When the Dead Cry Out

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Grateful thanks are due to:

Police Diving Supervisor DC Brian Bolt, and Detective Sergeant Pat Pitts of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary; Detective Sergeant (retired) Frank Waghorn; all at Rolex UK; and Home Office Pathologist Doctor Huw White for their expert advice without which this book could not have been completed; and Kirsty Fowkes, whose editorial input was also invaluable.

The morning began much the same as any other for Karen Meadows. It was a typical summer’s day on the English Riviera. Sky grey, the air warm and damp.

As usual the recently promoted detective superintendent breakfasted alone, apart from her cat, in her apartment overlooking the sea. She had lived there, a mile or so from the centre of Torquay, for nine years. Her brain was full of work because that was pretty much all she let it be full of. Her heart was full of nothing much because that was how she liked it — or at least that was how she told herself she liked it. Her eyes no longer took in the view across the bay which was glorious in even the dullest of weather.

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