We Know Your Secret: Bishop and Kelly, #2

By Paul Kay

A couple out for a walk on cold January morning discover the body of a man who appears to have fallen into a fire next to his tent on the beach. The fire brigade are called and the police notified. Within an  hour a murder investigation by the Dorset Police Major Crime Investigation team led by Detective Chief Inspector Mike Bishop has begun. The body is that of James Garland, a local businessman and keen night fisher who has been the victim of an apparently motiveless crime. There is little in the way of forensic clues, other than that he has been shot by a high powered rifle and a message painted in green on the interior wall of one of the shops he owns 'We Know Your Secret.'  In March the body of Andrew Dunlop, a schoolteacher, is discovered in a Dorset field by a schoolboy who is flying a drone, Dunlop has been killed by a high powered rifle, forensic tests prove that the weapon was the same one used to kill James Garland, there is a message daubed in green paint on his cottage wall 'We Know Your Secret.' In June, duing the Covid-19 lockdown Millie Hepburn, who had witnessed a murder the previous summer disappears and becomes the subject of a murder investigation. In September Craig Hughes, a former Army veteran, now suffering PTSD and living in a former RAF Radar station is found dead, he has been killed by the same method and weapon as Garland and Dunlop, a 'We Know Your Secret,' message is found. What is the link between the murders and what is the secret they have been keeping?  Why did Mille Hepburn disappear for a week only to be discovered in a disused former lifeboat station?

DCI Bishop, DS Kelly and the team are back. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Kay
• Release date: Aug 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223642213

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sunday 17 September 1995

Eindhoven, North Brabant, Netherlands.

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God is above, and Jesus is love, but sometimes Man is an ass. There are people in the crowd who have not committed themselves to the good vibe of the larger community. Please people, be vigilant. Those of you who want to spoil this glorious weekend think again.

The crowd cheered, the man on the stage held up his hands, palms turned towards the crowd.

Peace be among you. Enjoy the Sun. Enjoy the bounty that God has provided for you. Enjoy the bands and the artists and the stalls and the food and the good vibes. Do not let the selfish few ruin it for the generous many. If you see any suspicious behaviour report it to one of the stewards. We have had a lot of rain over the past forty-eight hours, be extra vigilant on the wet grass.

The crowd cheered again and the man, shoulder length blonde hair white tee and denim jeans, raised his hands again, moving them up and down asking for calm.

The next act have been touring across Europe this summer, spreading the word.

The crowd began clapping and shouting, all of it was good humoured.

"Please. Give a big hand to one of the biggest. No. Make that the biggest Christian rock band in England. Ladies and Gentlemen, Band of Brothers."

There was a drum roll as the drummer adjusted his throne before performing a paradiddle as the other four members of the band took the stage on a hot summer afternoon. The lead guitarist and bass guitarist plugged their instruments into their amplifiers and checked the tunings, the keyboard player began playing a Bach riff on the electronic piano, and the lead singer stood at the front of the stage looking at onto a sea of faces, a smile spreading from his mouth to his eyes.

It was the biggest crowd the band had ever played in front of. Close to ten thousand people were squeezed into the site for the third annual Festival of The Fields.

Good afternoon, the singer said in Dutch, German and then in English. Each announcement met with loud cheers from the multi-national, multi-lingual crowd. We are the Band of Brothers, and this first number is called, Good Intentions Cost Nothing."

The music had barely begun before the singer turned to face the band and the music stopped, he turned back to face the crowd and once more addressed them.

Look, it’s pretty packed down the front and on a normal afternoon that wouldn’t be good but today with the ground wet from last night’s rain things don’t look great from up here. Can everybody please take two steps backwards, apart from those at the front.

He watched and waited as a ripple of movement followed his words, he could see that there was a lot of room towards the back of the field for people to move into. He was aware that the longer it took to create space the less time the band would have to play, they had an hour slot allocated but he thought the comfort of the paying spectators was more important.

The crowd continued to shuffle and after about ten minutes gaps began to appear, it was as the second row began to move that the warm, summers day, was breached by the sound of screaming. To the right of the stage from where the singer was standing, several bodies lay on the ground adjacent to but, not under, one of the crash barriers that separated the performance field from the mat covered path that wound its way through the small village of stalls that sold food, books, and other ephemera. One by one the people who had been crushed got to their feet until only one remained, motionless.

