Smoke and Mirrors by Elly Griffiths Read Free Book Online Page B

dark outside but the clock on the wall said six-thirty. Edgar unplugged the fire and picked up the receiver. It was a police officer from the station in Hove. An early-morning dog-walker had found two bodies on Devil’s Dyke. He thought they were children.
    Edgar leant back in his chair and let out a long sigh.
    *
    Edgar went to the lock-up garage where the police cars were kept. The street outside had been cleared and there had been no more snow in the night but everything was covered in a fine layer of ice. When he finally got a car out, it skidded almost the length of the road and came to rest by a milk float. The milkman, a hardy figure in an immense sheepskin coat, helped him get the car pointing the right way and Edgar set off, slower this time, keeping to the main roads. It was seven o’clock and the sun was just coming up over the downs.
    He’d rung Bob and Emma and told them the news. ‘Go to the station,’ he’d said. ‘There’s no point in us all trekking up to the Dyke.’ He wondered if he was trying to save them the sight that awaited him.
    Devil’s Dyke was a beauty spot on the outskirts of Hove, a soaring stretch of downland that must have been used as a beacon and gathering place from the days when the first prehistoric farmers started to clear the land. Archaeologists had found remains of an Iron Age hill fort and a Bronze Age cemetery. In Victorian times there had been a funfair and funicular railway. But the Dyke was also a lonely and ill-starred location. The funfair was disused and a grand hotel, built to cater to visitors, had burnt down in 1945. But on this November morning none of these landmarks were visible. The funfair and the hill fort were all buried under the same smooth white counterpane. Only the ruined hotel remained, a glowering presence to the east.
    Two policemen were waiting in the car park and Edgar also recognised the flashy Lagonda owned by Solomon Carter, the police surgeon. He’d called Carter before he’d left but he wondered how he’d got there so quickly.
    One of the policeman saluted sharply, though he looked frozen to death.
    ‘Inspector Stephens? I’m Sergeant Ron Harris. This way.’
    Harris led the way along a track leading to a stile. The path had clearly been used, even in the snow, because it was rutted with footprints, both animal and human. Carter got out of his car and followed. Despite everything, Edgar was still irritated to see that he was wearing a fur coat.
    The bodies were not far away. They were lying in a shallow ditch just off the main track. Edgar could see marks where the dog must have scrabbled in the piled-up snow.
    ‘We sent the dog-walker home,’ said Harris. ‘He was frozen and so was his dog. I got a statement though.’
    ‘Is he local?’
    ‘Yes, he lives up Preston Park way.’
    All this was delaying the inevitable. Edgar knelt and gently pushed away the snow. Harris helped him and, within a few minutes, the bodies lay uncovered. Two children lying as if asleep. Annie’s red hair, shocking against its white pillow. Mark turned towards her as if seeking her protection, his glasses held together with sticking plaster. Edgar heard Carter’s intake of breath and the other policeman blew his noise loudly. Beside him, Harris crossed himself.
    ‘It’s them then?’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘It’s them.’ He didn’t feel close to tears himself. Right at that moment he felt nothing but rage, no less murderous for being calm. He would find the killer and see them hanged. He would do that or die in the attempt.
    ‘Cause of death?’ he turned to Carter.
    The doctor leant forward. ‘I’d say strangulation. It’s hard to tell because the bodies are so cold but look at the marks around her neck.’
    Edgar looked and, as he did so, he saw something else. Something as bright as Annie’s hair, lying just under her curled-up legs. Edgar bent down to look closer.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Harris.
    ‘It’s a stick of Brighton