‘We’ve not touched it, sir. Obviously.’ Powell didn’t need telling, or Bev; they barely heard anyway. The detectives squatted alongside the sergeant, Garry Noon, and gazed down at a stretch of scummy water. Just out of reach, entangled in a clump of tall reeds, lay a pink bootee. The green stuff could’ve been bulrushes for all Bev knew, until now she’d not been aware Rayne had a pond. She’d glimpsed it as Noon led the way down a cinder track that snaked behind a fancy pergola smothered in roses, almost the same shade of pink. Little wonder Bev’s sinking feeling had grown.
‘How deep is it?’ she asked, trying to make out shifting shapes under the surface, praying not to see a tiny body in the murky depths.
Portly, mid-forties, Noon wiped his heavily-lined forehead with a hankie. ‘Coupla feet?’
Deep enough. She glanced at the cops standing round in waders and gauntlets waiting for a green light, almost wished she had the right gear herself. Standing, she shaded her eyes, working out what lay beyond the trees. Grass area, access road. Easy enough for someone to leave a motor there. The bootee could’ve just slipped off when they were carrying Daisy past. She voiced the thought to Powell.
‘Maybe.’ He rose to his feet, Noon followed suit and they all made way for the guys in waders. Bev held her breath as they stepped gingerly into the knee-high water, watched them gently part a carpet of lilies to a sound track of tiny splashes and birdsong. A wasp circled her head. She batted it away. Again and again. Then froze. Creased her eyes. She’d caught a glimpse. Just a flash. Something flesh-coloured.
‘I saw something. There.’ She pointed, tried making it out again. ‘Near your foot.’ Well, near where his foot would be if she could see it through the film of algae.
‘There’s a few in there, sarge,’ Noon said. ‘I think they’re tench.’
‘Trench?’
‘Tench.’ Powell cut her a glance. ‘It’s a fish pond, Morriss.’
‘Sorry.’ She raised a sheepish hand, resumed viewing. The slow motion action looked almost balletic, all they needed was a bit of Swan Lake. Scrub that. Bev held her breath again as the younger man worked his way nearer the trapped bootee. He crouched down by the reeds, fumbled in a tunic pocket for an evidence bag.
‘For Christ’s sake, get your hands off me.’ The angry shout reached them seconds before Rayne, red-faced and gasping, made an entrance. ‘What’s going on? I insist—’ For several seconds he stood rooted to the spot. Bev followed his gaze to the officer who’d started gently disentangling the bootee.
‘Mother of God.’ Rayne sank to the ground, both palms pressed against his cheeks. ‘What have they done?’
Sunlight glared off glass when an upstairs window was flung open. Stella Rayne must’ve heard the commotion. Silhouetted in the frame she stared down, impassive, fingering the string of pearls.
‘Sir.’ Everyone refocused on the pond. The young cop waded towards them, holding the plastic bag aloft. ‘You need to take a look. There’s something in it.’