Echoes of the Dead by Sally Spencer

protests as their drivers fought a never-ending battle with the gears, and pneumatic drills which pounded relentlessly. And all the birds and beasts, tired of the disruption – and perhaps even terrified of it – had left in search of a quieter place in which to live out their simple lives.
    It was like being robbed of part of your childhood, Woodend thought sadly, as he watched the heavy plant move on relentlessly.
    â€˜But at least you were allowed to finish your childhood,’ he reminded himself, ‘which is more than can be said for Lilly Dawson.’
    As he approached the potting shed in which Lilly had spent the last few terrifying moments of her life, he realized that something was very wrong – from a procedural point of view – with the scene as it was laid out before him.
    He had never imagined that there would be a policeman permanently on duty outside the shed – no police force had the manpower for that kind of luxury – but he had thought that there would at least be a strong police padlock newly fitted to the door, and official notices which warned the general public to keep away.
    Instead, the shed just looked like any other shed, with no indication at all of the horror that had been committed within it.
    He lifted the latch, and the door to the shed simply swung open.
    If this had happened in London, he’d have had the balls of whoever was responsible, he thought.
    But this wasn’t London. It was Whitebridge, where the technicians had come up with nothing during their ‘thorough’ examination of Lilly’s clothes, and, having made what had probably been – at best – a cursory examination of the murder scene, had left it open to all kinds of contamination.
    He looked around the shed. This had once been one man’s little kingdom – the citadel from which he tended his own tiny garden of Eden – yet apart from a few broken plant pots in one corner, and a tattered seed catalogue in another, there was no longer any evidence of it.
    But there was evidence aplenty of the tragic struggle which had occurred here less than two weeks earlier, Woodend thought, looking at the scuff marks in the packed earth floor which had been gouged out by Lilly’s heels, as she battled desperately – and hopelessly – for her life.
    He felt his anger rising again, and though the hardened professional he was trying to be fought against it, that anger would not go away.
    He got down on his hands and knees and, slowly and methodically, began to search the ground.
    It was behind one of the broken plant pots that he found the feather.
    It was the second one he had discovered in less than two hours – and it had to mean something!
    Most of the drinkers in the Clog and Billycock that lunchtime were either chatting to their mates or else playing darts, though there were a few who sat silent, blankly gazing into space as they grappled with the problems that life had thrown into their paths.
    The weedy middle-aged man at the end of the bar was doing none of these things. He was reading . And not just reading, Woodend thought – the book, positively bursting with colour plates, seemed to have totally absorbed him, to have whisked him away from the public bar and into some entirely different world.
    The chief inspector walked over to the man, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
    â€˜How you doin’, Stan?’ he asked.
    Stan Watson tore his eyes from his book with reluctance, but his look soon changed when he saw who was addressing him.
    â€˜Charlie!’ he said delightedly. ‘I heard you were back.’
    Woodend grinned inwardly.
    Typical Whitebridge understatement, he thought.
    I heard you were back.
    As if Watson had gained that knowledge from some hurriedly whispered rumour, rather than from seeing it splashed across the front page of the Whitebridge Evening Telegraph .
    â€˜I see you’re still as big a fan of our feathered