must’ve been checking on the house-to-house team.
Noah had the building plans, showing boundaries and the route of the river. Seven neat boxes that looked like garden sheds but weren’t. Ian Merrick had told the truth.
Seven bunkers, one per garden.
Marnie’s head was down. She was checking her phone, the way Noah had just checked his. She was still checking when she reached his side.
‘Hey,’ Noah said in greeting. ‘Did you get lucky?’
She looked up, her eyes guarded and dark. ‘What?’
‘House-to-house? I thought . . .’
‘No. I’ve not had the chance to check in.’
She turned to look in the direction of the estate. ‘Any sign of the press yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Good. Tell the PCSO to let us know as soon as they get here. I have another house-to-house team coming to speak to the Doyles’ neighbours, so that they don’t get a nasty surprise when the reporters land.’
‘I’ve got the plans.’ Noah unfolded the sheet, showing her the evidence of the bunkers.
Marnie studied it. ‘This hatching means – what? That they’re filled in?’
Noah nodded. ‘According to the planning office. They said the official who signed the paperwork retired a couple of years ago, so it might be a dead end. Ron and I looked at the site selling the tinned peaches. Lots of customers call themselves preppers. Preppers are—’
‘Paranoid hoarders.’ Marnie cut him short. ‘I know what preppers are.’ Her stare made him uneasy, too sharp. ‘Where are you going with this, detective?’
‘I’m not sure. Except that preppers like bunkers, or any secure hiding place. We thought maybe whoever took the boys believed they were keeping them safe.’
‘Safe,’ she repeated.
Curtains twitched across the street; the neighbours starting to get curious at last?
Noah was surprised no one had come out of any of the houses to ask what was going on. But this was middle-class almost-suburbia; they could take a lot of curtain twitching before they were crass enough to ask questions.
‘Let’s start with number 8,’ Marnie said. ‘Douglas Cole.’
Noah shook his head. ‘No one’s home. I checked as soon as I got here. Tried his phone, too. No answer. I left a message for him to call the station. Do you think he’s avoiding us?’
Marnie didn’t answer. She stood looking at number 14 before she said, ‘I need you in the bunker where we found the boys.’
‘What?’ He blinked. ‘Why?’
‘I think I might have missed something. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.’
‘Okay.’ He tried to ignore the creeping sensation in the back of his neck. ‘Now?’
‘Let’s suit up. We should have done it sooner.’
She moved in the direction of her car, speaking across her shoulder. ‘Fran’s got familial DNA. The boys were brothers. They were killed by someone close. Their mum and dad, or an aunt or uncle.’
Family killer . . .
‘You think we missed something,’ Noah said, ‘in the bunker?’
‘Not evidence, no. But the sense of the place, how it might have happened . . . If you’re right about safety, about the motive behind this? We should go and take another look.’
Marnie watched the twitching curtains. ‘Before the GPR team gets here and we find out what’s in the other bunkers.’
22
Noah stood in the dark under the Doyles’ garden, waiting while Marnie switched on the police floodlights. She remembered her way around down here. He wondered how long it would take her to forget. It was the first time he’d been further than the forensic tent.
‘Did you ever play under the stairs as a kid?’ she asked.
Noah shook his head, then nodded. ‘Sometimes . . .’ And in bathroom cupboards, spying on his mother’s obsessive cleaning routine, but he was keeping those memories to himself. This was bad enough without adding seasoning to the spice.
‘With your kid brother,’ Marnie said. ‘Sol, isn’t it?’
Sol was short for Solomon. ‘Yes.’
Had he and Sol ever
Noah had the building plans, showing boundaries and the route of the river. Seven neat boxes that looked like garden sheds but weren’t. Ian Merrick had told the truth.
Seven bunkers, one per garden.
Marnie’s head was down. She was checking her phone, the way Noah had just checked his. She was still checking when she reached his side.
‘Hey,’ Noah said in greeting. ‘Did you get lucky?’
She looked up, her eyes guarded and dark. ‘What?’
‘House-to-house? I thought . . .’
‘No. I’ve not had the chance to check in.’
She turned to look in the direction of the estate. ‘Any sign of the press yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Good. Tell the PCSO to let us know as soon as they get here. I have another house-to-house team coming to speak to the Doyles’ neighbours, so that they don’t get a nasty surprise when the reporters land.’
‘I’ve got the plans.’ Noah unfolded the sheet, showing her the evidence of the bunkers.
Marnie studied it. ‘This hatching means – what? That they’re filled in?’
Noah nodded. ‘According to the planning office. They said the official who signed the paperwork retired a couple of years ago, so it might be a dead end. Ron and I looked at the site selling the tinned peaches. Lots of customers call themselves preppers. Preppers are—’
‘Paranoid hoarders.’ Marnie cut him short. ‘I know what preppers are.’ Her stare made him uneasy, too sharp. ‘Where are you going with this, detective?’
‘I’m not sure. Except that preppers like bunkers, or any secure hiding place. We thought maybe whoever took the boys believed they were keeping them safe.’
‘Safe,’ she repeated.
Curtains twitched across the street; the neighbours starting to get curious at last?
Noah was surprised no one had come out of any of the houses to ask what was going on. But this was middle-class almost-suburbia; they could take a lot of curtain twitching before they were crass enough to ask questions.
‘Let’s start with number 8,’ Marnie said. ‘Douglas Cole.’
Noah shook his head. ‘No one’s home. I checked as soon as I got here. Tried his phone, too. No answer. I left a message for him to call the station. Do you think he’s avoiding us?’
Marnie didn’t answer. She stood looking at number 14 before she said, ‘I need you in the bunker where we found the boys.’
‘What?’ He blinked. ‘Why?’
‘I think I might have missed something. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.’
‘Okay.’ He tried to ignore the creeping sensation in the back of his neck. ‘Now?’
‘Let’s suit up. We should have done it sooner.’
She moved in the direction of her car, speaking across her shoulder. ‘Fran’s got familial DNA. The boys were brothers. They were killed by someone close. Their mum and dad, or an aunt or uncle.’
Family killer . . .
‘You think we missed something,’ Noah said, ‘in the bunker?’
‘Not evidence, no. But the sense of the place, how it might have happened . . . If you’re right about safety, about the motive behind this? We should go and take another look.’
Marnie watched the twitching curtains. ‘Before the GPR team gets here and we find out what’s in the other bunkers.’
22
Noah stood in the dark under the Doyles’ garden, waiting while Marnie switched on the police floodlights. She remembered her way around down here. He wondered how long it would take her to forget. It was the first time he’d been further than the forensic tent.
‘Did you ever play under the stairs as a kid?’ she asked.
Noah shook his head, then nodded. ‘Sometimes . . .’ And in bathroom cupboards, spying on his mother’s obsessive cleaning routine, but he was keeping those memories to himself. This was bad enough without adding seasoning to the spice.
‘With your kid brother,’ Marnie said. ‘Sol, isn’t it?’
Sol was short for Solomon. ‘Yes.’
Had he and Sol ever
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