PART ONE

1

2.45 a.m. - Thursday 2 January 2020

Boscombe East, Dorset

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The red numbers on the digital alarm clock showed 2:45 am when the mobile phone beeped three times in quick succession. Jim Garland reached into the darkness and tried to blink himself awake and fix his gaze on the Stay Smart app that had sent a message to the screen which read, "Rear Door – 2.44 am.’ He pressed the accept button which notified the computer at the security company that the message had been read and would be acted upon.

He eased himself into an upright position and, whilst trying not to disturb sleep of his wife Megan, fumbled in the dark for the tracksuit bottoms he had placed, or in reality thrown, at the foot of the bed when going to bed the previous night.

What time is it? his wife Megan enquired, switching on the bedside lamp well aware that on more than one occasion his attempts at getting dressed in the dark had caused him to fall over the items he had wantonly discarded the night before.

A quarter to three, he replied pulling the bottoms up, something has set an alarm off at the shop, I shouldn’t be too long.  He pulled a tee shirt over his head, pushed his bare feet into a pair of trainers and leaned into the face of his wife.

Go careful, she said as he kissed her softly on the cheek.

I’ll try, he said.

Try very hard, she replied smiling.

Garland reversed the family car out of the drive, the journey to the shop took four minutes, less than half the time it usually took on a weekday morning in the middle of the school run, to reach his shop.

He parked in a side road and walked towards the shop, stopping in front of a set of roller shutters above which a sign read ‘Forest View Camping,’ he checked the shutters to make sure there hadn’t been a secondary illegal entry and then retraced his steps to the side road where he had left his car. An alleyway behind what had once been a smaller parade of shops allowed access to the rear of half a dozen shops, he entered a small courtyard at the rear of his shop.

He placed his left hand on the door handle and applied a little downward pressure and pushed the door open, reaching inside with his right hand he felt for the light switch and the room was bathed in fluorescent light courtesy of two strips placed parallel to each other across the width of the office. He opened the alarm panel and entered the four digit code to cancel the silent alarm that he hoped was notifying the security company that the rear of the building had been entered. There wasn’t any sign of a disturbance, the bookshelf of files of purchase and sales invoices stood behind a desk on which was a computer and an in-tray on which was another pair of A4 files, everything looked just as he had left it.

A connecting door led to the small storeroom before the shop proper and Garland turned the knob on the door and walked through the darkened stockroom into the shop, he turned and pushed a light switch. His reaction was only slightly behind the flickering of the light, Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck? One of the walls had been daubed in green paint WE KNOW YOUR SECRET, the same message had been painted across the inside of the roller shutters, but the paint had been broken up by the security grill which created the illusion that the words had been badly stencilled rather than applied with a brush.

He looked at the floor, there was a series of single red footprints on the blue and white marble effect tiles. They looked so incongruous, as if a one-legged graffiti artist had walked in through the back door, sprayed the walls, and then walked back the way he/she had come. In what he would later recall as either a moment of single minded clarity or surreal thought processing he realised that the footprint was from a size nine Berghaus Explorer Trek hiking boot. He walked over to the Berghaus display shelf and noted that all the boots were present and correct, but curiously there was an odd boot, from a long discontinued line. He then walked back across the shop, through the storeroom and into the office, the red trail ended where the storeroom met the office.

He reached inside his jacket pocket for his phone and tapped out the number of the security company that monitored the alarm, he was obliged to notify them that there had been a break in to comply with both the terms of their maintenance agreement and his own shop insurance policy. No, he didn’t want to make a claim for any bill he might suffer for cleaning or cleaning materials if he did the job himself.

2

8:30 a.m. - Saturday 4 January 2020

Veterans Hostel, Christchurch.

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It didn’t take long to get up, even on a dark morning. Whilst the natural instinct for a lot of people was to stay wrapped up, to stay warm and stay safe he wanted to ‘get up and at ‘em,’ although there wasn’t actually a ‘them,’ to get up and at, still, all those years in the army had drilled (no pun intended) a sense of routine, whatever the season or weather. Traffic was quiet on the road beyond the double glazing. None of that Monday to Friday hurry to get to work, no urgency to get deliveries made, no real desire to get the day started and being a weekend there wasn’t the parade of schoolchildren on their way to the local comp.

