rigging long since turned to dust. But there was no natural sunlight in this desert, only artificial colours .
Then a shadow moved in front of the screen, and a weary face was caught by the light of the projector.
‘ You can all see what this is. It needs no explanation from me. Death would have occurred within minutes. ’
Cooper had to shake himself out of his daydream. The police officers around him became solid shapes again, reverting to the familiar faces of a Derbyshire CID team. On the screen, they were being shown an enhanced postmortem image, a photograph taken on the mortuary slab. The red ellipse was the entry wound made by a sharp, single-bladed knife an inch below the bottom rib. A fatal stab wound to the heart. Those pale orange hills were human flesh — the slope of a woman's abdomen and the lower edge of her ribcage. The grains of sand were her pores and skin cells, enlarged beyond recognition, distorted by lighting that drained all rem nants of humanity from the corpse .
This yellow desert was the body of Jenny Weston. And no one was arguing the reality of her death. It was much too late for that.
‘ And we found so many damn camp fires you'd think there had been a boy scout jamboree up there,' said DCI Tailby, as the slide changed to a view of Ringham Moor. Cooper saw few smiles, and heard no laughter. It was too early in the morning, the subject was too lacking in the potential for a quick joke. The DCI tried again. 'But the SOCOs tell us these were no boy scouts. Not unless they give badges for sex, drugs and animal sacrifice in the scouts these days. ’
The briefing had been called early, while it was still dark. Many of the officers looked tired and bleary-eyed. They had gone to bed late last night and hadn't got enough sleep. But they would wake up as the day went on, as the caffeine kicked in and they were forced to concentrate on their tasks .
The incident room at Edendale Divisional Headquarters was only half full. Ben Cooper had been expecting there would be hardly anywhere left to sit by the time he arrived, but he was surprised by the sparse attendance. Then he discovered that teams were already out at the scene, up on the moor waiting for first light to continue the careful sweep for delicate forensic traces that would vanish or be utterly contaminated at the first sign of heavy rain or the first set of feet to trample over the site .
Alongside Tailby sat the Divisional Commander, Colin Jepson. They had to call him Chief Superintendent Jepson now. Although the rank was supposed to have been abolished in the 1980s, Derbyshire Constabulary had restored the title for its divisional commanders, though without the salary level that went with it .
No detective superintendent had arrived yet, though Edendale was still without its own CID chief. For the time being, Tailby was being allowed to make the run ning. Cooper thought the DCI looked a little greyer at the temples than the day before, a little more stooped at the shoulders .
The slide show they had begun with was depressing enough. The photographer had captured a chill bleak ness in his establishing shots of the moor, and an impressionistic arrangement of angles and perspective in his close-ups of the Virgins. The slides of the victim had silenced the room, except for an increased shuffling of boots on the floor. They showed in brutal clarity the curious position of the woman's limbs, the absence of clothing on the lower half of her body, the red stain on her T-shirt. After the unsettling realism, the autopsy shots had concluded on a note of fantasy. As usual, they seemed divorced from the actual death, too clinical, and reeking too much of antiseptic to be human .
The most interesting result from the postmortem was that there had been no sign of sexual assault on Jenny Weston. So why had some of the victim's clothes been removed? There were two main possibilities — either her killer had been interrupted, or the intention had been
Then a shadow moved in front of the screen, and a weary face was caught by the light of the projector.
‘ You can all see what this is. It needs no explanation from me. Death would have occurred within minutes. ’
Cooper had to shake himself out of his daydream. The police officers around him became solid shapes again, reverting to the familiar faces of a Derbyshire CID team. On the screen, they were being shown an enhanced postmortem image, a photograph taken on the mortuary slab. The red ellipse was the entry wound made by a sharp, single-bladed knife an inch below the bottom rib. A fatal stab wound to the heart. Those pale orange hills were human flesh — the slope of a woman's abdomen and the lower edge of her ribcage. The grains of sand were her pores and skin cells, enlarged beyond recognition, distorted by lighting that drained all rem nants of humanity from the corpse .
This yellow desert was the body of Jenny Weston. And no one was arguing the reality of her death. It was much too late for that.
‘ And we found so many damn camp fires you'd think there had been a boy scout jamboree up there,' said DCI Tailby, as the slide changed to a view of Ringham Moor. Cooper saw few smiles, and heard no laughter. It was too early in the morning, the subject was too lacking in the potential for a quick joke. The DCI tried again. 'But the SOCOs tell us these were no boy scouts. Not unless they give badges for sex, drugs and animal sacrifice in the scouts these days. ’
The briefing had been called early, while it was still dark. Many of the officers looked tired and bleary-eyed. They had gone to bed late last night and hadn't got enough sleep. But they would wake up as the day went on, as the caffeine kicked in and they were forced to concentrate on their tasks .
The incident room at Edendale Divisional Headquarters was only half full. Ben Cooper had been expecting there would be hardly anywhere left to sit by the time he arrived, but he was surprised by the sparse attendance. Then he discovered that teams were already out at the scene, up on the moor waiting for first light to continue the careful sweep for delicate forensic traces that would vanish or be utterly contaminated at the first sign of heavy rain or the first set of feet to trample over the site .
Alongside Tailby sat the Divisional Commander, Colin Jepson. They had to call him Chief Superintendent Jepson now. Although the rank was supposed to have been abolished in the 1980s, Derbyshire Constabulary had restored the title for its divisional commanders, though without the salary level that went with it .
No detective superintendent had arrived yet, though Edendale was still without its own CID chief. For the time being, Tailby was being allowed to make the run ning. Cooper thought the DCI looked a little greyer at the temples than the day before, a little more stooped at the shoulders .
The slide show they had begun with was depressing enough. The photographer had captured a chill bleak ness in his establishing shots of the moor, and an impressionistic arrangement of angles and perspective in his close-ups of the Virgins. The slides of the victim had silenced the room, except for an increased shuffling of boots on the floor. They showed in brutal clarity the curious position of the woman's limbs, the absence of clothing on the lower half of her body, the red stain on her T-shirt. After the unsettling realism, the autopsy shots had concluded on a note of fantasy. As usual, they seemed divorced from the actual death, too clinical, and reeking too much of antiseptic to be human .
The most interesting result from the postmortem was that there had been no sign of sexual assault on Jenny Weston. So why had some of the victim's clothes been removed? There were two main possibilities — either her killer had been interrupted, or the intention had been
Similar Books
