DS Smith hung his head, one hand massaging his temples. ‘What?’
But Rhona wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at me. ‘The boss needs you.’
Smith squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll be there in—’
‘Oh, sorry, Sergeant Smith, didn’t see you there.’ Rhona flashed her pale gums again, then pointed at me. ‘I was talking to …’
Smith’s chin came up, grinding the words out between his teeth. ‘In a professional police force we do not refer to detective constables as “Guv”, do I make myself clear?’
Rhona just smiled at him for a minute. Then back to me. ‘Anyway, Guv, if you can pop inside, that’d be great.’
The SOC tent trembled, rain turning the blue plastic into a million little drums. Inside it was almost loud enough to drown out the diesel generator in the corner – powering the lighting rigs spread around the scene on thick-legged tripods. The large tent had been split into three areas: the first was for suiting-up-and-signing-in, with a line of standard blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape separating it from everything else. The rest of the space was grass and weeds, with the burial site secured within a cordon of bright-yellow ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS’ tape towards the back wall.
It was an open trench, about the size of a double bed, surrounded by kneeling figures – all dressed in white oversuits – carefully trowelling mud and stones into plastic crates as the flicker and whine of the photographer’s digital camera captured everything for posterity.
Bones poked up through the dark earth.
Please don’t be Rebecca. Be anyone else but her …
‘… and gross insubordination.’ DS Smith pulled his shoulders back, nose stuck in the air, one arm out – pointing at me with a trembling finger. ‘DCI Weber, I must insist—’
‘Veeber, it’s pronounced, Veeber. Veeee-Ber. Sandy, we’ve been over this.’ Detective Chief Inspector Weber tugged at the ends of his stripy scarf. He must have run the clippers over himself that morning, because there was a faint dusting of short brown hairs on the shoulders of his tweed jacket – trying to hide the fact there wasn’t much left on his head. Just a fringe around the sides and a single island in the middle, surrounded by a moat of shiny skin. His beard was the same length, as if he’d started at the top of his head and forgotten to stop. He straightened a pair of black-rimmed NHS-style glasses. Then sighed. ‘Well, I suppose with any transfer there’s always going to be a period of adjustment; you’re bound to settle in sooner or later.’
Pink bloomed on Smith’s cheekbones. ‘But, sir, I—’
‘No,’ DCI Weber held up a hand, ‘don’t blame yourself. I’m sure once the team gets to know you, you’ll get on like my grandmother in a bratwurst factory.’
I tried not to smile, I really did.
Smith folded his arms. ‘I see. That’s the way it is, is it? Fine.’
Poor baby.
Weber looked past Smith’s shoulder. ‘What have you got, Matt?’
A figure in full SOC suit was lumbering across the car park towards us, carrying a plastic crate with a mound of evidence bags in it. ‘Mmmphnn-fmmmmnnnn-nnnmmph.’
He plonked the crate on the damp grass and stretched, making grunting noises, one hand in the small of his back. Then hauled off his facemask, exposing a round sweaty slab of flesh with a little cupid’s bow of a mouth. ‘Fuck me, it’s hot in these things.’ He nodded towards the trench. ‘Our forensic archaeologist’s sodded off for lunch, so we’ve finally got the poor cow uncovered. You want to take a look before we cart her off to Teaboy’s lair? Indiana Jones’ll be back in twenty minutes – if she’s not out of here by then we’ll still be pissing about at bloody midnight.’
Weber raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think Professor Twining would really appreciate being called—’
‘Fuckim.’ Matt sniffed. ‘You coming or what?’
Someone tugged at my sleeve.
It was Dr McDonald, her voice so quiet I had to bend down to hear it. ‘Ask them if I can see the body.’
It was like having a six-year-old again. I turned my back on Smith. ‘Can we tag along?’
Weber fiddled with his scarf. ‘I don’t see why not. Just …’ He frowned at the psychologist. ‘Sorry, who is this?’
I did the introductions. Dr McDonald only managed a sickly smile and a little wave.
Weber nodded. ‘Ah, good. For a minute there I thought your Katie had grown a bit since last time I saw her. That probably wouldn’t have been appropriate. Right, suit up everyone.’ He paused, then patted Rhona on the shoulder. ‘Do me a favour and find out how they’re getting on in Tent B, would you?’
‘Oh …’ She drooped a little. ‘Yes, Boss.’ Rhona slouched to the exit, paused on the threshold to stare back at Dr McDonald struggling her way into a SOC over-suit that looked two sizes too big, then slipped out into the rain.
Suited and booted, we followed Matt back to the open trench. It was about three feet deep, the soil dark as tar, streaked through with veins of milky coffee. They’d set up a grid of yellow string, segmenting the burial site into fourteen-inch squares.
A skeleton lay in the middle of the grid, bones the colour of dried blood.
Something fizzed at the base of my throat, then down my aching chest and gravel-filled stomach, making my knees lock. Mouth bone dry. A high-pitched whine swirling in my ears.
Please don’t be Rebecca …
Inside the SOC suit, my shirt clung to my clammy back like a cold wet hand.
Please don’t be Rebecca …
The remains lay on their side, left arm draped across the ribcage, knees bent double so the feet were under the pelvis. The spine ended in a ragged-edged vertebrae, just above the collarbone – the smooth dome of the skull poked out of the dark earth in the gap between the ribcage and the pelvis.
Dr McDonald put a hand on my arm, and I flinched. Turned it into a cough. Nothing to see here. Everything’s fine.
She leaned forwards – standing on the lip of the trench, peering in at the remains. Then back up at me. She’d put the safety goggles on over her own glasses, the lenses already starting to mist up. Dr McDonald stepped away from the edge and tugged at my sleeve again, keeping her voice almost too low to hear. ‘It’s Lauren Burges, she was abducted seven years ago.’
Thank God. I closed my eyes. Let my breath hiss out into the facemask. Not Rebecca. Thank you, God.
I passed on the information. Everyone stared at me.
DS Smith snorted. ‘What, are you psychic now? I think we might just wait for the DNA results before we go flying off on—’
‘Don’t speak shite.’ Matt hopped down into the trench, moving his blue plastic bootees through the yellow-string grid like an overweight ballet dancer. ‘DNA? Be sod all left. See that?’ He pointed at a scrap of black plastic sticking out of the soil by the body. ‘He wrapped her in bin-bags.’
Smith stiffened. ‘What’s that got to do with—’
‘Mr DNA likes it cool and dry. Stick your dead girl in a bin-bag, and she’ll rot away, making lots of nasty heat and lots of icky moisture: all trapped inside. Mr DNA hates that: goes through him like a paedo in a nursery.’ Matt knelt by the side of the body and gently eased the skull out of the ground, then lowered it into a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘We might scrape some DNA from