Free The Killing Season by Mark Pearson Page B

private contractor. Two photographers were recording the scene. One was taking stills and the other had his camera mounted on a tripod and was shooting video. If it was a non-accidental death and the case ever came to trial then the evidence collected at the scene of the crime could be crucial to a successful prosecution, so meticulous care had to be taken. And they were certainly being meticulous. A lot of crime-solving is like that. Methodical procedure. Hour after hour of painstaking investigation. Not my favourite part of the job, but that’s why a DI is given constables and sergeants. Thankfully.
    Kate had come about an hour after I called her and was watching as the debris covering the body was slowly removed. The soil, sand and chalk was brushed carefully away and sealed in bags as though it were an archaeological dig. The matter preserved for later forensic analysis.
    The figure beneath slowly came to light, revealing, as I had surmised, the body of a large man, taller than my six foot and broader and thicker-set, wide shoulders. At least, he had been thicker-set. The flesh had withered on his bones. His face had sunk in and his hair was matted and slimy. It was impossible for me to tell his age, but one thing was for certain.
    He hadn’t been killed by the falling cliff.
    He had been in the ground for some time. Again, I had no way of telling how long he had been there but I hoped that Kate could. The superintendent had wanted me cleared from the site but Kate had insisted that I should stay. So Susan Dean could either wait a few days for the forensic pathologist to come up from Norwich or agree to Kate’s wishes and let me observe. It was a small victory, sure enough, but life is often enriched with such little triumphs. I could feel the glare of Superintendent Susan Dean’s gaze on me – it was every bit as intense as the bright lights illuminating the dead body, and it warmed me just as much as the jacket that Henry Hill had lent me.
    Kate had bent over again, with a scalpel in her hand.
    ‘What are you doing?’ asked the super.
    ‘I am going to cut the gloves away.’
    ‘Maybe leave that until we can get the body to a proper forensic table,’ suggested Superintendent Dean.
    Kate nodded. ‘Might be best. I don’t know how stable the body will be when we attempt to move him. I’d rather have him as intact as possible to record the evidence.’
    ‘How old was he at the time of death, would you think?’
    ‘Can’t say at this stage. Maybe in the range of thirty to fifty.’
    ‘That’s quite a big range.’
    ‘When we get him on the table we can do a more detailed analysis, I am just making suppositions here. Which is never wise.’
    ‘Gives us something to check against the missing-persons register,’ I said.
    ‘True.’
    ‘How long do you think he has been in the ground, Doctor Walker?’
    ‘I’d say anything up to thirty years, maybe longer.’
    ‘Definitely not recent, then?’
    ‘Not judging by the decomposition. Again, it is hard to tell – the soil conditions play a large part. This is very salty material here.’
    ‘Meaning?’ asked Susan Deans.
    ‘Meaning salt is a preservative,’ I interjected. Behind her Sergeant Coker suppressed a smile as she swivelled her head to glare at me once more.
    ‘It’s Doctor Walker’s analysis I want to hear, Delaney.’
    ‘Inspector Delaney is an extremely experienced and senior Metropolitan Police detective, superintendent,’ said Kate, a quiet anger gleaming in her eyes. ‘Why don’t you climb off your high horse and accept help when it is willingly offered?’
    ‘I—’
    The superintendent didn’t get to finish her sentence as Kate carried on. ‘As Jack rightly said, the very high level of salt acts as a preservative in the soil, so I will need some forensic analysis before I can give you any rough approximation of when he was buried.’
    Without waiting for a reply, Kate carefully used her hands with painstaking gentleness, moving