Discovery

The morning air still held the sting of night when Annie Liven left her cottage with Tamper tugging at the lead. The little terrier barked twice, impatient, his breath misting against the dawn. Annie tugged her scarf tighter around her throat and glanced up at the sky, a pale sheet of grey spreading over the rooftops. The village of Haverfield slept still— curtains drawn, chimneys idle—but the park called, as it did every morning.

At sixty-two, Annie liked the quiet. The solitude. The world didn’t bother you much at six-thirty in the morning. Just her, Tamper, and the crunch of gravel beneath her boots as they turned down the lane past the cricket field. The grass glistened with dew; the swing set at the far end creaked faintly in the wind.

Tamper barked again, ears pricking, tail stiff. Annie smiled faintly. “What’s got into you, eh?” she murmured.

But Tamper had already bolted forward, lead straining. Annie cursed softly, her arthritic knees protesting as she followed. The dog darted toward the children’s play area, circling, whining.

And then Annie saw it.

For a moment, her mind refused to register what her eyes were telling her. A small shape beneath the swing, pale against the wet earth. She thought it was a doll at first. Something discarded by a careless child. But Tamper’s whine changed—a high, frightened sound—and Annie’s stomach clenched.
Her breath came short. She stepped closer, slow, dread building with each step.

The child lay still.

Bare skin mottled by cold, hair hacked unevenly, limbs twisted in a way no living child’s should be. Annie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God…” she whispered, voice breaking.

Tamper barked again, circling, then sat, as if sensing his mistress’s horror.

Annie fumbled in her pocket for her phone, hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped it. The emergency number blurred before her eyes.

“This is—this is Annie Liven,” she stammered when the operator answered. “I’m at the park, the one off of St. Mary’s Lane. There’s a child here. A little girl. She’s—she’s not moving. I think she’s dead.”

The voice on the other end was calm, professional. Annie barely heard it. She sank to her knees, keeping her distance, tears spilling hot and fast. “Who could do something like this?” she whispered. “Who?”

The call reached CID Southvale at 6:58 a.m.

Detective Chief Inspector Casey Porter was halfway through her first coffee when the duty sergeant buzzed through.
“Ma’am,” he said, tone already tight. “Uniforms at Haverfield village have called in a suspicious death. Possible homicide. Victim’s a child.”

Casey closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let the words settle. Then she put the mug down, untouched, and stood. “Right,” she said quietly. “Get Stevenson. Tell him we’re rolling.”

The drive out to Haverfield took twenty minutes. The October sky was lightening by the time the CID car pulled onto the High Street. The village was the kind that looked peaceful on postcards: hanging baskets, a red-brick pub at either end, a green with a cricket pavilion. But that morning, a police cordon cut across the entrance to the park, blue tape fluttering in the breeze.

Casey sat for a moment before getting out. Forty-nine, sharp-eyed despite the lines of wear around her mouth, blonde hair cut in a short bob tapered in at the back, slim build, 5`8 in her stocking feet. She’d seen most kinds of death in her twenty-six years in CID. But this—children—was different. Always different.

Sergeant Carl Stevenson was already out of the car, talking to a uniform by the gate. At thirty-five, he still had the restless energy Casey remembered from her younger days. Dark hair, jaw tight, almost 6` tall, muscular frame, caring, the kind of detective who never quite left the job behind when he went home.

He turned as Casey approached. “Morning, guv. The scene’s secure. First response has the area cordoned off.”
“Who found her?”

“Local woman. Annie Liven. Sixty-two. She’s with one of the PCs now, in shock.”

Casey nodded. “Let’s see the scene first.”

The park was small—just a patch of green surrounded by low hedges and a path looping round a few benches and a play area. The swing creaked again, wind tugging at its chains.

And beneath it, the body.

Casey stopped several paces away, letting the image fix in her mind: the small form, the pale skin, the rough tufts of hair. The forensics tent hadn’t yet gone up; the pathologist was still on the road.

She drew a breath, slow and steady. “Christ,” she said softly.

Stevenson was beside her, jaw set. “No sign of clothing,” he murmured. “No bag, nothing. Just… this.”

Casey’s eyes flicked over the scene. “Any footprints?”

