CHAPTER 1

On nights when pain kept her awake, Lorraine Jensonwould get up around dawn and go outside to sit on oneof the wicker chairs before anyone else in the center wasstirring. With a tartan blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keepout the early-morning chill, she would listen to the birds sing as sheenjoyed a cup of Earl Grey, the aromatic steam curling from itssurface, its light, delicious scent filling her nostrils. She would smokeher first cigarette of the day, always the best one.

Some mornings, the small artificial lake below the sloping lawn wascovered in mist, which shrouded the trees on the other side. Othertimes, the water was a still, dark mirror that reflected the detail ofevery branch and leaf perfectly. On this fine April morning, the lakewas clear, though the water's surface was ruffled by a cool breeze, andthe reflections wavered.

Lorraine felt her pain slough off like a layer of dead skin as the painkillers kicked in, and the tea and cigarette soothed her frayed nerves.She placed her mug on the low wrought iron table beside her chairand adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. She was facing south,and the sun was creeping over the hill through the trees on her left.Soon the spell would be broken. She would hear the sounds of peoplegetting up in the building behind her, voices calling, doors opening,showers running, toilets flushing, and another day to be got throughwould begin.

As the light grew stronger, she thought she could see something,like a bundle of clothes, on the ground at the edge of the woods onthe far side of the lake. That was unusual, as Barry, the head groundsmanand general estate manager, was proud of his artificial lake andhis natural woodlands, so much so that some people complained hespent far more time down there than he did keeping the rest of theextensive grounds neat and tidy.

Lorraine squinted, but she couldn't bring the object into clearerfocus. Her vision was still not quite what it had been. Gripping thearms of her chair, she pushed herself to her feet, gritting her teeth atthe red hot pokers of pain that seared through her left leg, despite theOxycontin, then she took hold of her crutch and made her way downthe slope. The grass was still wet with dew, and she felt it fresh andcool on her bare ankles as she walked.

When she got to the water's edge, she took the cinder path thatskirted the lake and soon arrived on the other side, at the edge of thewoods, which began only a few feet away from the water. Even beforethen, she had recognized what it was that lay huddled there. Thoughshe had seen dead bodies before, she had never actually stumbledacross one. She was alone with the dead now, for the first time sinceshe had stood by her father's coffin in the funeral home.

Lorraine held her breath. Silence. She thought she heard a rustlingdeep in the woods, and a shiver of fear rippled through her. If thebody were a victim of murder, then the killer might still be out there,watching her. She remained completely still for about a minute, untilshe was certain there was nobody in the woods. She heard the rustlingagain and saw a fox making its way through the undergrowth.

Now that she was at the scene, Lorraine's training kicked in. Shewas wary of disturbing anything, so she kept her distance. Much asshe wanted to move in closer and examine the body, see if it wassomeone she knew, she restrained herself. There was nothing shecould do, she told herself; the way he - for it was definitely a man - waskneeling with his body bent forward, head touching the groundlike a parody of a Muslim at prayer, there was no way he was still alive.The best thing she could do was stay here and protect the scene.Murder or not, it was definitely a suspicious death, and whatever shedid, she could not screw up now. Cursing the pain that rippled throughher leg whenever she moved, Lorraine fumbled for her mobile in herjeans pocket and phoned Eastvale police station.

There was something about Bach that suited the early morningperfectly, DCI Alan Banks thought as he drove out of Gratly towardthe St. Peter's Police Convalescence and Treatment Center, four milesnorth of Eastvale, shortly after dawn that morning. He needed somethingto wake him up and keep his attention engaged, get the old graycells buzzing, but nothing too loud, nothing too jarring or emotionallytaxing. Alina Ibragimova's CD of Bach's sonatas and partitas for violinwas just right. Bach both soothed and stimulated the mind at once.Banks knew St. Peter's. He had visited Annie Cabbot there severaltimes during her recent convalescence. Just a few short months ago hehad seen her in tears trying to walk on crutches, and now she was dueback at work on Monday. He was looking forward to that; life hadbeen dull for the past while without her.

He took the first exit from the roundabout and drove alongside thewall for about a hundred yards before arriving at the arched entranceand turning left on the tarmac drive. There was no gate or gatehouse,but the first officers to arrive on the scene had quite rightly taped offthe area. A young PC waved Banks down to check his ID and note hisname and time of entry on a clipboard before lifting the tape andletting him through.

Driving up to the car park was like arriving at a luxury spa hotel,Banks had always thought when he visited Annie. It was no differenttoday. St. Peter's presented a broad south facing facade at the top ofthe rise that led down to the lake and surrounding woods. Designedby a firm of Leeds architects, with Vanbrugh in mind, and built oflocal stone in the late nineteenth century, it was three stories high andhad a flagged portico, complete with simple Doric columns at thefront and two wings, east and west. Though not so extensive as someother local examples, the grounds were landscaped very much in thestyle and spirit of Capability Brown, with the lake and woods androlling lawns. There was even a folly. To the west, beyond the treesand lawns, the outlines of Swainsdale's hills and fells could be seen,forming a backdrop of what the Japanese called borrowed scenery,which merged nature with art.

The forensic team had got there before Banks, which seemed odduntil he remembered that a detective inspector had made the initialcall. Kitted out in disposable white coveralls, they were already goingabout their business. The crime scene photographer, Peter Darby, wasat work with his battered old Nikon SLR and his ultramodern digitalvideo recorder. Most So Cos - or CSIs, as they now liked to becalled - also took their own digital photos and videos when theysearched a scene, but though Peter Darby accepted the use of video, heshunned digital photography as being far too susceptible to tamperingand error. It made him a bit of a dinosaur, and one or two of theyounger techies cracked jokes behind his back. He could counter byboasting that he had never had any problems with his evidence incourt, and he had never lost an image because of computer problems.DI Lorraine Jenson, a lone, hunched figure resting her weight on acrutch by the water's edge and jotting in her notebook, stood withtwo other people about five or six yards away from the body. Banksknew her slightly from a case he had worked a few months ago thatcrossed the border into Humberside, where she worked. Not long ago,he had heard, she'd had a run-in with a couple of drug dealers in atower block, which ended with her falling from a second-floor balcony.She had sustained multiple fractures of her left leg, but aftersurgery, the cast...