post-mortem reports?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Layla was pregnant. Nearly four months. There’s only a slight chance of recovering DNA. You can’t help wondering if it was Ed, and if she was going to tell her
mother.’
‘Does Kelly know?’
‘No. I didn’t hear until after I spoke to her.’
‘That would put it all together,’ Ryan said. ‘I’ll ask around off company time, see if I can turn anything up.’
‘You could just leave that to me,’ Jenny said, giving him a way out.
‘I can’t seem to help myself,’ Ryan responded. ‘Something about this case.’ He glanced off into space. ‘I guess they’re bound to come along.’ He
looked back at Jenny. ‘Do you ever get angry?’
‘All the time.’
‘I’ve never been angry with a dead man before – it’s a peculiar feeling.’
‘Maybe you should talk to someone.’
Ryan smiled, amused at the thought. ‘Maybe I will.’ He got to his feet. ‘See you around.’
As he made his way out, Jenny heard Alison collar him in reception.
‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.’
‘No—’
‘Alison Trent. I used to be DS in Bristol CID before I fetched up here. Spent my last eight years on serious crimes. I was on the team seconded to the Susie Ashton case – Gloucester
didn’t have enough bodies to deal with it on their own.’
‘Right.’ Ryan was showing little enthusiasm for the conversation.
Alison failed to notice. ‘I learned a thing or two about country coppers out there. Nice blokes, clever enough in their own way, but definitely old-school. Not what you’d call
sophisticated.’
Jenny heard Ryan move towards the door.
‘Give my best to Sam Abbott,’ Alison called after him. ‘He could be a right calculating bastard sometimes. Can’t think what he must make of a pretty boy like
you.’
Jenny imagined Ryan giving her a tolerant smile as he walked out of the office and closed the door quietly behind him.
ELEVEN
T HE F ORESTRY C OMMISSION DEPOT WAS a mile northeast of Blackstone Ley, at the end of a lane. It was not
yet four o’clock, but after only a few brief hours of daylight, the countryside was sinking rapidly into another sixteen-hour midwinter night. Jenny eased the Land Rover along the
single-track lane with still more questions accumulating in her mind. She had spent the hour after Ryan’s visit trawling through Ed’s and the two girls’ Facebook histories and had
found no evidence that he was a man who had harboured murderous tendencies. He had posted once or twice each week, mostly with photographs of Robbie, animals he’d spotted out in the woods or
birds that had visited a feeder outside his kitchen window. His few online friends appeared to share similar harmless interests. The only reference Jenny found to violence was a brief account of
his running into a couple of poachers the previous October, one of whom had broken his ankle struggling to haul a deer carcass back to their truck.
Layla’s posts had been more colourful, but from what Jenny could see, all the talk between her and her friends was of meet-ups, parties and who fancied who. Once you learned to see past
the code in which it was written, it was just the same kind of harmless, posturing stuff kids of Jenny’s generation used to share at the bus stop. Far from trading secrets, the kids in
Layla’s circle seemed to hide behind carefully constructed personas. Jenny searched hard for evidence of a boyfriend, but found nothing that could be called intimate. Layla seemed to conduct
most of her online conversations with a girl named Nicky Brooks. Nicky’s security settings allowed Jenny to access only basic information, but it was enough to establish that she also lived
in Blackstone Ley. Jenny assumed that she was Darren Brooks’s daughter.
Mandy Hart had opened her account only two months before, and had used it very little. Contrary to all the scare stories that filled the newspapers, Jenny’s
He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Layla was pregnant. Nearly four months. There’s only a slight chance of recovering DNA. You can’t help wondering if it was Ed, and if she was going to tell her
mother.’
‘Does Kelly know?’
‘No. I didn’t hear until after I spoke to her.’
‘That would put it all together,’ Ryan said. ‘I’ll ask around off company time, see if I can turn anything up.’
‘You could just leave that to me,’ Jenny said, giving him a way out.
‘I can’t seem to help myself,’ Ryan responded. ‘Something about this case.’ He glanced off into space. ‘I guess they’re bound to come along.’ He
looked back at Jenny. ‘Do you ever get angry?’
‘All the time.’
‘I’ve never been angry with a dead man before – it’s a peculiar feeling.’
‘Maybe you should talk to someone.’
Ryan smiled, amused at the thought. ‘Maybe I will.’ He got to his feet. ‘See you around.’
As he made his way out, Jenny heard Alison collar him in reception.
‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.’
‘No—’
‘Alison Trent. I used to be DS in Bristol CID before I fetched up here. Spent my last eight years on serious crimes. I was on the team seconded to the Susie Ashton case – Gloucester
didn’t have enough bodies to deal with it on their own.’
‘Right.’ Ryan was showing little enthusiasm for the conversation.
Alison failed to notice. ‘I learned a thing or two about country coppers out there. Nice blokes, clever enough in their own way, but definitely old-school. Not what you’d call
sophisticated.’
Jenny heard Ryan move towards the door.
‘Give my best to Sam Abbott,’ Alison called after him. ‘He could be a right calculating bastard sometimes. Can’t think what he must make of a pretty boy like
you.’
Jenny imagined Ryan giving her a tolerant smile as he walked out of the office and closed the door quietly behind him.
ELEVEN
T HE F ORESTRY C OMMISSION DEPOT WAS a mile northeast of Blackstone Ley, at the end of a lane. It was not
yet four o’clock, but after only a few brief hours of daylight, the countryside was sinking rapidly into another sixteen-hour midwinter night. Jenny eased the Land Rover along the
single-track lane with still more questions accumulating in her mind. She had spent the hour after Ryan’s visit trawling through Ed’s and the two girls’ Facebook histories and had
found no evidence that he was a man who had harboured murderous tendencies. He had posted once or twice each week, mostly with photographs of Robbie, animals he’d spotted out in the woods or
birds that had visited a feeder outside his kitchen window. His few online friends appeared to share similar harmless interests. The only reference Jenny found to violence was a brief account of
his running into a couple of poachers the previous October, one of whom had broken his ankle struggling to haul a deer carcass back to their truck.
Layla’s posts had been more colourful, but from what Jenny could see, all the talk between her and her friends was of meet-ups, parties and who fancied who. Once you learned to see past
the code in which it was written, it was just the same kind of harmless, posturing stuff kids of Jenny’s generation used to share at the bus stop. Far from trading secrets, the kids in
Layla’s circle seemed to hide behind carefully constructed personas. Jenny searched hard for evidence of a boyfriend, but found nothing that could be called intimate. Layla seemed to conduct
most of her online conversations with a girl named Nicky Brooks. Nicky’s security settings allowed Jenny to access only basic information, but it was enough to establish that she also lived
in Blackstone Ley. Jenny assumed that she was Darren Brooks’s daughter.
Mandy Hart had opened her account only two months before, and had used it very little. Contrary to all the scare stories that filled the newspapers, Jenny’s
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