style="font-size:15px;"> 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 his way down the ramp, boots slithering on the weed-covered concrete, and squatted down at the edge of the water. Licked the tip of his index finger, then tapped it against the snagged red shoe. Pressed the finger against his tongue. Salt.
‘Deano, when’s high tide?’
‘No idea. Can find out, though.’
‘Definitely not an accident?’ Inspector McGregor was cranked up to full volume, trying to compete with the siren of the car she was in. ‘You’re sure?’
‘As I can be, without screwing up the scene.’ Logan marched back to the road, pulling off his blue nitrile gloves and stuffing them into an empty carrier bag. Fingers trembling, struggling with the plastic. ‘Looks as if someone battered her head in, but there’s no sign of blood on the walkway, or the wall, or the steps. So she didn’t do it falling into the pool. Best guess: she was dead by the time she hit the water. Probably had been for a couple of hours. Must’ve been completely submerged at one point – her skirt, legs and shoes are covered in salt crystals.’ He stopped, blew out a breath. ‘Poor wee soul was only five or six.’
The second-hand roar of the siren wailed from his Airwave’s speaker.
‘Guv?’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes. You’ve secured the scene? And got a lookout request on the go for Neil Wood?’
‘Deano handed it off to the OMU soon as we knew the guy was missing. Don’t know if they’ve done it or not.’
‘For God’s sake, Logan, it’s—’
‘You said, get back to you ASAP.’ The carrier bag went in his pocket. ‘Thought that made it top priority.’
A sigh, barely audible over the background noise. ‘Suppose you’re right.’
Deano scrambled up the shingle beach, back onto the road. Stopped and shook one leg, as if he’d stood in a puddle. Waves hushed against the pebbled shore.
‘Guv, you still there?’
‘Yes. Fine. I’m getting the MIT up from Aberdeen. Make sure no one touches anything till I get there.’
‘Already got Constable Quirrel as acting CSM.’
‘Tufty’s our Crime Scene Manager? … Wonderful … We’re all doomed.’ This time she was gone for good.
Deano marched over – one shoe leaving damp footprints on the age-dulled tarmac – while Logan punched in the badge number of the admin assistant Inspector McGregor had dug up for them.
The woman on the other end picked up. ‘Sergeant McRae?’
‘I need you to run a check on all missing persons aged eleven and under.’ The wee girl looked a lot younger than that, but there was no point taking any risks. ‘Female. Blonde hair. Wearing a school uniform – grey with white socks and shirt. Red shoes and tie. No school badge on the jumper.’
‘Where am I looking?’
Deano stopped in front of him, pointed at himself. Mouthed, ‘Anything needing doing?’
‘Better start with the Northeast and expand it from there. Go UK wide if you have to.’ He took his finger off the transmit button. ‘Deano, whoever you spoke to at the Offender Management Unit – give them a poke and make sure they’ve got a lookout request on for Neil Wood. I want him picked up.’
‘Sarge.’
‘… OK, I’ve got three mispers that match the age range in the Northeast …’ The clatter of fingers on keyboard. ‘Two are female … One red-haired, one brown. Sure yours hasn’t dyed her hair?’
He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the photos he’d taken. That pale little face, staring down at the stones. Deep breath. ‘Far as I can tell. Eyebrows match the hair colour, anyway.’
‘Then we’re going to have to search further out. Might take me a while. How far back do you want me to go: one month, two, three?’
‘Better give it two years. Just because she only turned up today, doesn’t mean she’s not been missing for a long, long time.’
A sigh. Then, ‘Josef Bloody Fritzl has a lot to answer for.’
‘Email me if you get anything.’ Logan clipped the handset back in place.
Deano was on the other side of the police van, marching back and forth with one squelchy shoe. ‘… oh no you don’t. I told you he was missing. I told you to get a lookout request and … No, no, no, no, no: this is your cock-up, sunshine, not mine.’
