Graham Banks had had just about as much as he could take. Nothing had gone right for him in the past two years, in a few weeks’ time he was returning to England, to pick up the pieces of his miserable life, and try and start afresh.
“Here boy” he called out to the dog as it tore on ahead of him, totally ignoring him. Putting his fingers into his mouth he let out a piercing whistle, followed by a further demand to come to heel. The little Jack Russell continued to ignore his master and ran on into the bushes.
“That bloody dog will be the death of me yet,” he spoke out loud, wishing for the third time that day he had let his ex-wife keep the dog after their divorce. He had only kept it to spite her; he was certainly regretting it now. The walking, the cleaning up after it, and the constant barking at night disturbing his sleep and the damn dog barked at every bloody shadow.
He regretted a lot of things these days he thought, as he went in the direction the dog had taken, regretted leaving England in the first place, regretted getting involved with a fiery-tempered Spanish woman, taking her as his mistress. She had eventually told his wife of their affair, when he tried to end it, causing the break-up of his marriage, and the loss of the business he had struggled to build over the past four years.
The little dog emerged from the bushes, shaking his head from side to side, a woman’s black high-heeled mule clenched tightly between his little sharp teeth.
“What the hell have you got now?” He muttered taking hold of the dog he slipped the lead onto its collar.
“Drop it,” he ordered, then louder and sharper, as the dog ignored him. “DROP IT!” For once the dog obeyed him and released its plaything, dropping it into the grass at his master’s feet.
“What rubbish are you picking up now eh?” He stooped to pick up the mule. It looked almost new, made of real leather, the name ‘Roland Cartier’ printed in gold letters on the inside. He whistled through his teeth. This was an expensive item, not something you would normally throw away before getting some wear out of it.
“I wonder if it belongs to one of those rich bitches, who spend most of their time partying at Rojo Tejado,” he said to no one in particular.
It was possible, since this wasteland backed up to the rear of its premises.
The way the dog was straining at the lead, pulling hard, trying to get back into the bushes, leading him to think there could be something else there, perhaps the other mule. Maybe someone had sneaked off for a bit of nookie in the long grass and lost their footwear. Smiling at the thought, he ordered the dog, “Go seek.” Not needing a second bidding, the little Jack Russell was off into the nearest bush dragging his master behind him.
Graham Banks foot caught on something soft, and he went down, unable to save himself. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him, his eyes screwed up in pain. He hoped he had not broken any bones, as he fought to get his breath back. His eyes opened wide with horror when he saw the cause of his fall. He was staring into the face of a dead woman.
She lay on her back, her limbs bruised and twisted, her features horribly distorted, the flesh bruised and bloodstained, her hair matted with dirt and leaves. Her clothes had been torn from her body, her panties forced into her mouth. She had been violated and strangled, the purple marks of her assailants fingers, plainly visible about her throat. Her breasts had been slashed, the nipples missing.
Tearing his eyes away from the mutilated and ravaged body, he got to his knees and unable to stop himself, he vomited. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and removed his cell phone. With trembling fingers he called the emergency services. The Jack Russell sat quietly, a few feet away; head cocked to one side, watching his every move.
Graham Banks sat waiting a few feet away from the body, the little Jack Russell lying beside him in the sparse grass. He kept his eyes averted, and tried to think of other things while waiting for the arrival of the police.
They had instructed him to remain where he was, and not move around in the crime scene, nor touch or remove anything, as if he would want to, he thought. He was still trembling from his shocking encounter with the deceased.
Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he took out his tobacco pouch and lighter. Concentrating on the roll up, he kept his face averted from the body lying a few feet away. He carefully sprinkled the moist tobacco onto the paper, and then ran his tongue over the gummed edge, but his trembling fingers could not hold the paper steady and tobacco spilled out onto the leg of his jeans. After several failed attempts to form a roll up he gave up, stuffing the makings back into his pocket and sat gazing off into space.
In what seemed like an age, but was in fact less than ten minutes since he made the call, he heard the wail of sirens, as the emergency services rushed to the scene. Moments later, they emerged through the bushes, and the little Jack Russell leapt to its feet barking at the intruders.
While some officers marked out the crime scene, another took him off to one side for questioning. He was only too happy to tell him how he had discovered the body, apologising for throwing up at the scene.
Eventually, the same officer escorted both him and his dog away from the crime scene. He spoke firstly to another officer, and then turned to Graham Banks saying, in perfect English, “you are to go with this officer to the police station, he will take down your statement, and then he will take you to your home.”
As the patrol car pulled up outside his apartment, Graham Banks could not help noticing the stares from passersby, especially his nosy neighbour who was sitting as usual, on her veranda, gossiping with a friend. Her jaw almost dropped to her chest when the police officer walked up the pathway, escorting him to the door. Conversation stopped as the two passed under the veranda and was not taken up again until the officer returned to his vehicle.
Graham Banks inserted his key into the lock, and paused for a moment to listen to the gossiping women, before entering and closing the door firmly behind him. Throwing his key into a bowl on the hall stand, he headed for the kitchen, the little Jack Russell hot on his heels. The dog paced back and forth, as his master took a can of dog food from the cupboard, his eyes never leaving the can of food, as his master rummaged in the kitchen drawer for the can opener, the little dog was whimpering in his eagerness to get at the food bowl.
Graham grabbed a can of beer from the ‘fridge and made for the front room, flopping down on the couch. Picking up the remote control for the television he switched it on and started flicking through the channels.
He could not help but feel a little important, although the incident had not made any of the news channels. He guessed it was too soon, it would not have hit the media yet. Maybe he thought, they would name him as the person finding the body. It would certainly create a stir around here especially if the reporters came to his door, seeking an interview.
Little did he know then, it would be the topic of conversation for weeks to come.