“Report!”
“Y—yes, sir,” one of them babbled. “Control Room received an emergency call at around seven-fifteen this morning. We were dispatched to attend the scene and secure it. The head gardener discovered the body of a young woman down by the burn she believes to be that of Alice Chapman.”
“Who called it in?”
“Ms Shapiro says she rang 999 straight away, from her mobile.”
“Has anybody tried to contact Alice Chapman?”
“Not yet, sir, but Ms Shapiro says her car is parked in the staff car park, which Mr Henderson and several other staff members have since corroborated. It’s a silver Renault Clio, ‘09 plate.”
Ryan looked between the pair of them, noting their names for future reference.
“Tell me, at what point did you feel it was acceptable to allow the press—or anybody, for that matter—to invade a crime scene?”
“Sir, honestly, we tried to keep them out—”
“Are you aware of the appropriate procedure as first responders to a crime scene?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you, or did you not, fail to follow that procedure?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then you’re lucky I’m not writing you up for a disciplinary. Get your fingers out of your arses and start doing the job you’re paid to do,” he ground out. “One of you start moving these people along and the other one get down to the entrance and guard the scene. Anybody could have slipped along the path to take pictures of the victim, thanks to your negligence,” he spat. “Now, move!”
Nodding like seals, they scarpered.
*
Lowerson and Yates arrived shortly afterwards and set to work restoring proper procedure, taking statements from those present and closing all access routes to the house within a half-mile radius leading down to the burn, which effectively made the entire house and gardens a crime scene. Constables were stationed at each access point and were armed with log books to record all those seeking to enter or leave. When they were satisfied that things were returning to some semblance of order, Ryan and Phillips joined Tom Faulkner and headed down to the bottom of the valley. Ryan gave one of the local constables—he couldn’t remember whether it was Tweedle-Dee or Tweedle-Dum—a level look as they passed by where he stood guarding the access route to the river, clutching a log book which they dutifully signed.
“What’s the story, then?”
Sweltering inside his plastic suit, Faulkner led the way down a narrow pathway toward the burn, brushing past pampas grass and sprouting perennials as he went.
“A call came into the Control Room at around seven-fifteen,” Ryan told him. “It seems the head gardener, Charlotte Shapiro, was doing her early rounds of the estate and stumbled on the body. She put a call through to 999 and the local boys arrived around fifteen minutes later.”
“Henderson seems to think it’s been identified already,” Phillips said, bringing up the rear.
“Henderson’s a prat,” Ryan said succinctly. “But, as it happens, Alice’s car is parked in the staff car park and there’s been no sign of her since yesterday. It’s hard not to draw conclusions from that.”
Each man fell silent, preparing themselves for what was to come.
Sure enough, a distinctive bouquet assailed them as they reached the lower part of the valley and the burn came into view. Death possessed its own unique scent, the kind of sickly-sweet odour that clung to your clothes and stayed in your memory for a long while after. On a warm day in summer, it was especially potent.
They pushed through the undergrowth near the banks of the burn and came to a gradual, horrified standstill.
The body lay ten or twelve feet ahead of them, half-submerged beneath the water. Maggots were already swarming to feast on the remains and the high-pitched whine of newly hatched flies was almost deafening above the rippling water.
“Dear God,” Phillips whispered. “That poor girl.”
Ryan’s face betrayed very little of the emotions swirling through his body and his eyes remained impassive as he continued his silent observation of the scene. But rage flooded through his veins as he thought of the wasted life; the love, the laughter, the people she left behind. Nobody had the right to take that from her.
Nobody.
“Is it her?” Phillips asked.
Ryan looked at the clothing and the hair and nodded. Alice Chapman had been wearing a pale green summer dress with printed daisies and white plimsolls on her feet. The dress was now sodden and stained, twisted around the remnants of her body and only one shoe remained on her feet. The other lay upturned beside the water.
“Yes, it looks like Alice.”
“The, ah, position of the body would be consistent with a fall from the bridge,” Faulkner said quietly, his throat working again.
Ryan looked up at the iron bridge rising above them with its fine arches and engineered metal, then back at the body.
“The torso has been moved,” Faulkner continued, in a low voice that shook with feeling. “I can see that at a glance.”
Phillips nodded sombrely but didn’t bother to ask who or what had been responsible for displacing the body; it was obvious from the open wounds on the girl’s torso that animals had played their part.
Faulkner cleared his throat and stepped forward, snapping his mask into place.
“Better make a start,” he mumbled.
Ryan and Phillips held back, allowing him to conduct his assessment without cross-contamination. They watched him move carefully around the body, swiping a hand through the air every now and then to clear the flies, taking pictures as he went.
“Could’ve been a suicide,” Phillips pointed out, and wished he could light up a cigarette to mask the unfortunate smell.
“It’s possible,” Ryan agreed but his gut told him otherwise.
“If someone was going to do her in, there are easier ways,” Phillips said. “Throwing someone over the side of a bridge takes a bit of strength and speed.”
“Not all killers plan ahead.”
Phillips watched Faulkner shuffle around the body, not envying him the task. After a few minutes, he made his way back to them.
“This is going to take a while,” he said grimly. “Better send the troops in, and tell them to bring plastic sheeting.”
Ryan nodded and began to turn away, then paused and looked back up at the bridge.
“Do you think she jumped?”
Faulkner lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Given the state of the body, it’s hard to say,” Faulkner replied. “I’ll take some swabs and we’ll see what we see.”
Ryan nodded, recalling times when an apparently suspicious death had been ruled a suicide or the coroner had left the verdict open. There were borderline cases where the wider circumstances leaned toward accidental death, too.
But after two deaths in as many days, he didn’t like the odds.
“Could be a coincidence, two deaths happening in the same place,” Phillips said, reading his mind. “I can’t see what Victor and Alice have in common, apart from both working up at the big house.”
“That’s what we need to find out, Frank.”
CHAPTER 15