Page 12 of Slack Tide Kill

The ‘Fates' were the NCA's dedicated team of forensic psychologists, so named after the trio of sister deities from Greek myth who personified destiny and dictated the life of every mortal. Formally known as the Behavioral Investigative Advice Unit, they were highly adept at straining meaningful criminal profiles from aberrant crime scenes.

She sent the email. The lighthouse drew closer. Below it stood a decrepit structure of clapboard and rusted iron, no larger than half a shipping container. The words ‘Crab Shack' were written in faded yellow across the side.

To the left ran a clutch of three low cottages. On the road before them were several large media vans; press crews unloading tripods and cameras at the reactor's fence. A reporter in a bright pink puffa jacket was already filing a report, her back to the reactors, blonde hair whipping in the gale.

Mayhew's exclusion order wasn't in effect yet.

Sally stopped near the Crab Shack, wondering if anyone would really carry a body this far. With every step further, it seemed less likely. She surveyed the shack, and caught a glimmer of red light. A single CCTV camera hung from the eaves, pointed back across the beach and toward the reactors.

Her pulse ticked up a notch. She closed the distance and hammered on the shack's door, but it rang back hollow. The thin door was locked with a clasp and a heavy-duty padlock.

Sally circled to the side window, but it was so hoared by salt and dust that she couldn't make out anything inside.

She returned to the shack door. The padlock was new but the door looked frail, the hinges weak. It would be the work of seconds to barge it open. Barely any noise. She turned to check the reporters. None were looking this way.

For a moment she thought about it.

The old Sally, who solved problems first and dealt with the fallout later, would break down this door without thinking. But that Sally had nearly died in a hole in the Yorkshire peat. Besides, anything she found would be fruit of the poisonous tree. Useless in court. It could damn the entire investigation from the start.

Better to do this through proper channels.

She turned and started toward the cottages. As she stepped onto the cracked blacktop road, the reporter in the pink jacket noticed her and pointed.

Sally set her gaze on the first cottage. It was a blue-painted box with peeling woodwork, lobster pots stacked against the wall and a garden patch of shingle crowded with dirty gnomes. The wind vane on the roof squealed in the wind.

"Excuse me, officer!" called the reporter from the sidewalk. "What can you tell us about the murder at the reactor?"

Sally knocked on the door. Footsteps thumped near, bolts scraped then the door opened to reveal an elderly man in a frayed woolen sweater. He was thickset, his face heavily lined, with eyes cloudy as frosted glass.

"Yes?" he said slowly.

"My name is Officer Sally Rogers, from the National Crime Agency." Sally raised her badge. "I'd like to ask you some questions about the body found by the reactor, Mr...?"

His gaze moved over her badge, then flicked past her to the reporter. "Body at the reactor?"

"That's right, sir. May I have your name?"

"Dean Whateley. So there's been another."

Sally registered the flat affect of his voice. Not a question. A statement. "There was a death last night, that's all we know so far. Did you see or hear anything unusual?"

Whateley mulled that for a moment, like he was tasting the salt air. "You can't stop it, you know. Tide brings what it wants. Takes what it wants. Always has, always will."

A chill ran through Sally. "About last night, Mr. Whateley."

He gazed out over the beach. "Last night. Engine sounds, around three? Thought it was kids at first. Then the dogs started up. Not long. Went quiet again."

Sally leaned in. "Whose dogs?"

"I don't know. Could've been a dream."

"And the engine, was it a car? A boat?"

Whateley squinted, as though listening for the sound again. "Couldn't say for certain. Not a truck. Smaller than that. Could be a van, or a boat motor, carried strange on the wind." He looked at her. "Sound travels different out here. Comes from one place, means another."

A shiver ran down Sally's back.

"Officer," shouted the reporter from the sidewalk. "Can you confirm that this murder matches the original Cockle-Eye Kill?"