witness who found the body,” the officer said, adding, “She’ll direct you. Can you keep to the left-hand footpath, Serge? That’s the established route to the scene and it keeps you away from some tyre tracks halfway down that they want to keep preserved. Could belong to the suspect’s car. You can’t miss them, there are some cones protecting them.”
Scarlett couldn’t see beyond twenty metres, everywhere was enveloped in a fine damp haze, reminiscent of a sea fret. She asked, “Who’s here already?”
The officer glanced at his log and then returned his gaze. “A DCI Harris, a CSI supervisor called Gregory, my sergeant and PC Devlin. I’ve heard on the radio that they’re requesting the Marine Search Unit, Forensics and the pathologist. Oh, and the helicopter will be up once this weather’s cleared.”
Acknowledging his reply with a nod she returned to her bike and took out her forensic protection suit from her holdall. Putting on the white all-in-one was a real struggle. It was a tight squeeze and awkward because of the resistance in her leathers but after several minutes she managed to pull it on. Then, red-faced and puffing loudly, she picked out two pairs of disposable gloves and a face mask and began making her way along the narrow pavement, keeping as close to the various boundary walls as possible. She remembered from her previous jogs around this area that the first section of the side road was residential, containing a small number of exclusive and expensive homes within sumptuous grounds surrounded by high walls. Some of the walls she passed were well over ten feet tall so she couldn’t see beyond. However, passing a couple of the ornate metal gates securing their entranceway she took the opportunity to take a look along the driveways, scouring the frontage of the houses to determine if any of them had CCTV. She identified two homes with their own personal system and made a mental note for later. A hundred yards down she came across the cones the officer had referred to, on the opposite side of the narrow road next to some wooden fencing. She paused to check out the tyres tracks. They were at the very edge, where it abutted a grass verge, and it looked as if whatever vehicle had made them had done so avoiding a good-sized pothole. She could see that a lot of the lane’s stone chippings had been churned up and the soil beneath had a series of deep ruts gouged into it. The marks looked to be reasonably fresh and the rain had not disturbed them. The forensic team would be able to get a good cast made of the tracks so as to identify the make, model and size of the tyre. If they did belong to the suspect’s car then it was a good start.
Another twenty metres down and the lane’s geography changed. Opposite was a hedgerow of trees and beyond that a huge field. She knew this to be Petersham Meadows; she’d jogged past it enough times along the riverside towpath. To her left was the beginning of a copse which, in spite of its lack of leaf cover, she had difficulty penetrating because of the fine mist shrouding everything. Drifting between the skeletal trees it gave the wood an ethereal appearance.
Another fifty metres along Scarlett finally began to pick out signs of life. First, as silhouettes, but a couple of steps further and the shapes became more distinct. She picked out a female officer in a fluorescent jacket standing beside a police-liveried Volvo – PC Devlin, she said to herself. She had the passenger door partially open and was using it as support while looking inside the car. She lifted her head as Scarlett approached.
Scarlett announced herself.
“Morning, Serge,” replied the officer, stepping back, straightening and almost coming to attention.
Scarlett took a good look at her. Once again the officer wasn’t a familiar face. Fresh-faced PC Devlin, who Scarlett deemed to be in her early twenties, was shivering and did not seem too impressed to be here. She couldn’t help but
Scarlett couldn’t see beyond twenty metres, everywhere was enveloped in a fine damp haze, reminiscent of a sea fret. She asked, “Who’s here already?”
The officer glanced at his log and then returned his gaze. “A DCI Harris, a CSI supervisor called Gregory, my sergeant and PC Devlin. I’ve heard on the radio that they’re requesting the Marine Search Unit, Forensics and the pathologist. Oh, and the helicopter will be up once this weather’s cleared.”
Acknowledging his reply with a nod she returned to her bike and took out her forensic protection suit from her holdall. Putting on the white all-in-one was a real struggle. It was a tight squeeze and awkward because of the resistance in her leathers but after several minutes she managed to pull it on. Then, red-faced and puffing loudly, she picked out two pairs of disposable gloves and a face mask and began making her way along the narrow pavement, keeping as close to the various boundary walls as possible. She remembered from her previous jogs around this area that the first section of the side road was residential, containing a small number of exclusive and expensive homes within sumptuous grounds surrounded by high walls. Some of the walls she passed were well over ten feet tall so she couldn’t see beyond. However, passing a couple of the ornate metal gates securing their entranceway she took the opportunity to take a look along the driveways, scouring the frontage of the houses to determine if any of them had CCTV. She identified two homes with their own personal system and made a mental note for later. A hundred yards down she came across the cones the officer had referred to, on the opposite side of the narrow road next to some wooden fencing. She paused to check out the tyres tracks. They were at the very edge, where it abutted a grass verge, and it looked as if whatever vehicle had made them had done so avoiding a good-sized pothole. She could see that a lot of the lane’s stone chippings had been churned up and the soil beneath had a series of deep ruts gouged into it. The marks looked to be reasonably fresh and the rain had not disturbed them. The forensic team would be able to get a good cast made of the tracks so as to identify the make, model and size of the tyre. If they did belong to the suspect’s car then it was a good start.
Another twenty metres down and the lane’s geography changed. Opposite was a hedgerow of trees and beyond that a huge field. She knew this to be Petersham Meadows; she’d jogged past it enough times along the riverside towpath. To her left was the beginning of a copse which, in spite of its lack of leaf cover, she had difficulty penetrating because of the fine mist shrouding everything. Drifting between the skeletal trees it gave the wood an ethereal appearance.
Another fifty metres along Scarlett finally began to pick out signs of life. First, as silhouettes, but a couple of steps further and the shapes became more distinct. She picked out a female officer in a fluorescent jacket standing beside a police-liveried Volvo – PC Devlin, she said to herself. She had the passenger door partially open and was using it as support while looking inside the car. She lifted her head as Scarlett approached.
Scarlett announced herself.
“Morning, Serge,” replied the officer, stepping back, straightening and almost coming to attention.
Scarlett took a good look at her. Once again the officer wasn’t a familiar face. Fresh-faced PC Devlin, who Scarlett deemed to be in her early twenties, was shivering and did not seem too impressed to be here. She couldn’t help but
Similar Books
