Linking the Severn Beach murder with this killing in Oxford had shifted everyone’s view of the case – even Pope had gone quiet with his idiotic theories. Urged on by Blake, there had been an enthusiastic burst of activity, with a wave of checks done to try and turn up anything that would link the two deaths.

‘We’re going to find something,’ the Superintendent had insisted. ‘We’re going to put it together and get a conviction.’

It could be quite the feather in Blake’s cap, especially as Thames Valley seemed to be no further along than they were, and Harland suddenly found himself being pushed into a lead role. He wondered how long it would last.

Diagonally opposite him, a smartly dressed woman in her thirties was tapping out a message on her phone. Fine light-brown hair framed a delicate face, and her lips parted slightly as she concentrated. He smiled to himself and turned his head towards the window, ignoring the blur of passing greenery to study her reflection in the glass. Her left hand toyed with a simple gold pendant that glinted as she turned it, and below it her smooth skin glowed in the sunlight. He wondered where she was going, how long she’d be sitting opposite him, what he might say. It couldn’t hurt just to speak to her.

In her hand, the phone began to ring, a thin little tune that was abruptly silenced as she quickly answered the call.

‘Hello?’

In the glass, Harland saw her face melt into a smile, watched her head tilt to one side and her fingers touch her chest.

‘Yeah, I was just thinking about you . . .’ The bashful expression, the inviting tone of voice. She was already taken, and he suddenly hated himself for looking.

He slumped back in his seat and sighed to himself, allowing his eyes to focus on the distant horizon. It was less than an hour to Oxford but the journey seemed to be taking a long time.

Detective Inspector King was an athletic-looking man in his forties. Tall, with dark cropped hair and a quick smile, he’d been waiting to meet Harland off the train. They’d shaken hands warily, but King’s easy manner seemed to cut through all the awkward formalities.

‘It seems we have a common problem,’ he noted as they walked out of the station. ‘Months of dead ends and all the fun associated with turning up nothing. And now the whole thing’s kicking off again.’

‘There’s certainly a lot of interest in it.’

‘Such is life,’ King observed. ‘I just hope I can spare you some of the grief that we’ve been getting.’

He spoke – and dressed – like someone who didn’t have any political aspirations. Harland found him immediately likeable.

They made their way past several long lines of parked bicycles and down towards the road. King paused at the kerb and looked at Harland.

‘Did you want to see where it happened first? It’s close enough to walk . . .’

The bridge was quite short, rising only slightly as it carried the main road across a meandering stretch of river. An old brown-brick pub sat at one corner, and foliage from trees on the riverbank shone in the sunlight.

‘The body was found down there,’ King explained, leaning over the metal railings and indicating the dark green water that swirled silently below. ‘You’ve seen the photos I assume?’

‘Yes.’ Harland stared down at the rippling reflections. He remembered the glistening grey skin, the sodden clothing, the misshapen head . . . ‘But I always like to get a feel for the place, see the geography for real.’

‘I know what you mean.’ King straightened up and pointed along the pavement. ‘Anyway, it’s fairly clear what happened. Ronald Erskine was walking home from a bar in the city centre, a little before midnight. As he came down here towards the bridge, someone smashed in the side of his skull with a metal bar – we found the weapon when we dragged the riverbed. Not much sign of a struggle – first blow probably put him down – but there were several strikes to the head before he was moved down there to the bank.’

They made their way across to the north side of the bridge, where there was an opening in the railings. A paved footpath led down to the grassy riverbank and on along the water’s edge.

‘Where does this lead?’ Harland asked, peering along the path that curved away into the distance, overhung with trees.

‘It’s the old canal towpath. There’s nothing much down there, except a few barges and some playing fields.’

‘Anyone live on those barges?’

‘There’s a few people, yes.’

‘And nobody saw anything, or heard anything?’

‘Nobody ever does.’

They stood for a moment in the shadow of the bridge, gazing out at the water where the body had been dumped. Some ducks swam slowly towards them before passing on along the bank.

‘It’s a good spot for it,’ Harland said thoughtfully.

‘I suppose. Not many people come down here at night.’

‘And there’s water to dump the body into.’

Harland made his way to the water’s edge and looked up as the muted sound of a motorbike engine echoed from above.

‘It’s also well hidden from any traffic passing over the bridge, which is important if you need to spend any time doing things to your victim . . .’

‘Doing things?’ King walked over to stand beside him. ‘There was no sign of anything sexual.’

‘No, I meant searching his pockets, taking one of his keys,’ Harland suggested. ‘That all takes time and you wouldn’t want to do it up there where you could be seen.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ King agreed. He stared down at the water and sighed. ‘Strange about that key though.’

‘Strange?’ Harland glanced across at him.

‘The victim lived alone,’ King explained. ‘He’d been out for the evening, and was on his way home. But although he had five or six keys on a key ring, he didn’t have the one for the deadlock on his front door.’

‘Which the killer took.’

‘Yes. But there were two locks on that door, and the key to the second one was still on the victim when we found him.’ King paused. ‘It doesn’t make sense. One key’s not much use without the other. So why did he take it?’

Harland looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can only think that there has to be some connection between the two victims, something we haven’t spotted yet.’

They made their way back up onto the bridge. Harland paused as he reached the top of the slope, turning to look over his shoulder at the towpath. Then, waiting to let a car pass, he stalked across the road and peered over the low wall at the broad, open-air car park on the other side.

‘There’s a lot of ways to get out of here,’ he noted. ‘It really is a very good spot.’

‘You’re thinking this was planned?’ King asked.

Harland stared into the distance.

‘No witnesses, no evidence, no mistakes . . .’ he said slowly. ‘I think this was planned extremely carefully.’

15

Tuesday, 19 June

The meeting-room table was strewn with photographs and papers burning bright in the rays of morning sun that streamed in from the windows. On one side, Mendel sat quietly thinking, his face in shadow, one large hand absently stroking his chin. Sitting opposite him, Pope was hunched forward, scribbling something down in a notebook. Harland rubbed his eyes and turned back to the whiteboard.

‘So we’ve got two victims,’ he mused, tapping the board with his pen, ‘one in Oxford and one in Severn Beach. Nothing to link them except a key that we now know was lifted during the Oxford murder and planted during the Severn Beach one.’

He paused again, staring at the two names in front of him. Ronald Erskine. Vicky Sutherland. Two people with nothing in common.

‘What about a link between the two places?’ Mendel asked. ‘At first we thought the killer might be from somewhere round here – Bristol area or maybe from the other side of the Severn. But now we know there’s a link with Oxford, it suggests we look further afield. Our guy might be from Oxford itself, or perhaps somewhere between the two places, like Swindon.’