The Scorched Earth Read online

  THE

  SCORCHED

  EARTH

  ALSO BY RACHAEL BLOK

  Under the Ice

  THE

  SCORCHED

  EARTH

  RACHAEL BLOK

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Rachael Blok, 2019

  The moral right of Rachael Blok to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781788548038

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781788548045

  ISBN (E): 9781788548021

  Cover photograph: Katya Evdokimova © Arcangel

  Cover design: Leah Jacobs-Gordon

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Mum and Dad, with love

  Contents

  Also by Rachael Blok

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Prologue

  Two Years Earlier

  ‘Leo!’ The scream catches the wind and flies eastwards, outwards, over the sea.

  But he is nowhere.

  ‘Leo!’

  Thick, foetid, clogged blood; sticky, soaking.

  ‘Leo! Leo!’

  Ben is alone. Rainwater runs through a hole in the tent; the tarpaulin ripped, broken; and he lies drenched, red and wanting. His hands, shaking, fumble with the zip.

  The horizon lies flat, hazy with morning mist.

  Leo is gone.

  Secrets swim. Even buried – beneath rocks, rubble, sand – they find their way. Minutes, weeks, years… burying them papers over the cracks, a temporary fix. At some point they float upwards, looking for the light. Once out, frying in the sun, their form changes, and they blossom.

  They bloat.

  1

  Wednesday 13th June

  ANA

  The earth is hard. The garden parched; cracked and faded, its colours leached and bled.

  Every morning, too early, the sun wakes her, burning in from the east. Will not be ignored. They’re both thirsty from the run. Jam with her tongue hanging out. Ana feels like doing the same.

  Bare feet on the yellow grass, it’s barely 7 a.m. and already the ground burns like coals. The light is hot on Ana’s face; she closes her eyes to it, turning towards it. So many hot days without a break. She’s already singed.

  There had been a storm last night. She was sure there would be some sign of it but it barely registers. The wind is the only force to leave a trace. The dry leaves have been knocked from their branches; the bins are tilted or fallen, rubbish splayed and rotting. A glass left out on the patio has smashed. Its shards catch the light of the morning sun. Their edges flash with the early heat; Ana shivers.

  Jam barks at her feet, then runs to scratch at the compost heap. She’s Ana’s shadow on her morning run. The dogs all get their walks early now, their paws burning on the ground once it approaches midday. Jam has been shorn, like a sheep. Her golden coat is cropped close. Her tongue lolls and pants, and Ana imagines she can see the steam rising from it.

  ‘Kettle on?’

  The voice of her mother rattles through the windows Ana had opened on coming downstairs. The pub smell, with its morning belch, is too much for her first thing. Coming home, an unwanted surprise in itself, offers its familiar scent without request, telling of weariness, of one drink too many, like an uncle with bad breath in an unwashed jumper.

  ‘Coffee? Here.’ Her mother lands a mug on the bar as Ana ducks under the low stone doorway. Her mother is pushing up her sleeves in her faded tartan shirt. She’s wearing Marigolds.

  ‘Mum, the cleaner is starting this morning. You don’t need to do in here.’

  ‘Ana, love. I’ve cleaned this bar at 7 a.m. for thirty years, and a bit of—’

  ‘Mum, look, she’s here.’ Ana opens the door, watching Jess arrive in flared jeans and rainbow T-shirt, smiling at the sixty-year-old; her hair catches the sun, the purple tinge from a dye grown out glinting, and the rest fading upwards into a soft grey.

  Her mum looks nervous as she smiles, ready for Jess, who shouts, ‘Bye, love,’ outside the open window, in answer to the male voice saying, ‘See you later, Mum’. The back doors of a white van are visible through the window.

  It must be hard for her mum, handing the reins to someone else. But watching her mother wince when she stands after scrubbing, pull her shoulders with a grimace – well, Ana had insisted. She can see the cracks in her mother. She’s grown brittle, like the earth.

  Ana needs to be useful. Now she’s here.

  ‘I’ll get started then. This for me? Ta.’ Jess picks up Ana’s coffee and takes a drink.

  Ana catches her mother’s eye and they smile.

  ‘Got police out already I see, up at the temple graveyard.’

  ‘Police?’ Ana asks quickly.

  ‘Yes, I got Charlie to stop the van and I asked on my way past. A
nyway, the police are there for something to do with a body, I’m guessing. Sunny Atkinson was there. I know his mum. Said I wasn’t to say anything as he’s not supposed to talk about it. Got his police gear on and all that, but I’ve known him since nappies.’

