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The way through the woods is barely a path at all, and with all the summer growth, scarcely visible unless you knew it was there. They pick their way along the nettles (Asante understandsnow why Bradley opts for boots) and come to a stop at the clearing where the grave site has been covered with a tarpaulin and the rest of it stripped of the base layer of vegetation and acorns. Asante stands for a moment, taking it in, while Bradley, who’s been here before, challenges herself to spot Fawley. She’s heard enough casual asides to think her chances are reasonable, but it’s even easier than she thought. The air of quiet but natural authority marks him out almost straight away. Judging by the clothes, he has good but understated taste, along with due respect for sensible footwear. He’s talking to one of the forensics team, a woman Bradley has known for years. The Ground Penetrating Radar equipment is standing to one side, ready to go as soon as the dogs are done. Bradley always feels irrationally sorry for it, as if it’s tried its level best to look like a piece of cutting-edge tech but somehow ended up resembling a rather disappointed lawn mower.
Asante touches her lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll introduce you.’
She suppresses a smile. As if the crime scene has morphed into a Regency ballroom and a chap can’t strike up a conversation until you’ve been formally presented. She quashes a sudden mental picture of Adam Fawley in a pair of Darcy breeches and a big wet shirt and smiles to herself as she follows Asante round the perimeter to the other side.
‘Morning, Tony,’ says Fawley, managing somehow to sound warm without smiling.
Asante nods. ‘Sir. This is DS Bradley, she’s been very helpful so far.’
They shake hands (which likewise feels bizarrely anachronistic) and he asks her a couple of questions which make it clear he’s been through the case notes more than once.
The dog handlers arrive now, a man with a German shepherd and a woman with a chunky springer spaniel. Once off the leash they range backwards and forwards, each in their own zone, noses to the ground, doubling back sometimes to reconfirm then moving on again. Bradley stops herself making a quipabout Morse having a good nose and Tennison being a bitch, because that would only betray just how well she knows the handler. She catches his eye and he smiles. They were briefly ‘involved’ a few months back, but it all ended perfectly comfortably, which is just how she likes it, especially when work is involved. Half an hour later the dogs are corralled back in, and the specialist operator starts up the GPR machine. They watch as she takes it on a first pass, checking the radar screen as she goes, a soft beep coming every foot or so.
‘Just don’t rely on that thing to do a decent job on your grass,’ says Fawley drily, and Bradley finds herself grinning. Looks like she’s going to get on with this new DCI just fine.
***
‘I guess the viccouldbe her,’ says Quinn, DI-judicious. ‘The age is undeniably right, and like DC Stillwell says – she could easily have changed her hair.’
‘And there’s the tattoo,’ says Ev with a significant look. ‘It’s aCelticsymbol.’
Gis is staring at the picture. ‘You can’t tell from this if she has pierced ears,’ he says. ‘Which doesn’t prove anything one way or another.’
‘But if itisher in the grave,’ says Sargent, ‘then she must have come back to the UK too. And that’s an even bigger risk, surely, than Daisy doing it –’
But Stillwell’s shaking her head. ‘Not if she’s cut her hair short and kept away from Oxford – I mean, like the Sarge says, no one was looking for her, were they? Not till now.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says Roberts suddenly. They turn to look at him and he flushes slightly. ‘Sorry.’
‘What is it?’
‘You said to start with 17th June and work back.’ He gesturesat his screen. ‘Sabrina Madigan got the 8.15 a.m. ferry from Dublin to Holyhead on June 14th.’
‘Was she on her own?’ says Quinn. ‘Or with Kate?’
Roberts double-checks. ‘Looks like on her own. I’ll get on to Holyhead – see if they have CCTV that could tell us where she went next. I mean, without a car in that neck of the woods, her options would have been pretty limited.’
Gis nods. ‘Had to have taken a train, surely.’
Ev shakes her head. ‘Not if someone picked her up.’
‘Fair enough,’ says Quinn. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’
Sargent is frowning. ‘What parent lets a sixteen-year-old travel to another country all by themselves? Anything could have happened to her. In fact, something definitelydid.’
‘I agree,’ says Ev. ‘Given the history with these two I’d be surprised if Kate even let her out of her sight, never mind swan off to England on her tod.’
‘Maybe she didn’t,’ says Stillwell with a shrug. ‘Maybe Daisy just buggered off without telling her. Wouldn’t surprise me, given everything I’ve heard about this kid.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ agrees Sargent. ‘Though it rather begs the question why Madigan hasn’t raised the alarm. A teenage girl, missing from home –’
‘She can’t,’ says Gis, his face serious. ‘The cops would ask too many questions. And the minute they asked for DNA, the whole game’s up.’
‘Right,’ says Baxter. ‘She wouldn’t call the cops. She’d try to sort it herself.’
‘You mean follow Daisy?’ says Sargent. ‘Bring her back?’
Baxter shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t you?’