DI Walker

THE DAY AFTER THE SOLSTICE

WALKER AND HEYER ARE NEARLY at The Manor now. What's left of it, anyway. They round the last bend. In the distance the two grand gateposts—each topped with a stone fox—seem to make a mockery of the state of the building beyond.

"Je-sus," Heyer says. "What a mess."

They stare at it for a moment, the only sound a loud snoring from their hotel guest passenger in the back seat, now sprawled as horizontal as the seatbelt will allow, with drool running down the side of his chin and stained loafers resting against the opposite door.

Smoke still plumes from the building in the distance. The top stories are split open to the elements. Jagged support timbers reach aloft like broken sticks of charcoal. It's difficult to believe this macabre specter was ever intact. It looks ancient and evil, as if it's squatted here like this for a thousand years.

"Hey," Heyer says, pointing. "There's something there. By the verge."

Walker stops the car. They climb out to go and take a look.

"It's some kind of old notebook," Heyer says as they stand over it.

It's lying with the open cover facing up. The front is stained and dented and it's covered with dust from the road but you can still make out the words SUMMER JOURNAL embossed on the front. Looking at it, Walker feels a small kick of something that might be excitement or foreboding.

Heyer kneels down. "Don't touch it," Walker says, quickly. "I know it doesn't look like much. But anything on this part of the road from The Manor to the cliffs could be evidence. It could even have belonged to our victim beneath the cliffs."

Heyer grimaces. Then she hunkers down on her heels. "Look, though, boss. You can see from here."

"What?"

"All the pages have been torn out."