Excerpt from I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

As they rounded the corner Kate slowed the car to a crawl. Half a dozen police cars were strewn haphazardly down the street; lights throwing a blue glow across the scene every other second. Floodlights were mounted on metal tripods, their strong beams picking out the fine mist of rain, which had thankfully abated in the last hour.

Kate had stopped on their way out of the station to grab a coat and exchange her heels for wellies. "Practicality before style," she had laughed, throwing the shoes into her locker and pulling on the boots. Ray rarely gave much thought to either principle, but he wished now he'd at least brought a coat.

They parked the car a hundred meters away from a large white tent, erected in an attempt to protect from the rain whatever evidence might have been left. One side of the tent was open, and inside they could see a crime scene investigator on her hands and knees, swabbing at something unseen. Farther up the road a second paper-suited figure was examining one of the huge trees that lined the road.

As Ray and Kate drew near to the scene they were stopped by a young PC, his fluorescent jacket zipped so high Ray could barely make out a face between the peak of his hat and his collar.

"Evening, sir. Do you need to come in? I'll have to sign you in." "No, thank you," said Ray. "Can you tell me where your sergeant is?" "He's at the mother's house," the PC said. He pointed down the

street to a row of small terraced houses before retreating into his col- lar. "Number four," came the muffled afterthought.

"God, that's a miserable job," said Ray, as he and Kate walked away. "I remember doing a twelve-hour scene watch in the pouring rain when I was a probationer, then getting told off by the DCI for not smiling when he turned up at eight o'clock the next morning."

Kate laughed. "Is that why you specialized?"

"Not entirely," Ray said, "but it was certainly part of the appeal. No, it was mainly because I was sick of passing all the big jobs over to the specialists and never seeing anything through to the end. How about you?"

"Sort of similar."

They reached the row of houses the PC had pointed toward. Kate carried on talking as they looked for number four.

"I like dealing with the more serious jobs. But mainly it's because I get bored easily. I like complicated investigations that make my head hurt to figure them out. Cryptic crosswords rather than simple ones. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," said Ray. "Although I've always been useless at cryptic crosswords."

"There's a knack," said Kate. "I'll teach you sometime. Here we are, number four."

The front door was smartly painted and slightly ajar. Ray pushed it open and called inside. "CID. All right if we come in?"

"In the sitting room," came the response.

They wiped their feet and walked up the narrow hallway, pushing past an overloaded coat rack, beneath which sat a pair of child's red wellies, neatly placed beside an adult pair.

The child's mother was sitting on a small sofa, her eyes fixed on the blue drawstring school bag clutched on her lap.

"I'm Detective Inspector Ray Stevens. I'm so sorry to hear about your son."

She looked up at him, twisting the drawstring so tightly around her hands the cord gouged red grooves in her skin. "Jacob," she said, dry-eyed. "His name is Jacob."

Perched on a kitchen chair next to the sofa, a uniformed sergeant was balancing paperwork on his lap. Ray had seen him around the station but didn't know his name. He glanced at his badge.

"Brian, would you mind taking Kate into the kitchen and filling her in on what you've got so far? I'd like to ask the witness a few questions, if that's okay? It won't take long. Perhaps you could make her a cup of tea at the same time."

From the reaction on Brian's face, it was clear this was the last thing he wanted to do, but he stood up and left the room with Kate, no doubt to moan to her about CID pulling rank. Ray didn't dwell on it.

Excerpted from I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.