Page 112 of Slack Tide Kill

"Bledd's boat, DCI."

Mayhew glanced at her, already moving. "On me."

Sally followed back through the clutter of the cottage; reeds drying in bundles, boats in bottles, maps of water channels, a lighthouse beam drawn again and again in black pencil.

It was too much. If there was a clue here, it would be buried deep. She was at the door when PC Hawlin's voice came from the studio.

"Ma'am, I think you'll want to see this."

Sally turned and Mayhew followed.

The wide room seemed smaller with the three of them inside. Hawlin stood beside a second workbench tucked beside the front window. At first Sally saw only more clutter: clay, wire, broken crockery, oyster shells, old metal cogs, glue, paint, bone-colored plaster.

Then the shape resolved.

A small figure stood on the bench, no more than 10 inches high. Human, roughly made, its head tilted back as if looking up at the ceiling. Where its eyes should be, there were tiny white cockle shells.

Nobody moved. The hard wind rattled the window in its yellow frame.

Sally stared at the little figure, and all the cold in the cottage seemed to gather behind her ribs.

The killer had been here. Bledd. Mensah. One of them. Both of them. It didn't matter. The Fates had weighted against a male-female killer pairing, but weighting meant nothing when the evidence stood directly before her, staring back with shell-filled eyes.

47 UNRULY SUNNE

Sally stepped out onto the beach, wind whipping away all sound, off-kilter on the shingle. The little figure with its head craned back flashed before her.

So Bledd really was the killer?

She couldn't make sense of it. It felt wrong. He hadn't just helped the investigation; he'd been instrumental in finding the body of Nancy Cagen. Why do that if he'd put her there?

Sally found herself staring at the black cottage wall, half-reading the looping metal letters nailed into place.

'Busy old fool', the poem read, 'unruly sunne'.

Unruly sun?

That felt like chaos. Order.

She spun. Mayhew was at the door, talking into her radio. Sally caught snatches of her voice, torn at by the wind; calling in reinforcements, the AROs, forensics. Then she turned further, looking out to sea. Bledd's boat was there still, a dark blot down at the tideline.

"DCI, we need to clear Bledd's boat," she shouted over the wind and pointed. "Out there!"

Mayhew squinted. "You're sure that's his?"

"I'd recognize it anywhere."

Mayhew cursed and leaned inside the cottage. "O'Connell, Hawlin, Simms, Flaherty, Chakrati, you're with me." She turned back to Sally, her jaw set. "You had him in the car with you. What were you thinking?"

Sally felt that like a blade in the ribs. Mayhew was right. She hadn't suspected a thing, and what did that say about her judgment?

Officers poured from the cottage. Liam trooped along with the rest, not meeting her eyes. Mayhew lowered her voice.

"I do not want you here now, Rogers. You are the problem, and thanks to O'Connell's full debrief, you will be off this case within hours." She leaned closer. "So stay out of our way. Do not follow us, or there'll be an extra charge of insubordination on top of the reckless endangerment charge you already face."

Mayhew's eyes burned. Sally felt herself shrinking.

"What did Liam say?" she managed.