He hadn’t slept well. Not because of the rain beating relentlessly against the window all night, it was unusually mild for the start of January, and he’d even unzipped his bivvy bag at one point, the layer of warm air making him feel clammy. No, it wasn’t meteorological disruption, rather psychological, it was a once familiar face he’d seen. That face from a long time ago, from a time when life seemed much simpler, from a time when dreams were there to be grabbed, held onto, now he wanted to banish the previous day’s waking dream. It was unsettling.

It was chance, fate, happenstance. Call it what you wanted but if, and it was a big if, he hadn’t taken that five minute break in the gym last night and caught sight of the television screens above the row of treadmills he would have slept better. He’d completed 1,500 metres on the rowing machine and was in the minute of recovery time that he allowed himself before moving over to the treadmill to get the lactic acid out of his legs. A playlist was working its way through the final twenty minutes of ninety minutes of pain that he would continue reminding himself was actually doing his aching forty five year old body some good.

With a towel over his head, he wiped down the equipment with sanitiser. Not everybody did, despite the notices around the council run facility requesting you to do so. That really pissed him off, the lack of concern some people had for general cleanliness and hygiene, the apparent willingness people had to spread germs. How hard was it to show a little respect? He had finished the wipe down, screwed up the blue cleaning roll into a tight ball and deposited it in the nearest bin, then taken a couple of dozen or so paces across the gym to the treadmills. With the towel still covering his head he chose the speed and the incline, pressed start and took the towel off his head and placed it around his shoulders. He then looked up at the screen.

And there was that face.

He’d not thought of it for the best part of twenty years. Not thought of the shared times, of the good times which far outnumbered the bad times. Of bonds broken never to be repaired.

He stepped off the treadmill, wiped the control panel down, grabbed his drinks bottle and left for the changing room where he would stand under the shower for fifteen minutes, tears rolling down his face back turned to the other gym users.

He arrived home from the gym at just after seven, and sat in the dark, alone with his thoughts as life continued around him regardless. He could hear the hissing of the brakes on a succession of buses arriving and departing from the stop about twenty metres from his bedroom window, he watched as people disembarked carrying bags of Friday night shopping, workers coming home from the first week of post-Christmas working, he watched as early bird revellers headed off for a Friday night on the town, spending the last of their Christmas bonuses before the reality of a return to work on Monday morning.

After spending what seemed like hours in the dark solitude of his room he switched his phone on, logged onto the BBC website, pressed the iPlayer icon, and typed ‘South Today,’ into the ‘Search iPlayer,’ box, and then pressed the pink play button and began to watch the Evening News from earlier in the evening. The clock in the bottom left of the screen indicated that fifteen minutes of the programme had passed when that image he had seen the previous night and which had caused his disruptive sleep appeared over the left shoulder of Helen Robertson, one of the programmes presenters, sitting to her left, on a second corporate red coloured settee, and with the image over her right shoulder, a second woman, in her mid-twenties, palms facing downwards resting on her trouser covered legs. 

In September 2018, a jogger, taking an early morning run across a bridge on the river Lydden a mile or so outside of Sturminster Newton, knelt down to tie up a lace on her trainers, as she looked up across the water meadows she spotted what looked like a human skull. She reported the sighting to the local police who called in the forensic team based in Bournemouth and so began the mystery of the person who has become known as Bagber Man. That investigation has been led by Detective Sergeant Niamh Kelly who joins me now to discuss a recent development in the investigation. Good evening Niamh, can you please remind viewers of the information that you have so far.

Thank you Helen, we established pretty early in the investigation that the man was between 40 and 45 years of age, that he had lost one of his teeth before death and was left-handed. We also know that he had suffered a fractured skull several years before death, caused by hitting his head against a hard surface. I would like to know who he is. I'd like to see him have a proper funeral and I'd like to see his family and let them have some closure on this. They must be wondering what happened to him.

The presenter responded, The case was first featured on this programme back in November 2018 and I think there was a positive public response at the time.

Yes, we had a number of names suggested including that of one individual whose name was suggested by several people, fortunately for the family of that individual the man concerned turned up well a few weeks after the original television appeal.

You are here this evening to present the next stage of this investigation, can you please explain what that is. As the presenter finished, the image that had previously been visible between the two women filled the screen. The voice of Detective Niamh Kelly spoke over the image which rotated a full three hundred and sixty degrees.

