SHOULD I SHOO THE FLIES OFF?
Although the body of Emily Black had been removed from the site of her killing, police activity continued. A line of officers, broomsticks in hand, slowly walked along the path in the copse that led from the murder site, poking into clumps of grass or bushes while another team carried out a fingertip search of the hollow where poor Emily had lain.
Under the direction of Marcus Harding, other officers were searching the thickly wooded area immediately around the hollow when PC Dennis Brighouse, about twenty yards away, stopped, held up his arm, and shouted, “Sarge, here!”
Harding hurried to see what it was that Dennis had found. “Would likely have missed it if it weren’t for the flies,” he said, pointing with the end of his broomstick. It was a piece of stone, about the size of a half-brick, partially hidden in the undergrowth and covered with buzzing blowflies, attracted by the blood still visible on the stone.
“Good job, Dennis,” Marcus said, echoing Yarrow’s practice of always complimenting junior officers.
“Reckon that’s what the bastard used to kill the girl, don’t you, sarge?”
“Most probably.”
“Bastard,” Brighouse muttered again in anger.
“Don’t move the stone; I’ll get the forensics guys to collect it without compromising fingerprints or other possible evidence. You stay here and make sure it’s protected.”
“Should I shoo the flies off? It doesn’t seem decent somehow, I mean, that’s the little girl’s blood.”
“OK, but don’t touch the stone.”
“Absolutely not, I know about protecting evidence,” answered Dennis, slightly offended.
“Sorry, Dennis, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
“No sarge, of course not, of course not,” but his tone suggested otherwise.