Hazlehead Road, more coming over the back from Bucksburn. The cavalry was on its way. 'Did Control say where she was--' A woman screamed. 'Over there!' McInnis ignored the path and half-ran, half-scrambled down the slippery embankment with Guthrie hot on his heels, torchlight bobbing across wet grass, stones and bushes. 'MRS YOUNG?' They slithered to a halt at the foot of the slope, rain drumming off their peaked caps and black jackets. 'OK,' said Guthrie,'you go left, I'll go right.' McInnis snorted. 'Bugger that! If the Flesher's out here we should stick together, so--' 'Don't be such a big jessie. There's a woman out there getting murdered, remember?' He stumbled off into the downpour, following the beam of his LED torch. It wasn't long before he was swallowed by the night. McInnis swore, then waded out into the knee-high grass. This was ridiculous - probably just a hoax, or some kinky sex game gone wrong, like those idiots in Northfield with all the tomato sauce. Nothing was going to happen. False alarm. He swung his torch across a mountain range of gorse bushes. 'MRS YOUNG?' He didn't see the patch of mud that sent him sprawling. One minute he was upright, and the next he was lying flat on his back, watching his torch spin through the air ... It came down somewhere deep inside the prickly bushes - clattering through the branches till it finally hit the ground. 'FUCK!' A pause, then the Airwave handset on his shoulder started ringing: Guthrie.'Are you OK? What happened? You need help? ' There was no way McInnis was going to say he'd slipped and fallen on his arse. 'I'm fine. Dropped my torch.' 'Moron .' 'Up yours.' McInnis ended the call and struggled to his feet. Everything was soaked through: trousers, jacket, socks, T-shirt, pants. 'Bloody marvellous ...' He could see the faint gleam of his torch leaching out beneath the line of gorse bushes. For a second he considered just leaving the damn thing, but it wasn't as if he could get any wetter. He edged his way forward in the dark. The torch was no more than a couple of feet from the outer cordon of spines. McInnis hunkered down and tried to reach it. Thorns scratched the back of his hand as he fumbled in the shadows. Stupid bloody torch. Come on ... Branch, rock, something horrible and sticky - please not dog shit, please not dog shit-- torch! McInnis grabbed it, thankful no one had seen him make an absolute tit of himself. And as the torch came out of the bush, its beam glittered back from something dark and oily. Blood. His hand was covered in blood. There was something white further back. It was a foot. McInnis froze, then slid the beam up: ankle, leg, thigh, buttock ... a woman, lying on her front, naked except for a pair of control-top knickers and a substantial bra. Her neck had been slashed so deeply the head was barely attached. Very, very dead.
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