We have been able to have a reconstruction of the man's head produced by experts from the University of Dundee under the guidance of Professor Charlie Kirkman. It is based on the skull found in the water meadows at Bagber. This new line of investigation is the result of co-operation between the Major Crime Investigation Team based in Bournemouth, the national Missing Persons Bureau based at Bramshill and as I said, a team of experts at the University of Dundee. I would like people viewing the reconstruction to keep an open mind. It's not an exact replica but we still want people to come forward with suggestions as to who it might be.

The picture cut back from the head to the two women on their respective settees. The presenter shuffled a couple of sheets of paper before speaking.

What should people do if they think they recognise the man?

If you think you know who this man is there are several ways of contacting me, either directly at the Major Crime Incident Room, or the Missing Persons Bureau or Crimestoppers.

The presenter nodded, The numbers on the bottom of the screen will appear again at the end of the programme. Thank you Niamh.

He pressed the pause button on iPlayer, then pressed the power and volume down buttons on the phone at the same time, a preview of the screenshot showing the phone numbers appeared on the screen. He then played the remainder of the programme until the contact numbers appeared again and took a second screenshot.

From beyond the walls of his room he could hear housemates starting to move, the sound of the toilet flushing, the shower being turned on, and as his room was next to the bathroom he could hear the pipes coughing and spluttering into action like a lifelong smoker clearing their lungs before the first ‘gasper,’ of the day, this, almost industrial noise given the quietness of the rest of the house, was followed by the hissing of the shower head. He filled the basin in his room with warm water and washed before turning and looking out onto the street, a couple of green wheelie bins lay on their side, blown over by the hoolie the previous night, they looked like a couple of boxers who had fought to a standing draw before collapsing, two yellow buses travelling in opposite directions passed, their drivers acknowledging each other with a wave. He needed to acknowledge what he had seen on the television.

Downstairs in the front reception room the table, which could sit a dozen people when the leaves at either end were pulled out, was set for six people, plates, bowls, and cutlery, on one wall a pine sideboard was covered with boxes of cereal, a milk jug, jugs of orange juice, half a dozen white coffee cups which carried various messages, dedications, affirmations, football team allegiances.

Dave ‘Bunny’ Warren stood in the reception room doorway, at just over six feet five tall and with a chest at around forty eight inches he more than filled the space, his closely shaved head appearing to rest on the top of the door frame.

How you doing? He asked, his Scottish accent warm and sounding genuinely interested.

Ghosts, was the reply.

Warren laughed dismissively, This house was only built in the sixties, I don’t think it’s been around long enough for ghosts.

I thought I’d erased some of the past as much as the past had erased me and then, there it was.

You want to talk about it? I’m here all day.

I’m not sure what to say to be honest. I need to make a phone call after breakfast.

Your call. You know where I am if you need me. Talking of which, cooked breakfast to start the weekend off on the front foot?

3

9.15 p.m. - Sunday 5 January

Southbourne, Dorset.

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There was the solitude, the sound of the sea crashing onto the rocks, or washing up the beach. The lights of ships passing several miles offshore or the blinking light of the Needles lighthouse and the sweep around Poole Bay to the twinkling lights of Swanage.

Two rods and reels, one a multiplier, the other a fixed reel. Bait, a torch, first aid kit, bucket, a pair of pliers, thermos of coffee and a Tupperware box containing two rounds of cheese and tomato sandwiches, a banana and two chocolate bars were specifically placed to reduce the amount of movement he would need to do whilst concentrating on relaxing.

One of the rods was baited and he cast the line and settled back into his chair, he pushed an earphone of his I-Pod into each ear and then pressed the play button, Brian Eno, Apollo: Atmospheres and Soundtracks began. There was something about the combination of ethereal music and the visual accompaniment of the waves moving onto and then retreating from the beach that worked perfectly.

It was a fantastic way to begin a night beach fishing, provided he managed to stay awake but he had a lot playing on his mind that would stop him falling asleep. The break-in at the shop, the writing on the wall, what secret? He liked to think of himself as an open book, he had no secrets. He was even pretty hopeless at bluffing when the poker school met, usually losing more over the course of an evening than he won.

He put those thoughts out of his mind, closed his eyes and drifted off with the Apollo mission.

