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At least, she thought as she drove westwards through the night, this hadn't happened during the day. An obstruction at the top of the A35 just past Wynstone, where the dual carriageway funneled into a single lane, would bring traffic to a standstill during daylight hours. The A35 was the main artery taking travelers west, shadowing the coast. It got busy fast and blocked even faster. With a bit of luck and effort, an incident at night could be cleared before the morning traffic began.

At the site, she got out of her car into the chill night air, clasping the tea that was her lifeline. She took in the white tent SOCO had already erected, an incongruous beacon in the dark, atop the hill. She looked around: fields either side of the carriageway. The sea distant. Road diversion barriers already in place, warning flashes of yellows and blues illuminating the dark. A fresh-faced young uniform officer she didn't yet know the name of was standing ready to direct the currently nonexistent traffic around. He smiled at her, hopeful for acknowledgment, the keenness of youth undimmed by the early hour. "Let's hope we're not still here at rush hour, eh, Skip!"

Nicola smiled back. "Were you first here?"

At this his undaunted smile faltered, replaced by a shadow of unease. "I was, yeah. Bit of a weird one, if I'm honest."

She moved on and past him, perturbed by the way his face had clouded. Outside the tent, she pushed her long arms and legs into the white scene-of-crime hazmat suit. She had been taunted by girls at school that she was a rake. Bony Maronie. Later, told by men that she was svelte. Once, sylph-like. Even now, at thirty-eight, she was never sure which to believe.

In her own view, she was tallish, five foot eleven (she could still remember being relieved in her late teens that she had remained under six foot, as if it had been inculcated into her from early on in her life—had it?—that there was nothing worse than a tall woman), and thinnish. She had good bones: wonderful bone structure, she had once been told by a photographer taking her portrait for a professional profile. On her best days, in the rare stylish clothes she kept for even rarer posh nights out, she would confess she could feel briefly elegant. On her worst days, in baggy or ill-fitting workwear, spindly. Most days: between the two.

Gloves. Shoe coverings. Medium-length dark hair tied back, hood up. Ready. She liked the structure of the process: a ritual during which her mind set itself. Observe, process, analyze. Don't miss anything. She could already see the difficulty of scene preservation, the possibility of contamination. How many car tires had already whizzed across this scene?

Nicola strode in through the entrance flap of the tent with a nod and a courteous smile to the scene-of-crime officer working. Older woman, fifties at a guess. Nicola hated not having been back here long enough to know everybody's name. But before she could introduce herself, she saw it.

A man's body. Seemingly unclothed; lower half covered in an old hessian sack. Arms bound behind his back. Lifeless gray face streaked with blood which had trickled down from the top of his head. Eyes were open, staring ahead, unseeing. Scruffy dark hair ruffled. In his forties, or well-worn thirties, at a guess. He was placed upright on an old wooden chair, his bound arms locking him in position.

On his head had been placed what Nicola, who admittedly knew little about wildlife, assumed were stag antlers. Seemingly bound into place with rope which had been criss-crossed in an X pattern back and forth over the back of the head and face, distorting his features. It was gruesome.

Nicola looked to her SOCO colleague quizzically. The woman raised an eyebrow, as if to say: messed up, right?

"Reeta Patel—don't think we've met."

 

"Nicola. Bridge. Detective Sergeant," Nicola replied. All the right words, but not necessarily in the right order.

The body resembled a trophy, on a poor man's throne. Sightless eyes, trussed up, and a crown of antlers.

Nicola walked around it, slowly circling, looking at the object, peering at details as if it were an installation in a gallery.

Her level of unease was rising. A gnawing feeling was establishing itself in the pit of her stomach. Clearly this was not a minor incident. Utterly uncharacteristic of this area, where major crimes were few and far between.