Free Scarred for Life by Kerry Wilkinson

left hand was missing the very tip. ‘I’ve had worse.’
    ‘How did you manage that?’
    ‘Accident with a forklift a few years back. To be honest, filling in all the accident forms hurt way worse than losing the finger.’ He chuckled humourlessly but Jessica knew what he meant: if someone stubbed their toe around the station then she’d have three dozen forms to fill out in triplicate. No wonder things didn’t get done.
    ‘I messed up, didn’t I?’ he said, more quietly than before.
    ‘How?’
    ‘With the body. You’re supposed to stay clear and not touch anything, aren’t you? That’s what they say. I went and fell on my bloody arse, then the dog was sniffing around.’ He hunched and ruffled the dog’s ears.
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Buster. Stupid bloody name. Some kids’ TV show, I think. My daughter named him.’
    The dog rolled onto his side, still nuzzling against Philip’s shoes.
    ‘It’s not your fault,’ Jessica said, touching him on the upper arm. ‘Our scene was screwed the moment it started raining. The body had been out there for more than twenty-four hours anyway. By the time you found it, pretty much anything useful we were going to get had been washed away.’
    That wasn’t strictly true and Philip’s tumble around the body certainly hadn’t helped – but there was no point in making him feel any worse than he already did.
    ‘Your girl who interviewed me said I could go home but I don’t think I can face it yet. I called my wife to say I was going to be late. I didn’t tell her about the body, not over the phone, I just said I’d gone for a longer walk. She asked if I could pick up some milk on the way home. I don’t know why but it made me laugh, not because it was funny – it was just one of those things. I was thinking, “Milk, bloody hell, there’s some poor girl that’s been cut up and I’ve got to worry about nipping by the corner shop on my way home.”’
    Jessica wanted to say something soothing but what was there? It was always the normal things that got you.
    ‘Who was she?’ Philip asked.
    ‘We’re not sure yet.’
    ‘Bloody waste, though, isn’t it? Some young girl like that. Can’t be any older than twenty-one, twenty-two. Christ, my Emily’s only thirteen. You think they’ve got their whole lives ahead of them and then you see something like that.’
    Jessica didn’t reply for a few moments, allowing the gentle breeze to skim between them. ‘We can have someone take you home if you want, plus we have people you can talk to.’
    ‘Aye, I know, love. Your other woman told me. I’ll be all right. I’ve seen a few things in my time, not like that but, y’know . . .’
    Back at Longsight Station the usual Saturday morning chaos was fully in evidence. The regular array of Friday-night drunks were being processed, the quieter ones sent on their way after a telling-off, the ones with the big gobs left downstairs in their cells to stew for a few hours longer. Some people never learned that shouting their mouths off at the police got them nowhere.
    A pair of constables was pulling together a list of missing people who could potentially be their victim, so Jessica went to her office and flicked through the messages on top of her keyboard. Something about pensions, a note from Fat Pat about forgetting to sign cars back in, notification of some all-department briefing, blah blah blah. If they filed these things straight into her bin, it would save her the hassle.
    Jessica picked up her desk phone and called Archie. One ring, two rings, five rings: ‘Can’t you pick up on the first ring?’ she said.
    The familiar Manc twang: ‘Jess?’
    ‘Yes, y’lazy sod. What are you doing?’
    ‘Give over – it’s my day off, it’s Saturday.’
    ‘I know what day it is and it’s my day off too. They found some body out Walkden way, just off the East Lancs Road. Some poor girl.’
    ‘I’ve not had the news on. Do you need me in?’
    ‘No, I was