  ‘A body? What? Someone’s died?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing.’ Jess leans in for a second, hand on the wooden bar, cloths hung over the real ale handles, ice buckets empty and upended. ‘It’s not just someone’s died. Seems someone’s gone and been buried. In a new grave. Done it in the night. Not supposed to be there is what Sunny says. Someone’s put a body in a grave what they’ve dug themselves. Must’ve been hard in that wind. I wouldn’t have wanted to hang around a graveyard in that.’ She leans out and reaches for the bucket, shuddering.

  ‘Who is it?’ Ana’s mum leans over the bar, mug in hand. ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘Well, ain’t that the thing. They don’t know. Sunny tells me it’s not a new body. Looks like it’s been dead a while. No question, right queer affair.’

  Ana leans back, thankful for the white stone wall, solid, behind her.

  She sees her mother look over, the glee of gossip gone from her eyes.

  ‘But is there any sign of who put it there? Of why they’d bury an old body?’ There must be some betrayal of emotion in Ana’s tone. She’d tried to keep it steady, but Jess glances her way.

  Jess knows. The village knows. Everyone knows.

  Changing tack, shifting the weight from hip to hip, Jess halts, stands, looking at Ana properly. She fingers the edge of the mop handle gently, dips her eyes down, and her volume. Her fingernails are short, with chipped dark-blue paint, and she wears a black Casio watch, the kind you can buy from the market in town. Ana watches the blink of the screen as the seconds flash by.

  ‘Now, I know nothing else.’ Jess’s tone is softer. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken. I’m sure it’s… Well, I’m sure whatever it is will clear itself up quickly.’ She catches Ana’s eye and smiles.

  Fay Seabrook brings another mug of coffee and presses it into Ana’s hands. ‘Here, love. Sit down. I know what you’re hoping for, but if there’s anything to know, the police will call.’

  ‘It’s not just me. It’s more if Ben sees it, if it’s on the news before I know anything, and I’d want to be the first one to—’

  ‘If there’s anything to say,’ her mum breaks in, ‘then the police will say it.’

  Ana’s hands shake as she drinks.

  ‘Another bit of news.’ Jess’s voice breaks in with cleaning, the beats of her speech landing with each sweep of the mop. ‘Fabian Irvine is due back in the village. Flying in from America.’ She breathes America, like it’s made of gold.

  Still thinking of the grave, of the body, that it might be… Ana doesn’t feel her mother’s fingers dig into her wrist until the nails meet her skin and the words follow, entering through the hairline indents.

  Her mother sits next to her on the window seat, ready to bear her weight, her back straight.

  ‘Fabian Irvine? Back in Ayot?’ It’s her mother who asks the question. Her grip remains like steel.

  ‘Not yet. You’re hosting his parents’ anniversary party here, aren’t you?’

  Fay nods, slowly. ‘Yes, in a few weeks. They didn’t think Fabian could make it. He’s busy over there, I hear. Got some new single out or something, his mum said. He produces a few big names now. The party is quite small.’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard he’s booked some tickets as a late surprise. Be good to have him back for a bit. Used to be a flame of yours, I remember?’ This last bit comes with a wink, sent to Ana as an appeasement.

  Her mother’s grip is cold and firm. But it keeps her in the room. Keeps her from crying out.

  ‘It was a while ago, nothing serious.’ Her mother answers for her. Answers lightly.

  The heat of the room creeps in, tying its knots.

  Lying back, Ana rests her head on the window and allows her eyes to close. Jam comes up and licks her leg. Her dry tongue rasps, warm. And she reaches out, stroking what remains of Jam’s silky blonde hair.

  The coffee sits untouched as she thinks of Fabian Irvine in one sharp breath and of Ben in the other, waking to the news of an unidentified body discovered in an unmarked grave.

  The heat of the dry sun has made its way into the bar. Its blanket smothers her.

  2

  Wednesday 13th June

  MAARTEN

  ‘Here’s the water you asked for, sir.’

  Sunny is by Maarten’s side, passing out paper cups to an already overheated team. Adrika kneels in the dirt. It’s brittle and crumbling, despite the storm.

  The graveyard lies in an arc in front of the Palladian church. Nicknamed ‘the temple’ by the locals, its pillars maintain their cold against the burn of the sun; surrounded by the flurry of the crime scene, already sweating. Fingers hot in plastic gloves; equipment slippery to oily hands.