“Too early to say. Ground’s wet, but the first responders have kept the perimeter clean.”

She crouched, careful not to disturb the earth. Even from a distance, she could see the faint bruising on the child’s neck, the discolouration of her lips. Strangulation, maybe. She didn’t linger on the rest.

“Where’s SOCO?”

“On their way from Southvale. Ten minutes.”

“Good. Let’s keep everyone out until then. No trampling about.”

She straightened, looking out over the park. The village seemed to hold its breath beyond the police tape—curious faces behind net curtains, a figure standing still by the post office, watching.

“Word ’ll be out already,” she said.

“Yeah. Press ’ll be sniffing round before lunch.”
Casey rubbed a hand across her brow. “Then we move fast. Once they get hold of ‘child murder in village park’, we’ll have cameras before we’ve got facts.”

Stevenson nodded grimly.

At the edge of the park, a paramedic was sitting with Annie Liven on a bench. The woman’s hands shook as she clutched a paper cup of tea, Tamper curled at her feet.

Casey crouched beside her. “Mrs. Liven? I’m DCI Casey Porter. I understand you found the little girl.”

Annie nodded weakly. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale beneath her wool hat. “I—I didn’t touch her. I knew she was gone. You could just tell.”

“You did the right thing calling us,” Casey said softly. “You’ve helped more than you know.”

Annie blinked rapidly, tears threatening again. “She was just lying there. Like she’d been left. Like someone didn’t care.”

Casey’s throat tightened. She forced her voice steady. “Did you see anyone in the park when you arrived?”

“No. It was quiet. I come here every morning, same time. Don’t usually see a soul.”

“And Tamper—your dog—did he pick up a scent, lead you straight to her?”

“Yes. He started barking near the swings. I thought it was a squirrel or something. Then I saw…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Casey placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “We’ll take it from here, Mrs.
Liven. We’ll need a statement later today, once you’ve had a chance to rest.”

Annie nodded, still staring toward the blue tape where uniformed officers moved slowly, careful, silent.

By the time the SOCO van arrived, the wind had picked up. The forensics team moved with quiet precision, setting up the tent, photographing every inch of the ground. Casey watched as they worked, the ritual as familiar as it was grim.
Stevenson joined her, rubbing his hands for warmth. “No missing kids reported overnight,” he said. “Control checked the logs. So far, nothing.”

“She’s not local then. Or not yet reported.”

“Could be early. Parents might still be asleep.”

Casey exhaled slowly. “God.”

There was a pause. The swing creaked again, rhythmic, mournful.

Stevenson spoke low. “You ever get used to this, guv?”

Casey didn’t look at him. “No. You just get better at hiding it.”
The forensics tent had gone up by the time the rest of Casey’s team arrived. The village’s heart — its park, the spot where summer fêtes and picnics were held — now looked like something out of a nightmare. Blue and white tape sliced through the air. The low hum of radios, the shuffle of boots, the occasional click of a camera shutter. Even the birds had gone quiet.

Detective Constable Ryan Merton was first to join them. Thirty-six, tall, lean, a bit too intense for his own good. He took one look at the tent and exhaled hard. “Christ. Poor kid.”

“Keep your voice down,” Casey murmured.

Behind him, Micki Reynolds and Becky Holt followed, each wearing that same grim, drawn expression shared by every seasoned officer on cases like this. Micki — thirtythree, sharp, short, slim with auburn hair tied back tight — had joined the team three years ago from Manchester. Becky, early forties, medium height, brown curly hair, glasses, local, steady, one of those detectives who could coax answers out of people without them realizing.

“Morning, ma’am,” Micki said quietly. “Traffic had to divert half the High Street. Whole village knows something’s happened.”

“They always do,” Casey said. “We’ll need to control the message before it spirals. Carl, get on to media liaison — we’ll need a holding statement ready before lunch.
‘Investigation ongoing, no further comment’.” Stevenson nodded.

Casey’s gaze drifted back toward the tent. The forensics team were methodical — working outward in slow spirals, documenting, marking, bagging. She caught sight of something: a white evidence marker under a bush near the swing set.

She crossed over, crouching low beside the SOCO officer. “What’ve you got?”

