘There’s a body.’

  He lurched to a halt next to Goodhew, wobbled as his foot reached for the pavement. Goodhew grabbed his arm as he toppled from his bike and held the boy upright until he’d disentangled his other foot from the frame. It clattered to the ground and lay with the back wheel spinning in the weak sunshine.

  Sweat pinned a veil of hair flat across his forehead, while the rest stuck up at all angles. He waved his hand back excitedly in the direction he’d come, clinging to Goodhew’s jacket with the other hand as he fought to catch his breath. ‘I recognise you, you’re police, aren’t you? Up there,’ he gasped. ‘Up there, on Midsummer Common.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘This end.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Goodhew spun round to see Ratty retreating back towards the city centre. ‘I need a statement,’ he called after him.

  Ratty turned and walked back several steps. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he shouted.

  Goodhew turned his attention back to the boy, whose right arm was still partly raised in the act of pointing. The most obvious sign of distress was his trembling hands; beyond that he didn’t look too bad. Goodhew peered into his face: not quite ready to pass out from shock, he decided. ‘Can you show me yourself?’ he asked gently.

  The boy shut his eyes for a moment, then nodded. ‘I touched her,’ he whispered.

  Goodhew righted the bike and they walked with it between them. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out.’

  He quickly radioed in to the station.

  ‘They’re sending a car, want us to meet them there.’

  ‘I heard.’

  Goodhew nodded. ‘Sorry, of course you did. What’s your name?’

  ‘Matt. Matt Lilley. I do the papers on Maids Causeway.’

  They walked quickly towards the end of Christ’s Piece, where the aptly named Short Street would take them through to Maids Causeway and the southern boundary of Midsummer Common. Goodhew’s stomach churned uneasily. ‘So tell me what happened.’

  ‘It’s bin day, isn’t it? And there’re sacks outside most of the houses. I’d done the houses near the traffic lights, and noticed there was rubbish over on the other side of the road, beyond the railings – you know, on the grass. I didn’t think anything at the time. It was only afterwards when I remembered they were there. So I did the houses on that side, too, then I went back to the lights to cross over and do the houses down Brunswick – you know, the ones that face the Common.’ Goodhew noticed Matt’s left hand resting on the saddle of his bike: how the fingers gripped the narrow front, and a smear of sweat from his palm had stained the brown leather a liquorice black. ‘I don’t usually cross just there, but one of the houses had an extra paper I’d missed, so I went back and crossed at the lights, ’cos that’s, you know, where I ended up. There weren’t any cars and I just rode across, and so I was looking straight on, right where the pile of rubbish was. That’s when I wondered which house it all came from. It was a big pile of sacks, and it wasn’t really light by then, but I saw her straight away.’

  They both knew that the terrace now on their right was the last visual obstruction to their view of Midsummer Common. Goodhew turned to look at Matt and, for the first time, he saw tears well in the boy’s eyes, and horror sweep across his face as he fought against the indignity of crying.

  Goodhew laid his hand gently on the lad’s shoulder. ‘How old are you, Matt?’

  The boy’s voice trembled. ‘Thirteen, and I’ve never seen a dead person.’

  The corner of the last house loomed, and then the first glimpse of the black metal railings surrounding Midsummer Common slid into view.

  ‘How did you know she was dead?’

  ‘I touched her hand. It felt cold – not like a person.’

  ‘Did you recognize her?’ Goodhew asked quietly.

  Matt shook his head and whispered, ‘No, her head’s in a bag.’

  TEN

  As he turned the final corner, Goodhew had no need to ask Matt to point out the body. It was rubbish day, after all, and a bright-blue dustcart stood with its wheels up on the pavement, and an orange warning light blinking from the roof. Three dustmen, two men and a woman, stood in a huddle at the spot Matt had described. A fourth had returned to the cab of their lorry, and Goodhew could see his free arm waving as he shouted into his radio.

  ‘I’m from Cambridge CID. Don’t touch anything,’he shouted and hurried forward, but Matt slowed. ‘Can I go now?’ he asked. Fear filled his eyes and he looked more like a ten-year-old than a teenager.

  ‘Not yet.’
Goodhew pressed the flat of his hand between Matt’s shoulder blades and kept him walking. ‘You won’t need to see the body again, but I do need your help. Is that OK?’ He gave an encouraging smile and Matt nodded.