  ‘Adrika, drink. It’s hot. Only getting hotter.’ The heat has crawled under his skin and it’s barely 9.30 a.m.; the call centre had received a 101 call around 5 a.m., from a runner who had seen the grave. He was on the committee for the temple and graves here are fought for tooth and nail. His tone had been outraged rather than concerned: ‘…and they think they can just bury anyone they like…’

  Niamh had been in charge of the call centre and had set in motion the crime scene. She’d called him personally. ‘Sorry, Maarten, but so many are on holiday, and the SIO on call this morning has come down with food poisoning after last night’s curry. Is there someone else I should call?’

  Adrika, newly promoted to DI, could have run it. But it would have been her first one. He’s planned to begin and then step back; she’s assisted as SIO previously and is ready for the step up.

  She steps forward, just off the phone. ‘Forensics are set up and have finished the area sweep. They’re going to start the body evacuation now.’

  Maarten nods, wincing. The runner had kicked back some of the fresh dirt that morning when he’d seen the mound of earth. Part of a skeleton had appeared. It had been the size of the mound and the length of bone that had led the PC, first on site, to raise the status to SOCO. It’s not unheard of for some people to bury their pets in graveyards. But the unearthed suspected human bone had killed that theory.

  ‘Let me know when the pathologist is doing the first look,’ he says.

  ‘Only a skeleton, so it’ll be tricky to tell much. Takes a month, doesn’t it, for the flesh to start to decay?’ Adrika looks over to where the ground has been divided into grids. A tent has been set up. ‘They seem to be taking longer today.’

  ‘No immediate threat of rain, so the DNA is fairly stable. And it’s even hotter. Come on, I can see Robyn. She must be on today.’ He heads over to the grave, swallowing bile. Decomposition: autolysis, bloat, active decay, skeletonization. He knows the stages, but discussing the disintegration of once-warm flesh… The sense of death lies in the heat heavily, not dispersing. Decay is dense in the thick air.

  It’s buried quite deep, given the hardness of the ground. About half a foot.

  Pausing, he hunkers down, prodding the earth with his fingers. ‘It must have been a difficult job,’ he says. He’s far enough away from the site to avoid contamination, and he scratches the earth with his fingernail, feeling his nail pull back against the pink skin. His hands are raw with blisters from a bike ride at the weekend. The heat creates friction everywhere. ‘Someone wanted it buried here, knowing we’d just dig it straight up. A lot of effort.’

  ‘How long do you think it took them to dig the hole?’ Adrika asks, only half aloud. ‘Maybe there was more than one?’

  ‘It’s deep enough to have been carefully planned. Whoever dug this must have used more than a simple spade. And the body. Why bury a skeleton? It seems so pronounced,’ he says, thinking the word is wrong but is halfway there. Maybe announced would be better. A body has been announced. But so much effort for a body so long de
ad…

  ‘Maarten.’ Robyn rises, wiping her brow with the back of her forearm, her American accent as thick as the heat. Her black hair, streaked with grey, is tightly braided and the tiny plaits curve in a sweep, caught up in a knot. Her arms move gently, like she’s on stage, unassumingly elegant. She holds his attention by appearing to rebuff it.

  ‘They’ve lifted all the dirt,’ she says, gesturing in a sweep to the bags disappearing. ‘Tell you something interesting, it’s not dirt from round here. It’s more dense – some texture in it, almost like clay. It will need looking into. Taj is CSM on this one, I spoke to him earlier – he said he’ll prioritise the soil analysis. If this body has been somewhere else then you’ll need to know where. Check with him once Forensics get going – oh, look, as if on cue.’

  Maarten glances left, smiling at the tall man, head down, tapping on an iPad. He speaks to the team clearing the bags as he passes, gesturing left then right ahead of them.

  ‘Let’s start, y’all,’ Robyn calls, bending her frame easily, as though practising yoga. She must be at least ten years older than Maarten, but he hears his knees crack as he bends. It’s the cycling, he thinks, forgiving himself.

  His jacket is off and the hairs on his forearms are bleached lighter by the sun. Next to him, Robyn’s skin glistens like she wears crushed diamonds.

  Maarten hunkers further, following her example as she leans over the body, his height making it hard to balance.

  ‘A skeleton, and I can’t begin to guess yet at when the death took place, but we can see from the broken bones around the chest area that there has been some trauma. I would say it’s been a violent death, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a knife was involved. Hair and teeth missing, trauma to the jawbone suggesting the teeth have been removed deliberately, and something else interesting – the distal phalanx, here – look at the tip.’

  She indicates gently to a finger bone, quiet with reverence for the dead, and Maarten peers, tipping forward slightly as he leans. Anxious not to fall into the grave, he puts a finger down to steady himself in one of the marked grids of ground and Taj frowns.