It was Grace’s habit to approach death the same way she approached life, with calm deliberation and an open mind. And while others might mistake that detachment for coldness, she reserved her compassion for more private moments.
She knew she would weep over the scene of carnage laid out before her, but it would be later, alone. Not now. Wailing at the graveside helped nobody, least of all the departed.
So she paused a little way back from the body and waited for the signs of death to speak to her, as she knew they would. First in half-caught whispers then louder, more stridently. Grace was patient, and three years as a Crime Scene Investigator had made her a good listener.
She stood easy, with the strap of the Canon digital camera over her shoulder, her head tilted to tune out the raised voices behind her. The farmer, arguing with the pair of uniforms who’d been first on scene. The bereaved, shouting for retribution.
And she stood motionless, casting a long shadow. It was still early enough for the sun to be climbing steeply and the dew sparked and shimmered on the spider webs in the grass at her feet. Ever since her childhood Grace had loved the ethereal light at this time of day.
Around her, the flies had already begun to feast. Blowflies—always the first to gather—drawn by the irresistible scent of blood, thick in the air. Grace hardly noticed. There were six corpses lying in the field. She’d studied each in turn but only one arrested her attention.
This one.
It was different from the others, not least in the manner of its death. The body lay stretched out on one side with the head thrown back, the teeth bared in defiance. Beneath one outflung limb Grace could see the blackened circle of the undoubtedly fatal gunshot wound to the chest, although at this stage she took nothing at face value.
“What a waste,” she murmured.
“Come on, Grace,” said a voice behind her. “It’s only a dog.”
She turned, found the younger of the two uniformed PCs at her elbow, Danny Robertshaw, cradling the farmer’s confiscated shotgun. When she didn’t respond he waved his free hand towards the other bodies. “And look at the number of lambs it savaged. Had it coming, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps.” Born in the country, Grace well knew the usual response towards any dog caught worrying livestock. Although, ‘worrying’ was putting it mildly. “But if it’s so clear-cut Daniel, why did you need me?”
Robertshaw coloured, a ruddy flush that stained a neck still raw from the morning’s hasty shave. He ducked closer, lowering his voice.
“Because of them two.” His eyes shifted to the couple. “They were screaming blue murder when they rang it in.” He shrugged unhappily. “Turns out they’ve got some clout.”
“And since when has Cumbria Constabulary been operating a two-tier policing system?” Grace asked lightly. “One law for the locals and another for the incomers, is it?”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze, suddenly fascinated by a hangnail at the side of his thumb. “You know how it is, Grace. You, of all people.”
Do I? She tried not to let that sting, instead asked, “You’ll be sure to take a sample of the spare cartridges for comparison, won’t you?”
“For what it’s worth,” the young policeman grunted. “But old Know-It-All Airey reckons the shotgun’s not been fired for days.”
Grace paused in the act of retrieving an evidence bag from her kit, eyebrow raised. He flushed again. “I’ve nothing against hobby bobbies as a rule,” he said in a rush. “We need ’em when things are tight. It’s just Airey who winds me up. Wrong temperament for the job.”
As a civilian attached to the police, Grace stayed out of station politics as much as she was able, but the superior, swaggering attitude of volunteer Special Constable Jim Airey had reached her ears, even so. A bully, who abused his position to throw his weight around—and there was certainly plenty of that.
Nevertheless, his day job as a butcher’s assistant hardened him to the sight of blood and bone. He hadn’t flinched at today’s scene, and she knew he was often sent to the nastier smashes on the motorway that snaked up the eastern border of the county, revelling in his own unshockable reputation.
Without comment, Grace nudged the shotgun upwards and, mindful where she put her face, sniffed the end of the barrels. Oil and metal and dust, overlaid with the faint ammonia smell of manure.
“Mm, in this instance I would agree with him.” She bagged the gun. “But we should still follow procedure, don’t you think? You’d better ask Mr Airey to make a perimeter sweep.” Her voice was grave even as her lips twitched. “Cast his expert eye over the scene, as it were.”