  The fourth dustman dropped back down from the cab and joined the others. Goodhew stopped a few feet short of the group, and he beckoned the dustwoman over.

  ‘This is Matt. He found the body and he’s a bit upset. Can you stay here with him until another patrol arrives in a few minutes?’

  ‘Do the maternal bit, you mean?’ The woman scowled and straightened her reflective waistcoat.

  Goodhew shrugged. ‘I just think women are more versatile.’

  He guessed he’d just appeared very sexist, and dustmen were probably now known as waste-management operatives, especially since one of them was female.

  He sighed and approached the corpse. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Strictly speaking, the dead body wasn’t quite on the ground. She lay heaped on top of a makeshift bed of at least a dozen black plastic rubbish sacks piled on the other side of the railings. Two more had been dumped on top of her, covering her torso in some attempt at concealment.

  Some of the sacks were split, with their innards strewn on the grass. A bloodied meat wrapper lay beside the main pile, obviously pilfered by a fox or cat during the night, and now rested directly beneath her outstretched hand.

  Her head was furthest from Goodhew, and concealed in a plastic carrier bag, just as Matt had described, but Goodhew was relieved to find it still attached to the rest of the body. The bag was black and tied at the neck with a length of ribbon-width black cotton. Goodhew leant over the top railing to get as close as he could without actually stepping on the grass. He could see that someone had poked a sizable hole in the bag with their fingers so that air had entered and lifted it away from the dead girl’s face.

  He held the railing with one hand for support, and gently touched the plastic with the other, thus expelling the air so that the bag sank back against the woman’s face. Vein-chased swollen eyes now stared out, and blue lips, drawn back to expose creamy teeth, her tongue still pressed hard against the prominent gap between the middle two.

  Goodhew suddenly thought of the stuffed fox, mounted on the wall in his local pub, all bulgy-eyed and grinning. He suddenly caught a whiff of the meat wrapper, its slick of dried blood releasing the sweet smell of decay.

  He averted his gaze and it fell on to the woman’s palm. There, he read the words ‘I’m like Emma’, or perhaps it was ‘I like Emma’. Either way it seemed odd, and it definitely looked more like ‘I’m’, not just ‘I’.

  The sirens were getting closer now, and he wondered which of his colleagues was on the way. DI Marks, he hoped.

  Two police cars came into sight, and he spotted a couple of people inside the first, and two further officers in the marked car which followed. Both sirens trailed off as the lead vehicle swung across the road and parked beside the dustcart. Goodhew waited until the engine died before looking that way again.

  DI Marks stepped on to the pavement and the dustmen moved aside to let him through. His companion was Kincaide, who paused to lock up and then followed.

  Goodhew greeted them sombrely.

  ‘Morning, Gary,’ Marks grunted.

  Too-cool-for-school Kincaide managed a nod.

  Marks said nothing further, but their silent communication must have included a line where Kincaide said, ‘I’ll talk to the boy,’ because he changed direction and headed over to young Matt.

  Goodhew turned back to face the body and DI Marks now came and stood at his shoulder, studying the corpse for a long, silent minute. ‘She didn’t die in her sleep, that’s for sure. Who made the hole in the bag?’

  ‘One of the dustmen.’ Goodhew pointed to the driver of the dustcart, back in his cab smoking a roll-up. ‘Him, I think. He said he just wanted to be sure she was dead, but I think it was maybe a case of morbid curiosity. Marks nodded. ‘What else?’

  ‘The kid over there found her. His name’s Matt Lilley, claims he’s thirteen, but I bet he’s only about ten.’ He watched as Kincaide relieved the dustwoman of her charge and took the boy to sit in the relative calm of the patrol car. ‘He’s quite shaken, but he seems like a good kid, and at least he worked out she was dead without ripping open the bag.’

  Goodhew hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, though that was how it came out. He smiled.

  Marks didn’t. ‘What else?’ he repeated.

  Goodhew turned back to study the body. ‘Her hand has something written on it. From here it looks like “I’m like Emma”. I couldn’t check the other palm, though, without moving her. She’s dressed all in black, so that could mean something.’

  ‘Like witchcraft?’ Marks asked drily.

  ‘No,’ Goodhew snorted. ‘Like camouflage amongst all these black sacks.’

