3. The Cockle-Eye Killer
The podcast began with a harsh piano note, clanging discordantly, followed by a man's low, deliberate voice.
"They say the eyes are the window to the soul." A beat of silence. "So what does it mean to have your eyes torn out and replaced with something as cold, hard and unblinking as a cockle shell?"
Sally's grip tightened on the wheel and a faint briny taste touched the back of her throat.
A truck blasted past on the opposite lane, rocking the Mustang and blinding the windshield with a deluge of spray.
"Dungeness was an area used to burying its secrets, until one washed in on the tide that could not be hidden, ultimately destroying countless lives; a young man, found on the shingle at dawn, with cockle shells pressed neatly into his empty eye sockets.
The body was discovered by a local dog walker, who later said… "
A woman's reedy voice, recorded decades ago, crackled through the speakers:
"…he looked like he was staring right through me. Those shells, like he was trying to see into my soul. I still dream about it. Nightmares, more like."
"The investigation began but soon stumbled," the narrator returned.
"Witnesses contradicted each other. Evidence went missing.
Some say the authorities didn't want the Dungeness reactors tarnished.
Others whisper about the ghosts of the Owlers; smugglers wreaking their revenge on a more ordered world that left them behind.
But one truth is indisputable. Somewhere between the fishermen, the criminals, the artists and the drifters…
a pitiless killer slipped through the cracks. "
Sally swallowed and hit pause.
For several moments she just drove, a knot of anger swelling in her chest. The narrator was wringing out every drop of melodrama and it pissed her off.
She hit dial and called her partner, Liam O'Connell. The phone rang then went to voicemail.
"Liam. En route to Dungeness now." She paused a moment, wondering if there was any point saying more. "See you down there."
She ended the call and pushed the pedal down.
After the intensity of Dark Peak, she'd thought they'd grown closer.
But now there was a distance. Maybe it was the mountain of paperwork they faced every day.
Maybe it was her side investigation into the Lincolnshire spree killer; she'd hinted at it numerous times, but he'd never once offered to help.
Now they felt like strangers within the partnership, hardly trusting each other at all.
She restarted the podcast, making mental notes of key details.
The original victim's name was Tom Richter, discovered at dawn at the high tide ‘strand line' on Dungeness beach, just below Reactor A.
DI Mercer, a Rye cop assigned to the case, told the podcasters he'd felt something was off with the investigation but couldn't explain why.
The DCI in charge of it all, Robert Stewart, committed suicide three weeks after the investigation started, for reasons linked to the stress of the case.
They had ex-DI Mercer on audio; he sounded older, wiser, perhaps careworn.
"Frankly, I wouldn't like to speak about Rob's death.
It's too painful. He was like a father to me, took me under his wing as a young DI.
I'm not from around these parts, but thanks to him I started to feel like I belonged.
It's a beautiful, historic place; kind of like the whole country's here, in microcosm. "
The narrator continued, and occasionally sentences snagged in Sally's mind: the marshes as an otherworldly wild space; the ear-like stature of the old Royal Air Force sound mirrors; the drowned village of Broomhill, lost five centuries earlier in the rising marsh waters.
The miles slipped by and the green Kent landscape flattened steadily into the flatness of Romney Marsh.
There were fields and homes, then reed-swollen waters lying dark beneath a leaden sky.
She passed through the village of Lydd: a scattering of homes with shingle yards; a café with a faded sign for cockle barm cakes; a village museum in an old red-brick fire station; a worn three-story hotel called the Albion.
After Lydd, the marsh transformed into a deserted expanse of gray gravel spiked with odd metal scaffolds.
The sea was a gray smear on the horizon, interrupted by three huge rectangular structures, like giant Lego blocks dropped across the horizon, visible for miles.
A branch road to the right proclaimed: ‘Dungeness Power Station – Private Road. '
She turned in. The road stretched over shingle and scrubby dunes to a large fence, guarded on the left by a tall black lighthouse and a security booth on the right. Three security officers in yellow hi-vis jackets manned the station, and two came out to meet her.
