Page 5 of Slack Tide Kill

"It's called Farb-gel. It's for personal protection, and it's perfectly legal. Fires a stream of red gel to obstruct an attacker's eyes. It's basically silly string."

The man read the canister. "We'll confiscate both. You can reclaim them when you leave."

Sally knew better than to argue. "Fine."

Next the second officer searched the rear seats and glove box with a penlight, then rolled over an under-vehicle inspection mirror, checking the Mustang on all sides before approaching his colleague at the window again.

"All clear. You want to sign for the canister?"

"I'll trust you. Can you open the gate now, please?"

The man signaled to the booth and the gate opened. Sally rolled through. The power station loomed over her; three hulking windowless structures. A single tall chimney rose at the side, venting steam.

A fourth officer waved her into a ‘STAFF' parking lot around the compound's left side. Figures in bright orange construction gear were passing through a tented entryway leading into the scaffold encasing Reactor A.

Shift change, Sally figured, and parked by the fence, next to an ambulance and a coroner's van. She wrestled on her black down jacket then stepped out of the Mustang. The salty sea wind lashed her, needling through her jacket and into her still-wet running gear.

Another pair of security officers at the fence checked her ID again. She surveyed the lot while they conferred. Several workers gazed down from the scaffold. Dozens of CCTV cameras stood on posts. Then the officers waved her through. She scrambled up a steep mound of shingle and skidded down onto the beach.

The sea was far out, maybe 100 yards away, with the body in the middle distance, encircled by police tape and figures: officers walking a search grid; manning the tape line; speaking to an older civilian woman. A paramedic was sealing up a plastic case by the body, near a crime-scene photographer and a woman wearing an immaculate tan greatcoat.

It had to be DCI Gloria Mayhew.

She looked up and met eyes with Sally, then came over to meet her.

"Officer Rogers, you've beaten our Crime Scene Manager." Her voice was as sharp and cutting as her features: angular nose, piercing brown eyes, a severe bob resisting all effort by the wind to free errant hairs.

"DCI Mayhew," Rogers said. "I was at a dawn run nearby. Here to help in any way I can."

"I welcome NCA assistance," Mayhew answered. Her gaze lingered on Sally's mud-streaked legs and the glimpse of purple race vest under her jacket. "But I did not expect you so casually dressed."

By contrast Mayhew's jacket was impeccable, not a copper button out of place. "I came direct. No time to check how I look in the mirror. I hope that's not a problem."

"So do I. Let me offer a robust caution at this point, Officer, as your reputation precedes you. The last thing this case needs is a press lightning rod. Appearing disheveled at any stage is unacceptable."

Sally's eyes narrowed. "I completely agree, DCI. If you prefer, I can go book in at a hotel, purchase fresh clothing and be back in perhaps two hours. Maybe your CSM will be here by then." She let that hang for a moment. "Or we can overlook attire for the moment and focus on catching a killer."

Mayhew's gaze simmered. "Two things. First, we're treating this death as suspicious pending forensic confirmation. No predetermination of murder. And second, drop the attitude. It may have worked well up in Yorkshire, but here we run on facts and evidence only. Is that understood?"

Sally took a moment. This seemed more than just being a 'ball-ache', as McMaster had said. This seemed actively hostile.

"Perfectly. Now may I see the body, DCI?"

A beat passed. Gulls cawed above, wings braced against the incoming gale, barely holding position as they scanned the beach for food.

Mayhew turned on her heel. "This way."

4 THE BOY ON THE BEACH

The body lay across a long line of glistening green seaweed, snarls of blue fishing net, bleached driftwood spears and scuffed plastic bottles, like an unexpected punctuation mark. A young man dressed all in black, tracksuit pants and jacket zipped up to his chin, shimmering with briny water. The salt was already starting to crystallize in whitish bands across his chest, thighs and calves, almost as if he'd been whipped by the sea.

Twin cockle shells protruded where his eyes should be, glinting in the grayish light, his head craned back as if to watch Sally's approach.

Her heart kicked in her chest. Mutilated. Sightless. The podcast had actually said it well. Windows to the soul.

"This is the strand line?"

Mayhew inclined her head. "You've listened to the podcast, then."