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they died?’
    ‘At least four years, maybe as many as five.’ Fran folded a second slice of toast, still eating the first. ‘No wounds ontheir bodies, nothing obvious in the airways and no evidence they were constrained. No sign of a struggle, all bones intact.’
    Marnie processed this in silence. ‘So . . . how did they die?’
    ‘I’ll know more after the autopsy, but if you’re pressing me for a gut feeling, I’d say they slowly starved.’
    Marnie’s throat griped in protest. ‘There was food in the bunker. Tins . . .’
    ‘Maybe they’d got too weak to open them. Maybe it was the cold, exposure. Lack of light, rotten air . . . They were down there a good while. It’s possible they just . . . got sleepy, cuddled together for warmth and didn’t wake up.’ From the way she said it, it was clear Fran meant this to sound peaceful, a gentle death.
    To Marnie, it sounded monstrous. ‘Who would do that, leave them down there to die?’
    Fran dusted crumbs from her shirt. ‘That’s your territory. The only way it would be mine is if I find the bastard’s DNA on their bodies, or in their bodies, which I sincerely hope I don’t. Sorry not to be more optimistic.’
    ‘We’ve swabbed everything we could down there. One thing . . . do you think the bunker stayed shut the whole time after they died?’
    ‘I’d be guessing, but yes. If it was airtight, that would be different.’ Fran chewed for a minute, thinking it over. ‘They were pretty well preserved. If the manhole was disturbed, I’d have expected more evidence of decay. And bugs, rodents. You name it. Forensic fauna, as we’re encouraged to call it. There was nothing like that.’
    Forensic fauna . . . Rats, she meant. And flies, like the one that had gone down into the dark with Marnie. ‘So the chances are, whoever put them down there left them and didn’t come back? Not even to check whether they were dead.’
    ‘You wouldn’t need to check. Whoever left our boys down there knew exactly what they were doing.’
    Our boys.
    ‘Except that they left food and water, blankets . . . Maybe they meant to come back.’
    ‘And what – got distracted?’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’re not talking about a dog in a hot car. These were little boys, buried underground without daylight, getting weak and sick.’
    ‘Maybe they couldn’t go back for them,’ Marnie said, ‘because something happened.’
    ‘You think the murderer’s dead?’
    ‘Not dead, necessarily. But he or she could’ve been arrested. If our boys weren’t the first children they’d taken . . .’
    ‘Or our boys were the first, but he or she went after more?’ Fran wiped her mouth on a piece of paper towel. ‘It’s possible. But if we’re talking about an arrest, why didn’t they tell the police about the bunker? These boys didn’t die quickly. There might’ve been time to save them, which might have meant leniency.’
    ‘True.’ Marnie had only half believed in the idea of an arrest or an accident. It was too neat, and much too convenient. ‘You say they didn’t die quickly . . . Is there any way of knowing how long they were alone down there? We’re assuming they had company to begin with.’
    ‘The food, and the bucket.’ Fran nodded. ‘Traces of bleach in the bucket suggests it was cleaned not long before it was last used. If they’d been down there a long time, unsupervised, I’d have expected more waste, and more mess. Two small children in an enclosed space . . . I’d say days, rather than weeks. Not long, in the scheme of things.’
    She reached for her mug. ‘Of course, we don’t know for sure that they died alone. Whoever did it might’ve stayed down there to watch.’ She sipped at the tea. ‘Perhaps they only left when it was obvious the boys were dead, or dying.’
    ‘Stayed to watch?’ Marnie shivered. ‘Jesus. That’s cold.’
    ‘A whole new level of nasty, but I wouldn’t discount it, at least not quickly.