Free Lying Dead by Aline Templeton

effectively that she could have been the only person for miles around. There was something about forests, with the towering trees that almost seemed to be crowding you and the deadening hush, as if – something – was holding its breath. A childhood memory came to her: a so-called friend who had told her as they played in a wood one day, ‘Trees move, you know, when you’re not looking.’ She’d somehow never felt entirely comfortable alone in dense woodland since.
        It was too dark to see clearly, but she found herself oddly reluctant to switch on her torch, as if the light might, well, draw attention or something – oh, for goodness’ sake! She wasn’t nine now. Annoyed with herself, she snapped on the torch and directed its light on to the path ahead. It might have the effect of further deepening the darkness round about but it did at least make it less likely she’d break her ankle tripping over a rock.
        There was plenty of time to consider what lay ahead as she climbed. The report Fleming had been given was unspecific: the body was that of a female, but there was as yet no indication as to whether this had been natural, accidental or violent death, or how recently it had taken place. A body could lie undiscovered in a place like this for months – years, even.
        The rain was going off now and in the light wind which had sprung up the trees were starting to sway and mutter. As she walked on through the shifting shadows, Fleming saw at last light shining through the trees, greeting the sight of it with a certain shamefaced relief which wasn’t entirely because she could feel a blister forming on her left heel.
        As she got closer, she could see other lights too – torches like her own, bobbing about. They must have managed to heave a generator up, since the main light, which she could see now lighting up the sky, was so strong and steady. She could hear its low, electronic hum and then, when she was about a hundred yards away, the buzz of human voices.
        She must have been spotted; one of the bobbing lights came down towards her and she heard Tam MacNee’s voice. ‘That you, boss? They said you were on the way up.’
        ‘Tam! You were quick off the mark.’
        MacNee grunted as they walked up together. ‘Sitting duck, that was me. There in front of the telly, Rangers 2–1 down, and Bunty takes the message and says no problem, I’ll be right there.’
        ‘Bad luck. Maybe it saved you seeing them lose.’
        He glared at her. ‘“ Your pity I will not implore, For pity you have none! ” ’
        ‘None at all,’ she agreed. ‘So what’s the situation?’
        ‘I’ll give you a clue. She didn’t bash herself over the head and wander up here looking for a quiet place to die.’
        Fleming felt a jolt of shock which was part alarm, part excitement too. ‘She’s been killed? Recently?’
        MacNee was leading the way off the path and down a slope towards a narrow, stony burn. ‘Recent enough. Carstairs is here, grumphing as usual.’
        The police surgeon, whose most common duty was attesting to the proper treatment of drunks held in police cells, was Arthur Carstairs, a small, self-important man with rimless spectacles, a prim mouth and a decided preference for making the worst of even the best of circumstances. Since the wildest optimist would have to concede that this assignment, in damp darkness and rough terrain, was far from ideal, Fleming resigned herself to having to work to placate him. Police surgeons were hard to come by, what with doctors getting a huge increase recently – apparently to reward them for declining to work nights and weekends. She should be so lucky!
        Lit by powerful lamps on either side, Carstairs, in a white protective suit, was on the farther side of the burn, crouching in front of what looked confusingly like a wall of ropes. It was only by shading her eyes and looking beyond the pool of light that