Page 13 of The Unforgiven

There was also a photo from Vinny, of a specimen jar that was huge, informing me that it would be the size needed.

I deleted that one.

I opened my email while my tea brewed, flicking through the usual system maintenance notifications and a couple of marketing emails about running shoes where I’d mistakenlyentered my works email, plus my official time from yesterday’s five k.

An unknown sender caught my attention.

Atlas7384.

No name came up, but the subject line made me certain it wasn’t spam.

Your foster dad was a head teacher, Mia Bryce.

I sat down, my heart speeding like it had at the end of the parkrun, my head pounding. Very few people knew who I actually was, even fewer knew that McAllister was the name of my foster mother’s first husband, or that my foster dad was the head teacher at my primary school. I didn’t talk about my past, mainly because there was a very big, human shaped problem in the middle of it, that wouldn’t quite stay where it was supposed to.

This email, whoever had sent it, knew who I was and they wanted my attention.

I opened it, slightly wary. Very wary.

Mia,

No malware. No breach.

Attached:

Victim’s social media photo.

CCTV still — near the pub you’re watching.

The camera’s gone. No source to trace.

Image metadata is clean — no EXIF, no GPS, no device ID.

But check the timestamp pattern. You’ll know why.

Do not reply.

—Atlas

(Not your suspect. Just passing it on.)

I put down my phone and finished making the tea which was now slightly stewed. It was still pitch-black outside; the clock’s moving forward lengthening the night. Any arguing had stopped, just the ticking of a clock breaking the silence.

I opened the attachments when I was sat back down, the first a screenshot of our Jane Doe when she was alive and feeling pretty, her hair styled and face made up. She was smiling, and she now had a name.

Chelsea Bainbridge.

Thirty seconds later and I’d found her on social media. She lived in Liverpool, had two kids and clearly hated their dad. Her dirty laundry was hanging out there for anyone to comment, especially her ex who had helpfully thrown a load of abuse at her. I clicked on his name and went to his profile. The first photo was of him and the two kids he shared with Chelsea at a holiday park in the New Forest, dated two days ago, and telling the world how much he loved his kids and how their mum was a bitch and a whore because she hadn’t contacted them since Wednesday.

He was going to find out there was a good reason for that.

I put a pin in anymore investigations around Chelsea’s personal life and opened the second attachment. The image was grainy, but I could make out two people, one probably Chelsea. Only the back was visible of the person she was with; they wore a long, wide coat, down to their ankles, and the hood was up. Impossible to get any identifying features, apart from they looked tall.

I closed the email app and opened my contacts, pressing Malcolm Wrigley’s name and hoping that Pam, his wife, didn’t wake up when his phone started to ring.

It wasn’t that the discovery of the body was a problem, it was more the timing of it because really, they should’ve found Dolly first, but maybe Dolly hadn’t been left in an obvious enough place. He’d said that the police were inept, still using techniques and working theories from more than half a century ago, that their understanding of psychology and neuroscience was stuck there, lead boots in sinking sand, and really, if being caught was the objective then being obvious was necessary.

But being obvious wasn’t really on the agenda. The agenda was following what instinct said, which was righting a wrong and remembering what they’d done.