The body wasn’t exactly improving any, and the flies and wasps were thick, the sound of them a constant buzzing murmur in the air of life feasting on death. He saw no sign of a phone, either by the body, or anywhere nearby. And with the pathologist, the CSI team, and the rest, all on their way, he didn’t want to go around disturbing the crime scene any more than it already was. But a text sent to someone from a very clearly dead body? It was going to bother him, that was for sure. And he knew he needed to speak to this Little Nick.
Harry looked up from the body and around the field, at the tree just away from where he now stood, its branches home to fat pigeons cooing at the day, then to the barn in the far righthand corner. It all looked so normal and so picturesque and yet there was a mystery here, wasn’t there, he thought? And it wasn’t just the fact that there was someone dead in the middle of it all either.
‘So, John,’ Harry muttered to the corpse, ‘just how the hell did you send a text to someone when you’re dead?’ And then he added, just in case, ‘And if it’s all the same with you, I’d prefer it if you didn’t sit up and tell me right now . . .’
Chapter Eight
The circus, as Harry had referred to it, all turned up at once. Which wasn’t exactly helpful. Harry was already massively aware that as crime scenes went, this one was pretty awful. What with a body left out to the elements and more than a little nibbled at by nature, the area around it disturbed not just by weather but numerous animals with the midnight munchies, finding any evidence at all was going to be difficult if not impossible. The one plus was that it hadn’t rained, so if there was anything of use, it wouldn’t have been washed away. But as positives went, it was a pretty poor on and leaned dangerously close to being a negative.
‘Sorry, boss,’ Matt said, racing up ahead of the seemingly large crowd of people now crawling into the field. The only thing pausing them on their way was Jim who was at the gate doing his best to give some sense of order to the proceedings as the Scene Guard.
‘Not your fault,’ Harry said, then gazing past, spotted someone right at the front of the crowd, making their way up towards them with the kind of frighteningly relentless power of an out of control steam train. ‘And who’s this?’
As the person drew closer, Harry could see now that it was a woman. She was wearing, of all things, a plain blue cassock, which billowed around her wellington-boot clad feet, which only served to remind Harry that he really had to get some for himself. She already had PPE covering her boots, gloves on her hands, and was still struggling with a facemask when she arrived.
‘Well?’ the woman said when finally came to stand in front of Harry. ‘Where is it, then?’
‘And you are?’ Harry asked, stepping back a little from the woman, who was red in the face from the walk up to them from the road, and carrying a ragged looking rucksack over her back.
‘Divisional Surgeon,’ the woman said, finally managing to get the mask over her face. ‘Margaret Shaw. And you’re probably wondering why I’m dressed like this.’
‘No, not at all,’ Harry said, shaking his head unconvincingly.
‘I’m a lay reader at the local parish church in Askrigg,’ Margaret said. ‘This turned up this morning and it’s the third I’ve had delivered in a month, and none of them fit properly!’
She pulled at the blue material which Harry could now see was more than a little tight in all the places it shouldn’t be and none of the places it should.
‘See? This one doesn’t fit either! Blasted thing! Call came in to come over here and I couldn’t get it off, could I? And I wasn’t about to set to it with a pair of scissors. I want a refund! I ask you, how difficult can it be to make what is little more than a sack with sleeves attached, fit the average human body?’
Harry didn’t quite know what to say or indeed where to look. The woman was of average height, but a little on the larger size, and the cassock wasn’t doing anything to help, looking as it did like it had been put together with no reference to the human anatomy whatsoever.
‘We’ve not met before?’ Harry said, phrasing the statement as a question.
‘Not exactly, no,’ the woman said, still pulling at the cassock and wriggling uncomfortably. ‘I was at Semerwater a few weeks ago, can’t remember how many, there was a body found on the shore. You were off busy with something I’m sure. I just sort of turn up, point at the body and say, Yep, they’re dead, then bugger off.’ She stretched, and this time everyone heard a ripping sound. ‘Well, that didn’t sound good, did it?’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ Matt said, but glanced at Harry and mouthed it really isn’t.
‘I’m not usually this busy,’ said the surgeon. ‘Not exactly a place rife with murder and intrigue, the dales. But, here we are, once again! Now, where is it?’
Harry nodded just up and away from them, over the police cordon tape, and towards the body.
‘Ah yes,’ said Margaret. ‘The flies are a bit of a giveaway, aren’t they? Come on then, let’s get this done.’
Harry lifted the tape up to allow the surgeon through, and followed behind, telling Matt to hang back, if only to delay the rest of the entourage now coming up behind them.
At the body, Margaret let out a long, slow whistle. ‘Enough to put you off your lunch, isn’t it?’
Harry let her do her job in checking the body, which took all of thirty seconds. ‘Dead then?’ he asked.
‘I bloody