  Marks smiled a little. ‘Good point.’ He called across to one of the uniformed officers. ‘Right, we need the area sealed off immediately, and that includes all footpaths leading on to the common. This will be a nightmare, especially as rush-hour will be kicking off any time now.’ He turned back to Goodhew. ‘And you can have the pleasure of viewing the post-mortem.’

  Goodhew wasn’t sure whether looking pleased and saying ‘Thanks’ was entirely the appropriate response, so he followed Marks back to his car without any further comment.

  ELEVEN

  Goodhew later drove DI Marks to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. He already had questions to ask his superior, but Marks was preoccupied with making notes on the murder scene. Goodhew had made his own before they left the station, and he knew that the post-mortem would shortly take them from a passing acquaintance with the woman to a most intimate relationship.

  He chose the most direct route, and was surprised when Marks glanced up and directed him down the next right-hand turn. ‘Then pull over in the lay-by this side of the lights.’

  The car stopped outside the Big Teas Café, and Marks had opened his door even before Goodhew had a chance to cut the engine. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘there’ll be at least half an hour before the pathologist is ready for us.’

  The café was deserted, but as soon as the door rattled, a skinny guy with grey hair and a grease-splattered apron emerged from the kitchen. Marks ordered a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich and sat at a table near the door. Goodhew decided to order the same, and joined him.

  ‘Let’s see if you’re still good at keeping your dinner down.’

  ‘Breakfast actually, sir. Any idea who the corpse might be?’

  ‘Female, twenties, that’s all I know too. What about the lad who found her?’

  ‘Poor kid, he’s really shocked. Kincaide arranged for someone to pick up his mum so he’s got company while he makes his statement. He’s only ten, and he shouldn’t even be doing a paper round, but he lied to get himself the job. He was even worried his boss would get in trouble. But, despite his age, he gave very clear descriptions of the route he took, and the times it took too. Hopefully the details will still stack up when it’s all written down.

  ‘What did you notice about the crime scene?’

  Despite having seen the body itself close up, Goodhew began instead by describing its location in relation to the road. ‘Assuming it doesn’t turn out to be a bizarre suicide, then I’d also think this is a premeditated attack.’

  ‘Why?’ Marks asked sharply.

  ‘The attacker was in possession of both a carrier bag and something to tie it with.’

  Marks tutted and opened his mouth to speak, but Goodhew continued to explain. ‘I know, sir. On their own, those factors don’t mean much, but it occurred to me that there are plenty of more secluded locations where the body could have been left, yet there she was, right by the footpath where the first passer-by was likely to find her. But that was not likely to be dawn or soon after; even vehicle headlights would have had trouble picking her out.’

  Marks was frowning. ‘I still don’t . . .’ he beg
an.

  Goodhew raised a hand and carried on talking. ‘She would have been particularly hard to spot before dawn, even though she was in the open, because she was mostly concealed and wearing black amongst all those black sacks.’

  ‘I spotted that fact myself, believe it or not.’

  Goodhew ignored the sarcasm. ‘Well, I checked around, and all the nearby houses had similar sacks waiting outside, so I asked the dustmen whether the spot where the body was found was a regular place for rubbish to accumulate. They said this was the first time it had ever happened, which makes me think someone shuffled them there ready for her.’

  Marks’ eyes were now closed and his head made a small rocking motion, back and forth, in a slow rhythm.

  Goodhew kept quiet, realizing that interrupting the inspector at such moments was never a good idea.

  Finally Marks raised his eyebrows, which had the simultaneous effect of heaving his eyelids open. He inhaled a long, slow breath through his narrow nostrils. ‘Assuming it is murder – and, for the record, I think it is – I will want you on the investigating team. I’d be pleased for you to take more of a role than in previous cases because I think you’re ready now but . . .’ he paused to pick his words. ‘I’d like you to work closely with someone more experienced, just so you’re not unnecessarily exposed if you find yourself in unfamiliar territory. I hope you get on OK with Michael Kincaide?’

  ‘Fine,’ Goodhew fibbed and promised himself it would be.

  ‘Well, I’d like to pair you with him, but I’ll have a word with him first as he’s probably feeling a little put out because you’re here right now and he’s not. But then I would rather he was sick of me than sick during the autopsy.’

  Marks checked his watch, stood up, drained his mug, and clunked it back down on the table. ‘He’ll be at the station still, with that boy Matt. By the way, did you find Ratty?’

  ‘Yes.’