Warren perched on the edge of his open car boot as he squirmed into a white ‘Teletubby’ suit made out of plastic-coated paper. The last thing he wanted to do was contaminate the scene with any trace evidence from his own clothes; he could destroy valuable clues, or, worse, he could give the murderer’s legal team the tools necessary to raise reasonable doubt and secure an acquittal.
Finally, suited and booted and feeling faintly ridiculous, he clumsily started up the path. Even without the large torch, he could have found his way; the designated path was wide and well-established and somebody had stuck metre-high sticks in the ground with police tape around them to act as a guideline.
As he walked Warren felt himself shiver, and not just because of the crisp air. The path cut through a small stretch of woodland and the trees loomed forbiddingly on either side of him. The rustle of his paper suit and the sound of his breathing weren’t quite enough to hide the haunting hoot of an owl, hunting in the distance. A sudden rustle to his right betrayed the presence of some small animal, spooked by the powerful beam of his torch. It was at times like this that Warren was reminded of the fact that, despite enjoying a country walk on a summer’s afternoon as much as the next man — especially if it involved a pub or two — he really was a city dweller.
Continuing his slow trudge, he became more accustomed to his surroundings: the damp smell of the woodland, the faint pull against each footstep from the muddy path. It had rained a bit the day before, he recalled. Depending on when the body had been dumped the scene was either preserved with nice footprints in the damp soil and the victim covered in fibres and other forensic gifts, or nature had done her best to cleanse the area and make the Scenes of Crime team’s job harder.
Finally a glow started to appear through the trees. The shiny, plastic crime tape that led the way curved sharply to the right. Warren was grudgingly impressed; the spot was well hidden from the road, suggesting that the killer — assuming the victim was murdered — knew the area and had probably chosen the site with some care. He filed that away for future consideration.
Ahead a small clearing was brightly lit with a bank of powerful battery lights and criss-crossed with blue and white tape, designating which areas had already been walked upon and which might still yield some clues.
Standing huddled together against the night air were four late-middle-aged people; two men and two women, comprising two couples, judging by the way they were paired off. A chocolate-brown Labrador sat alert at the feet of the shorter of the two men, watching everything going on with great interest; a fat, golden lump of indeterminate breed lay slumped as if dead next to the other.
A rather less-well-wrapped police constable looked as if he would dearly love to swap the ramblers’ Gore-Tex and fleeces for his own fluorescent police jacket. On his feet, he wore a pair of muddy white booties, stopping him from contaminating the crime scene with outside material. At least he wouldn’t have to clean his boots before his next shift.
The couples were also wearing the white booties, but this time to stop them losing any trace evidence that they might have picked up as the first on scene. It was an elegant solution, Warren decided, given that it was impractical to have them walk all the way back to the front gate in their socks. He wondered if anybody had told them that their walking boots would be spending at least a couple of days at Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire’s Forensic Science Unit at Welwyn Garden City.
He glanced at the two dogs and couldn’t help a smile as he realised that in a perfect world they would also be wearing plastic booties. Depending on what the Crime Scene Manager decided was necessary, both of those dogs might just find themselves undergoing a very thorough grooming in Welwyn.
After introducing himself to the shivering PC, Warren was told that Tony Sutton was with the CSM, Andy Harrison, examining the body. Two other Scenes of Crime officers were with him, starting a preliminary search and setting up a tent to protect the body from further degradation from the elements. The paramedics had been told to stand down as the body would be left in situ overnight. They looked relieved to be going, but agreed to wait to escort the couples back to the waiting SOC van after Warren heard their story.
Finally, Warren met the walkers. Thanking them for their patience and apologising for the wait, he soon ascertained that they were two recently retired couples out on a regular walk. Apparently, they got together about three times a week and went for a three or four mile ramble with their dogs, before retiring to their local pub. They had a number of favoured routes, with this one being preferred on colder evenings, since the trees sheltered them from the wind somewhat. Their last walk through these woods had been four nights previously. That might or might not give a time frame on the dumping of the body, Warren decided, since a very fresh corpse might not have attracted the attention of the dogs.
As Warren had guessed, it was Peanut, the chocolate-brown Labrador, who had found the body. As was their custom, both dogs were off their leads with Peanut romping through the trees on the edge of the pathway. Susie, the golden lump, was getting on a bit now and preferred to trot alongside her owners. At the mention of her name, one of Susie’s ears pricked up, before flopping down again. The poor thing looked knackered, thought Warren.
The walkers had been alerted by a sudden urgent barking from Peanut.
“He’s a sensible one, is Peanut. He’s not given to silliness, so I thought I best go and see what got him all excited.” The oldest of the four retirees was a short man, with a trim grey beard and gentle accent that might once upon a time have been West Country.
Leaving his wife with the other couple, he’d entered the trees to find Peanut sitting on his haunches barking and whining, clearly distressed.
“It was the smell that gave it away, see. I knew that there was something dead in there as soon as I got near. And I figured that if it had been a deer or something else, Peanut wouldn’t have been acting up like he did, he’d have been straight in there sniffing around. Far as I can tell, he never went within ten feet of the body.
“Anyway, it was pretty dark in there, but I’ve got one of those little wind-up torches on my key ring and as soon as I shone it on the body I could see she was dead.” The man’s voice cracked slightly. “Poor thing. I took a couple of paces closer, figuring I should at least take her pulse, but I didn’t. You don’t smell like that if you’re still alive. Then I remembered all of those crime dramas that Marie watches and I figured I best leave well alone.”
At the mention of her name, his wife slipped a comforting arm around his waist.
“Ben here has a mobile phone and so I got him to phone 999 and then we waited for you lot to arrive.” The other man, taller and still sporting a full head of dark hair, waved an old, brick-like phone in the air as if to prove his friend’s point.
After asking them a few more questions and making sure that the CSM had taken everything he needed, Warren thanked them again and sent them back down the path with the paramedics.
Now it was just him and the police constable. If anything, the bright lights made the woods seem more oppressive, blotting out what little natural moonlight could make it through the clouds, enveloping the two men in a white bubble, surrounded by inky blackness. There could be absolutely anyone or anything standing outside that little cocoon and neither man would know…
Jesus, Warren, get a grip. You’re in bloody Hertfordshire, five miles from Middlesbury, not two hundred miles up the Amazon River. There aren’t jaguars waiting in the trees or crocodiles lurking under the river; we’ve probably scared off every rabbit or fox for miles around.
Nevertheless, he was relieved when he saw the flash of white light coming from the woods and, a few seconds later, the slightly comical shape of Tony Sutton waddling towards
