Built in the 1970s on a site created by German bombs, the Deakin Estate wouldn’t have looked out of place as the set of a Kubrick movie: high-rise blocks, covered walkways, upturned orbs of white light. It was notorious among the local police as a place that could have done with another direct hit.
PC Lizzie Griffiths, exonerated by an internal enquiry for her role in a hostage situation in which a police officer and a suspect fell to their deaths from a tower building, is back on duty, working for a domestic violence unit. She attends a call by a young mother, Georgina Teel, mother of Skye, abused by her husband Mark Brannon, a man with a history of violence. But before he can be arraigned the wife withdraws the complaint, under pressure from a family friend.
She’d imagined an exciting future: solving murders, going undercover, maybe preventing terror attacks. Now, the reality of it was…Her thoughts stumbled. What was it? Shitty jobs, shitty lives, people you couldn’t help.
DI Sarah Collins - investigating officer at the internal enquiry - is on the move to Hendon, as part of the homicide squad. While on-call she is tasked with the unsolved case of a teenage girl Tania Mills, a talented violinist, who went missing 27 years earlier, the day after a great storm wreaked havoc across much of Britain. There is a new lead to follow, from a sex offender, and a one-time suspect - a simple man - whose evidence needs to be reexamined, but everything goes on hold as Brannon murders his wife and goes into hiding with his young daughter.
This is British crime fiction at its best, the author a former Metropolitan police officer, ending her career with the homicide command. As well as following the hectic lives (and loves) of the two main characters, there are sensitive portrayals of the supporting characters, the ex-junkie mother, the simple man who provides a vital clue to a sexual predator. And my favourite, the gardener.
Medcalfe was tall, late seventies probably, his tightly corkscrewed hair cut close to his head, perfectly grey, like lambswool...blue shorts finished below the knee, the slight knots of varicose veins in beneath the dusky dark skin of his calves. His handshake was quick and strong. The stressed ‘r’s of the Caribbean had not left him, nor the rhythm that made it sound as though the simplest sentence carried a hidden pleasure.
It doesn’t get much better than that.