The Scent of Death

Thirteen

Plot reminder: Jennifer has received an anonymous letter containing a geographical coordinate.

*

The problem with suspecting that something is a sick prank is that it might not in fact be a sick prank.

That printed coordinate there on the sheet of paper in my hands, maybe it signified something, was intended as a message. My eyes scanned across it half a dozen times, committed it to memory.

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The voice inside my head was whispered yet insistent: what if that's where Rebecca is buried? Meghan? Oh dear Christ, what if one or both of them are still alive? Are waiting for someone to come and save them?

And even though I strongly suspected that the answer to all those questions  was a resounding no, that the missive had been the work of some bored, pyschologically troubled teenager, wasn't it conceivable - just ever so slightly possible - that the answer to at least one of those questions was yes?

And thus that next hour of my life was a frenetic, heart-pounding one. A desperate, breathless scramble, afraid there might not be a second to lose.

First, I thrust open my laptop, consulted a digital map. Before becoming a cadaver dog handler, I'd known little of these things, the way the nation is divided and calibrated, how the most advanced of GPS systems can accurately indicate a single square metre of terrain. This particular coordinate was the most common type, the six numerical digits indicating an area of a hundred square metres. The initial pair of letters meanwhile represened a much larger grid reference, an area comprised principally of the eastern half of Wynmouthshire. Whatever the exact location of the coordinate, I knew instinctively that it must lay some distance from Meghan and Rebecca's respective hometowns of Woodbridge and Branstead, which were both situated in a different grid to the west. Though this appeared to counter any faint hint of credibility, I quickly discovered that the digits in fact indicated a small wooded area near a back road in the vicinity of the village of Banton Heath. The similarities with the Kayleigh Harrison discovery thus seemed potentially significant.

After swiping a clutch of wet wipes over myself to clear the excess sweat from my recent run, I dragged an unwilling Dudley out to the Renault, promised him it wasn't going to be like last time - those long, monotonous hours cooped up across the  street from Shackell's end terrace. After setting the sat-nav for Banton Heath and tuning the radio to the local station, we duly screeched out of town.

But Lord, those winding single-lane roads of the county were just not designed for a motorist in any kind of a hurry. Snail-paced agricultural vehicles pulling out of junctions just ahead of you. Dithering elderly drivers unshakable in their belief that speed limits were actually half of what was indicated in the road signs.

I don't think I've ever driven so recklessly as that Saturday morning. Aggressive tailgating. Half blind overtaking manouevres with a split second room for error. For that one outing only, I allowed myself to become exactly the sort of motorist I normally shake my head at in disdain, secretly wish will come to an unhappy end. To those horn-beeping drivers in my wake, I just wanted to yell 'I've got my reasons! Believe me, I've got my damn reasons, okay!'

We were about ten miles from Branton Heath when the ghastly 80s electropop on the radio was interrupted by the presenter's uncharacteristically solemn voice:

Reports have just come in that a Branton Heath woman discovered a dead body amongst the undergrowth while walking her dog in some local woods earlier this morning. Though unconfirmed, it is strongly believed that the body is that of thirteen-year-old Rebecca Parkins who was reported missing from her hometown of Branstead on Wednesday afternoon.