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 the tooth pulp cavity, but after seven years I doubt it. Got more chance getting a blowjob off the pope.’
‘I don’t appreciate your—’
‘Course, on the plus side: he wrapped her in bin-bags.’
‘You just said—’
‘Like little hoovers made of static electricity, they are. Should get some fibres if we’re lucky.’ Matt cradled the skull in the hollow of his elbow, filling in the form printed on the evidence bag. ‘And before you ask, our wee skeleton’s that colour ’cause of iron and aluminium elemental staining. This whole area’s hoaching with old red sandstone mudstones.’ He popped the top back on his pen. ‘Any other basic science lessons you’re needing while I’m here?’
Smith actually trembled. ‘You – don’t – ever – speak – to me – like – that!’
A shrug. ‘Not my fault you’re thick.’
‘THICK?’ The word bellowed out from behind the facemask.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Weber stared up at the rain-drummed roof.
‘How dare you call—’
‘ENOUGH!’ Weber’s hands were claws, turned to the sky. ‘Both of you.’
Silence.
‘Sorry, Boss.’ Matt went back to the remains.
Smith stared after him. ‘I was only—’
‘Sergeant, why don’t you just …’ Deep breath. ‘Why don’t you go check up on the door-to-doors? I need to speak with DC Henderson here.’
‘But …’
‘Off you go. And remember: Veeber – “Veeeeee-Ber”.’
Smith didn’t move for a moment, then his shoulders went back, head up. ‘Sir.’ He turned and marched towards the changing area, arms swinging as if he was on parade.
I cranked the heating up full and treadled the accelerator. The minibus was parked beside Tent C, its diesel engine rattling away as the interior slowly got up to a reasonable temperature. Filthy carpet, stained upholstery, and the smell of stale chips and cheesy feet. Sitting in the passenger seat, Dr McDonald fiddled with the air vent, doing her best not to make eye contact with Weber.
He was in the next row back, leaning forwards, arms draped over the seat. ‘I told you to play nice with the new boy.’ He took his glasses off and polished them on a hanky, before blowing his nose. ‘What happened to your face?’
I shrugged, tried for a smile. ‘Can we not just get rid of him? Palm him off on Traffic, or something?’
‘Dr McDonald, I want to assure you that my team isn’t normally quite this …’ He wiggled a hand.
‘Dysfunctional?’ A blush spread across her cheeks. She’d finally plucked up the nerve to say something loud enough to hear.
‘Actually, I was going to say, “high spirited”, but I suppose either works.’ Weber blew his nose again, a honking snork that ended with a sniff and a wipe. ‘What makes you think the remains are Lauren Burges?’
Dr McDonald popped open her satchel and rummaged inside – it looked as if the thing was full of files, folders, and a big silver laptop. She pulled out a red plastic sleeve with Lauren’s name written on a white sticker in careful block capitals, then flipped through the contents before producing an A4 blow-up of a homemade birthday card. The number five was scratched into the top-left corner. She handed it to Weber and he made a little hissing noise.
‘What?’
He passed it over and I couldn’t breathe. The girl in the photo … every inch of skin was smeared with blood, head shaved, a gaping hole torn in her belly, coils of glistening grey draped between her slashed thighs like vile bunting. Her mouth hung open, the duct-tape gag gone, gaps where the front teeth had been torn out.
This was two years before the bastard took Rebecca.
And just like that the minibus was too hot.
‘Ash?’
I looked up. Weber was handing me another blow-up: number six. The girl’s neck ended in a jagged stump. The Birthday Boy had stuffed her head inside her abdomen – her dead eyes gazed out at the camera. ‘I don’t …’ I coughed, swallowed it down, tasting the bile: rancid
