clumps.
The two cameras swarmed in, taking shots of the block’s underside. Clack, flash, whine…
A large chunk of sticky earth gave way, thumping down on the stretched plastic sheet, exposing a leg, dangling out of the concrete from the knee down. Blue jeans stained almost black. A battered Nike trainer, the filthy white plastic stained with dark brown blotches. A flash of ankle, porcelain white on one side, a tidemark of reddish-purple on the other with a smear of waxy-yellow — pressure pallor where the skin had been in contact with the ground, the cells and capillaries too compressed for blood to pool.
Definitely a body.
Thank Christ.
Isobel waved, and the slab jounced to a halt, swinging gently back and forth. She put a hand out and steadied it, then peered up at the underside. ‘Hmm…’
Steel hunched over, hands on her knees, looking at whatever Isobel was looking at. After a beat, Logan joined them.
Between the clumps of mud and concrete was the partial outline of a man, lying twisted, three-quarters hidden by the grey mass, that one leg dangling free. A thin trickle of yellow-green liquid spattered onto the blue plastic below. It smelled like meat left too long in the fridge.
‘So…’ Steel’s voice was muffled behind her mask. ‘You fancy declaring death so we can get this circus on the road?’
Isobel didn’t even look around. ‘We will proceed at the pace required for the proper preservation of evidence, Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d-’
‘You think it’s our bloke?’ Steel scooted forward, probably trying to get a better look, getting a face full of tumbling dirt instead. ‘Sodding monkey bollocks…’
One of the IB laughed — the sound quickly dying as Steel glowered around the room. Much shuffling of feet and looking at something else.
That last fall of dirt had exposed a hand, the fingers nearly white, the knuckles stained purple with hypostasis.
Logan stepped in close, staring at the grubby hand. A pair of small ragged holes punctured the palm, surrounded by dark purple bruising. Black earth and grey concrete were wedged in under the fingernails.
‘Sergeant.’ Isobel pushed him firmly to one side.
‘He tried to claw his way out.’ Logan turned his back on the body. ‘He was still alive when they buried him.’
18
It was getting colder. Logan stood in the open doorway, his SOC suit covered in dust — going dirty grey in the misty drizzle. The crane was a huge scuffed yellow thing, borrowed from the building site, a yellow light on the cab roof flashing gold and darkness through the rain. The bitter smoke tang of diesel exhaust pulsed out in great clouds as the foundation slab was slowly lowered onto a waiting flatbed truck.
Smurfs One and Two had secured their blue plastic sheet to the block with at least three rolls of silver duct tape, wrapping the whole thing up like a morbid Christmas present. Now they guided it carefully onto a framework of wooden posts, keeping Steve Polmont’s remains from being crushed against the metal truck bed.
The truck’s rear end sank as the huge chunk of concrete settled into place, the suspension groaning. Two more techs unhooked the crane, strapped the block into place, and drove it away.
Smurf Number One peeled off her mask, then her SOC suit hood. She ran a hand through her brown and grey hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, then looked up to see Logan watching.
‘You’re that DS aren’t you?’ Her voice steamed out around her head and a smile creased her round face, wrinkling up the eyes. ‘The one who had to eat human flesh?’
Logan tried not to grimace, he really did.
She stuck out a gloved hand. ‘Doctor Jessica Frampton, forensic soil science. This is Tony, my assistant.’
Smurf Number Two nodded, one eye not really pointing the same way as the other. ‘Wassup?’
‘Right, yes.’ Logan shook the proffered hand, then nodded at the truck’s taillights, fading into the distance. ‘So, you’re the concrete specialists?’
‘Soil. They won’t get a lot of trace evidence off the body — any fibres will be all on the outside of the clothing, bound up in the concrete — but the soil…’ She winked, not letting go of his hand. ‘The soil always has a story to tell, don’t you think?’
‘Erm, OK.’ Logan tried to back away, but her grip was solid.
‘Tell me, do we really taste like chicken?’
Awkward silence.
‘I think I’d better…’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the house. ‘You know.’
Smurf Number Two, nodded. ‘Later.’
Dr Frampton finally released Logan’s hand. ‘The soil never lies.’
‘OK…’ And he was free.
DI Steel was waiting for him in the CID pool car, dribbling smoke out her nose. She flicked a nub of ash into the footwell as Logan stripped off his SOC suit and chucked it in a bin-bag. He rolled the whole lot up and threw it in the back.
‘Who you speaking to?’
Logan slid in behind the wheel. ‘Some creepy soil science woman and her pet monkey.’
‘Ah, Dr Framptonstein and Igor the Dude.’ Steel shrugged and had a dig at her crotch. ‘She’s no’ as bad as she seems, just a bit enthusiastic, you know?’ Putting on a
They watched the pair shuffle back into the crime scene house, both carrying shovels. Off robbing graves.
Steel pulled her seatbelt on. ‘Did a kidnap case with her, must’ve been seven, eight years ago. Banker’s wife got grabbed on the way home from Markies.’
Logan cranked the key in the ignition, and sent the pool car crawling down the rutted road, making for the site exit, drizzle gleaming in the headlights.
‘Course we knew who did it: Ronny Maguire, a scrawny wee shite with a face like a ruptured scrotum. Swore blind he was in Dundee when she went missing, but we found this muddy pair of boots in his garage. Frampton takes samples, and next day she’s back with three possible locations, all within about a hundred feet of these lay- bys on the A96.’ Steel took a long puff, rolling the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. ‘Bang on the money too.’
Logan drove past the last set of foundations, rear tyres squirming in the mud. ‘You found the banker’s wife?’
‘In a drainage ditch: all tied up, covered with a chunk of old carpet, raped and strangled. Ronny’d got the kidnap idea off the telly, thought he could make a bit of easy cash…’ Sigh. ‘Daft bastard never could keep his hands to himself.’ Steel slumped further into her seat. ‘Still, look on the bright side — only lasted three days in Craiginches till some public-spirited junkie kicked him to death.’
The car’s headlights swung past a grubby van with the Strathclyde Police logo on the side, windows glowing an opaque gold. ‘Hang on a minute.’ Logan bumped the car to a halt, undid his seatbelt and clambered out into the soggy gloom.
Steel leaned over in her seat. ‘Hoy, where do you think you’re-’
‘Just be a tick.’
‘Don’t-’
He clunked the door shut, muffling whatever came next, then hurried across and knocked on the van’s steamed-up window. PC Martin cracked the door open.