“Cigarette butt, ma’am. Partially smoked. No rain damage, so it’s recent. We’ll bag it and get it straight to the lab for DNA.”

Casey’s jaw tightened. “Any other litter nearby?”

“None within five metres. Park’s been kept tidy.”

That was something. A single cigarette, fresh, close to the scene — it might mean everything, or nothing at all. But she’d learned long ago that small things had a way of whispering truths louder than people did.

“Make sure it’s logged with priority,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

By eight-thirty, the first sweep of photographs was done. The pathologist, Dr. Lorna Halversen, slim build with greying hair, had arrived — tall, composed, with that unflappable calm that Casey both admired and envied.

“Morning, Casey,” Halversen greeted quietly. “Bad one.”

Casey nodded. “Any early impressions?”

Halversen crouched beside the body, gloved hands moving with careful precision. “Ligature marks around the neck. Could be a cord or rope — something thin. No visible signs of a struggle, at least not here. Likely killed elsewhere and placed.”

“Any indication of time of death?”

“Roughly eight to twelve hours ago. Sometime last night.”
“So, she was brought here in darkness,” Casey murmured. “Someone knew the park well enough to find it at night.”

Halversen nodded. “Temperature ’s dropped overnight — she’s cold to the core. We’ll know more after post-mortem.”

Casey straightened, scanning the perimeter. A few locals had gathered across the road, pressed behind the tape. A woman in a dressing gown, a man with a shopping bag, faces pale and uncertain. The kind of fear that spread fast in a small place — fear that something unspeakable could happen here, in their quiet little world.

She motioned to Stevenson. “Let’s clear them back. I don’t want this turning into a circus.”

They set up a temporary command point inside the leisure centre, two minutes’ walk from the park. Chlorine still lingered faintly in the corridors, and the hum of vending machines seemed painfully ordinary given what waited outside.

Casey stood at the front of the makeshift briefing room; a whiteboard scrawled with the basics:

Victim: Female, approx. 4 years
Location: Haverfield Park, under swings
Time found: 06:45 hrs
Finder: Annie Liven, 62, local resident
Scene: No clothing, no belongings. One cigarette butt recovered nearby.

The team gathered around, notebooks open, faces drawn. Ashley Davis, 40, short and gangly with a crew cut and new to the team had set up the briefing room and handed out the coffees.

“All right,” Casey began. “We treat this as a major crime inquiry. Our priorities: identify the victim, secure every scrap of physical evidence, and speak to anyone who was within a mile of that park after dusk yesterday.”

Ryan raised a hand. “No missing child reports yet?”

“None,” Casey said. “That worries me more than if we’d had one. Either the parents haven’t realized she’s missing — or they’re involved.” A silence settled.

Micki spoke next. “The park’s near the housing association estate, right? That’s the side with fewer lights.”

“Exactly,” Casey said. “Could mean the offender knew it was secluded. But I don’t want assumptions. Ryan, you and Micki take the estate. Go door-todoor. Ask about kids who haven’t been seen since last night. Be gentle — word’s going to spread fast.”

“Got it.”

“Becky, you and Ashley cover the High Street — shops, pubs, petrol station, anywhere with CCTV. We need footage from between eight p.m. and midnight.”

Becky nodded, already jotting down notes.

Stevenson leaned against the desk, arms folded. “Guv, what about the manor estate? Those houses have motion sensors, cameras at the gates. Could catch passing cars.”

“Good point,” Casey said. “We’ll send a uniform to canvass the residents. But let’s tread carefully — we’ll get cooperation, not hostility.”

She paused, taking in their faces — tired already, grim, focused. “We’ve all seen hard cases, but this one’s going to test us. Let’s do right by her. Whoever she was.”

By late morning, the drizzle had started. The village, once picture-perfect, had taken on a dreary film. Blue lights strobing. Reporters had begun to appear — one from the Southvale Chronicle already lingering near the cordon, camera at the ready.

Casey gave a curt nod to the uniform at the gate. “Keep them back. No statements yet.”

