Even old hands don’t come across headless stiffs every day. Rookie Rees
and Darren New were the first non-uniform officers attending, and given the dead trainspotter was Haines, they’d wanted senior back up. Powell had buck-passed. Again. It was now down to Bev
and Mac, or more accurately the FSI guys, to pick up the pieces – actually, make that body parts. It was a toss-up who was most pissed off.
Blowing her cheeks out, Bev locked the motor, glanced along a line of parked police vehicles that further narrowed the already tight country lane. The meat wagon was standing by, but it looked
as if the pathologist was running late. Though suicide had been the natural initial assumption, discovering Haines’s identity had turned that idea on its head. Bev grimaced; the phrase was
unfortunate given the circs. Either way, until it was established whether Haines had indeed taken his own life, the Foxton cutting was being treated as a crime scene.
Still fairly subdued, Bev and Mac watched from the bridge, elbows on rail. Cooks, broth, spoil and all that. It looked almost surreal down there. Moonlight glistened off steel tracks and metal
cases as a white-suited and overshoed FSI team carefully picked its way through undergrowth, dead branches, and rotting or rusting detritus. Each investigator’s gaze was focused on the rough
terrain, except when one or more of the four knelt for a closer look, deciding whether to bag and tag. Crime scene manager Chris Baxter’s gait and stance were distinctive. Bev raised a palm
acknowledging his nod. Further down the line, stills and video cameras were capturing everything that didn’t move. Including Haines whose mangled corpse could give Humpty Dumpty a
metaphorical run for his money.
“Shit way to go,” Mac murmured.
“Likely didn’t know what hit him.”
“Other than the 23.10 to Euston?” She heard the humour in his voice.
“Funny boy. Y’know what I mean.” Daft as it sounded it was probably true. Anyone opting for death by diesel train would have to be well tanked up. And if the choice
wasn’t theirs, they’d hardly lie down and take what was coming. They’d need to be unconscious or at least restrained, rope, cable, whatever.
“Think he had a sudden fit of remorse, boss?”
“Dunno, mate.” She couldn’t really see it. Those eyes of Haines still gave her the creeps. Maybe he’d made one enemy too many. No point jumping the gun though. Not till
they knew the score. For that they needed Doctor Death.
Mac must’ve been thinking along the same lines. “Wonder what rubbish excuse Overdale’ll come up with this time?” Home Office pathologist Gillian Overdale. Bev preferred
the nickname. Bloody woman always kept the cops hanging round. If anyone mentioned it, she’d fix them with her basilisk stare and say the bodies weren’t going anywhere.
“Talk of the devil.” Bev shielded her eyes against the light as a torch-wielding silhouette scuttled in from the right. She added a sotto voce: “’bout bloody
time.”
“You sure, boss?” Mac was squinting too.
The nearer the figure got the less it looked Doc-shaped. “Maybe not.”
“Wotcha, sarge.” An unsmiling Danny Rees cut the beam. “Sorry you got lumbered.” Danny boy was not looking his best. Pound to a penny he’d barfed.
“No sweat.” Actually bets were off. It was barely detectable but she’d caught a whiff of vomit. Yep. The not so shiny shoes bore tell-tale traces. “What we
got?”
He swallowed. “Christ, sarge. How could anybody do that? What a mess.” She’d a certain amount of sympathy but he’d see worse. It went with the territory.
“Here to find out, Danny. So...?”
“I had a word with the couple who called it in? They’re in the cottage just down the lane.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “They’ve got coffee on the go if
you...”
“Sod the coffee, Danny. Did either of them say or see anything helpful?”
He glanced at the ground. “Not
and Darren New were the first non-uniform officers attending, and given the dead trainspotter was Haines, they’d wanted senior back up. Powell had buck-passed. Again. It was now down to Bev
and Mac, or more accurately the FSI guys, to pick up the pieces – actually, make that body parts. It was a toss-up who was most pissed off.
Blowing her cheeks out, Bev locked the motor, glanced along a line of parked police vehicles that further narrowed the already tight country lane. The meat wagon was standing by, but it looked
as if the pathologist was running late. Though suicide had been the natural initial assumption, discovering Haines’s identity had turned that idea on its head. Bev grimaced; the phrase was
unfortunate given the circs. Either way, until it was established whether Haines had indeed taken his own life, the Foxton cutting was being treated as a crime scene.
Still fairly subdued, Bev and Mac watched from the bridge, elbows on rail. Cooks, broth, spoil and all that. It looked almost surreal down there. Moonlight glistened off steel tracks and metal
cases as a white-suited and overshoed FSI team carefully picked its way through undergrowth, dead branches, and rotting or rusting detritus. Each investigator’s gaze was focused on the rough
terrain, except when one or more of the four knelt for a closer look, deciding whether to bag and tag. Crime scene manager Chris Baxter’s gait and stance were distinctive. Bev raised a palm
acknowledging his nod. Further down the line, stills and video cameras were capturing everything that didn’t move. Including Haines whose mangled corpse could give Humpty Dumpty a
metaphorical run for his money.
“Shit way to go,” Mac murmured.
“Likely didn’t know what hit him.”
“Other than the 23.10 to Euston?” She heard the humour in his voice.
“Funny boy. Y’know what I mean.” Daft as it sounded it was probably true. Anyone opting for death by diesel train would have to be well tanked up. And if the choice
wasn’t theirs, they’d hardly lie down and take what was coming. They’d need to be unconscious or at least restrained, rope, cable, whatever.
“Think he had a sudden fit of remorse, boss?”
“Dunno, mate.” She couldn’t really see it. Those eyes of Haines still gave her the creeps. Maybe he’d made one enemy too many. No point jumping the gun though. Not till
they knew the score. For that they needed Doctor Death.
Mac must’ve been thinking along the same lines. “Wonder what rubbish excuse Overdale’ll come up with this time?” Home Office pathologist Gillian Overdale. Bev preferred
the nickname. Bloody woman always kept the cops hanging round. If anyone mentioned it, she’d fix them with her basilisk stare and say the bodies weren’t going anywhere.
“Talk of the devil.” Bev shielded her eyes against the light as a torch-wielding silhouette scuttled in from the right. She added a sotto voce: “’bout bloody
time.”
“You sure, boss?” Mac was squinting too.
The nearer the figure got the less it looked Doc-shaped. “Maybe not.”
“Wotcha, sarge.” An unsmiling Danny Rees cut the beam. “Sorry you got lumbered.” Danny boy was not looking his best. Pound to a penny he’d barfed.
“No sweat.” Actually bets were off. It was barely detectable but she’d caught a whiff of vomit. Yep. The not so shiny shoes bore tell-tale traces. “What we
got?”
He swallowed. “Christ, sarge. How could anybody do that? What a mess.” She’d a certain amount of sympathy but he’d see worse. It went with the territory.
“Here to find out, Danny. So...?”
“I had a word with the couple who called it in? They’re in the cottage just down the lane.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “They’ve got coffee on the go if
you...”
“Sod the coffee, Danny. Did either of them say or see anything helpful?”
He glanced at the ground. “Not
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