Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [24]
Her head was furthest from Goodhew, and concealed in a plastic carrier bag, just as Matt had described, but Goodhew was relieved to find it still attached to the rest of the body. The bag was black and tied at the neck with a length of ribbon-width black cotton. Goodhew leant over the top railing to get as close as he could without actually stepping on the grass. He could see that someone had poked a sizable hole in the bag with their fingers so that air had entered and lifted it away from the dead girl’s face.
He held the railing with one hand for support, and gently touched the plastic with the other, thus expelling the air so that the bag sank back against the woman’s face. Vein-chased swollen eyes now stared out, and blue lips, drawn back to expose creamy teeth, her tongue still pressed hard against the prominent gap between the middle two.
Goodhew suddenly thought of the stuffed fox, mounted on the wall in his local pub, all bulgy-eyed and grinning. He suddenly caught a whiff of the meat wrapper, its slick of dried blood releasing the sweet smell of decay.
He averted his gaze and it fell on to the woman’s palm. There, he read the words ‘I’m like Emma’, or perhaps it was ‘I like Emma’. Either way it seemed odd, and it definitely looked more like ‘I’m’, not just ‘I’.
The sirens were getting closer now, and he wondered which of his colleagues was on the way. DI Marks, he hoped.
Two police cars came into sight, and he spotted a couple of people inside the first, and two further officers in the marked car which followed. Both sirens trailed off as the lead vehicle swung across the road and parked beside the dustcart. Goodhew waited until the engine died before looking that way again.
DI Marks stepped on to the pavement and the dustmen moved aside to let him through. His companion was Kincaide, who paused to lock up and then followed.
Goodhew greeted them sombrely.
‘Morning, Gary,’ Marks grunted.
Too-cool-for-school Kincaide managed a nod.
Marks said nothing further, but their silent communication must have included a line where Kincaide said, ‘I’ll talk to the boy,’ because he changed direction and headed over to young Matt.
Goodhew turned back to face the body and DI Marks now came and stood at his shoulder, studying the corpse for a long, silent minute. ‘She didn’t die in her sleep, that’s for sure. Who made the hole in the bag?’
‘One of the dustmen.’ Goodhew pointed to the driver of the dustcart, back in his cab smoking a roll-up. ‘Him, I think. He said he just wanted to be sure she was dead, but I think it was maybe a case of morbid curiosity. Marks nodded. ‘What else?’
‘The kid over there found her. His name’s Matt Lilley, claims he’s thirteen, but I bet he’s only about ten.’ He watched as Kincaide relieved the dustwoman of her charge and took the boy to sit in the relative calm of the patrol car. ‘He’s quite shaken, but he seems like a good kid, and at least he worked out she was dead without ripping open the bag.’
Goodhew hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, though that was how it came out. He smiled.
Marks didn’t. ‘What else?’ he repeated.
Goodhew turned back to study the body. ‘Her hand has something written on it. From here it looks like “I’m like Emma”. I couldn’t check the other palm, though, without moving her. She’s dressed all in black, so that could mean something.’
‘Like witchcraft?’ Marks asked drily.
‘No,’ Goodhew snorted. ‘Like camouflage amongst all these black sacks.’
Marks smiled a little. ‘Good point.’ He called across to one of the uniformed officers. ‘Right, we need the area sealed off immediately, and that includes all footpaths leading on to the common. This will be a nightmare, especially as rush-hour will be kicking off any time now.’ He turned back to Goodhew. ‘And you can have the pleasure of viewing the post-mortem.’
Goodhew wasn’t sure whether looking pleased and saying ‘Thanks’ was entirely the appropriate response,