***     

Niamh Kelly’s sister Siobhan and her German born husband Conny lived on Southbourne Coast Road, Bournemouth, in a house that looked out across a public open space towards Hengistbury Head and beyond that The Needles. It was what Niamh regarded as ‘aspirational heaven,’ a five-bedroom, chalet style ‘upside down,’ house that Conny had designed, and project managed, miles in distance and ambience from her noisy neighbours throwing up in the front garden or having parties until all hours of the morning or taking selfies of each other in various stages of undress in the back garden. When Siobhan’s three children had been small Niamh had been a willing babysitting auntie, especially in the summer once they had finally gone to sleep she would sit on the balcony with a glass of white wine in her hand watching the fading summer light.

Niamh arrived to find three cars already parked in the drive at her sister and brother in-laws house, the one she didn’t recognise was a silver Aston Martin Vantage. She liked to give the impression that she was generally ‘cool’ about material things such as houses and cars but the combination of a house that she had been in love with for the best part of ten years together with a car that screamed ‘drive me’ meant she needed to accept that the green-eyed monster usually found lurking beneath that cool exterior was waving its arms frantically at anybody who was watching. She rang the doorbell and a five second blast of ‘Whiskey in the Jar,’ was followed by her brother-in law opening the front door, they air kissed on both cheeks.

She walked up the stairs to where the living room, dining room and kitchen were located, her sister was in the latter, holding court with the fourth member of the dinner party.

Here she is, Siobhan said, Niamh this is Andreas Baumann, Andreas this is Niamh Marie Kelly, one of the original ‘Rossmoor Nolan’s’.

Niamh rolled her eyes, Ignore her Andreas, she’s missing the sun. She squeezed her sister around the waist causing Siobhan to squeal.

Call me Andy, he said offering his right hand to shake hers, Andreas looks good on business cards, but away from the office we can drop such formalities.

The accent was foreign, German like Conny’s, but with less of the harsher vowel sounds her brother in-law was prone to slip into occasionally when speaking in his second language.

Nice to meet you Andy. So, are you a friend of Conny’s or colleague?

Watch it Andy, remarked Siobhan, she’s started the interrogation before she’s had a drink.

Niamh shook her head slowly, It’s called socialising Shiv, but point taken. So, Andy, do you come here often?

Andy, Siobhan and Conny laughed together, What are you like? Siobhan asked.

Well unless you have been the soul of discretion for the first time like forever Sis, I think Andreas has an advantage over me, he probably knows who I am and what I do, but I am in the dark without a torch.

Andy sipped at his aperitif, smiled at Niamh, and said, We went to University together many moons ago, Conny went into the exciting world of architecture, and I went into corporate finance.

Wow! There’s two words you don’t often hear in the same sentence, exciting and architecture, Siobhan remarked from the kitchen where she was turning down a simmering saucepan of vegetables.

Just ignore her Andy, she hated Lego when we were kids. Tell you what I won’t mention crime figures if you don’t leverages and buy-outs.

Andy raised his glass, To a pleasant evening. 

The supper tasted as divine as Niamh knew it would be. Siobhan had inherited their mother’s culinary knack of turning everyday ingredients into mouth-watering dishes that made you want to talk about them for months afterwards. Leg of lamb, with homemade mint sauce, roast potatoes, peas, and carrots followed by a homemade tiramisu made with rum rather than the traditional Marsala. Several bottles of quality rose helped the food down and Andreas was good company, letting Niamh talk about herself at every opportunity without ever talking across her or turning the line of conversation from being about her to being about him. When she asked what he did when he wasn’t studying tax tables she was pleasantly surprised by the reply.

I spend a lot of time walking the Dorset coast. I work in London all week so just after four o’clock on a Thursday I get into the Aston Martin and head down here to the beautiful south. I like to set myself goals and I am taking time off in the summer to walk the coastal path from here to Devon.

Wow, that sounds great. Where’s here?

The company owns a small apartment overlooking the harbour at Swanage. The journey to Swanage is a good time to unwind and catch up on the latest music my team have suggested.

It’s always good to unwind, Niamh replied, wondering if the wine was causing her to talk louder than normal. I have a bike for clearing my head.

So, who were the Rossmore Nolan’s? Andy asked.

Well, said Niamh, first of all do you know who the Nolan’s were?

Andy shook his head.

Irish singing group from the late seventies, early eighties Siobhan said cradling a glass of Irish liqueur in her hands. Maureen, Bernadette...

