As Detective Keates arrived on the scene, he knew what kind of shift it was going to be. Some drifted past in a procession of drunk drivers and speeding fines. Other shifts were a blur of high-speed chases, although those were much rarer. This one would be one of those that haunted him.

His shoes slapped against the damp tarmac, but the sound didn't echo. The surrounding trees seemed to absorb it, like it got lost in the endless sprawl of damp green foliage. Undergrowth that had appeared timid and tentative closer to town —sneaking across the forest floor hoping to go unnoticed— had now become confident with the lack of civilisation to trample it down. Moss crept up the tree trunks as if the woodland floor was eating them alive.

A shiver ran down his spine as his eyes scanned the roadside. He always hated coming this far out of the city. He missed the comforting glare of bright street signs and the cconstant hum of voices. Here, winding towards the wilderness, it was hard to remember there was civilisation nearby. It was too quiet and with that quiet came the ever-present feeling of being watched. Rationally, he knew that wasn't the case, but —as always— the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he looked out to the quiet woodland.

The sooner they got this cleared, the sooner he could get in his car and race back to the hustle and bustle of the city centre. There he could barricade himself in with the pile of paperwork he'd need to fill out and file.

Given the scene in front of him there would be a lot.

He sighed as he saw the body in the middle of the road, a white sheet covering the gore underneath.

"Detective Keates." The officer by the body nodded in greeting. He was already on the phone making calls, so the detective continued on towards the second officer on the scene.

He could see the car crumpled against the large oak; steam or smoke drifting from the engine bay like the vehicle's dying breath.

The road had been purposefully curved to avoid the tree; courtesy of some conservation order put in place to protect the local wildlife. He couldn't help but wonder how many times he was going to come here and see another car wrapped around that trunk before someone said enough was enough. At some point people had to think whether the preservation of one tree was more important than the lives it had cost.

Of course, these accidents didn't happen without cause. The tree didn't jump into the road. It had always been there, so had the 'sharp bend' signs, but darkness had a strange effect on people's driving abilities. It was as if when they could no long see the white lines disappearing under their car, they lost all concept of speed. That lapse in judgment had cost many their lives here, but by the look of the tyre marks, this time was different. It wasn't a crash caused by going too fast or not paying attention. It was something much more sinister.

"Nasty crash," he said as he approached Police Constable Johnson and the car. The bonnet of the super compact was wrapped around the thick trunk, as if the tree had grown up through the car. Decades of clever engineering had been no match for centuries of Mother Nature.

As if his words had shocked her from deep thought, the officer looked up with a start. Pulling her eyes from examining the driver's seat. Her round face was ashen even in the dim light of early morning. He had seen that look a thousand times. This must have been her first experience of death by driving.

The seasoned detective had lost count of how many rookies had come and gone because they couldn't cope with a crash site. They had all had the training, and they had all lied to their superior and said they could handle it. Yet, they still got that look on their face when they experienced it for the first time.

The truth was that the training was worlds apart from reality. Images could prepare you for the sights, the distorted bodies and shocking weaknesses in a car's chassis. They couldn't, however, reproduce the smells. The acrid odour of burnt rubber, or the faint metallic scent of blood-soaked car seats. Looking at those images it was impossible to imagine the fear in the shaking voices of eye-witness accounts or the taunting tick of the hazard lights. That metronomic sound telling all who'd listen, that whoever had been driving had seen their end coming and had tried to do what they could to warn future passers-by.

"They obviously swerved," PC Johnson said, swallowing heavily. Keates ran a hand over his weathered face, trying to wipe the tiredness away. This job was plagued by either early mornings or late nights. Both took their toll.

Johnson pointed to the tyre marks on the road. They were just visible against the wet tarmac in the morning light. They could almost see the moment the driver saw the victim in the road and hopelessly tried to avoid them. In the process, they had sent themselves careering towards the tree.

"The victim?" Keates asked, indicating the body under the sheet. Another officer was busy making notes and phone calls, contacting the long list of people needed when a dead body was involved.

"DOA, sir," Johnson gulped, her eyes unable to look in the direction of the body. "The ambulance is coming to take him to the morgue now, but I think the cause of death will be cut and dry."

"Any idea who he is?" Keates asked as his eyes assessed the scene, forcing his hands into a pair of nitrile gloves as Johnson offered them to him.

"No ID on him. No wallet or phone either."

