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Authors: Stuart MacBride
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the sea wall, and then the blue expanse of the North Sea.
A dark shape was hunched at the far side of the pool, a line of black-and-yellow tape trailing from one hand: ‘ CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER’. Deano. He stuck both arms up and waved them. ‘Sarge!’
It took a moment to pick out the body. Grey against grey.
Not a mistake then.
A couple of inches below the ridge they stood on lay the decaying flat roof of some sort of ancient pump house. No way in hell Logan was risking standing on that. ‘Where’s this common approach path go, then?’
Tufty pointed. ‘Far as we can tell, he’d take her in a straight line from the entrance over there, along the side, take the walkway between the two bits, and dump her in the pool.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘I wanted to do some searching, but Deano won’t let me go down. Says I’ve got to stay up here.’
Proper procedure. Wonders would never cease.
Logan eased himself down the rock face and onto the amphitheatre steps. No way to get to where Deano was without crossing the killer’s route. Well, except for picking his way along the sea wall, but it looked narrow and slippery with green slime. And according to the sign at the entrance, it was a two-metre drop from there to the rocks, so sod that.
Assuming there
was
a killer.
He pointed at Tufty. ‘As of now, you’re acting Crime Scene Manager. You record the time and the date and everyone who’s been near the body. Guard the entrance and make sure no one gets past you till I say so. No one. Don’t care if it’s the Chief Constable himself, he cools his heels in the car park till I say otherwise. Understand?’
‘Sarge.’
Good.
He went right, dropped into the D-shaped inshore pool and made his way through the rubble and rubbish to the other side.
Deano jabbed a metal spike into a crack in the crumbling concrete at his feet, then looped the tape through the pig’s tail at the top. Moved on to the next spike, unspooling a trail of crime-scene yellow behind him. He sighed. ‘Poor wee sod.’
Logan stopped, level with the tape, and peered over the crumbling walkway. ‘Suspicious?’
A grimace. ‘When’s a dead kid not?’
‘True.’ He scrambled up and ducked under the yellow-and-black cordon.
The wee girl couldn’t be much more than five or six. The same age as Jasmine. Same hair colour …
Something knotted in the middle of his chest, compressed by the stabproof vest’s squeezing fist until it was hard and sharp.
But it wasn’t her.
Breath hissed out of him.
Deano put the roll of tape down. ‘You OK, Sarge?’
Blink. Logan coughed the lump out of his throat. ‘Yeah. It’s … She looks like Jasmine.’
The girl lay on her front, three feet from the dirty concrete wall and the ramp down into the pool. She was half-in, half-out of the water. Head, arms and torso floating amongst the detritus, lower half stranded on the rocks.
One leg lay straight out behind her, the small red shoe pointing back towards the main building. Looked as if the strap across her ankle had got caught on a rusting length of broken pipe. Holding her in place. The other leg stuck out at nearly ninety degrees. White socks and a grey dress. All covered with a thin dusting of white crystals.
Her grey jumper was sodden – torn between the shoulders, and at the elbows, showing the white shirt underneath. A school uniform.
Skin was pale as snow, covered in small scratches and tiny triangular holes. Her hands swollen and white. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.
Her cheek rested against a submerged rock. Eyes open, staring out through the murky water. Mouth open. Pale blonde hair floating around her face. A big dent in her forehead.
Deano tied the length of tape off on the last metal post. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
A shrug. ‘Yeah. Bit of a surprise, that’s all.’
‘See if I thought it was
my
daughter, I’d skin the scumbag alive …’ He sniffed. ‘Well you know: if I actually had any kids.’
Logan picked
A dark shape was hunched at the far side of the pool, a line of black-and-yellow tape trailing from one hand: ‘ CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER’. Deano. He stuck both arms up and waved them. ‘Sarge!’
It took a moment to pick out the body. Grey against grey.
Not a mistake then.
A couple of inches below the ridge they stood on lay the decaying flat roof of some sort of ancient pump house. No way in hell Logan was risking standing on that. ‘Where’s this common approach path go, then?’
Tufty pointed. ‘Far as we can tell, he’d take her in a straight line from the entrance over there, along the side, take the walkway between the two bits, and dump her in the pool.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘I wanted to do some searching, but Deano won’t let me go down. Says I’ve got to stay up here.’
Proper procedure. Wonders would never cease.
Logan eased himself down the rock face and onto the amphitheatre steps. No way to get to where Deano was without crossing the killer’s route. Well, except for picking his way along the sea wall, but it looked narrow and slippery with green slime. And according to the sign at the entrance, it was a two-metre drop from there to the rocks, so sod that.
Assuming there
was
a killer.
He pointed at Tufty. ‘As of now, you’re acting Crime Scene Manager. You record the time and the date and everyone who’s been near the body. Guard the entrance and make sure no one gets past you till I say so. No one. Don’t care if it’s the Chief Constable himself, he cools his heels in the car park till I say otherwise. Understand?’
‘Sarge.’
Good.
He went right, dropped into the D-shaped inshore pool and made his way through the rubble and rubbish to the other side.
Deano jabbed a metal spike into a crack in the crumbling concrete at his feet, then looped the tape through the pig’s tail at the top. Moved on to the next spike, unspooling a trail of crime-scene yellow behind him. He sighed. ‘Poor wee sod.’
Logan stopped, level with the tape, and peered over the crumbling walkway. ‘Suspicious?’
A grimace. ‘When’s a dead kid not?’
‘True.’ He scrambled up and ducked under the yellow-and-black cordon.
The wee girl couldn’t be much more than five or six. The same age as Jasmine. Same hair colour …
Something knotted in the middle of his chest, compressed by the stabproof vest’s squeezing fist until it was hard and sharp.
But it wasn’t her.
Breath hissed out of him.
Deano put the roll of tape down. ‘You OK, Sarge?’
Blink. Logan coughed the lump out of his throat. ‘Yeah. It’s … She looks like Jasmine.’
The girl lay on her front, three feet from the dirty concrete wall and the ramp down into the pool. She was half-in, half-out of the water. Head, arms and torso floating amongst the detritus, lower half stranded on the rocks.
One leg lay straight out behind her, the small red shoe pointing back towards the main building. Looked as if the strap across her ankle had got caught on a rusting length of broken pipe. Holding her in place. The other leg stuck out at nearly ninety degrees. White socks and a grey dress. All covered with a thin dusting of white crystals.
Her grey jumper was sodden – torn between the shoulders, and at the elbows, showing the white shirt underneath. A school uniform.
Skin was pale as snow, covered in small scratches and tiny triangular holes. Her hands swollen and white. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.
Her cheek rested against a submerged rock. Eyes open, staring out through the murky water. Mouth open. Pale blonde hair floating around her face. A big dent in her forehead.
Deano tied the length of tape off on the last metal post. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
A shrug. ‘Yeah. Bit of a surprise, that’s all.’
‘See if I thought it was
my
daughter, I’d skin the scumbag alive …’ He sniffed. ‘Well you know: if I actually had any kids.’
Logan picked
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