Sally clicked off the podcast and withdrew her badge.
"Good morning," the first officer said briskly, a man with deep lines in his face, as if carved by the sea. He scrutinized her badge, her face, then checked his tablet and spoke into his shoulder-mounted radio.
"What's the problem?" Sally asked.
"No problem," the man said flatly. "Standard security applies. Open your boot, please."
Sally pushed the button and the trunk catch released. The other officer went around and studied the contents, then came back around holding two items: a silver metal baseball bat and a spray canister.
"Why do you have these?" he asked.
"I play baseball."
The man frowned and held up the canister. "And this?"
"It's called Farb-gel. It's for personal protection, and it's perfectly legal. Fires a stream of red gel to obstruct an attacker's eyes. It's basically silly string."
The man read the canister. "We'll confiscate both. You can reclaim them when you leave."
Sally knew better than to argue. "Fine."
Next the second officer searched the rear seats and glove box with a penlight, then rolled over an under-vehicle inspection mirror, checking the Mustang on all sides before approaching his colleague at the window again.
"All clear. You want to sign for the canister?"
"I'll trust you. Can you open the gate now, please?"
The man signaled to the booth and the gate opened. Sally rolled through. The power station loomed over her; three hulking windowless structures. A single tall chimney rose at the side, venting steam.
A fourth officer waved her into a ‘STAFF' parking lot around the compound's left side. Figures in bright orange construction gear were passing through a tented entryway leading into the scaffold encasing Reactor A.
Shift change, Sally figured, and parked by the fence, next to an ambulance and a coroner's van. She wrestled on her black down jacket then stepped out of the Mustang. The salty sea wind lashed her, needling through her jacket and into her still-wet running gear.
Another pair of security officers at the fence checked her ID again.
She surveyed the lot while they conferred.
Several workers gazed down from the scaffold.
Dozens of CCTV cameras stood on posts. Then the officers waved her through.
She scrambled up a steep mound of shingle and skidded down onto the beach.
The sea was far out, maybe 100 yards away, with the body in the middle distance, encircled by police tape and figures: officers walking a search grid; manning the tape line; speaking to an older civilian woman.
A paramedic was sealing up a plastic case by the body, near a crime-scene photographer and a woman wearing an immaculate tan greatcoat.
It had to be DCI Gloria Mayhew.
She looked up and met eyes with Sally, then came over to meet her.
"Officer Rogers, you've beaten our Crime Scene Manager." Her voice was as sharp and cutting as her features: angular nose, piercing brown eyes, a severe bob resisting all effort by the wind to free errant hairs.
"DCI Mayhew," Rogers said. "I was at a dawn run nearby. Here to help in any way I can."
"I welcome NCA assistance," Mayhew answered. Her gaze lingered on Sally's mud-streaked legs and the glimpse of purple race vest under her jacket. "But I did not expect you so casually dressed."
By contrast Mayhew's jacket was impeccable, not a copper button out of place. "I came direct. No time to check how I look in the mirror. I hope that's not a problem."
"So do I. Let me offer a robust caution at this point, Officer, as your reputation precedes you. The last thing this case needs is a press lightning rod. Appearing disheveled at any stage is unacceptable."
Sally's eyes narrowed. "I completely agree, DCI. If you prefer, I can go book in at a hotel, purchase fresh clothing and be back in perhaps two hours. Maybe your CSM will be here by then." She let that hang for a moment. "Or we can overlook attire for the moment and focus on catching a killer."
Mayhew's gaze simmered. "Two things. First, we're treating this death as suspicious pending forensic confirmation. No predetermination of murder. And second, drop the attitude. It may have worked well up in Yorkshire, but here we run on facts and evidence only. Is that understood?"
Sally took a moment. This seemed more than just being a 'ball-ache', as McMaster had said. This seemed actively hostile.
"Perfectly. Now may I see the body, DCI?"
A beat passed. Gulls cawed above, wings braced against the incoming gale, barely holding position as they scanned the beach for food.
Mayhew turned on her heel. "This way."