DI Walker

THE DAY AFTER THE SOLSTICE

"BOSS! LOOK!"

Walker slams on the brakes. A few feet ahead a pair of legs splays out onto the tarmac. Everything from the waist up disappears into the hedgerow. His first thought is another body. Then he sees it—him—stir. The top half of the man's body rises out of the hedge like something from The Exorcist, his head swiveling slowly to look at them.

He puts up a hand. Lurches to his feet, staggers twice, nearly falls and then manages to right himself. He's wearing a white linen shirt and matching trousers, stained with mud and grass and God knows what else. A headdress of twisted leaves just about clings to his head. All quite a contrast with the designer trainers and gold signet ring.

"Ah," he drawls as Walker pulls level and lowers the window, "shit. Thought you were my driver."

"Sorry to disappoint," Walker says.

"No worries," the man drawls. "Can't be helped."

Heyer shoots a look at Walker like, Can you believe this guy?

"Actually," Walker says, wanting to shock him, "we're investigating a death."

The man doesn't seem to have heard. Too busy checking his Apple Watch. "Finally got some bloody 5G. First time I've been able to sync my mailbox. Now I've gotta get back to London."

"I'm afraid that might not be possible for a while," Walker tells him.

"You're fucking kidding me."

"Nope. Can we give you a lift back to the hotel?"

The man scowls. "Fine."

He half falls, half climbs into the back seat. Slumps against the headrest with a groan.

"Bad night?" Walker asks, watching him in the rearview mirror as he starts the car.

"Fucking awful. I'm not really a hotel guest, you know. I'm a business associate. VC. Hugo and Oscar Meadows?" As though anyone in the right circle should have heard of them. "Anyway. Meant to be heading to Glasto this week: got a stake in a glamping collective called Camp Hedonist. Not crappy yurts—it's the whole works: Starlinked co-working zone, wellness center, world-class room service to your tent."

"Sounds... authentic," Walker says.

"Yeah yeah, it's the tits. Anyway, after this I need about a month of therapy instead. Total shitshow. The Meadows brothers disappeared halfway through the evening. Claimed they were off to find something better to drink, never reappeared. Couldn't find them fucking anywhere. Talk of unprofessional. And the architect, Dacre—total mess."

"In what way?"

"At the bash last night. Saw him near the gates. Definitely on something." Walker's guessing this guy hasn't looked in a mirror: his own pupils are the size of five-pence pieces. "Looked like he'd been sleeping rough for a month. Embarrassing, really."

Walker hears Heyer stifle something that might be a snort. He understands: it takes a special sort of arrogance to cast judgment while in that much of a state yourself.

"Last time I saw him he was running like his life depended on it, out of the woods. Honestly, the guy looked possessed. This... demonic look in his eyes. Yeah"—Walker actually sees him shiver, in the act of remembering it—"pretty bloody sinister."