The Port by Rachel McLean and Joel Hames, book 7 in the Cumbria Crime series - Chapter 1

Miles Stringer wiped his bald head and turned away from his crew to look skyward.

Not yet nine and sweat poured off him like he was in the Mediterranean. The clouds gathering over the sea brought welcome relief. Not the menacing storm clouds that halted work, just the gentle sort that offered shade.

“Come on!” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Pick up the pace! Break in fifteen minutes.”

The still morning air carried his voice across the site. Though he couldn’t hear their responses, he knew they’d be grumbling about fatigue or boredom or whatever today’s complaint was.

Let them moan. They could whinge to his face during the break.

He’d paired them strategically: Liam with Shiv, Ellen with Barney. Only Stacey worked alone – she could spot trouble from her cab that others would miss until they tripped over it. Yesterday’s teams had been different, and tomorrow he’d split them by gender. Keep rotating, keep them alert. One driving and scooping, one on ground duty – clearing space, tidying, rolling logs onto forks, checking for debris.

The debris was increasing. Not the stuff from Bobby’s old operation, that vanished long before Miles’s crew arrived. This was unwanted rubbish: boat fragments, cables, items tangled in incoming cargo. Dead seabirds, rope swings, remnants from when the logs had been standing trees. He’d found designer clothes once – an Armani suit and a single Kurt Geiger boot. Countless pairs of glasses over the years. Adult magazines, before everything went digital.

He’d been sky-watching too long. Turning back, he spotted Stacey lifting a load, that bloody parrot perched in her cab, likely telling her to wipe her feet.

He’d inherited Bobby’s dog, Taylor. Stacey had got the parrot. The dog was a nuisance, but Miles reckoned he’d got the better deal.

Beyond Stacey’s position, Barney stood back directing while Ellen manoeuvred the forks. They exchanged thumbs-up signals.

But on the far side, everything had stopped. From this distance, Liam appeared frozen in place.

Shiv wasn’t moving either. Or at least, her forklift wasn’t.

Bloody hell.

Miles tried to be patient with Liam. The lad’s girlfriend had been charged with murder in May. Police had even suspected Liam for a while. He’d seemed to recover well enough – too well, perhaps. After abandoning his plans to settle with Bella, he now spent his nights drinking and chasing different girls every weekend.

“What is it?” Miles called, walking towards them.

Liam remained statue-still. Shiv’s head moved side to side, barely perceptible.

“Liam?”

Nothing. If the lad was having some sort of episode, Shiv should be helping. That’s what crews did – they looked after each other.

“Come on, lad.” Miles closed the distance. “Liam! You turned to stone or something?”

With glacial slowness, Liam raised his arm and pointed to the log pile in front of Shiv’s forklift.

Miles approached. A murmur reached his ears, and he saw Liam’s lips moving.

“Not again,” the lad whispered. “Not fucking again.”

Miles hesitated, a chill replacing his sweat. He forced himself forward and looked down.

Not debris this time. Not glasses or cables or dead birds. Half a suit, like before. The top half, wrapped around an arm.

A bloody arm protruding from beneath the log pile.

Not again. Not fucking again.

“Everyone, stop what you’re doing right now!” His voice boomed across the site. “Don’t move!”

“What?” Stacey called back.

Miles raised his palm in a stop gesture. She’d understand.

He pulled out his phone with trembling fingers.