The Drowning Ground Read Online Free Page A

lady’s dog found it. She told me that the moment she let her dog off his lead, he went racing up the hill like a demon. He must have sniffed out the body. And when she got to the top, Jacky was there, wagging his tail like mad and sniffing at it.’ Varley shot the dog an indignant look.
    I wrapped my coat more tightly round my body before glancing up at the hill rising in the distance beyond the gate. ‘Apart from Dr Brewin and his team, anybody else been up and tried to get in?’
    â€˜Only a couple. Villagers with their dogs. The hill’s a popular run for them, so I told them there had been an accident. And sent them home.’
    â€˜Good,’ I said. ‘Keep on telling them that.’
    At the far end of a garden, by the side of the path, was a neat-looking cottage. It was very cold outside. I looked at Varley. His jacket was splattered with mud. He had a long day ahead of him; we all did.
    â€˜Dr Brewin probably told you this already,’ I said, watching Varley carefully. ‘But I’m going to tell you again just in case. No one is to go past that gate without his say so. No one. It’s his crime scene for now, and he decides who comes in and who doesn’t. So you radio in every time anyone tries to get access. And I mean anyone. Okay?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ Varley said. ‘But your…’ He paused before saying, ‘Well … your sergeant asked me to tell you to enter the field from the garden over there.’ Varley pointed to the garden that ran along the side of the path. ‘He’s informed the owner and he’s given orders that everyone is to go through that way, sir, so as not to disturb the path into the field.’
    There was a brief moment of confusion. In my mind the image that flashed before me was of Powell. But then I remembered. Powell was sick. Really sick.
    â€˜Oh. He has, has he?’ I said, my eyes looking towards the small field on the other side.
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜And I’m to take the other way, am I?’
    â€˜That’s what he said.’
    I grunted and looked down the path. A member of the forensic team was getting some pictures of the mud just below the bottom of the stile at the other end. Nearby was a sign erected by the field’s ungracious owner that read: THE FIELD IS NOT HERE FOR THE BENEFIT OF WALKERS . Someone, probably the village wag, had crossed out the word ‘not’ with a felt-tip pen.
    I patted the dog one more time and strode towards the garden, sensing eyes watching me. I looked right, beyond the small neat garden and into the kitchen of the cottage, where a pale-looking boy, still dressed in his Spider-Man pyjamas, was staring at me. I gave him a wave and, as if against his better judgement, he waved back.

4
    Meon Hill had once been the site of an Iron Age settlement, and wide, corrugated ridges undulated all the way across it. Black hedgerows surrounded the fields, and at the top a handful of ancient oak trees clustered around the hill’s crest. I had glimpsed the hill rising on the horizon from time to time from my car, but I had never actually been there before. It was quiet and empty and somehow mournful too.
    I trudged across the ridges of the field; the mud clung to my boots in large wet clumps. I dug my gloved hands deeper into my pockets as I walked, already dreaming of warmer climes. The cold is something that I have never been able to get used to. It reaches deep into my bones, and, no matter how many layers of clothing I put on, the wind slips beneath them. Scarves, mittens, gloves and hats seem to serve no purpose at all for me. The cold shakes and rattles the teeth in my head so badly that sometimes I can hardly think or even breathe, and every winter without fail I always end up in bed with a damned lousy cold or flu for a week, no use to anyone. And in the winter it is always so dark out here in the country. You’d think I’d be used to it by