The Blood Tree by Paul Johnston Page A

cultivated than the rest, the woodland and hedges sheltering foreign species of plants. Even in autumn there were patches of colour in the herbaceous border. Birds were hopping busily about the place uncovering worms beneath the carpet of leaves.
    â€œIt’s over by that big copper beech,” Davie said.
    â€œVery appropriate,” I said under my breath. The leaves of the great tree, most of them still attached, were a deep burned-red colour which reminded me of the bloodstained scenes of crime I’d experienced too often in my life.
    There was a crowd of auxiliaries ahead of us. I made out the scene-of-crime squad and the Medical Directorate examiners pulling on their protective suits. A six-foot-high maroon tent had been erected beside the beech to keep the rain off the corpse and to shroud the scene. A Welfare Directorate child care facility had been built in the northern reaches of the gardens and this obviously wasn’t a sight for kiddies. Hamilton and Sophia were standing beside the tent. They were always attracted to suspicious deaths on the grounds of scarcity – like me.
    â€œGuardian alert,” Katharine said. “This’ll be fun.”
    I wiped the sheen of drizzle from my face and strode up to them.
    â€œBefore we start, let’s get this clear,” I said. “I want Katharine on the case with me. No arguments, no further discussion.”
    Lewis and Sophia looked at me blankly for a few seconds then nodded their heads reluctantly.
    â€œWe don’t have time for this, Quint,” Sophia said in a long-suffering voice. “Just make sure she doesn’t get in the way.”
    I nodded and accepted a pair of rubber gloves from one of Hamilton’s team.
    â€œMy hero,” Katharine whispered as she pulled on hers.
    â€œMy arse in the fire if you screw up,” I hissed.
    â€œGo on, man,” Hamilton said brusquely. “Get inside. My people are waiting.”
    â€œNot coming, Lewis?” I asked.
    The guardian shook his head. “I’ve seen quite enough.” He’d never been good at dealing with corpses. You’d have thought the drugs wars would have acclimatised him.
    I opened the flap in the canvas and dropped to my knees to examine the ground inside the tent. A large battery-powered light had been hung from the apex. The grass was sparse around the trunk of the copper beech and there were some scuffed prints. I avoided the clearest ones and moved further in.
    The auxiliary was dressed in a standard-issue grey suit and black shoes. He was lying on his left side, knees and arms bent uniformly. It looked like the body had been left in a carefully arranged pose, an impression strengthened by what was in the right hand. A branch had been cut from the beech and the fingers folded round it. The purple-red foliage was covering the dead man’s arm and face. There was a lot of blood on the leaves.
    â€œI told you it was bad,” Davie called.
    I turned round and saw Hamilton shaking his head.
    â€œCan I come in?” Sophia asked.
    â€œHow about me?” Katharine added.
    â€œHold on a minute,” I said. “I haven’t even seen the face yet.”
    I edged forward till I was kneeling by the upper abdomen. I didn’t want to move anything before photographs were taken so I bent down and peered through the leaves. What I saw made me jerk back uncontrollably.
    â€œGod almighty,” I gasped.
    â€œWhat is it, Quint?” Davie asked.
    I looked again to make sure. No, I wasn’t imagining it.
    â€œQuint?” Sophia said.
    â€œSomeone thought this guy didn’t see well enough,” I said, rocking back on my heels. “So they gave him a third eye.”
    I finished my preliminary examination and let the scene-of-crime squad get on with photos, sketches, prints and so on. We watched as the branch was removed from the corpse’s grip – it was loose, suggesting the branch had been put there