Free Lying Dead by Aline Templeton Page B

police business. She was guilty of callousness herself; they all were. It sounded better if you called it professionalism, but they were both names for the protective distance you had to keep if you wanted to sleep at night.
        ‘Cover her up meantime – those flies!’ With a grimace, Fleming turned away. ‘Poor creature!’ she said sombrely. ‘How do you suppose she came to this? Who found her, anyway?’
        ‘The lad up there.’ MacNee pointed.
        Gavin Scott, swathed in a silver survival blanket, was sitting morosely on the ground further upstream, his arms clasped round his knees and his head bent. A woman officer was crouching beside him.
        ‘George Christie dealt with it – he’ll tell you all about it. George!’ MacNee raised his voice and beckoned to a uniformed sergeant who was giving instructions about taping off the site.
        Fleming knew him slightly, a neat man with a dapper moustache based at Newton Stewart. He gave her an account of Scott’s 999 call, made on his victim’s mobile phone. ‘I’ve got it here,’ he said, unbuttoning his pocket to take it out in its plastic evidence bag. ‘It’s only the lad there who’s touched it directly – we’ll need his prints for elimination. But should we be using it now to try to establish identity?’
        ‘Give it to Tam,’ Fleming directed. ‘I’m going back to set up the major incident room at Kirkluce after I’ve seen the pathologist – it’ll be time enough then.’
        She looked around, assessing the scene. The sky was starting to clear as the freshening wind tore the clouds apart. It would give them perhaps an hour of better light before sunset.
        ‘The obvious route to the site is up the path and directly across the burn, of course – the way we all came. We may have destroyed evidence already, unfortunately, but tape it off now. And just in case, seal off the area beyond the fallen trees and the access from downstream. It’s possible the killer may have carried her across below and walked up but it should be safe enough to assume at least that he won’t have come down from above. So make sure everyone crosses upstream and approaches from there.
        ‘There’s not a lot we can do before the photographer arrives and after that the daylight will have gone. Just finish taping off, sergeant, then send away anyone who isn’t needed. The fewer people we have stamping around here the better, and—’
        The ringing of a mobile phone cut across her. ‘It’s this one,’ MacNee said, startled, taking it out of his pocket and holding it out to Fleming.
        She hesitated for a second then took it. Half-unwrapping it, she pressed the answer button through the plastic and held it a little way away from her ear.
        They all heard the man’s voice. ‘Natasha! Thank God! What the hell are you playing at? I didn’t know where you were – I kept calling and just got the frigging answer service. I’ve been going mental! Where are you?’ Raw anxiety was overlaid with the anger of relief.
        ‘I’m sorry.’ Fleming’s voice was carefully neutral. ‘Who was it you wanted to speak to?’
        ‘Natasha Wintour.’ His tone sharpened. ‘Who are you? What are you doing with her phone?’
        ‘Police. The phone has come into our hands. Who am I speaking to?’
        ‘God, has she lost her phone again? Typical! This is Jeff Brewer. Where was it found?’
        ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not at liberty to give that information. Can you give me your address, please, and Ms Wintour’s?’
        ‘It’s the same. We live together. Or at least we did, until four days ago when she suddenly took off without a word to me.’ He sounded bitter.
        At a gesture from Fleming, MacNee took out his notebook and wrote down the address as she repeated it.
        ‘Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch.’ Fleming ended the call then, with her lips pursed in a silent whistle, and replaced