Noddy, Donny and Jermaine, Niamh added winking conspiratorially at her sister. Well, there were five of them and five of us and every Sunday lunchtime we would get taken to this shitty little Working Men’s Club close to where we lived, and we would get up on stage and basically perform for buttons.

If Siobhan’s intention was to function as matchmaker then she spoiled her intentions when she suggested to her sister that they leave the men to load the dishwasher and went for a walk down to the beach. Niamh agreed on the understanding that the walk was accompanied by a bottle of brandy, Just in case we get cold, she said smiling as she lifted the bottle off the side in the kitchen.

With Niamh carrying a torch and her sister wearing a head torch, they had barely walked the length of the front path before Siobhan leaned into her sister, Well, what do you think? He’s handsome, isn’t he?

How can I take you seriously with that thing on your head, you look like a dalek.

And your point is?

Shiv! replied Niamh looking over her left shoulder to make sure they were out of hearing distance for the two men. When she mentally confirmed that they were ‘in the clear’ she said, He’s great, ticks an awful lot of boxes but to be honest I don’t even have time in my life to be responsible for anything bigger than Lionel let alone be in a serious relationship.

Who is talking serious relationship? Just enjoy the company of a good looking, wealthy, single male. Have a laugh. You deserve it.

They walked down a path between the sand dunes, down steps partially submerged beneath sand and onto the beach. In one direction darkness, apart from a few pin pricks of light in the distance. In the opposite direction, around two hundred metres away, was a small tent the preferred habitat of a night fisherman once a line or lines, had been cast.

What’s that? Niamh said pointing at the light moving about.

That’s Jim, Siobhan said in a matter of fact voice, lives over near Kings Park, comes down here for a nights fishing to relax. I’ve spoken to him a few times. looks a bit like that guy who always has his trousers pulled up to his nipples.

Uncle Frank?

No, off the telly. We’ll leave him to it. Look, she said pointing in the direction of a three-tiered wooden pontoon that stretched away from the beach towards part of the sea defences, let’s use the Keep Off the Groynes sign as a bar for the bottle.

We are so lucky, Niamh said taking a drink from the brandy bottle before passing it to her sister.

Well standing on the beach drinking brandy at ten o’clock on a January evening sure beats most things I can think of, replied Siobhan. You know you’re staying the night, don’t you?

Yes Mum, Niamh replied, I can hardly drive home after four glasses of wine and a couple of brandies.

So, would you like to see him again? Siobhan asked before taking a drink from the bottle.

Jim or Uncle Frank?

I’ll ignore your facetiousness. Do you know what, Siobhan said ignoring her sister, this reminds me of the time we bought that bottle of whiskey from the off licence and took it down to the end of the school playing fields where we thought mum and dad wouldn’t find us.

It wasn’t even a proper whiskey, Niamh replied, it was Happy Shopper’s own brand. You could tell it wasn’t kosher because whiskey was misspelt with two k’s.

So, what about our German friend?

I’m not in a nine to five, tea on the table at six type of job. Cases don’t take notice of the normal rules of time and space, even with shift work.

Now you sound like one of Dr. Who’s geeky assistants.

Niamh laughed, Trust me if I had a Tardis, work would be a lot simpler, and my love life might actually.... well, I might actually have one!

Siobhan had turned to look in the direction of the fisherman’s tent, It’s a bit Zen, isn’t it? Fishing. I mean fancy spending all night outside and then going home just as the sun comes up with potentially nothing to show for freezing your bits off.

Sounds like police work.

You need somebody you can open up to. I worry about you, mum worries. It’s what families do.

Open up? Am I a closed person?

Let me turn the question back on you. How many people that you work with knew about Rob? How many friends do you have and how many of those would you class as close? How many invitations for a night out with ‘the girls,’ have you turned down in the past six months? 

Niamh stared out to sea pondering both the question and her answer.

I think you are overthinking this, Siobhan said.

One. A dozen or so. One. A lot.

The problem with you is that you love the idea of a team but hate the idea of being a team member. You love the idea of being surrounded by people with similar ideals and goals providing those people are in the next room, or better still in another building. You’re in the team but not of the team.

Thank you Dr Freud.

Come on, let’s walk back so we can say wiedersehen to your potential new bestie.

