Lifting her face to the rising sun, she allowed the rays to burn her face before rolling up her sleeve. Selecting an unblemished patch, she brought the sharp piece of steel down into her young skin. One slow slash. Not too deep. Not too shallow.
The sight of the bright red blood, bubbling at first then flowing over the paleness, soothed her. Digging in a little deeper, she felt the pain, fought tears and slumped back into the arid grass.
The reeds rustled. She sat upright, looking around, but there was silence. She felt like someone was watching her but she couldn’t see anybody. Pulling down her sleeve, she gathered her belongings and shoved them into her bag. Was she imagining things? Was the noise just water rats foraging among the reeds? Ugh! She shivered in the heat and set out along the gravel path, wondering where she could hide out for the day.
Checking her phone, she posted to the Twitter hashtag #cutforlife. The feeling that someone had been watching her refused to disappear. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and began to run.
Six
The narrow roadway made the job difficult, but at least it was a one-way street. The three-storey apartments on the right-hand side cast a thin shadow, averting the rays of the morning sun.
He had been late for work so he had to make up time before the boss arrived. New water pipes had been laid on Friday, and as the work moved along the street they’d filled in parts of the road with temporary tarmac, while other parts took a light dusting of clay covered with iron sheeting. Quick and simple, the boss had said. No one would know the difference. Now they had returned to take up the temporary material, pour permanent filling over the pipes and lay tarmac on the road.
He drilled the jackhammer into the clay, working as quickly as he could, even though the machine generated so much heat. As dirt rose and settled, a flash of blue a little further down the trench caught his eye. He stopped to wipe away a solitary bead of sweat from inside his safety goggles, then switched off the machine altogether. Dropping it to one side, he lifted up his plastic eye protection and stared. Was it an animal of some sort? He hadn’t time for this.
That was when he noticed a glimpse of pale skin and a wisp of black hair. Falling to one knee, his safety boots securing him to the sliding soil, he tore at the clay. The crown of a skull emerged from the dark earth. He had no thought for forensics or police or anyone who would want to preserve the ground. Feverishly he wiped away more earth.
Andri Petrovci was not a fearful man. He had seen many bodies: people starved, butchered and burned in his homeland. He shouldn’t have been shocked by this one, but something about the alabaster skin, spotted slightly green with decomposition, and the jet-black hair, sent shivers up and down his spine. And triggered a moment he had tried to forget.
With the final trace of soil cleared from the head, Petrovci sat back into the mound of dirt, oblivious to the honking horns, incessant shouts and increasing frustration of drivers held up with the stop/go sign thirty metres away.
The victim’s eyes were closed, mouth shut tight in a tiny pout. Her slender neck rose from the stained blue cotton material that had first alerted him.
Angry yelling bored sharp shards into his consciousness.
‘Dumb Polack!’ a man shouted, leaning out of his car window. ‘Go back to where you came from.’
Stupid ignorant Irish. He wasn’t Polish. Tightening his solid fingers into balled-up fists, he thumped them against his forehead.
Car doors slammed and footsteps squelched in the bubbling tar. It was too hot for May. A heatwave, the forecasters were saying. He was used to heat. He was used to bodies. He was used to violence. But this girl, lying here in unconsecrated ground, abandoned below the busy street, reminded him of another girl, now long dead. This girl was not long dead. Despite the beginnings of decomposition, he imagined her as fresh as the cherry blossom petals floating from the trees to the pavement, into the melting tarmac. He thought he’d left all this behind. But he knew death didn’t recognise boundaries. It followed you like your own shadow.
He looked down again at the still face of the girl and briefly wondered if her eyes were blue.
Seven
It was hotter inside the garda station than outside. Detective Inspector Lottie Parker stretched her tall, lean frame and smoothed down her white cotton blouse. Still no sign of the builders being anywhere near finishing her office. She’d have to slum it for a while longer in the general office.
Opening the door, she stepped into the familiar setting, dropped her bag on the ground beside her desk and glanced at the clock. Just gone nine. An hour late. Not the start she wanted. There was no sign of Superintendent Corrigan. That was a relief.
‘I could’ve sworn I left a mess,’ she said, turning up her nose at the tidy desktop. A new ceramic mug with hand-painted red poppies held her pens.
She looked over at Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd and arched her mouth in an unasked question.
‘You could at least thank me,’ Boyd said, turning round in his chair, brown eyes sparkling with welcome. His shirt hugged his lean body tightly. Not a bead of sweat anywhere; he always looked impeccable.
‘How am I supposed to find my password?’ She put her mobile phone on the desk and tipped over the keyboard where she usually kept the Post-it.
‘You’ll have to remember it.’
‘Ah, lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Boyd, for all your help.’
Boyd’s dark hair, flecked with steel grey, was shorter now. His face was still thin and hungry-looking, his ears sticking out slightly. Lottie pulled open a drawer. Files lined up and colour-coded. She had only been away a few months and already his neatness had run amok.
‘Welcome back, Inspector.’ He gave a mock salute. ‘Missed you too.’
Closing the drawer with an unnecessary bang, she powered up the computer, racking her brain for her password. She couldn’t remember it after four minutes, let alone four months. Trying to make conversation while searching, she asked, ‘How are you doing since the—’
‘The wound healed up quickly,’ Boyd cut in. ‘Mentally? I’m as screwed up as ever.’
‘Thought I was the mental one. Password?’
‘Under the mug.’
She tapped in the code. ‘Thanks.’
‘How are things at home?’
‘Sean’s back at school. Well, he goes in most days. It’s a running battle. He’s seeing a therapist,’ she added, running a hand through her newly cut hair.
‘You should see one too,’ Boyd replied
Lottie shrugged. ‘You’re as good as any therapist, Dr Phil.’
‘My middle name.’ Boyd laughed before putting on his solemn mask. ‘Seriously, though. Sean’s a good kid but he’s been through a lot.’