to a tarpaulin about fifty metres to the left of the pit, stretched over a mound, the bottom layer of which was partly visible. Smaller, freshly dug pits ringed the pithead and continued down to the JCB. She could just about make out signs on the fences, scarlet danger notices. They looked new. The pathologist caught her glance.
‘Another couple of days we wouldn’t have found either of them. This whole place is due to be levelled. The MoD want it as a firing range, apparently.’
A volley of barks rang out not far from the pit. There were shouts from the other dog handlers. Some of them were still making their way across into the wood beyond.
Cat followed the line of handlers with her eyes. A narrow track of bare earth wound through the long grass. The land was sloping steadily upwards. A building stood perched at the top of a drop, back towards the road where Cat had parked her bike. Its shape was barn-like, but it had several windows, all on the upper storey. It looked as if it had once been associated with the pit in some way, possibly a foreman’s cottage.
From up close, the place seemed to have been designed back to front, the house facing into the woods. It sat snugly on the edge of the drop, a small gated garden claimed from the wildness. The gate was padlocked. The windows were covered by iron grilles despite their height, and the curtains were all drawn.
Cat jumped the gate. The top had been rimmed with broken glass to deter trespassers. A concrete path led round the back of the house. There were some arrow-slit windows, not visible from the other side. The glass was opaque, revealing the outline of a bottle of toilet cleaner on a shelf inside.
She stepped off the path, picked up one of the large stones that lay on the grass verge. She spun round to see a figure looming behind her. Thomas. He had followed through the trees. He could move pretty fast still.
She threw the stone through the window, clearing the glass away with the sleeve of her jacket before clambering up. The sound of the search dogs was closer now as they headed to the house.
She knocked the toilet duck to the floor, stepped over the cistern onto the seat and then to the floor. She opened the bathroom door and saw a short passageway leading to the front entrance. The door had been fitted with several heavy dead-locks.
The first room was entirely empty, the other contained a three-seater sofa and two battered armchairs. The arms of the sofa leaked stuffing. A coffee table bore the marks of countless mugs, a thin covering of dust mingled with cigarette ash.
Cat left the room and walked to the far end of the passageway, glancing through an open door into the kitchen. She flipped on the harsh strip light. The worktops were piled with pizza cartons; an empty vodka bottle, the same brand as the empties at the tunnel, lay on its side on the lino floor. A plastic ashtray from the Owain Glyndwr overflowed with butts.
Cat heard Thomas behind her, his breathing ragged after the climb through the window. She looked round at him.
‘What is this place? There seems a lot of security.’
‘Holiday cottage. Owner died. It’s been locked up since.’ He sniffed the stale air. ‘The lad who ID’d the Moses girl said she came up here sometimes when she wasn’t working. Looks like it was another teen drinking hole.’
Cat pointed to a small pile of clothes in the corner of the kitchen, woollies and socks topped by a hairbrush, some Dove moisturiser, and a pink make-up bag embossed with a cartoon image: Betty Boop.
‘Same socks as with Nia’s stuff, and the same cheap vodka.’
They moved over towards the shelf. Thomas stared at the objects intently. Cat rifled through the pile of clothes, pulled out a grey T-shirt, the logo of the College of Music and Drama on the front. Beneath the logo, just above the T-shirt’s ribbed bottom, was a rusty stain the size of a clenched fist.
She put it to her nose, thought she caught the metallic whiff of
‘Another couple of days we wouldn’t have found either of them. This whole place is due to be levelled. The MoD want it as a firing range, apparently.’
A volley of barks rang out not far from the pit. There were shouts from the other dog handlers. Some of them were still making their way across into the wood beyond.
Cat followed the line of handlers with her eyes. A narrow track of bare earth wound through the long grass. The land was sloping steadily upwards. A building stood perched at the top of a drop, back towards the road where Cat had parked her bike. Its shape was barn-like, but it had several windows, all on the upper storey. It looked as if it had once been associated with the pit in some way, possibly a foreman’s cottage.
From up close, the place seemed to have been designed back to front, the house facing into the woods. It sat snugly on the edge of the drop, a small gated garden claimed from the wildness. The gate was padlocked. The windows were covered by iron grilles despite their height, and the curtains were all drawn.
Cat jumped the gate. The top had been rimmed with broken glass to deter trespassers. A concrete path led round the back of the house. There were some arrow-slit windows, not visible from the other side. The glass was opaque, revealing the outline of a bottle of toilet cleaner on a shelf inside.
She stepped off the path, picked up one of the large stones that lay on the grass verge. She spun round to see a figure looming behind her. Thomas. He had followed through the trees. He could move pretty fast still.
She threw the stone through the window, clearing the glass away with the sleeve of her jacket before clambering up. The sound of the search dogs was closer now as they headed to the house.
She knocked the toilet duck to the floor, stepped over the cistern onto the seat and then to the floor. She opened the bathroom door and saw a short passageway leading to the front entrance. The door had been fitted with several heavy dead-locks.
The first room was entirely empty, the other contained a three-seater sofa and two battered armchairs. The arms of the sofa leaked stuffing. A coffee table bore the marks of countless mugs, a thin covering of dust mingled with cigarette ash.
Cat left the room and walked to the far end of the passageway, glancing through an open door into the kitchen. She flipped on the harsh strip light. The worktops were piled with pizza cartons; an empty vodka bottle, the same brand as the empties at the tunnel, lay on its side on the lino floor. A plastic ashtray from the Owain Glyndwr overflowed with butts.
Cat heard Thomas behind her, his breathing ragged after the climb through the window. She looked round at him.
‘What is this place? There seems a lot of security.’
‘Holiday cottage. Owner died. It’s been locked up since.’ He sniffed the stale air. ‘The lad who ID’d the Moses girl said she came up here sometimes when she wasn’t working. Looks like it was another teen drinking hole.’
Cat pointed to a small pile of clothes in the corner of the kitchen, woollies and socks topped by a hairbrush, some Dove moisturiser, and a pink make-up bag embossed with a cartoon image: Betty Boop.
‘Same socks as with Nia’s stuff, and the same cheap vodka.’
They moved over towards the shelf. Thomas stared at the objects intently. Cat rifled through the pile of clothes, pulled out a grey T-shirt, the logo of the College of Music and Drama on the front. Beneath the logo, just above the T-shirt’s ribbed bottom, was a rusty stain the size of a clenched fist.
She put it to her nose, thought she caught the metallic whiff of
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