![]() ![]() ‘Certainly sounds like it,’ he said, speaking for the first time. ![]() When he sniffed the air, he noticed only one smell: trouble.Detective Sergeant Heather Jenkins, her wild black hair tied back in a ponytail, fell in beside him as they crossed the road towards the church.‘It’s a nasty one, sir.’ Her strong Lancastrian accent flattened the vowel of her final word.Foster nodded. But Foster was in no mood to be optimistic. ![]() In less than two hours the sun would be up and the late-March day would begin. Despite the frosty tang in the air and the last blustery breaths of the fierce wind that had blown all night, a mild warmth hinted at the first signs of spring. He cracked his knuckles and sniffed the cold air.Dawn was approaching over London and the sound of traffic on the distant Westway was evolving to a constant drone as early workers joined late-night stragglers on the road. Arriving at a murder scene had been one of those occasions when he would habitually spark up part of a ritual, a summoning of will. Even though he had stopped smoking six months ago he felt a pang for nicotine. ![]() 1Detective Chief Inspector Grant Foster, stiff from lack of sleep, dragged his tall, weary frame from his brand-new Toyota Corolla, feeling the familiar ache of being hauled from his bed in the middle of the night. ![]()
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