Detective Inspector Paul Hunt made his way across the field to the blue tarp. He sucked on a vape and blew great swathes of cloud behind him. He smelled of strawberry and watermelon, but he knew the exotic whiff wouldn’t last long once he got under the tarp. He’d had a pair of trainers in the car, and he’d put them on hastily, to save his shoes, which were new last month. He popped his vape into the pocket of his trousers, having left his jacket in the car. The weather was sweltering and he didn’t know how those suave European cops kept so pristine under their white shirts. He had sweat patches under his arms and he felt as though his head was about to explode. The air was hot, not just warm but scalding, and the sun made his skin prickle where he’d rolled his sleeves up.
It was always a bad day when he had to view a body, especially a murder victim. He was a seasoned officer, and had seen things most people only saw in movies. But when it was real, it was different. Disappointing actually. It was never as dramatic as it was on the TV. Under the tarp, there’d be a small army of forensic specialists in white suits, like spacemen huddling over the remnants of a life. Then there’d be a photographer taking stills of what was left, as well as evidence markers placed beside the signs of human existence and what it left behind: cigarettes, drinks bottles, weapons, clothes, condoms, nails and bits of hair or jewellery. There’d also be a crime scene investigator who drew their diagrams with precision, like surveyors preparing for a house sale. Then he’d walk in and be expected to work around them all and piece together a case.
There were other things he’d rather be doing on a Friday morning, however, this was his job. Hopefully, it’d be an easy one to wrap up and, being a violent murder, as he’d been told, the CPS would want signing off quickly. Nobody wanted a messy unsolved murder in the centre of Cambridge. This wasn’t London. The crime didn’t fit the patch, and they could do without the attention.
He slapped gloves on, covered his shoes at the entrance to the tarp, and took time to look around. It was close to the Red Hen pub, so there might be witnesses. It was also a favourite spot of dog walkers, but they came out in the daytime, and he figured without even looking at the body that she’d been dumped under the cover of night, unless they were dealing with an escaped lunatic, which sometimes happened. There was a jetty close by with gravel access from the road, so tyre tracks would be fucking impossible unless the perp drove a tank.
He went in.
His mask didn’t protect him from the stench. The damn heatwave would have worked her body like a cooker and he knew from experience that she’d been here for more than just a couple of hours. Plastic suits made space for him and he observed the remains of a woman, lying on her side, discarded like trash and covered in leaves and a silky sheen of skin slip. Her abdomen was slightly green and he knew that she was dissolving from the inside.
He braced himself for the worst of it. He’d forgotten his Vicks and kicked himself for his oversight; he hadn’t attended a grisly scene like this for a good while. This might very well be his last. He was due for promotion next year and episodes like this would be handled by those junior to a chief inspector. His days as field operator, digging around in the last throes of a corpse’s breath, were almost over. He’d already decided to wrap this one up quickly – it might even speed up his promotion to DCI. It was usually the lover or husband, or pimp, who did it, and that’s where he’d start. It shouldn’t take him long.
The photographer’s camera clicked and flashed and the CSI chatted to him, pointing to a wound on the cadaver’s back.
‘Matches with a lung puncture – she bled out, but not here. Then there’s the head wounds.’
‘Overkill,’ Hunt whispered.
Definitely a lover.
Music from the Red Hen travelled in bursts over the field and Hunt wished he was invited to that party rather than this one. No doubt they had no idea what was going on out here across the field by the banks of the river Cam as they ate their brunches and geared up for the weekend, sipping cocktails on ice. Then he saw it.
He knelt over the body.
‘All right, guv?’
‘Yeah, I think I know who she is.’
It was procedure to ask family members who report their loved ones missing for distinguishing marks, and this was an unmissable one. A great serpent tattoo wriggling up her back, which made her look like a cheap whore.
Maybe he’d get this case done and dusted earlier than he thought. The state of her body, and the fact that she had a couple of days’ worth of insect activity on her, given the exposure to the elements, meant that she’d remain here at least until this afternoon, perhaps this evening. And he didn’t want to shoot from the hip just yet by involving the family. The priority was the crime scene, because it was obvious that the woman was a victim of homicide. He had to gather himself and get as many facts as he could before requesting identification from the next of kin. Until he was sure, and checked with the information he had, he’d hold off informing the bloke who’d reported his wife missing on Wednesday. Some rich fella, city trader, or the like, more money than sense. Enough, for sure, to buy anything he wanted, including a new wife when he got bored of the old one. That was the beauty of experience in policing: it made the open mind more streamlined.