They bolted the door behind them and Martin ordered the captain not to move or touch a thing.
The body was sitting on the floor, with legs outstretched and back leaning up against an unmade single bed. The head was bent at the neck and the lifeless eyes were staring up at the dusty cabin ceiling. In the overhead light the pillow beneath his head had a wet shimmer.
Judging by the amount of blood the exit wound must be far larger than the small hole in the forehead above the right eye.
‘Who is that?’ said Martin, who’d now switched to crime scene mode. Experience had taught him that first impressions were the most important ones. So he scanned the surroundings, paying particular attention to anything out of the ordinary.
Such as an inverted cross on a wall, a shattered mirror below a cupboard or an apartment so tidy that it reveals the criminal’s intention to be as inconspicuous as possible.
The oddities weren’t always apparent; often, clues to the circumstances surrounding the crime, motives, victims and suspects were located subtly. Like the piece of metal on the carpet by the fitted cupboard in this cabin.
Martin bent down to the hairclip. It was small, colourful and cheap. The sort of thing you might see on a doll.
Or a young girl.
‘Good God, that’s…’ Behind him Bonhoeffer was staring at the corpse, his eyes as wide as saucers. Clearly the shock at what they’d found was preventing him from uttering the dead man’s name.
‘Who?’ Martin asked harshly. Bonhoeffer swallowed.
‘His name is Veith Jesper,’ he said, pointing at the man in the blood-soaked uniform. ‘One of my security officers.’