Chapter 1

The basket-style box from Belle Vue Park in Newport was lined with checked cloth and packed with traditional food. Thick-cut ham. Mature cheddar wrapped in wax paper. Freshly baked rolls still carrying the faint warmth of the ovens. Scotch eggs. Pickled onions. Bara brith sliced into thick uneven slabs. There was even a small flask of leek and potato soup that Lowri insisted was unnecessary on such a warm day.

“It’s local produce,” she said. “That makes it classy.”

Gareth smiled.

The breeze carried the smell of salt and mud from the estuary mixed with fresh grass from the picnic site. Behind them stood the small lave fisheries museum building, quiet except for the occasional voices of volunteers preparing for the summer season.

Below the cliffs, several traditional lave fishing frames rested against the shoreline. The old wooden structures looked almost skeletal against the mud.

“You ever think,” Lowri said between bites of bread, “that you’re incapable of having a normal day?”

“I’m having one now.”

“You had two calls before we even left Newport.”

“One was my mother.”

“The other was your editor.”

“She worries if I’m too relaxed.”

Lowri laughed.

Gareth looked out across the estuary again. The tide line shimmered under the sunlight. Somewhere further along the shore a dog barked excitedly. For the first time in weeks, things felt calm.

Then came the shouting. At first it blended with the cries of the gulls. Distant. Indistinct. A man’s voice, then another. Sharp now, urgent. Gareth straightened immediately.

Lowri noticed the change in his expression. “What is it?”

He listened. A shout drifted up from near the mudflats below the picnic site.

“Oi! Over here!”

Another voice answered, panicked this time. “Oh Christ…”

Gareth was already standing.

Lowri sighed quietly. “There goes the normal afternoon.”

“Stay here.”

“Not a chance.”

Together they made their way down the sloping path towards the shoreline. Several people had gathered near one of the traditional lave fishing nets positioned along the exposed mud. Two teenagers stood frozen nearby, pale-faced and silent. An older couple hovered several feet back. Nobody moved closer.

The crowd parted slightly as Gareth approached. The body lay draped awkwardly over the wooden frame of the lave net. One arm hung limply towards the mud below. Dark water pooled beneath the frame, soaking into the victim’s clothing. The young man’s head tilted at an unnatural angle, face partially obscured by the netting.

Lowri stopped beside Gareth. “Oh God…”

The smell hit them next. Saltwater. Mud. Something metallic underneath. Gareth crouched slowly.

Years of journalism had placed him near enough death to recognise its stillness immediately. This wasn’t someone unconscious. This wasn’t an accident waiting for rescue. The young man was dead.

He wore chest waders common among lave fishermen. One boot had slipped partially free, exposing a pale ankle coated in mud. His dark hair clung wetly to his forehead.

Gareth studied the position carefully. Something felt wrong. Not obvious, not immediate. Just wrong.

His eyes moved across the body again. The net frame. The hands. The clothing. A strange discomfort settled at the back of his neck.

“What?” Lowri asked quietly.

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You see something?”

“That’s the problem.” Gareth frowned. “I feel like I should.”

A sudden voice broke across the shoreline. “No…”

A stocky man in his late fifties came hurrying across the mud from the museum direction, breathing heavily as he approached. He wore waterproof overalls rolled halfway down and a faded cap with the museum logo stitched across the front.

The moment he saw the body he stopped dead. His face drained of colour. “Oh dear God…” He stumbled closer before covering his mouth. “That’s Dyl.”

Nobody answered.

The man looked around wildly. “That’s Dyl Rees. He works with us.”

“You know him?” Gareth asked.

The man nodded shakily. “Course I know him. Young lad. Started training last year.” His voice cracked. “Sweet kid. Mad about the fisheries.”

He crouched near the body but stopped himself from touching it. “What happened to him?”

No one had an answer.

One of the teenagers spoke quietly. “We found him like that.”

The older man rubbed both hands over his face. “He was supposed to help us down here tomorrow morning.” He looked at Gareth then seemed to recognise him properly for the first time. “You’re Gareth Rhys, aren’t you?”

Gareth nodded once.

“The journalist?”

“That’s right.”

“Someone called the police?” Gareth said.

A woman from the back of the gathering raised her hand nervously. “I did.”

“Good.” Gareth stepped back from the body. That unease still lingered. Something wasn’t fitting together.

The young fisherman looked almost carefully placed across the net frame. Not tangled. Not fallen. Positioned.

Lowri watched Gareth carefully. She knew that look well enough by now. His mind was already working.

“You think somebody did this,” she murmured.

“I don’t know.”

“But you suspect it.”

He looked back towards the body. The mud around the frame should have shown deeper disturbance if there had been a struggle. Yet much of the ground remained oddly smooth except for several partial footprints already filling slowly with water.

And there was something else. The victim’s hands. One hand was clenched tightly. The other rested open against the wood.

Gareth narrowed his eyes. Again that same feeling. Something important hovered just beyond reach. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Not a call just a message. He ignored it.

