‘It’s all fine. We’re fine,’ I say, palms on my stomach protectively. ‘The police are still outside. They’ve interviewed me and the builders, and now they’ve set up crime tape and a tent and everything.’
‘Fuck.’ He looks past me at the scene from the window and his expression darkens for a few seconds. Then he turns to me. ‘Have they given you much info?’
‘Not much, no. It’s a human skeleton. Who knows how long it’s been there? It could date back a few hundred years for all I know.’
‘Or to Roman times,’ he says, smiling wryly.
‘Exactly. Probably been here before Skelton Place was even built. And that was …’ I frown, realizing I can’t actually remember.
‘1855.’ Of course Tom would know. He only has to read things once to remember them. He’s always the first to answer a general-knowledge question on game shows and he’s forever looking up facts and trivia on his phone. He’s the opposite to me: calm, pragmatic and never overreacts. ‘It looks like serious shit, though,’ muses Tom, his eyes still fixed on the scene in the garden. I follow his gaze. Someone has turned up with two cadaver dogs. Do they suspect more bodies? My stomach twists.
Tom turns back to me, his voice serious. ‘Not what we expected when we moved to the country.’ A beat of silence before we break into nervous laughter.
‘Oh, God,’ I say, sobering up. ‘It feels wrong to laugh. Somebody died after all.’
This sets us off again.
We are interrupted by the clearing of a throat and we turn to see a uniformed policewoman standing at the back door. It’s one of those stable-style ones, so the top part is open and it frames her, like she’s about to perform a puppet show. She’s regarding us as if we’re a couple of naughty school kids. Snowy starts barking at her.
‘It’s okay,’ murmurs Tom to Snowy.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ says the officer, not looking sorry at all. ‘I did knock.’ She pushes open the bottom half of the door so that she’s standing on the threshold.
‘That’s fine,’ says Tom. He releases Snowy, who instantly darts over to the police officer to sniff her trousers. She looks vaguely irritated while gently pushing him away with her leg.
‘PC Amanda Price.’ She’s older than us by about fifteen years with a dark bob and intense blue eyes. ‘Can I just confirm you are the owners of this property? Tom Perkins and Saffron Cutler?’
Technically my mother is but I don’t complicate things by saying so.
‘Yes,’ says Tom, widening his eyes at me. ‘This is our cottage.’
‘Right,’ says PC Price. ‘We’ll be a bit longer, I’m afraid. Is there someone you can stay with tonight, maybe for the weekend?’
I think of Tara, who currently lives in London, and my school-friend Beth, who’s in Kent. Tom’s friends are either in Poole, where he’s originally from, or Croydon. ‘We haven’t lived here long. We haven’t made friends in the area yet,’ I say, and it brings home how isolated we are, in this new village in the middle of nowhere.
‘Parents nearby?’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Mine still live in Poole and Saffy’s mum’s in Spain.’
‘And my dad lives in London,’ I say. ‘But he’s only got a one-bedroom flat …’
She frowns, like this is all information she doesn’t need. ‘Then may I suggest a hotel, just until Sunday. The police will pay your expenses for this inconvenience. It’s just while the crime scene is being secured and the excavation is completed.’
The words ‘crime scene’ and ‘excavation’ make me feel sick.