‘Good morning! Thank you for coming. Upset stomach?’ Challacombe pumped our hands just as enthusiastically as he had the first time we met. ‘Looking somewhat queasy Ms. Doe.’

‘Curry, and beer. I think I had a dodgy pint,’ I smiled, wishing the room would stop spinning. A cheeky curry and a pint was never just a cheeky curry and a pint.

‘More like six dodgy pints,’ stage whispered Ragnhild.

‘Ah, one of those nights,’ laughed Challacombe. ‘Not that I’m judging. We all have nights like that when working cases like this.’

I could tell from his voice that his job weighed as heavily on him as mine did on me. Unfortunately for him, or maybe fortunately – I wasn’t going to ask – his job meant that he never got to lay hands on the people carrying out the heinous crimes. His job was vitally important in catching them, but he was always on the sidelines. And he was always having to deal with results of those crimes. I hoped for his sake that the police offered him comprehensive therapy.

We’d got a call from him during breakfast. Another victim. This time in a place called Bradninch, roughly 20 minutes away from Exeter on the north side in the Culm Valley. Strange really. You live in a place, know most places near to, or around it, but never really venture out of that box.

My job tended to take me all over Devon, but I’d never had cause to visit Bradninch, let alone Google it. All of which meant I had no feel for the place. Or its residents. Which, in some ways was a good thing. No one had committed a crime that I needed to be involved in, until now.

The latest victim had been found on what the locals called “the rec”. It was local slang for recreation field. There were swings, a roundabout, climbing frame, slide, tennis courts and the village cricket pitch and club. All very genteel and ‘country’.

‘Someone having barbecue? I’m bloody starving,’ asked Dawn. She was annoyingly perky considering how I felt. Smug even.

‘No, I’m afraid that’s our victim,’ said Challacombe.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said, clapping a hand over her nose. Her chest heaved, and for a second I thought she was going to lose it. With a large, and audible swallow, she managed to force it back down.

My stomach also flipped; it wasn’t ready for a charred, still-cooking victim. Especially not as they smelt like hog roast. Long pig as cannibals supposedly called it.

‘How do know this victim is linked to the case?’ asked Marcus.

‘Fair question, follow me please,’ said Challacombe, and set off, not waiting for a reply. ‘We know, because even though they’ve been badly burned, they’re only partially burned. The fire didn’t take well. Scarring on the legs. Claws and bite marks. Which is why we got you out. Sorry, but I wanted you to see this properly and not in photos.’

And he actually did seem to be sorry. I could see why Marcus had developed a relationship with him. Maybe Handlers need friends too. I’d never really given much thought as to what Handlers did when they weren’t … handling. Meditate?

‘Any movement on the case?’ asked Dawn.

‘It’s taken a darker turn than expected. We just need you to identify the animal. There’s more of the actual damage done by the damned beast. So hopefully you’ll give us a profile and we’ll know to look out for a killer with a specific wild animal for a pet. We’ve spoken to every exotic pet owner across Cornwall, Devon and Somerset. We’re going to try Dorset next.’

His tone didn’t hold any shred of optimism.

‘Yes, sorry that our list didn’t turn up any missing animals, or any suspects with exotic pets,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s been particularly vexing at our end too.’

My respect for Marcus went up another notch. He was able to fit a lie within a lie without blinking. I made a mental note of that. I’d been betrayed by one Handler, and I was fucking damned if I was going to be betrayed by another.

‘Not at all my dear fellow. We’re here.’

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

As was now usual in our lives, “here” was a forensics tent. A member of the forensic team handed us our suits, which we dutifully donned, and then Challacombe led the way into the murder scene proper.

‘Damn. That’s yet another sight to haunt my dreams,’ said Ragnhild.

Challacombe’s description of the scene had done little to prepare us. Then again, how could you prepare someone for the sight of a partially charred corpse covered in bite and claw wounds.

‘It’s definitely the same animal,’ said Marcus as he knelt beside the corpse. It had been chained to the merry-go-round. ‘Was the accelerant poured in the centre of the merry-go-round?’

‘Appears so. Probably why so much of the legs remained. That, and the bites are low down. You can see where the animal bit and was kicked away. The teeth have scored through the flesh on the shin.’

‘Fascinating, uh huh,’ I said, stomach flipping. Our presence was a charade. We probably knew more than he, but to do anything other than attend the scene would have raised eyebrows. The Were was a complete psychopath. Utterly barbaric and cruel in nature.

