Detective Constable Addie Lawrence arrived at the crime scene in the squad car that had been allocated to her at the station that morning. It was her first police vehicle. All the other crime scenes she’d been to, she’d accompanied a senior officer. Consequently, she’d driven all the way here with the blue lights flashing and the siren on – and had got a kick out of it.

The crime scene was near Richmond Park, on the Kingston side. A hit-and-run. Since the park was already closed to traffic, she’d had to drive around, which had added fifteen minutes onto her response time but it didn’t matter. The guy wasn’t going anywhere. Male. Caucasian. Mid-thirties, according to dispatch. He’d been knocked off his bike. That’s all she knew.

A few raindrops plopped onto her windscreen and she cursed. The victim might not be going anywhere, but the evidence might. She sped up, keeping a watchful eye on the relentless oncoming traffic, squinting against approaching headlights. The sky was inky black and there was no moon.

Shit. She narrowly missed hitting the rearview mirror of a parked car.  That wouldn’t go down well on her first day.

 She turned left into Park Road and immediately spotted the crime scene up ahead. You couldn’t miss it. Two police vehicles blocked off the road, one at each end. Officers in high visibility jackets had strung up police tape and weren’t letting anyone through.

Up ahead, beyond the barrier, there were two more police vehicles, an ambulance and a forensic van. The flashing lights bounced off the red-brick terraced houses and barren trees like an eerie Christmas light display.

She stopped at the barricade, buzzed down her window and held up her warrant card. “I’m DC Lawrence. Richmond CID.” It sounded good. Official. Like she’d arrived.

The officer nodded, no questions asked, and lifted the cordon to wave her through. She drove up the road, then pulled over and turned off the engine. It was raining harder now. The forensic team had erected a tent on the pavement, which is where she assumed the victim lay. She was impressed by how fast they’d got it up, but then they were probably used to working in wet weather.

She climbed out of the car, her eyes scanning the area for DI Miller, the SIO in charge of this case. Strange, he didn’t seem to be there.  Pulling on her jacket, she approached a police constable. “I’m from Richmond CID. Is DI Miller here?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Haven’t seen him.” He offered her a tentative smile. “Haven’t seen you before. You new?”

“First day.”

“Right in at the deep end, eh?” He nodded to the tent. “Victim’s in there.”

Addie hesitated. Should she get started or wait for her supervising officer?

The PC mistook her hesitation for apprehension. “It’s not a bad one.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Thanks.”

Superintendent Hinks had told her DI Miller would meet her at the crime scene.

You’re assigned to his team, Lawrence. Miller will be your mentor for the first few months. As you know, he’s a very experienced detective, so you’d do well to pay attention.

Experienced? Hell, the man was a legend. Even her father, who’d been Commissioner at the time, had waxed lyrical about him – and her father didn’t wax lyrical about anyone. Miller had single-handedly apprehended the Surrey Stalker, the worst serial killer in the county’s history. Granted, it had been ten years ago and she’d still been at school, but she’d followed the case on television and in the national press along with the rest of the nation who’d collectively sighed in relief when the cold-blooded killer had finally been caught. She remembered a tall, dashing detective with a serious, intense expression being interviewed on TV. He’d seemed confident and capable, and very heroic. Fast forward ten years and she was about to meet him in person. Even better, she’d be his protégé.

The PC directed her to the forensic tent. “I’m PC Briggs, by the way.”

“Lawrence.”

She stared through the drizzle at a bicycle lying against a wooden fence. It’s handlebars were crooked and it looked like it had hit the fence at high speed, then toppled over. “Is that his bike?”

“No, it’s in the tent with him. That’s another one. We don’t know who it belongs to.”

Addie frowned. It must belong to someone. Another victim, perhaps?

“Was he alone?”

The PC shrugged. “He was when I got here, but that guy called it in.” He gestured towards an unkempt man in a luminous yellow T-shirt standing behind the forensic van, which was why she hadn’t seen him before, hugging himself to keep warm.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the guy who called it in. He’s been waiting to speak to you.”

Where the hell was DI Miller?

“Was there any ID on the body?” she asked the PC.

He shook his head. “Nope. Nothing to identify him.”

“Okay, thanks.”

She held up a hand to the witness. Five minutes. He nodded, but didn’t look too happy about it. First, she wanted a peek inside the tent at the victim. The witness could wait. He was already drenched so a few more minutes wouldn’t make any difference.

