Free Four Below by Peter Helton Page A

Doctor?’
    ‘I don’t do this all day, you know. They don’t pay me enough as it is. Anyway, I’m finished. The pathologist is here, and he’s the one with the fat pay cheque. I
doubt they pay you enough, though,’ he added as he squeezed past them.
    Inside, the tent was busy. Three scene-of-crime officers were in there, one taking video shots under a glaring light. They made room around the body for Denkhaus and McLusky. Coulthart, who was
squatting next to the remains, greeted them curtly. ‘Rob … McLusky.’
    Denkhaus remained standing while McLusky squatted down on the stony ground, joining the pathologist, who was using a plastic spatula and tweezers to probe the flesh of the corpse. ‘We can
safely rule out accidental death, then,’ McLusky murmured.
    ‘Oh, quite,’ Coulthart agreed. ‘Unless he somehow put a bag over his head, then tied his hands together and buried himself.’
    The corpse had been mauled by scavenging animals. With the hands entirely chewed away, the first thing that struck McLusky was that the victim had been tied by the wrists with thick, brutal
wire. The bag that originally covered his head was made from natural fibres and had been torn open by sharp teeth. The head was badly chewed. The whole area looked a filthy mess to McLusky, who
found it hard to distinguish any features. He thought he could glimpse bits of skull where nose and eyes ought to be.
    ‘How long’s he been dead, Doctor?’
    ‘A rough estimate would be four to five weeks. Direct contact with the forest floor allowed rapid insect access, but the exceptionally cold weather kept down bacterial activity and helped
to preserve the body somewhat.’
    If this was what Coulthart called a ‘somewhat preserved’ corpse, then McLusky never wanted to see a rotten one. In his eight years on the force, he had come across more than one body
that had had time to start decomposing, but this was his first disinterred corpse. The sickly, cloying stench was so intense that it made thinking of anything else difficult.
    ‘What kind of a bag is this, do you think?’ It had been tied around the victim’s neck with what looked like green garden twine, which was now almost completely black from
having soaked up many types of fluid.
    ‘It appears to be some kind of shopping bag made of rough canvas or similar. If you look closely, you’ll see it had handles once. They’ve been cut or torn off.’
    McLusky’s eyes followed Coulthart’s pointing spatula to the frayed stumps of twisted rope handles. ‘Any idea as to the cause of death?’
    ‘I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess at this stage; it is too difficult to establish out here which traumas are pre- and which post-mortem. I heard you found parts of a
hand?’
    ‘Yes, it’s what led us to him.’
    McLusky had kept his breathing as shallow as possible, but all this talking had made it necessary to take great lungfuls of death, and his stomach was now in revolt. ‘I’ll take a
quick breather, Doctor, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Not at all, go ahead. I don’t blame you, Inspector, especially since your boss fled some minutes ago.’
    Once outside the tent, McLusky walked quickly along the designated path and ducked under the crime-scene tape. It wouldn’t do to throw up inside the cordon. After a few deep breaths in the
cold forest air, the danger of vomiting receded. He strove to keep his mind clear of the images from the tent, and memories of the canteen lasagne he had eaten for lunch. He found Denkhaus behind
the wheel of his Range Rover, the engine running. The superintendent had shed his protective gear, which meant he had no intention of returning to the locus. He didn’t invite McLusky to join
him in the warmth; instead he rolled the window down a few inches.
    ‘What does it look like to you, McLusky?’
    ‘Hard to say. We’ll know more when they come up with the cause of death.’
    ‘I hope so. How long’s he been there?’
    ‘Up to five weeks.