Dead Girls: An addictive and darkly funny crime thriller. Graeme Cameron
even tell you what they mean, and relate the most reliable method of estimating the height of a person from their skeleton, or of determining the gender and racial profile of a skull. But I’m no more than an armchair expert; my opinion isn’t worth the calories I’d expend merely forming it, and the jigsaw puzzle in front of me now was far beyond my understanding of how a person could even begin to make sense of it. And so, knowing in my gut that this was the final resting place of Detective Inspector John Fairey and Detective Constable Julian Keith, I resisted the urge to plunge my hand into the ashes, pull out a shard of calcined something-or-other and shout ‘Aha’, and I walked away from the car.
‘Okay, first screamingly obvious things first,’ I said, once I’d flicked the mask off my face and could breathe again. I pointed at the square of blackened grass beneath my feet; one of a dozen I could see, evidence of a summer of careless barbecuing. ‘There are burn marks just about everywhere except under the car. Who’s out looking for the crime scene?’
Kevin looked from me to the car and back again, and scratched the back of his head. ‘Not organised that yet,’ he said, which I had to concede was an accurate if inexhaustive statement. ‘Been a little bit busy on my own here. I haven’t even had a cup of tea yet.’
Signed off till Monday. Not going to feel guilty for having breakfast. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ I said, although I knew Sandra had probably beaten him here and taken control of the scene herself. ‘We haven’t got the whole car here. The bumpers, the tyres, all of the plastic and rubber bits that have melted off. They’re not here. We’re missing a debris field. Plus there are no drag marks, but there’s a trail of mud and oil at least all the way back to the top of the road. See?’ I indicated a set of thick, wide-treaded tyre tracks printed in clods of earth and clay, leading to and from the Mondeo and punctuated by a circular swirl on the tarmac at the entrance to the picnic site. ‘Someone carried it here on a tractor, right? Frontloader, teleporter, whatever you want to call it.’
Kevin nodded. ‘Which was thoughtful of them.’
‘Ha. So who, and why now? It’s been two months.’
He thought about it for a moment. Scratched his head. ‘Is there anything significant about the date?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
I knew where he was going to go before he went there. ‘Well, if we were in a film, I’d say The perp is sending us a message, but . . . we’re not, are we?’
‘Well, you might be,’ I conceded, ‘but whoever dumped this here isn’t. We’ve got a convenient trail of breadcrumbs, but it’s just muddy tyre marks and you can’t really engineer those. If they lead all the way to the burn site, it’s an accident. Also, never say “perp” again. You sound like an idiot.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It’s a pretty thin theory, isn’t it?’
‘Kind of.’
‘So what am I going to find when I leave you here to chase around after Sandra and go follow that trail by myself?’
‘Oh, come on!’
No, you come on. I was tired, hungover, thirsty, more than a little confused, and I wasn’t even supposed to be here today or indeed any day this week, and I thought a nice gentle drive in the countryside would do me good. Frankly, I thought it was probably a waste of time; you can only load your tyres with so much muck, so the trail was bound to go cold in short order, leaving me free to pop into the nearby village and buy some sugary drinks for myself and maybe even Kevin, if I was feeling more generous by then.
He didn’t put up too much of a fight, either. He was obviously enjoying his moment, peacocking around the place as the only – and therefore most senior – detective on the scene. He probably had another hour to enjoy it, so I was happy to let him. And Geoff was clearly happy to let me go, too, because he lifted the tape clean over my head this time.
The trail was laughably easy to follow; clumps of earth and sand and clay, and weeds snatched out from the verge by a vehicle clearly a few inches wider than the single-track road. And leaky, too. Whether it was oil or hydraulic fluid, it shone beautifully in the sunlight, a spot the size of my fist every ten yards or so.
I was in no hurry. I didn’t even touch the throttle, just stuck it in second and let the clutch out and allowed the car to roll along at its own leisure. It was that kind of morning. The roadblock slid lazily aside to let me out, and we all exchanged smiles and waves as I idled by. Then I was free, turning right onto the little B-road that led to the village, and immediately I knew my hopes for a jolly to the shops were dashed because there were muddy tracks and spots of oil on the other side of the road, too, and I only had to follow them for a couple of miles before they arced left onto a wide concrete track and escaped under a three-bar metal gate.
I stopped the car, and sighed, and thought about what I might do next. I knew exactly what I should do, but my mouth was dry and tasted evil, and my temples were threatening to throb, and I had no phone signal anyway, and the village was only a mile further down the road, so I thought fuck it and did that instead.
There was, thank God, a newsagent’s shop in the village, and it was open, if not altogether welcoming. A portly, ruddy-cheeked old chap in a tweed jacket eyed me from behind the counter in some kind of appraisal or other, his eyes boring into the back of my head as I grabbed three cans of coldish Coke from a chiller that was probably older than me. I forced myself not to meet his eye, instead scanning dusty shelves packed with canned goods and decade-old toys, looking for something I might want to eat at this time of the morning and happily finding a box of Nurofen that was, surprisingly, in date. That would do, although I grabbed a handful of Twixes and a mint Magnum for good measure and finally gave the guy a smile as I dumped the lot on the counter. ‘Morning,’ I said.
He gave me a tight nod and a casual ‘How are you today, officer?’ as he rang up the till.
My neck prickled and my breath caught in my throat and I instinctively flashed a look over my shoulder at the empty shop. Was his face familiar? Should it be? Was mine? ‘I’m sorry?’
He paused for a beat, then hit a button on the till with a sound like crashing thunder. The total flickered green on the little pop-up display. ‘How are you?’ he repeated.
I held his stare for a moment, perhaps a moment too long. His left eyelid began to twitch. ‘I’m good,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Sorry, have we met?’
He narrowed his eyes, flickered an inscrutable thought and said, ‘I don’t think so, Miss, no. That’s six eighty-five.’
What does six eighty-five mean? Mind racing, panic setting in. This was not expected. ‘Six eight—’ I noticed the till then: £6.85, all squared off and glowing green. Right. ‘Right,’ I nodded, shaking the blankness out of my head and fumbling for my purse. Only then did I realise that I was still wearing the lanyard around my neck, which of course made me bark a startled laugh that must have made me look even more special than I already did. ‘Right,’ I reiterated, holding the badge up meekly as I handed the guy a tenner. ‘God, I thought you’d recognised me from somewhere. Sorry, I’m not awake yet,’ I smiled, in an effort to pretend I wasn’t suddenly entirely on edge.
He relaxed visibly, even if he didn’t return my grin. ‘Best part of the day,’ he said, handing me my change.
I took the opening. ‘It is peaceful,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you that. I don’t suppose you have the need to call my lot out too often, do you?’
He regarded me curiously, a blue twinkle flashing across his bloodshot eyes. I’m sure he knew as well as I did that I already knew the answer to that. He humoured me, though. ‘Not really,’ he agreed. ‘We don’t have a lot of differences we can’t take care of between us. They say strange things pass through here at night, but the streetlights go out at eleven so I don’t see