out, his moccasin loafers instantly sinking into the boggy woodland soil.
He removed his white protective suit and overshoes from a bag in the boot of his car and pulled them on, then made his way over,
icking under the tape. Joe Tindall, also dressed in white protective )thing and white boots, turned towards him, holding a large
lera.
'Hi!' Grace greeted him. 'You're having a great weekend!'
'You and me,' Tindall said sourly, nodding at the undergrowth [yards behind him. 'You know my mother wanted me to be an Etccountant?'
'Never figured you for a bean counter,' Grace replied.
'Apparently, most accountants have a life/ he retorted.
'But what kind of a life?'
'One where they get to spend their Sundays at home with their wife and kids.'
'All the people I know with kids,' Grace replied, 'can't wait to get rid of them for the day. Especially on Sundays.' He patted his colleague on the back. 'One man's Sunday in his garden is another man's hell.'
Tindall jerked his head over at the body, barely visible in the dense undergrowth. 'Well, he's not having a great Sunday, whichever way you slice it.'
'Probably not the best metaphor under the circumstances,' Grace said, walking over towards the corpse, a dozen or more bluebottles hovering over it. Churchman, a handsome, fit-looking man with a boyish face, wearing a white oversuit, was kneeling beside it, holding a small tape recorder.
Grace saw a slightly overweight young man with short spiky fair hair, wearing a checked shirt, baggy jeans and brown boots, lying on his back, mouth open, eyes shut, his skin waxy white. There was a small gold earring in his right ear. The rounded face, frozen in death, had boyish looks.
He tried to recall the photographs of Michael Harrison that he had seen. The hair colouring was the same, the features could have been his, but he had seemed better-looking than this. Equally, Grace knew that people's looks changed after death, as the skin contracted and the blood dried.
Nigel Churchman looked up at him. 'Roy,' he said. 'Hi, how are you?'
'I'm OK, you?'
The pathologist nodded.
'What have we got?'
'I'm not sure yet - too early to tell.' With his rubber-gloved hands he gently lifted the young man's head. Grace swallowed as dozens of the small flies flew angrily off. There was a deep, uneven dent in the back of the cranium, covered in knotted hair and dark, congealed blood.
'He's had a violent blow from some blunt instrument/ Churchman said. Then with his typical dry humour he added, 'Wasn't good for his health.'
'You know, you get sicker every time I meet you.'
Churchman grinned broadly, as if it were a compliment. 'You sound like my wife.'
'I thought you got divorced?'
'I did.'
They were interrupted by a sharp fizz, crackle, then a burst of speech from the police radio of one of the constables behind him. Grace turned and saw the police officer talk into his two-way radio, giving a report. Then he looked down at the corpse, studying it carefully, noting again the face, the clothes, the cheap watch and the even cheaper-looking plastic strap. The green string bracelet on his right wrist. He swept his hand across the corpse's face, brushing away the hovering flies. Yes, the corpse was definitely in the right place, but could they be sure this was Michael Harrison?
'There's nothing on him at all? No credit card or paper?'
'Not that we've found.'
Looking down at the young man again, Grace wondered, was this how he would have dressed for his stag night? The image he had of Michael Harrison was altogether someone more classy-looking. This man looked like a spiv. But whoever he was, he did not deserve to be lying here, being pecked away by blowflies, with the back of his head stove in.
'Any sense of how long he's been here?' Grace asked.
Churchman stood up, to his full six-foot height. 'Tough one. Not long. No sign of first-generation larvae infestation; no discolouration on the skin - in the conditions we've had, several days of warm and damp air, we would expect rapid deterioration. He's been here twenty-four hours max, possibly less.'
Grace's brain was churning, thinking about all the young males f'tged twenty to thirty who had been reported missing in the past Couple of weeks. He knew the statistics only too well, from all his years of searching for Sandy. Two hundred and fifty thousand people B year in England alone went missing. Of those, one-third were never seen again. Some were dead, their bodies disposed of so efficiently they would never be found. Others had run away, beyond the reach of the best efforts of the police. Or else they had gone overseas and changed their identities.
He only ever saw just a fraction of the missing person enquiries: those who had gone in suspicious circumstances; the ones the police were looking into and the tiny percentage of those he got asked to review.
The timescale fitted. The looks sort of fitted. Sort of. There was only one sure way to find out.
'Let's get him to the mortuary,' he said. 'See if we can get someone to identify him.'