Instead he stepped a short distance away from the crowd and dialled another number. The call connected quickly.

“Tell me you’re not working today,” said the sharp female voice on the other end.

“Afraid not.”

His editor, Elin, groaned dramatically. “Gareth.”

“A body’s been found.”

Silence.

Then immediately serious. “Where?”

“Black Rock. Near Caldicot.”

“What kind of body?”

“Male. Young. Local fisherman apparently.”

“You’re certain he’s dead?”

Gareth looked back towards the shoreline.

“Yes.”

“Police there yet?”

“Not yet.”

A pause.

“You staying?”

“You know I am.”

“I’ll alert the desk. Don’t interfere.”

“You always say that.”

“Because you never listen.”

The call ended.

Lowri folded her arms as Gareth returned. “She thrilled for you?” she said.

“She’s preparing headlines already.”

“Of course she is.”

Sirens echoed faintly in the distance barely ten minutes later. Two marked police vehicles pulled into the gravel area above the picnic site, followed shortly by another unmarked car. Officers moved quickly down the path carrying tape and equipment bags.

The relaxed warmth of the afternoon vanished instantly beneath official procedure. People were moved back. Names taken. Phones raised briefly before officers ordered photographs stopped. Blue and white tape fluttered across the path entrances while uniformed officers established a perimeter around the mudflat.

Gareth and Lowri stood just outside the cordon now.

A young constable approached them. “You both found the body?”

“No,” Gareth said. “We arrived after others spotted him.”

The officer recognised him almost immediately. “Oh. Right.”

That tone again. Journalist. Trouble.

Lowri almost smiled.

The constable scribbled notes before moving away.

Further down the shore, forensic officers in white suits began photographing the scene while another officer spoke with the museum volunteer who had identified the victim.

The sun remained bright overhead, absurdly cheerful against the growing tension. An ambulance arrived though nobody expected urgency now. Thirty minutes passed.

The crowd thinned gradually as locals drifted away carrying rumours with them. Gareth remained where he was, watching everything carefully. Lowri handed him a bottle of water from the picnic basket.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

“What?”

“That thing where you disappear into your own head.”

He unscrewed the bottle. “Occupational hazard.”

“You’ve been staring at that net for half an hour.”

“Something’s bothering me.”

“What?”

“I still can’t place it.”

Lowri followed his gaze towards the body beneath the forensic tent now being erected.

“Maybe because it’s horrible.”

“No.” Gareth shook his head slowly. “It’s specific.”

Before Lowri could answer, another vehicle arrived at the upper car park. An unmarked dark grey car. The moment the driver stepped out, Gareth recognised her.

Detective Inspector Sara Morgan moved briskly across the gravel, one hand already pulling on latex gloves while speaking to a uniformed officer beside her. Her dark hair was tied back tightly against the breeze and sunglasses rested atop her head. Even from a distance she looked exhausted.

She walked with the fast controlled pace of someone already irritated before arriving. Then she saw Gareth. Sara stopped dead mid-step. Even at thirty yards Gareth could read the disbelief on her face.

Lowri muttered quietly, “Oh this should be fun.”

Sara said something sharply to the officer beside her before changing direction entirely and heading straight towards them. Her expression darkened with every step. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said.

Gareth offered an innocent shrug. “Afternoon.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Having a picnic.”

Sara stared at him. Then at the picnic basket beside Lowri. Then back at Gareth again. “You found a corpse during a picnic?”

“We didn’t technically find it.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Lowri bit back a grin.

Sara folded her arms. “You couldn’t spend one Saturday indoors like a normal person?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“That’s not the point.” Behind her, officers continued moving around the shoreline while the forensic team worked beneath the tent.

Sara lowered her voice slightly. “What have you touched?”

“Nothing.”

“What have you investigated?”

“Nothing officially.”

She narrowed her eyes immediately. “That isn’t reassuring.”

Gareth held up both hands. “I looked at the body before the police arrived. That’s all.”

Sara sighed heavily towards the sky as though asking for patience from higher powers.

“Of course you did.”

For a brief second the professional mask slipped and something more personal crossed her face. Fatigue perhaps. Concern. Then it vanished again.

“You giving statements?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She glanced once towards the shoreline where officers waited for her. Then back at Gareth. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“It usually is with you.”

Without another word, she turned and headed back towards the crime scene, already pulling her gloves tighter as she walked.

Lowri watched her go. “She looked pleased to see you.”

“She looked murderous.”

“A little bit of both, maybe.”

Gareth didn’t answer immediately. His attention drifted once more towards the shoreline. Towards the covered body.

The sunlight had begun to fade now behind gathering clouds drifting over the estuary. Shadows stretched longer across the mudflats. The tide, slowly returning, crept silently inward from the distance. And still that feeling remained. Something wrong.

Out beyond the cordon, the old lave fishing nets stood motionless against the incoming tide like silent wooden witnesses.