Page 16 of Making a Killing

Bradley nods. ‘Any idea how long it’s been here?’

‘Well, the pathologist should be able to make a rough guess. They’re aiming to do the PM first thing tomorrow. But if you’re asking if it’s Ellie –’

Of course she’s asking. And who else could it be? A student at one of the Cheltenham sixth-form colleges, out on a night with friends she never came home from. A bit of harmless high-spirited fun that ended up deadly. Her bright, confident face has stared out of the whiteboard at South Mercia CID ever since, but despite everything they’ve done, everywhere they’ve looked, they’re no further forward than they were on the first day. But if thisisher – it’s horrible to think of that as ‘progress’, but for a police officer, a body is evidence, even if, for the family, it’s the ruin of hope.

‘Don’t let DI Tate get carried away,’ says Markey now, ‘but that nettle growth looks about right for a grave dug around a month ago. When soil is disturbed it’s always the nettles who move in first.’

‘You learn something new every day.’

Markey smiles. ‘I’ll get a botanist I know at Birmingham Uni to take a look. But like I say, just wait till the PM before you go off all guns blazing.’

Bradley straightens up again and looks around. Yellow evidence markers dot the floor of the clearing, like a grimmer grown-upHansel and Gretel.

‘That far one’s where the hand ended up,’ says Markey, ‘if you were wondering. Our canine friend was understandably reluctant to let it go. The one over there is where the wrist cartilage dropped off.’

At the top of the slope a middle-aged woman is sitting on a fallen log, trying to restrain an excited labrador. She looks greenish, though the bright magenta T-shirt definitely isn’t helping. The rest of the clearing looks like a TV set. Blue and white tape, half a dozen uniforms doing a fingertip search. They’ll be on the news by nightfall.

Bradley turns back to the CSI. ‘How long is it going to take?’

‘To get the body out? I’ve got two colleagues on their way, but at least a couple of hours. So if you have somewhere else you need to be –’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Nothing that can’t wait. I’ll be in the car.’

***

***

The view from Gareth Quinn’s flat is spectacular even on a bad day, and this isn’t a bad day. The sky is almost jewel-bright and Maisie can feel the sun-warmth on her bare feet when she goes out on to the balcony, even this early in the morning. She stands at the balustrade for a moment, taking it all in. She’s been living here nearly six years, and she never tires of it. She loves everything about it – the location, the design, the space. In fact, the only thing wrong with this flat is the idea of getting a stroller up and down four flights on a daily basis. But that’s a conversation for another day. She folds her hands round her mug of herbal tea and takes a deep breath of bright blue air. Behind her, in the big open-plan living space, she can hear her husband at the Nespresso machine.

‘Maise,’ he calls, ‘you want a coffee?’

‘No, I’m fine. I’ll stick to tea.’

He joins her a few moments later. ‘Very snazzy,’ she says, looking him up and down. ‘Though isn’t full uniform a bit warm in this weather? You going for an interview or something?’

He puts the cup down on the table. ‘No such luck. Not yet anyway. Nah, this is just for that residents’ meeting about the bloody Botley Road closure. There’s a gift that keeps on sodding giving.’

‘I bet you don’t have to wear all that stuff.’ She grins at him over her mug. ‘You just like the dressing-up.’

He lets out a sharp laugh. ‘If I liked dressing-up I’d have gone into the bloody Church. There was a whole crowd of them in town yesterday. Some sort of conference. You should have seen the bling.’

She considers. ‘I wonder what the collective noun for priests is. A collar?’

He shakes his head. ‘That sounds more like a bunch of cops to me. Either way, I’ll need another shirt for tomorrow. It’s that surgery in Summertown, which I’m sure will beeverybit as riveting as our scintillating agenda items today.’ He stretches out his legs. ‘If I die of boredom, make sure it goes down as in the line of duty.’

***

DI Marcia Tate is barely through the door when she starts machine-gunning questions, but given it’s her standard operating procedure, no one’s that surprised. Though the decibel count does tend to go up in direct proportion to the profile of the case, so right now she’s at pretty much full volume.

‘Any news on the vic? Bradley, where are we on the ID? Is it Ellie?’

Triona Bradley grits her teeth; six months of working with Tate and she’s surprised she hasn’t got a permanent case of lockjaw.

‘We don’t know yet, boss – they pulled it up the roster but they only started at nine –’

Tate heaves a theatrical sigh and makes great show of looking at her watch.

‘You didn’t decide to sit in, then, Sarge?’ DC Holloway asks Bradley with a smirk. ‘Bit too soon after the old avo toast?’

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