Page 50
Runnalls watched him then, “Your best route may be public identification. A controlled release. Description only. See if someone comes forward.”
Harrison let out a humourless breath. “Right. Because ‘female, blonde, twenties to thirties’ should narrow Hartswick down beautifully.”
“She’s not naturally blonde, if that helps. Bleached recently enough that I can still see the darker regrowth.”
“So even that’s unreliable.” Harrison really didn’t want to release details at all but if it was all they had…“What else?”
Runnalls moved to the side of the table and folded back part of the sheet near the victim’s hip. Pale skin came into view beneath the harsh overhead lighting; bruising shadowed faintly along the bone. Then there it was. The tattoo. The one Harrison had glimpsed at the river’s edge beneath the thermal blankets and fluorescent scene lights. A faded stitched heart inked low on the skin, inside the line of her left hip, close enough to disappear beneath underwear. The water had softened the edges of it, blurring the black into grey.
Harrison’s pulse kicked against the base of his throat. Because this was all they had. And he should disclose it. Someone would recognise it. The problem was that once it went public, it would be everywhere. Social media. Local news. Facebook groups. Every missing woman in Yorkshire suddenly attached to the same photograph. Every family seeing what they wanted to see. And if there was even the slightest possibility this woman was Robyn Whitton…
No.
Not yet.
Jake deserved certainty, not rumours. So he had to exhaust the formal identification route first. Dental records. DNA. If those routes failed, they could release the tattoo later. But once that detail left the investigation, they would never get it back.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered immediately. “Black.”
“Sir.” Calder sounded breathless. “Uniform have found something about half a mile upstream from the recovery point.”
Every muscle in Harrison’s body tightened. “What sort of something?”
“A possible disturbance near the riverbank. Broken foliage. Mud displacement. Could be nowt. But Chief wants CSI down there before the light goes.”
“Preserve it.” Harrison turned towards the mortuary doors. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter seven
A Temporary Repair
Jake was soaked.
Rain had worked its way through his T-shirt hours ago, plastering the cold fabric onto his skin until he couldn’t tell anymore whether his trembling came from the weather or the rage sitting low and constant in his chest.
Leaning back against the bonnet of his van, he stared into the dark without really seeing any of it. Not that there was much to see, anyway. Larkspur Lane had long since gone quiet, the cottages dark behind drawn curtains, televisions switched off, the village folding into sleep while he remained stranded beneath the weak amber wash of a solar lamp. Waiting.
He’d tried to leave.
Twice.
The first time he’d made it to the driver’s door before stopping dead, anger twisting violently back into fear so strong it almost winded him. The second time he’d climbed into the van, started the engine, then shut it off again thirty seconds later because the idea of going home felt somehow worse than standing here getting drenched.
So he stayed.
Rooted to the spot as if abandoned.
Maybe he had been.
Rain tapped against the roof of the van and gathered in shining pools along the uneven road, and every so often he could hear water spilling from the guttering of Harrison’s cottage onto the protective sheets Jake had stretched across the unfinished section of the roof.
A stupid thing to notice.
But his brain kept snagging on stupid things tonight.
He dragged both hands through his soaked hair and tipped his head back into the rain. It felt right somehow, being wet through. Because in some strange, fucked-up corner of his head, if she’d spent thirteen years cold and alone somewhere before ending up in that river, then standing here dry and comfortable felt wrong.
Like a betrayal.
