Free And None Shall Sleep by Priscilla Masters

cheer her up. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘He had a sense of humour. Gallows Wood. Ten guesses how he’s done it.’
    She agreed.
    They were wrong. On both counts.
    Rain dropped heavily from the trees, splashing around them as they stepped through the undergrowth. Then suddenly the September sun emerged again to give the wood a pale, unreal light. It was a small wood, the path almost impenetrable with snarling brambles and soft, black mud.
    Joanna glanced down at her shoes. ‘Bloody mud,’ she said, ‘and with this thing on my arm they’ll be tricky to get clean.’
    Mike turned round. ‘And I thought Levin licked your boots clean.’
    She stared at him. It took them a couple more minutes to reach the clearing in the centre of the wood. They looked around them and knew this spot was completely hidden from both the road and the nearby housing estate.
    The path turned sharply to the right and they saw the ring of police standing round a crumpled heap of old-fashioned striped pyjamas.
    They pushed forward and Joanna caught her breath. He was lying on his side, the back of his head clearly visible. His hair was cut short, making it easy to see the scorch mark of a bullet entry wound in the nape of his neck. His hands had been tied behind his back.
    She knew what she would see even before she leaned across the dead man. He had no face. And she felt a sudden, shouting queasiness.
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ she murmured. And already she knew from the position in which he lay that he had had his hands bound and had been forced to kneel before the executioner’s bullet in the back of his skull had killed him instantly. She forced herself to study him with a detective’s eyes. Jonathan Selkirk lay wearing only pyjamas, feet bare, pathetically scratched and bleeding. A long black thorn stuck out of one of them. The back of one hand had continued to ooze long after the IV line had been removed, leaving a tiny pool of blood and a large bruise. And she knew whatever sort of man Jonathan Selkirk had been in life, he had done nothing to deserve this.
    She addressed Mike over her shoulder. ‘Find out if they’ve contacted Matthew.’
    He grunted.
    Others were arriving now, carrying police equipment. A plastic shelter was erected over the body and a walkway carefully taped off. Ten minutes later the photographer arrived, and, twenty minutes after that, Matthew. He made a beeline for Joanna.
    â€˜So you’ve found him,’ were the first words he said. ‘I’m glad,’ and, taking a step nearer and studying her face, ‘you look pale, I told you you shouldn’t be working.’
    â€˜Matthew, he was shot in the back of the neck.’ The words sounded cruel and cold.
    Matthew gave a low whistle. ‘Shot,’ he said slowly. ‘I really didn’t expect that.’
    â€˜Neither did we.’ She gave a quick shiver. ‘It’s made a mess of his head,’ she said.
    Matthew shrugged. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Guns are nasty things. They do a lot more damage than people realize. People think guns leave a neat little black hole. They just don’t understand. One little bullet rips out a ton of flesh. Sorry,’ he added, looking at her now chalk-white face. ‘Darling, I’m sorry Are you all right?’
    She nodded. ‘His hands were tied behind his back,’ she murmured. ‘He was wearing the pyjamas he’d left the hospital in. No shoes.’ She swallowed. ‘There was a huge thorn sticking out of one of his feet. It must have hurt.’
    â€˜Not half as much as what came next,’ he observed drily, looking beyond her to the crumpled figure. ‘Oh, I’m sorry ... Sorry, sorry. I know. I’ve no sensitivity.’ He spat out the old joke. ‘That’s why I’m a pathologist.’
    He knelt down by the figure and opened his black scene- of-crime bag to take out some gloves.
    Matthew