Robertshaw let his eyes roam the sizeable length of dry stone wall that bordered the field, at his colleague’s generous girth as the man stood with feet arrogantly apart, between the owners of the dog and the field gate as though to prevent their escape.
The youngster grinned, suddenly not looking old enough to drive, never mind put on the uniform. He reminded her of the cheeky little boy with skinned knees he’d been back when she used to babysit him as a teenager.
“Right you are, Grace.”
Grace unshouldered her camera, began quartering the view from the body. It was standard practice at any crime scene, allowing the victim’s position to be precisely located long after the scene was cleared.
In this case, the view was of the squat lime-washed tower of All Saints Church peering through the trees to the south—the only visible part of Orton village itself. To the northeast, the road climbed towards the Scar, an expanse of windswept limestone pavement populated mainly by the hardy local sheep.
“Excuse me, but how much longer is this going to take?”
She turned, saw the couple who’d called in the death of their dog approaching. They were late middle-age, dressed in casually expensive clothes that to Grace’s eye indicated a long and comfortable association with money.
It was the man who’d spoken. Tall, wiry, he had the whippy build of a long-distance runner, staring her down over a hawk-like nose. His voice was clipped with impatience and something that Grace recognised as unease.
“I’m going as fast as is prudent,” she said pleasantly, and glanced at the returning Robertshaw. “I assume we have someone with authorised Firearms experience on their way out to this one, Daniel? You could ask the control room to divert an ARV if there are any in the area.”
Several of the Cumbria force motorway patrol cars doubled as Armed Response Vehicles. Considering most of the Traffic boys seemed to think they were the next Lewis Hamilton in waiting, the chances were one could be on-scene without delay.
“Better than that.” Robertshaw was smiling broadly. “They’re sending down that new hotshot DC to show us how they train ’em in the big city.”
“Surely it isn’t necessary to keep us here all morning?” The woman nodded to the bagged shotgun the young PC still cradled under his arm, and slid her eyes meaningfully to the farmer, sitting on a mud-splattered quad bike only a few metres away. “We all know who killed poor Ben.”
The farmer glared at that. He was a big thickset man, leaning with his elbows on the quad’s fuel tank as he watched the scene play out. His reddened hands dangled loosely to reveal cracked knuckles misshapen by decades of hard work in all weather. Crouched sideways on the seat behind him, tongue lolling, was a wall-eyed Border collie.
“I didn’t shoot ’im,” the farmer said, gruff but without rancour. “Not that I wouldn’t ’ave done, mind. Losing this many lambs at one go, it takes the profit right out of the year. ’Course I would ’ave shot ’im, if I’d got ’ere sooner. But somebody beat me to it, and tha’s a fact.”
The woman let out a pinched breath, her lips hardening into a narrow line. Grace recalled a teacher at her long-ago boarding school with a mouth like that.
“Regardless of who shot poor Ben”—the man forced a thin smile—“it’s clear what happened here. I’m prepared to make full restitution.”
Ah, you’ve changed your tune. Grace saw Robertshaw stiffen as though a bribe had been offered.
“We have a duty to investigate, sir,” he said, aiming for stern but quailing under the couple’s withering stare.
The woman had drawn breath to launch into some stinging tirade when they heard the sound of an engine approaching at speed. Grace caught a glimpse of something bright blue and sporty as it braked to a showy halt by the gateway.
“New bloke,” Robertshaw muttered.
“Well,” the woman said. “Now we might actually get somewhere.”
Grace turned away, glad of something to refocus their attention, then paused, mentally backtracking.
What hotshot new DC? She frowned after Robertshaw’s departing figure, but her attention was already back on the body of the dog.
“Since it patently wasn’t the farmer who shot you,” she murmured, “let’s hope this city boy is all he’s cracked up to be…”