face left Stark cursing his careless honesty. Perhaps lost for words, Groombridge turned to scan the SOCOs. In their white disposable overalls and blue rubber boots, they were proficiently establishing the inner cordon with its common approach path of raised steel chequer-plate stepping stones. Aside from the crime-scene manager, busy directing them until the scene was ordered to his satisfaction, another man in overalls watched over them, like a general. The pathologist, Stark guessed. Groombridge waved to catch his eye but the man just held up a hand. ‘Ten minutes, Chief Inspector. Hop into some blues.’
The impatience of Stark’s superiors was apparent, but it was vital Forensics got the first look. One of the SOCOs supervised as they passed through the transition area, a cheap plastic pergola tent full of cheap plastic crates. They ripped the plastic off blue disposable overalls and over-shoes, then pulled them on over their own clothes and stepped over a low bench into the clean area. Stark recognized the set-up from the surgical area of Camp Bastion field hospital.
All the SOCOs froze while the pathologist examined the area and the body alone, occasionally talking into a Dictaphone. When he had finished, he spoke to the CSM, then came to meet them.
‘Marcus,’ said Groombridge.
‘DCI Groombridge. And DS Millhaven,’ he smiled, ‘always a pleasure. Who’s your new friend?’
Fran answered. ‘Marcus, this is TI Stark, latest CID victim. Stark, this is Marcus Turner, senior forensic pathologist and crime-scene nerd.’
Turner indicated his gloves by way of apology for not shaking hands. ‘Grist to our ever-grinding mill, Constable, muted congratulations.’ In his early forties, verging on plump, with a receding hairline and greying temples, he might have been mistaken for a very ordinary man, were it not for his occupational attire and the amused twinkle in his eye.
Groombridge gestured at the corpse. ‘Cause of death?’
‘Deceleration,’ replied Turner, deadpan.
They all looked up at the concrete block. ‘How high?’ asked Groombridge.
‘Sufficiently. Top-floor balcony probably.’
‘Fall or pushed?’
Turner offered a Gallic-style shrug. ‘Too soon to say. There are some anomalies. You’d better come and take a look.’
They followed him carefully along the stepping-stone path. Marcus had pulled the tarp back over the body but one hand protruded. Young, slim fingers, bloodied –
Stark’s head swam. Dehydration, exhaustion and the afternoon Basra heat were beginning to tell. He crouched beside the hand, a child’s, slim-fingered, grey with dust and dried blood, protruding from beneath some buckled corrugated iron. He dug away bits of rubble to expose the wrist. No pulse, but that might only be restricted circulation. He called out but heard no reply.
The hand felt warm, but in this temperature bodies didn’t cool. Hours now since the car bomb had torn into the crowded market. They hadn’t found anyone alive in a while.
Such a small hand, soft, almost weightless in his …
The fingers twitched.
Yelling for assistance, he began tearing at the rubble. The corrugated iron was burning hot in the merciless sun and his fingerless combat gloves offered little protection as he tried to bend it up.
Marcus pulled back the tarp.
Stark wiped sweat from his eyes and realized it was tears.
Now he blinked, new reality snapping away old.
Jesus! He glanced around but everyone appeared too fixed in the present to have noticed his brief absence. Christ, as if the dreams weren’t bad enough … When was the last time he’d had a flashback? Damn it! Another tear ran down his cheek and he wiped it away hurriedly, angrily, fighting to bring his breathing and heart rate under control.
He stared down at the body before him, lying on its front, limbs twisted and broken. Blood had congealed into clothing and hair, and into the cracks of the concrete paving slabs fractured by the impact. The
The impatience of Stark’s superiors was apparent, but it was vital Forensics got the first look. One of the SOCOs supervised as they passed through the transition area, a cheap plastic pergola tent full of cheap plastic crates. They ripped the plastic off blue disposable overalls and over-shoes, then pulled them on over their own clothes and stepped over a low bench into the clean area. Stark recognized the set-up from the surgical area of Camp Bastion field hospital.
All the SOCOs froze while the pathologist examined the area and the body alone, occasionally talking into a Dictaphone. When he had finished, he spoke to the CSM, then came to meet them.
‘Marcus,’ said Groombridge.
‘DCI Groombridge. And DS Millhaven,’ he smiled, ‘always a pleasure. Who’s your new friend?’
Fran answered. ‘Marcus, this is TI Stark, latest CID victim. Stark, this is Marcus Turner, senior forensic pathologist and crime-scene nerd.’
Turner indicated his gloves by way of apology for not shaking hands. ‘Grist to our ever-grinding mill, Constable, muted congratulations.’ In his early forties, verging on plump, with a receding hairline and greying temples, he might have been mistaken for a very ordinary man, were it not for his occupational attire and the amused twinkle in his eye.
Groombridge gestured at the corpse. ‘Cause of death?’
‘Deceleration,’ replied Turner, deadpan.
They all looked up at the concrete block. ‘How high?’ asked Groombridge.
‘Sufficiently. Top-floor balcony probably.’
‘Fall or pushed?’
Turner offered a Gallic-style shrug. ‘Too soon to say. There are some anomalies. You’d better come and take a look.’
They followed him carefully along the stepping-stone path. Marcus had pulled the tarp back over the body but one hand protruded. Young, slim fingers, bloodied –
Stark’s head swam. Dehydration, exhaustion and the afternoon Basra heat were beginning to tell. He crouched beside the hand, a child’s, slim-fingered, grey with dust and dried blood, protruding from beneath some buckled corrugated iron. He dug away bits of rubble to expose the wrist. No pulse, but that might only be restricted circulation. He called out but heard no reply.
The hand felt warm, but in this temperature bodies didn’t cool. Hours now since the car bomb had torn into the crowded market. They hadn’t found anyone alive in a while.
Such a small hand, soft, almost weightless in his …
The fingers twitched.
Yelling for assistance, he began tearing at the rubble. The corrugated iron was burning hot in the merciless sun and his fingerless combat gloves offered little protection as he tried to bend it up.
Marcus pulled back the tarp.
Stark wiped sweat from his eyes and realized it was tears.
Now he blinked, new reality snapping away old.
Jesus! He glanced around but everyone appeared too fixed in the present to have noticed his brief absence. Christ, as if the dreams weren’t bad enough … When was the last time he’d had a flashback? Damn it! Another tear ran down his cheek and he wiped it away hurriedly, angrily, fighting to bring his breathing and heart rate under control.
He stared down at the body before him, lying on its front, limbs twisted and broken. Blood had congealed into clothing and hair, and into the cracks of the concrete paving slabs fractured by the impact. The
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