‘It was broken when I came home,’ she said. A wave of musky perfume radiated from her as she tossed her head angrily. ‘Probably some junkie, trying to get in. They steal anything.’
The neighbourhood wasn’t exactly high-rent, but it didn’t have any more of a drug problem than anywhere else. ‘Was the front door open?’
I’d checked my own flat but its door was intact. There was no sign that anyone had tried to force their way in. My neighbour shook her head, setting the thick, dark hair bouncing. ‘No, only broken. The scumbag got frightened or gave up.’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘Police?’ She gave a phhf of disdain. ‘Yes, but they don’t care. They take fingerprints, they shrug, they go. Better to get a new lock. A strong one this time.’
It was said pointedly, as though the old lock’s failings were my fault. The locksmith was finishing up when I went back downstairs.
‘All done, chief. It’ll need a new lick of paint, stop the planed wood from swelling when it rains.’ He raised his eyebrows, holding up two sets of keys. ‘So, who wants the bill?’
I looked back upstairs at my neighbour’s door. It remained closed. I sighed. ‘Do you take cheques?’
After the locksmith had gone, I fetched a pan and brush to sweep up the sawdust in the hallway. A curl of shaved wood had wedged itself in the corner. I crouched down to brush it up, and as I saw my hand against the black and white tiles I had a dizzying rush of déjà vu. Lying in the hallway, a knife sticking obscenely from my stomach, blood spreading across the chequerboard floor…
It was so vivid it took my breath. I stood up, heart racing as I forced myself to breathe deeply. But the moment was already passing. I opened the front door, drawing in the cool night air. Christ. Where did that come from? It was a long time since I’d had a flashback to the attack, and this one had come out of nowhere. I rarely even thought about it any more. I’d done my best to put it behind me, and while the physical scars remained, I’d thought the psychological wounds had healed.
Obviously not.
Recovering, I emptied the sawdust into the bin and went back into my flat. The familiar space was just as I’d left it that morning: inoffensive furniture in a decent-sized lounge, with a kitchen and a small, private garden out back. It was a perfectly good place to live, but now, with the flashback still fresh in my mind, I realized how few of the memories I had of this place were happy ones. Like taking my car to work, the only thing that had kept me here was habit.
Perhaps it was time for a change.
Feeling listless, I unpacked my shopping and then took a beer from the fridge. The fact was I was in a rut. And change was coming whether I wanted it or not. Although I was employed by the university, most of my work came from police consultancy. As a forensic anthropologist, I was called in when human remains were found that were too badly decomposed or degraded for a pathologist to deal with. It was a highly specialized field populated largely by freelancers like myself, who would help police identify remains and provide as much information as possible regarding the time and manner of their dying. I’d become intimate with death in all its gory excess, fluent in the languages of bone, putrefaction and decay. By most people’s standards it was a gruesome occupation, and there were times when I struggled with it myself. Years before, I’d lost my wife and daughter in a car accident, their lives snuffed out in an instant by a drunk driver who’d walked away unscathed. Haunted by what had happened to them, I’d abandoned my work and returned to my original career as a GP, tending to the concerns of the living rather than the dead. I’d buried myself away in a small Norfolk village, trying to escape any connection to my old life and the memories that came with it.
But the attempt had been short-lived. The realities of death and its consequences had found me anyway, and I’d come close to losing someone else I loved before accepting that I couldn’t run away from who I was. For better or worse, this was what I did. What I was good at.
Or at least it had been. The previous autumn I’d become involved with a brutal investigation on Dartmoor. By the end of it two of the police’s own were dead and a senior ranking officer had been forced to resign. While I wasn’t to blame, I’d been an unwitting catalyst for the scandal that ensued, and no one likes a troublemaker. Least of all the police.
And suddenly the consultancy work had dried up.
Inevitably, there was a knock-on effect at the university. Technically, I was only an associate, on a rolling contract rather than tenure. The arrangement gave me the freedom to carry on with my police consultancy and allowed the department to benefit by association. But an associate who worked on high-profile murder investigations was a far cry from one who’d suddenly become persona non grata with every police force in the country. My contract only had a few more weeks to run, and the new head of anthropology had indicated that the department wouldn’t carry any dead weight.
It was clear that was how he saw me.
With a sigh I flopped back into an armchair and took a drink of beer. The last thing I felt like was a weekend house party, but Jason and Anja were old friends. I’d known Jason since medical school, and met my wife at one of their parties. Along with everything else, I’d let the friendship slide when I left London after Kara and Alice died, and never quite got around to re-establishing it when I moved back.
But Jason had got in touch just before Christmas, after seeing my name in news reports about the fouled-up Dartmoor investigation. I’d met up with them several times since, and been relieved there’d been none of the awkwardness I’d expected. They’d moved home since we’d lost touch, so at least I was spared the bittersweet memories their old house would have brought. They now lived in an eye-wateringly expensive house in Belsize Park, and had a second home in the Cotswolds.
That was where I’d be driving to tomorrow. It was only after I accepted the invitation that I learned there was a catch.
‘We’re inviting a few other people,’ Jason told me. ‘And there’s someone Anja would like you to meet. She’s a criminal lawyer, so you should have plenty in common. Police stuff and all that. Plus she’s single. Well, divorced, but same thing.’
‘That’s what this is about? You’re trying to set me up with someone?’
‘I’m not, Anja is,’ he explained with exaggerated patience. ‘Come on, it’s not going to kill you to meet an attractive woman, is it? If you hit it off, great. And if not what’s the harm? Just come along and see what happens.’
In the end I’d agreed. I knew he and Anja meant well, and it wasn’t as though my social calendar was exactly full these days. Now, though, the prospect of spending a bank holiday weekend with strangers seemed like a terrible idea. Can’t cry off now. Better make the best of it.
Wearily, I got up and began making myself something to eat. When the phone rang I thought it would be Jason, calling to check I was still going. The possibility of making a last-minute excuse crossed my mind, until I saw the number on the caller display was withheld. I almost didn’t answer, thinking it must be a marketing call. Then old habits kicked in again, and I picked up anyway.
‘Is that Dr Hunter?’
The speaker was male, and sounded too old for a telemarketing call. ‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘I’m DI Bob Lundy, Essex Police.’ The voice was unrushed, almost slow, its accent northern rather than estuary. Lancashire, I thought. ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’