“You’ll be needing these.” A woman emerged from the forensic van and handed her a disposable paper suit. Addie opened the packet and stepped into it. The rain made everything damp and uncomfortable.

She lifted the tent flap and blinked several times. It was bright inside thanks to a powerful fluorescent light on a tripod. The first thing she saw when her eyes adjusted was cycling shoes and hairy legs wrapped around a mangled bicycle. The body was half-on and half-off the pavement, like he’d tried to ramp it but had toppled over onto it instead. The pathologist bent over the torso obscuring the upper body from view. Beside him was a metal case filled with test tubes, see-through containers and other evidence-collecting paraphernalia. A police photographer was taking crime scene photographs.

“Hello,” Addie said. “I’m DC Lawrence. Richmond CID.”

The pathologist looked up, his mouth set in a grim line. He didn’t bother with niceties, he just got straight to the point. “At first glance it looks like a head wound, but that will be confirmed by the post-mortem.” The photographer acted like she wasn’t there. He moved around the body in a semi-crouched position, leaning in, then retracting, snapping away like he was performing some sinister dance routine.

Unfazed, Addie walked around the body, careful not to bump into the photographer or trip over the victim. There wasn’t much space in the tent, what with the two surly men, the tripod, the body and the bike. It smelled rank, like rotting leaves mixed with petrol fumes. Dirty water sluiced through the gutter.

“Looks like a broken arm,” she remarked, noticing the grotesque angle it was bent at.

“Probably a result of the fall,” said the pathologist. “He has several other scrapes where he came off his bike but it’s the head trauma that did him in.”

The dead man’s face was surprisingly blank. She’d have expected him to be grimacing in pain or screaming with agony when he’d died, given the state of him. His eyes were open, staring upwards.

“You okay?” PC Briggs poked his head into the tent.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

It might be her first day on the job, but this was by no means her first corpse.

#

She’d been five years old when she’d seen her first dead body. A teenager had been gunned down in her street. Drugs, they’d said. The Cape Flats was notorious for that. She and her mother had come across him on their way to school. Her mother always walked her to school. Addie had stared in morbid fascination at the thick, dark stain that had formed on the dusty gravel road beneath the boy, spreading out like a superhero cape. He’d been dead a while, they’d said. Such a waste of a young life. South Africa was going to the dogs.

Already, the flies were buzzing.

“Better not to get involved,” her mother had murmured, grabbing her hand and propelling her along the road. “We don’t want to be seen talking the police.”

#

Addie peered at the dead cyclist’s head and the tarmac beneath. “So he didn’t bleed out?” She could see an angry red welt across his forehead, but the skin was intact. That could have been where he’d hit the pavement, not the impact with the vehicle.

“Internal injury. It’s quite common in road accidents.”

“Right.” Not like seeping knife wounds or gaping panga cuts.

She glanced around, studying the crime scene, storing away pertinent details like she’d been taught. He wore full cycling gear complete with lycra shorts and a waterproof jacket. On his feet were thermal cycling boots, not cheap. The bike also looked expensive. Cannondale. She recognised the brand. The guy was either a pro or he had money. He didn’t look young enough to be sponsored, which left the second option.

“Was he wearing a helmet?” The pathologist nodded. “We’ve bagged it already on account of the rain. It was lying on the pavement. Must have come off when he fell.”

“Was there a second helmet?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, just the one.”

Addie frowned, then left the tent and stepped out into the cold. With the shower over, the rain had turned into a fine mist. People were venturing out of their houses to take a look.

“Nothing to see here,” PC Briggs told them. Another police officer emerged from a vehicle and helped to usher them away.

“Has Miller arrived yet?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “Looks like you’re on your own, love.”

She checked her watch. Five forty-five. He was three quarters of an hour late to a crime scene. His crime scene. Something must have happened.

She checked her phone. No messages.

“Has that second bike been bagged?” she asked. “It might belong to a witness.”

“We’ve got it in the van,” said the woman who’d given her the coveralls. “It’ll be processed along with everything else.”

Addie smiled her thanks. They knew what they were doing.

The witness was still hovering nearby. Addie beckoned him over. She’d just have to interview him herself. So much for DI Miller. It looked like the Senior Investigating Officer was a no show.