THE ABANDONED ANDERSON SHELTER WAS in an allotment field. Delahaye’s torch beam hit the rusty walls, and sent beetles scurrying for the shadows. On the curved, ridged ceiling was a single, bold handprint – too big to be a child’s – etched in the filth but even he could see without getting too close it was smooth, without prints. He brought the beam down onto the old cot that had long ago collapsed; earth, detritus and litter ushered in by winds and weather to form a crusty mattress. Lying upon it was a swaddled form and, sprouting from the top of it, a spray of dirty curls. He concentrated the beam on what once had been the living face of Gary Clarke.
* * *
In the mortuary, Mr Trent pulled back the stiff canvas to reveal a dead boy, curled in the foetal position, his hands tucked under his chin. He was clothed in a T-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare, wrinkled as if he’d been in the bath for too long. Held in the child’s arms, its small head tight under the boy’s chin, was a dead puppy.
Mr Trent took a photograph of the tiny animal and Delahaye bent forwards.
‘It looks newborn,’ Delahaye said. ‘Or stillborn.’ Professor Simmons pointed to the side of the boy’s head, and he saw the indentation just above the temple. Towler raised the boy’s arm and Hickman extracted the tiny dog and took it over to the sink to process.
Mr Trent and his team retreated, and the corpse was placed on a clean table. Professor Simmons and Towler felt around with light, experienced touches, talking through their findings all the time. Hickman wrote everything down as Delahaye observed.
Hickman and Towler began the task of straightening the contorted limbs. Free from rigor mortis, the limbs relented but the execrable sounds made during the process made Delahaye cringe. When the boy was supine, his head resting on a block, Professor Simmons again gently tilted the boy’s head. And there it was: a torn throat with a deep, wide bite mark beneath.
With sadness came fleeting panic. How could nobody have noticed? In the old days, Delahaye would’ve indulged the clichés – escaped in booze, boobs and brawling just to untether from the stress and the chattering doubt – but he was too old for the old days. He was as exhausted by the past as he was the present, and the future only offered endless more of it all. He wanted sleep.
Professor Simmons placed her hand on his arm. ‘Detective Sergeant Delahaye, we’ll be here for a while, and the post-mortem is scheduled for tomorrow. Why don’t you go home?’
Delahaye frowned. ‘But—’
‘I wasn’t really asking, Delahaye,’ she said. ‘Please. Go home.’
Towler and Hickman exchanged a glance as they worked and heard the policeman’s retreating footsteps along the corridor.