Or angry. Insanely angry.

‘My senior investigating officer is really starting to lean on me. He’s an utter bastard, so I’d really appreciate it if you could just give me an animal as quickly as possible,’ whispered Challacombe, eyebrows dancing as he sideways nodded in the direction of a bunch of sour-looking policemen.

I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. The papers were screaming for the police to catch the killer. Politicians were getting asked uncomfortable questions in press conferences which had nothing to do with the case and, as the old adage goes, shit rolls downhill. And PMQs had been an utter shit show. Our current government was supposedly meant to be improving law and order. Thus far they hadn’t done much of anything bar fuck up the economy, make shady business deals, and stick people in the Lords who should really have been in prison. Still, they were all Mundanes, so I couldn’t go and mete out my own version of the law. Much as I’d like to.,

‘Anyone missing from the village? Someone bearing a grudge and deciding to copy our murderer?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Fat chance. First thing I asked as soon as I got here. But no. This is definitely our killer.’ Marcus had his hands on his hips as he looked at the scene.

‘Any idea what sex the victim is?’ asked Marcus as he peered at the charred remains.

‘Male,’ Challacombe responded confidently.

‘Wow, how the hell did you work that out?’ asked Dawn.

‘It was quite easy actually. I found the penis in what remained of the poor sod’s mouth,’ Challacombe replied.

‘Wow. Makes “eat dick and die” take on a whole new meaning,’ Dawn murmured.

‘I don’t recall any of the other victims being mutilated in such a way,’ Marcus commented as he consulted the notes on his phone.

‘Well, they mostly tended to be ripped to pieces and rendered into bloody chunks.’ Challacombe gestured towards the victim. ‘This one though, this one seems to be more personal.’

One of the policemen gestured to him so he nodded to us and wondered off.

I looked around the rec and at the gathered crowd of gawkers watching from the cricket pitch a good fifty metres or more away. The police would be taking photos of everyone attending to see if there was anyone that stood out. Murderers, and arsonists, would sometimes visit the scene to see if they could get any intelligence on how the case was proceeding. Sometimes they’d even try to help, insert themselves into the investigation.

I didn’t clock any faces I might have seen before, just seemed like there were a lot of locals. Not often that somewhere like Bradninch gets visited by a serial killer. Or anyone of any interest most likely. I instinctively liked it.

‘Who’s the local Merlin around here?’ I asked Marcus.

‘Colonel Knowles. Lives down in the manor. Keeps the local Siren in order.’

‘Siren? What the hell? How come I didn’t know about that?’

‘Probably because he has her completely under control. His family has for decades. She was one of them you see. Must be his great-great-great-great aunt. Fell through the duckweed in the manor pond one night and drowned. Came back as a Siren.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘He here?’

‘Chap in the pink shirt and mustard cords, with the cravat.’ Marcus didn’t point, he never did, but I immediately spotted Knowles. He was the epitome of a barmy senior retired Army officer living in the countryside.

‘Why’s he got string holding his trousers up?’

‘Why not?’ asked Marcus.

‘Because he looks like a tramp. Not an officer,’ I said.

‘Proper rough-looking geezer,’ agreed Dawn. ‘Sus as fuck.’

‘Is this what passes for an eccentric British gentleman?’ asked Ragnhild. She seemed positively enthralled by the thought.

‘God knows. I’m going to go and have a chat,’ I sad without much enthusiasm.

‘Go easy,’ warned Marcus. ‘He’s old school even if he does look scruffy.’

I raised my chin in the affirmative and walked towards the onlookers. They all looked pretty normal, none of them giving off a “I make people eat their own penises” vibe, but then again most of the worst killers in human history looked positively boring.

Evil, presented to you by the most normal- and boring-looking people in the world, I thought sourly, stomping through the still-wet grass of the rec.

‘Colonel Knowles?’ I asked politely. ‘I’ve been told you’re the man to speak to about what goes on around Bradninch. Wonder if I could have a quick word?’

I didn’t wait for an answer, just lifted the police tape, and smiled at him.

‘Certainly, always willing to help out, what?’ he smiled, raising an eyebrow as he spoke. I half expected a monocle to comically pop out from his eye.

God help me, he thinks he’s from a completely different time, I thought, stomach sinking as I realized I was going to have to put up with utter Rupetry for the next few minutes.