Free A Dark Place to Die by Ed Chatterton

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    He pauses at the entrance, produces a powerful penlightfrom his jacket and sweeps the beam around the interior quickly, a first pass. It's empty apart from a metal pole which has been jacked tightly into place, braced at roof and floor in the same way Keane has seen builders supporting ceilings in houses under repair. Around the base of the pole, and leading from there in a thick ragged line towards the door of the container, is the blood trail that had frightened the kids enough to make a call to their natural enemy, the police.
    Keane takes out some latex gloves and hands Harris a pair. They exchange a glance and both suppress a feeling of elation. The case is achieving momentum. The murder happened in here. There will be something useful.
    The container smells of vomit. Keane points his beam and sees a small pool of the stuff splashed up against a corner. Someone sickened by the killing? He makes a mental note and steps further inside.
    Once in, there is a complete silence. Even the traffic surf has gone.
    The two of them move slowly towards the pole taking great care where they place their feet. Without needing to check with Keane, Harris grabs her mobile and calls for the SOC unit to be sent out. When the call is finished she uses the phone display light to help illuminate the container. Keane traces the blood pattern on the floor.
    'Quite a mess,' says Harris.
    There is a lot of blood. The SOC unit will check for compatibility with the victim, but both of them know they're looking at the torture site.
    The blood is dry, although Keane and Harris both see that it's still fresh enough to be recognisably red. In evocative splatters and dripped ribbons it radiates out from thepole in a circular fashion. Only a narrow strip of floor near the pole has escaped the blood.
    'He moved around,' says Harris. Keane knows she's talking about the killer. It doesn't take a genius to work out the victim was tied to the pole. Harris takes a number of photographs using her iPhone.
    'But he couldn't do the back of his head, the bit against the pole,' says Keane, pointing a latex-clad finger at a relatively clean section of the floor. 'Hence the gap.' He feels a shiver on his neck and hopes the SOC unit doesn't take too long.
    Harris bends low to the floor, careful not to step on any blood.
    'These small splatters.' She points out several curving marks on the floor. 'He's flicking the blood off the blade.' Harris mimes the motion and Keane can almost see the blood falling.
    Keane breathes out slowly and runs his torch over the ceiling and upper walls of the container. He can see nothing of any interest, although the SOC officers will go over the entire place in microscopic detail. Perhaps they'll turn something up.
    Harris moves away from the pole and runs her phone light slowly and deliberately along the base of the metal walls. At one point a small collection of detritus has gathered, blown by the breeze through the open door. She moves along carefully, stopping every few centimetres to take a closer look at the offerings. Two items in particular seem to hold her attention for longer than the rest. She places both in a small plastic evidence bag she produces from her jacket pocket and stands up, holding the bag to the light. Keane can see she's shaken by something but he doesn't ask. Harris will tell him soon enough.
    Behind them the door creaks in the wind and she and Keane both twitch.
    'Let's leave it at that,' he says. 'We don't want to contaminate the scene.' Harris doesn't hesitate. Despite the absence of a body, the site is the creepiest place Keane has ever been in. There's something demented about this one and Keane can feel the container taking a permanent space in his memory, a space he doesn't want it to occupy but is now powerless to stop. It joins all the other unwelcome memories that, on bad days, or on dry-mouthed pre-dawn mornings, seem to be the only ones he has.
    Outside in the welcoming cold, Keane flips open his