and a half cigarettes, later there was a cry of ‘Hello?’ and the crunch and snap of someone pushing their way through the branches.
It was the new deputy PF, already done up in her scene-of-crime boiler suit, complete with matching blue shoe covers, even though the rest of her party was still in their regular clothes. The real PF followed her, deep in conversation with Dr Isobel MacAlister – the Ice Queen cometh – while Doc Wilson stomped along at the rear of the group, not talking to anyone and scowling at Isobel’s back.
The PF gave them a grim smile, asked to be brought up to speed, then suited up and disappeared into the SOC tent, taking Isobel and areluctant Doc Wilson with her, leaving her deputy to fidget at the entrance to the stinking blue plastic grotto as Dirty Moustache refused to let her into the crime scene. ‘You’ve trailed every bit of grit and dirt and God knows what else in from wherever you got changed!’ he said, pointing at her protective suit and booties. ‘You’ll have to get on a new set.’ Blushing furiously she stripped off, revealing a sombre black suit and canary-yellow blouse. The outfit, combined with Rachael’s beetroot face and curly red hair, made her look like an angry bee. DI Steel left her to it, dragging Logan with her into the crime scene.
There were hundreds of flies in the SOC tent, buzzing and swooping in the foetid air, making Logan’s skin crawl. The sunlight, stronger in the clearing than it had been in the forest proper, made the plastic sheeting glow, tainting everything a sickly blue. Looking a bit like Smurfs in their white over suits, the IB technicians kept a respectful distance from Isobel. Just in case. The video operator went in for a couple of long panning shots before settling down behind her left shoulder so that he could get a good view of the case’s contents when it was opened. The photographer flashed away, the sudden clack and whine making everything jump into full colour, before fading back to shades of blue. There was a rustle of plastic and Rachael, dressed in a brand-new set of coveralls, poked her head into the stench then joinedLogan and Steel at the back of the tent, looking on as Isobel examined the case.
‘It appears to be a mid-range suitcase. Relatively new,’ said Isobel, for the benefit of the tape recorder whirring away in her pocket. She tried the catch: it was locked so she made one of the IB team cut the thing out. Telling him, at least seven times, to be careful. At last the lock was sitting in an evidence pouch and Isobel grasped the lid of the suitcase. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got…’
The smell was instant and overpowering. Logan had thought it was bad before, but with the suitcase opened it was a hundred times worse. The thing was relatively watertight and half-full of viscous, stinking liquid, surrounding what looked like a torso. Two foot long. That meant it was an adult. Logan couldn’t see any breasts, so it was probably male. Unless they’d been cut off. The skin was black with hairy mould, slick with slime.
There was a sudden movement at his side as Rachael slapped a hand over her mouth and nose and scrambled out of the tent. Logan couldn’t blame her. His stomach was rapidly working its way to the same conclusion.
And then Isobel spoke: ‘Son of a bitch…’
Logan was almost afraid to ask, ‘What?’
She sat back on her heels. ‘Literally. This torso.’ She pointed at the swollen, rotting lump of meat, crammed into a suitcase and hidden beneath a tree in the middle of a forest in the middle of nowhere. ‘It’s not human.’
7
There was silence in the tent, broken only by the buzzing of flies. Thick, fat bluebottles that settled on the decomposing torso. Feeding. It was Logan who asked the obvious question, ‘What do you mean, “It’s not human”?’
‘Well, for a start it’s completely covered with hair.’
Logan peered into the stinking suitcase. Isobel was right: what he’d taken
It was the new deputy PF, already done up in her scene-of-crime boiler suit, complete with matching blue shoe covers, even though the rest of her party was still in their regular clothes. The real PF followed her, deep in conversation with Dr Isobel MacAlister – the Ice Queen cometh – while Doc Wilson stomped along at the rear of the group, not talking to anyone and scowling at Isobel’s back.
The PF gave them a grim smile, asked to be brought up to speed, then suited up and disappeared into the SOC tent, taking Isobel and areluctant Doc Wilson with her, leaving her deputy to fidget at the entrance to the stinking blue plastic grotto as Dirty Moustache refused to let her into the crime scene. ‘You’ve trailed every bit of grit and dirt and God knows what else in from wherever you got changed!’ he said, pointing at her protective suit and booties. ‘You’ll have to get on a new set.’ Blushing furiously she stripped off, revealing a sombre black suit and canary-yellow blouse. The outfit, combined with Rachael’s beetroot face and curly red hair, made her look like an angry bee. DI Steel left her to it, dragging Logan with her into the crime scene.
There were hundreds of flies in the SOC tent, buzzing and swooping in the foetid air, making Logan’s skin crawl. The sunlight, stronger in the clearing than it had been in the forest proper, made the plastic sheeting glow, tainting everything a sickly blue. Looking a bit like Smurfs in their white over suits, the IB technicians kept a respectful distance from Isobel. Just in case. The video operator went in for a couple of long panning shots before settling down behind her left shoulder so that he could get a good view of the case’s contents when it was opened. The photographer flashed away, the sudden clack and whine making everything jump into full colour, before fading back to shades of blue. There was a rustle of plastic and Rachael, dressed in a brand-new set of coveralls, poked her head into the stench then joinedLogan and Steel at the back of the tent, looking on as Isobel examined the case.
‘It appears to be a mid-range suitcase. Relatively new,’ said Isobel, for the benefit of the tape recorder whirring away in her pocket. She tried the catch: it was locked so she made one of the IB team cut the thing out. Telling him, at least seven times, to be careful. At last the lock was sitting in an evidence pouch and Isobel grasped the lid of the suitcase. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got…’
The smell was instant and overpowering. Logan had thought it was bad before, but with the suitcase opened it was a hundred times worse. The thing was relatively watertight and half-full of viscous, stinking liquid, surrounding what looked like a torso. Two foot long. That meant it was an adult. Logan couldn’t see any breasts, so it was probably male. Unless they’d been cut off. The skin was black with hairy mould, slick with slime.
There was a sudden movement at his side as Rachael slapped a hand over her mouth and nose and scrambled out of the tent. Logan couldn’t blame her. His stomach was rapidly working its way to the same conclusion.
And then Isobel spoke: ‘Son of a bitch…’
Logan was almost afraid to ask, ‘What?’
She sat back on her heels. ‘Literally. This torso.’ She pointed at the swollen, rotting lump of meat, crammed into a suitcase and hidden beneath a tree in the middle of a forest in the middle of nowhere. ‘It’s not human.’
7
There was silence in the tent, broken only by the buzzing of flies. Thick, fat bluebottles that settled on the decomposing torso. Feeding. It was Logan who asked the obvious question, ‘What do you mean, “It’s not human”?’
‘Well, for a start it’s completely covered with hair.’
Logan peered into the stinking suitcase. Isobel was right: what he’d taken
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