"Strange," he said, deep lines furrowing his brow. These days not many carried ID, but it was almost unheard of to come across a person without a phone.

"All we found was an old black book, not far from the body."

Johnson handed him the evidence, and he turned it over in his hands carefully. It looked no different to any ordinary diary: A5 in size, thick with white pages. Except, it didn't look like the cheap kind found in the local stationary store. The cover was cracked in places, age taking its toll on the supple leather.

Keates flicked through the pages in the hope they'd hold contact details or something to help them identify the man. Despite their worn edges and crinkled paper, every page was blank. Keates wondered if the person had just carried it around with them and never found the time to write in it. It was possible, except the binding was cracked and creased, and the book had that puffed up appearance of a beloved journal. One that had been written in every day, cataloguing the person's life to the bitter end.

"Make sure this gets checked at the lab. Maybe they've used invisible ink or something." He passed it back to Johnson who carefully slotted it into an evidence bag for forensics.

After years of doing this, his mind moved through the scene methodically. It was clear from the tyre marks the car had been driving south when they hit the man, but what was he doing out here? There was no footpath at the side of the road and no bus stop for miles. So why here?

Keates made notes to help him clarify events later.

"And the driver?" he asked but the question seemed to answer itself when he looked at the blood stained driver's seat. "Any chance they'll survive?"

He heard the scepticism in his voice, and by the look on Johnson's face she did too. She paused for a moment, her face twisting in consternation.

"We don't actually know who the driver is, sir. The car was empty when we got here."

The detective's brow furrowed further. What had started as an unfortunate incident was turning into something unnerving.

"Any witnesses?" he queried, although given the time of the accident he was doubtful anyone else would have been around. These roads were always quietest during nightfall.

Relief flashed across Johnson's face and Keates felt a bubble of hope float in his chest. Despite all of this, perhaps there was at least a small glimmer of good news.

"A mum and her daughter. She was driving the other way and saw the guy walk out into the road. Apparently, there was no way the car could have missed him."

"Did the daughter see anything?" Keates probed and Johnson squirmed under his stare.

He waited although his caffeine fix was wearing off and with it his patience. The officer looked at her notes and paused, unsure of whether to continue.

"She's just a child, sir, no more than five years old. She's probably just got an overactive imagination."

"Come on, we've got a John Doe in the morgue and a car without a driver. Anything is better than nothing."

Her pen tapped against the piece of information. "She says the woman got out and walked away into the woods." She pointed towards the woodland across the road. The eerie quiet somehow seemed all the more sinister.

"She just walked away? After this?" The exasperation was rife in his voice as he pointed to the wrecked car.

Johnson almost looked apologetic. Like she was somehow responsible for the lack of information or dubious nature of it. "Like I said, sir, she's young. Maybe she was in shock."

He didn't doubt Johnson had done her job. He'd seen a hundred officers come and go through his time, and from what he knew of her, she was at least one of the decent ones. Albeit still new to the field after leaving behind the monotonous world of petty theft and burglary.

He pushed down the frustration and grogginess making his head pound. He had hoped he'd have this all tied up by the end of his shift, but that was looking less and less likely. Still, that wasn't a reason to lose his temper.

With a sigh, Keates composed himself. "Have you checked the woods? The local hospitals?"

"Yes, sir." Johnson nodded enthusiastically, clearly eager to redeem herself. Although her confidence was short lived. "There's no trace of her, but there was a storm last night, so it's possible any footprints or blood were washed away."

"Get a dog team down here anyway," he replied.

Keates leant against the car, his eyes glaring at the blood stain. Slowly he turned to look at the body, the tyre marks, the unnerving woodland. Trying to pull together each piece of the puzzle in an attempt to fit them together. Trying to see the picture they made up.

With a growl, he pushed away from the car and tore his phone out of my pocket, dialling as he gave orders.

"Make sure forensics get a good swab from that. We need to find that driver, dead or alive."

He stalked back to his car as the ambulance rounded the corner. A clean up team followed closely behind. They'd have the scene cleared by rush hour. He watched them start to set up as the phone's dial tone chirped in his ear.

Finally, the call connected.

"Honey, I'm going to be late home," Keates started, and as she replied he clung on to the warmth in her voice, because as he looked out to the forest he had the same disconcerting feeling of being watched. This time however, for just a second, he could have sworn he saw a ghostly blur of movement amongst the trees.