Inside the park, the forensic team were packing up samples. Halversen was preparing the body for transport, speaking softly to the officers helping her. Casey watched in silence. There was always a moment — just before they took a victim away — that felt like a promise. We’ll find out who did this. We’ll speak for you.

She turned away, jaw tight, and nearly walked straight into Stevenson.

“Sorry, guv,” he said. “Just had a word with Control. No one’s come forward still. Nothing from surrounding towns either.”

Casey frowned. “No nursery, no school notice?”

“Not yet. I’ve put in a call to Child Protection and Social Services — see if there are any children at risk in the area.”

“Good. Keep on them.”

He hesitated. “You think she could be local?”

“I don’t know,” Casey said. “But someone brought her here. That’s what matters.”

At half eleven, they made their way to the petrol station just outside the village. The owner, a middle-aged man known as Patel, recognized Casey from previous cases — small villages had long memories.

“You’re here about the park, I know,” he said quietly, ushering them behind the counter.
“Terrible, terrible thing. Everyone’s talking.”

“Do you have CCTV?” Casey asked.

“Yes, though half the cameras are useless when it rains. Still — I can check last night.”

He fast-forwarded through grainy footage. The timestamp flicked between 20:00 and 00:00. Cars came and went — a couple of locals, delivery vans, one taxi, nothing remarkable.

Then, at 22:47, a dark estate car pulled in — lights off, engine running. The driver didn’t get out. It idled for thirty seconds, then reversed and drove back toward the village.

Casey leaned closer. “Can you zoom on that plate?”

Patel did, but the glare from the road made it useless.

“Could be nothing,” Stevenson said, “but that’s our time window.”

“Pull the footage,” Casey said. “We’ll have the lab clean it up. I want that vehicle traced.” Patel nodded, face pale. “You’ll find who did this, won’t you?”

Casey looked at him — and in that instant, she felt the full weight of the question. The expectation. The desperate need for someone to make sense of the senseless.

“We’ll do everything we can,” she said quietly.

Back at the leisure centre, the team reconvened mid-afternoon. Ryan and Micki had returned soaked from the estate; their notepads smeared with rain.

“Anything?” Casey asked.

“Mostly people kept their heads down after dark,” Ryan said. “One woman thought she heard a car door slam around eleven, near the back of the park, but didn’t look.”

“No one saw a child?”

Micki shook her head. “Nothing. Everyone’s either scared or pretending they didn’t hear.”

Becky came in next, carrying a USB stick. “Got CCTV from the Crown and Anchor pub. Manager says their rear car park camera faces the lane toward the park.”

Casey’s eyes sharpened. “Good work. Let’s get that to tech.”

As Becky handed it over, she hesitated. “Ma’am… it’s already getting ugly online. Village Facebook page’s full of rumours. Someone’s saying the girls from the housing estate. Another reckons she was snatched from outside the school.”

Casey rubbed her temple. “We’ll need comms to put something out. ‘No confirmed identity, avoid speculation.’ That kind of thing. Keep it factual, calm.”

Becky nodded.

When the day began to fade, Casey stood once more at the park’s edge. The forensics team had gone. Only the tape remained, whispering faintly in the wind. The swing still creaked.

She stared at the ground where the child had been. A small shape, now gone — leaving behind only the memory of absence.

Stevenson approached quietly, handing her a coffee from a paper cup.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“Halversen’s taken her to the mortuary,” he said. “Post-mortem’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

Casey nodded slowly. “Good.”

He looked at her a moment, hesitant. “You all right, guv?”

She gave a faint, humourless smile. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Yeah, well. You look like you’re carrying this one.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “They’re all bad, Carl. But when it’s a kid… it’s like the world tips off its axis a little, isn’t it?”

He said nothing, just sipped his own coffee, eyes fixed on the horizon. The sky had turned that dull pewter colour of late autumn, the kind that made everything seem suspended — waiting.

“We’ll find whoever did this,” Stevenson said finally.

Casey nodded, watching the village rooftops beyond the trees. “We have to.” The rain didn’t let up all evening.

By the time Casey left the leisure centre, the village was drowned in it — puddles swallowing the pavement, water dripping from the low eaves of the shops. She walked slowly toward her car, the glow of the streetlamps blurring in the downpour. Across the road, the Crown and Anchor pub was lit up, people gathered inside with pints and whispers, trying to make sense of what none of them could quite say aloud.