4

7.45 a.m. - Monday 6 January 2020

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Detective Chief Inspector Mike Bishop, head of Dorset’s Major Crime Investigation Team, was at his desk finishing his first coffee of the day whilst reviewing the latest revision of the budget figures for the first quarter of the next financial year which began in exactly three months’ time. Short of both funds and personnel he was wondering whether the phrase ‘Committed to a safer Dorset for you,’ that appeared on the front of every police vehicle in the county wasn’t more than a little optimistic in the current economic climate. He looked at the clock on the wall of his officer at exactly the moment the phone on his desk rang at just after a quarter to eight.

"Good morning sir, it’s the duty inspector at HQ. We’ve got a body at Hengistbury Head. Fire Brigade Control room received an emergency call from a couple walking on the beach at just after seven fifteen. There was a fire about two hundred yards west of the pedestrian entrance to the beach at Hengistbury Head Nature Reserve. The caller said that it looked like a pile of rubbish that was on fire. Christchurch crews were in attendance within seven minutes of receiving the call to attend. A small fire was still in progress and the crew discovered a body next to what appeared to have been a tent.

A uniformed officer who was on early shift patrolling in a police car less than half a mile away attended the scene, a cursory inspection of the body confirmed that life was pronounced extinct at just after seven thirty-five, although exact time of death would have to be confirmed later by the pathologist assigned to the case."

Bishop stood up and reached for his car keys, Can you organise calls to the rest of the team together while I get over there.

Twenty minutes later Bishop was driving down the Broadway, a mile or so ahead of him he could see Hengistbury Head, an orange sky either side of it, shades of blue rising above it. The road took a bend to the right, a church built in the nineteen sixties was on his right, the building made him think of the film The Graduate, or was it Wayne’s World? At the entrance to the car park, he drove past the two folding ‘POLICE ROAD CLOSED,’ signs.

He was the first of the Major Crime Investigation Team to arrive, he parked his black VW, took off his suit jacket and lay it on the back seat. He opened the boot, unzipped the holdall, unwrapped the sterile protective overall, gloves and shoes putting each item on before moving onto the next. Hoping that once on the beach the south westerly wouldn’t be too cold and require a return trip to retrieve a jumper from the car.

He walked from the car park along a path between gorse bushes and stood on a sand dune looking at the crime scene.. He exchanged greetings with the uniformed officer standing at the entrance to the outer cordon, signed the attendance log and lifted the tape to enter the crime scene which had been divided into outer and inner cordons.

A lighting rig was being set up on the beach and a tent had erected over the body, a smaller tent had been placed over what he assumed was the site of the fire. He took a series of deep breaths, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. A series of wave deposited sand ridges gave the beach a desert appearance, albeit a desert partially hidden beneath thousands of stones, gravel, and other deposits. Gulls screeched overhead, their early morning exclusive access to the beach disturbed.

Crime Scene Manager Jack Scotland, dressed in a similar fashion to Bishop, was carefully checking the pockets of the corpse. Anything to identify the owner of those trousers? Bishop asked.

I’ve got a wallet with a driving licence, bank card, credit card, membership card for a local gym and forty pounds in ten pound notes. So, I don’t think robbery was a motive. He removed the driving licence using his right thumb and forefinger, James Garland, born 24 November 1975, England. 81 Aniston Road, Bournemouth, Dorset."

A CSI who was standing just inside the cordon turned to Bishop, You’re lucky the tide has turned otherwise I’d be wearing a snorkel and flippers to do this job, she replied handing Bishop an evidence bag. How are you doing Mike? She asked pulling down the mask to reveal her identity.

Bishop smiled, Bloody hell it’s Cathy Carlisle. Well, bugger me. How are you?

I’m good thanks, but it’s been Cathy Oldham for more than fifteen years, she replied smiling, good to see you too, it’s been a while.

It’s been decades, he replied, No wonder I didn’t recognise the name when I saw who the duty CSI’s were. I didn’t know you were back. Back in England not just back in Bournemouth. How was New Zealand?

Great, experience of a lifetime, well several lifetimes to be honest. We should have a catch-up drink when you have time.

Bishop nodded, "Sounds good. Someone’s called for a pathologist, I presume?’

Oldham nodded towards the uniformed constable Bishop had moments earlier exchanged greetings with, ‘Constable Gerrard has.’

Sonia? Bishop asked, hopefully.

There were two pathologists on the Home Office register who tended to be sent to murder scenes in this area, because they lived locally. Bishop’s ‘favourite’ was Sonia Russell, they shared a sense