Strangers: The unforgettable crime thriller from the #1 bestseller. Paul Finch

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      ‘They’re not all silver birch, ma’am.’ He still didn’t look up, but his words were slow, thoughtful. ‘But there’s a few silver birch in there. You won’t be able to miss it.’

      ‘Let’s hope not, Michael … for all our sakes. There’s a clearing in the middle of this clump, somewhat unnatural because you cleared it out yourself some time ago. And that’s where the two graves are?’

      ‘Correct, ma’am.’

      ‘How deep did you say you buried them again?’

      ‘A foot or so. You’ll find both bodies in a few minutes.’

      The officers pondered this in silence. Haygarth was in custody for the rape and attempted murder of the seventy-five year old woman who lived next door to him. The admission that he’d raped and strangled two prostitutes three years earlier and had buried their bodies out in Borsdane Wood was unlooked for and had come completely out of the blue during the course of his very first interview. At the time, no one had known what to make of it, but a rapid-fire check on the system had revealed that in roughly the same time-zone two Crowley-based sex workers, a Gillian Allen and Donna King, had been listed as missing persons. No trace of them had been found since.

      ‘One final thought on this, Michael,’ Doyle said, voice clipped and stern. ‘If we get lost, we’ll come back for you so you can show us the location in person. But I warn you now … I won’t be impressed if that’s the case. These directions had better be good.’

      ‘They’re right, ma’am. You’ll find it.’

      Doyle backed away, Crellin alongside her as the rest of the team lumbered to the doors. Lucy, who was handcuffed to the prisoner, had to change position first, switching across the interior to sit next to him. One by one, the rest of the team, now armed with shovels and spades, jumped down outside, where Crellin handed them each a set of overalls.

      ‘No shoe covers till we get to the actual scene,’ Doyle said. ‘We’ll be tramping through God knows what kind of crap before we reach it.’

      In the milky twilight of this dull February evening, the wood was a leafless tangle, the unmade road snaking back away from them beneath a roof of wet, black branches. Lucy glanced at her watch. Just before five. Another forty minutes and it would be pitch-dark. Unless they’d already uncovered physical evidence by then – in which case the entire arc-lit circus would be summoned – there’d be nothing else they could do until morning, which perhaps explained why everyone was in a hurry, Crellin’s voice issuing gruff instructions as the sound of their boot-falls receded.

      Only Lucy and DI Mandy Doyle now remained.

      She was an odd-looking woman, Doyle: tall, lean of build, pinched of face and often dressed messily in skirts, blouses and jackets that never seemed to match. She walked with a slight stoop and had longish, straggly brown hair streaked with grey, all of which combined to make her look older than she probably was, which couldn’t have been much more than thirty-five. In particular, Lucy found her attitude puzzling. A woman who’d fought her way up through the ranks, one might have thought she’d welcome the arrival of a young female officer on her first CID attachment, but from the outset Doyle had seemed to find Lucy’s presence frustrating.

      ‘She just wants to get ahead,’ Crellin had confided in Lucy earlier that week. ‘She doesn’t feel she’s got the time to break in trainees.’

      ‘I’m not exactly a trainee, sarge,’ Lucy had protested. ‘I’ve been six years in uniform.’

      ‘Sure, sure … you don’t have to convince me. But Mandy’s a bit funny like that. She’s got this idea that the team’s only as strong as its weakest link. If you’re going to work with us, she’ll expect you to pull your weight.’

      ‘I’ll pull my weight, don’t worry.’

      ‘I know that, I’ve seen your record.’ He’d winked. ‘And I’m sure Mandy knows it too.’

      Lucy was less sure about that. Especially at present.

      ‘Hang onto this fella like your life depends on it, Detective Constable Clayburn,’ Doyle said, her limpid gaze flicking from Lucy to the prisoner and back again. There was rarely a hint of friendship in her voice, but on this occasion her tone was especially ominous. ‘Though I suppose we mustn’t exaggerate … it isn’t your life as much as your job. Because for the next hour at least this suspect is your responsibility. Do I make myself clear?’

      ‘Perfectly, ma’am,’ Lucy replied, straightening up dutifully, but irritated to be addressed this way in front of Haygarth, who gave no indication that he was listening but could hardly have failed to overhear.

      Doyle droned on in the same menacing monotone, as if she hadn’t received any such reassurance. ‘Be warned … if anything happens while we’re over there digging, anything at all – your fault, his fault, the fault of some squirrel because he distracted you by shitting on the roof – it doesn’t matter. Anything happens while we’re away that is prejudicial to this enquiry, you will carry the can. And if, by any very unfortunate circumstance, you manage to lose him, well –’ Doyle cracked a half-smile, though typically it was devoid of humour ‘– in that case, the best thing you can do is sneak off home and send us your resignation by snail-mail.’

      ‘I understand, ma’am,’ Lucy said.

      ‘Don’t engage him in conversation. If he tries to talk to you, just tell him to shut up. If he tries anything fancy, and he gets out of hand … remember, you’ve got your radio and we’re only a hundred yards away. You’ve also got Alan in the driving cab … you only need to shout and he’ll come running.’

      Alan Denning was one of the bigger, beefier detectives in Crowley CID. He was thinning on top, but had a thick red moustache and beard, and the meanest eyes Lucy had ever seen. If it kicked off, he looked as if he’d be more than useful. But in truth the last thing they needed was for something bad to happen. Haygarth hadn’t been charged with anything yet, but assuming it all went as planned, he’d be facing lots and lots of prison time, and though he might be acquiescent now – perhaps struggling to come to terms with what he’d done to the harmless OAP next door – in due course he’d realise the big trouble he was in. So at all costs they needed to avoid handing him something his legal reps could use as leverage, such as an injury. It didn’t matter whether it was inflicted on him in self-defence or in an effort to prevent him escaping, any time police officers assaulted suspects these days it exponentially increased said suspect’s chance of walking free.

      ‘But I don’t think you’re going to try anything silly, are you, Michael?’ Doyle said.

      Haygarth didn’t reply. His head still hung; his posture was so still it was almost creepy.

      Lucy, on the other hand, was churning inside. It wasn’t just the embarrassing warning she’d been issued. Even without that, it had now dawned on her how serious this shift was turning out to be. The strange, distant man linked to her right wrist might actually be a multiple killer. It was unnerving, but it was exciting too. After several years in uniform spent ticketing cars, chasing problem teenagers and nicking shoplifters, this was what she’d really joined for, this was why she’d applied again and again for a CID post.

      ‘Michael, can you hear me?’ Doyle persisted.

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