She caught fragments as she passed — “under the swings,” “poor little thing,” “how could someone—” — and she kept walking. She didn’t blame them. People needed to talk. Fear always did that; it made you cling to others, even if all you had were half-truths and rumours.
When she reached the car, she stopped and looked back toward the park. The blue tape was gone now, replaced by a line of cones and a lone patrol car with its lights dimmed. Beyond that, darkness. The kind that seemed to swallow everything it touched.

Stevenson emerged from the leisure centre behind her, coat collar turned up.
“You heading back to the station, guv?”

“In a bit,” she said. “Just… need a minute.”

He nodded and didn’t push it. They stood together under the streetlamp, listening to the hiss of rain against the asphalt.

“What do you reckon?” he said finally. “Dump site?”

“Feels like it,” Casey said. “Halversen’s right — no sign she was killed there. Too clean.
Someone brought her, laid her out deliberately. Could be guilt. Could be arrogance.”

“Either way, they knew this place.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “They always do.”

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sound of a barking dog — Tamper, maybe, still unsettled. Then Stevenson cleared his throat.

“I’ll check in with Control before I head home. Make sure we’re flagged on any missing persons overnight.”

Casey nodded. “Good. And, Carl—”

He glanced at her.

“Get some rest,” she said. “We’ll be running on fumes soon.”

He half-smiled. “You too, guv.”

When he’d gone, Casey lingered a little longer. The park gates stood open, the rain tracing tiny rivers down the iron bars. She thought of Annie Liven — a woman who’d gone out for an ordinary morning walk and stumbled into horror. She thought of the child — nameless still, faceless now, but so painfully real. And she thought of whoever had taken her life, walking free somewhere out there, blending into this quiet village of hedgerows and Sunday markets and polite smiles.

That thought chilled her more than the rain.

Later, in her office at Southvale CID, the station was mostly dark, the low hum of the vending machine the only sound. Casey sat behind her desk, coat still on, staring at the photographs laid out before her.

The park. The swing. The evidence markers. The cigarette butt.

A tiny, careless thing — a sliver of human routine — and yet, maybe, the thread that would unravel everything.

She reached for her notepad and began to write.

To-do:
– Cigarette butt: DNA priority test
– Vehicle (22:47, petrol station): request ANPR check within 5-mile radius
– CCTV: High Street, pubs, manor gates
– Identify victim – missing child alerts, schools, hospitals

Her handwriting was neat, precise. Years of habit. But when she set the pen down, her hands were trembling.

She leaned back, eyes closing for a moment. A familiar heaviness settled over her — the quiet dread that came whenever a case began like this, with too many unknowns and one tiny body whose story no one yet knew.

She’d seen enough over the years to understand how people fractured around grief. The ones who cried, the ones who broke, the ones who turned their pain into anger. But this — a child with no name — that kind of silence was worse. It was like a wound without a scar.

The door creaked softly, and Becky poked her head in. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“Nearly done,” Casey said. “You get home all right?”

“Yeah. Feels strange though. Driving past that park. Whole village looks different now.” Casey nodded. “It will, for a while.”

Becky hesitated. “My daughter’s four. Same age, roughly. I just keep thinking—”

“I know,” Casey said gently. “You can’t help it. But don’t carry it home, Becky. Not this one. Let me do that.”

Becky gave a weak smile. “You always say that.”

“Yeah. I always mean it.”

When she was gone, Casey turned back to the window. Outside, the rain had eased. The world seemed to hold still — that strange, breathless calm that came between one storm and the next.

She knew she’d go back out there tomorrow. To the mortuary, to the school gates, to every corner of this village that pretended it didn’t have darkness in it. And she’d keep going until she found whoever had done this.

Because that was the only promise she knew how to make.

The next morning would bring new leads — a name, perhaps, a family torn apart. But for now, the night belonged to the unanswered questions. The cigarette under the bush. The dark car at the petrol station. The hollow space under the swing where laughter should have been.

Casey closed her notebook and whispered into the silence: “We’ll find them, little one. I swear it.”

And then she turned off the light.