Free The Love of the Dead by Craig Saunders

enough, I think.”
    “You’re right, it don’t matter. And yes she did. She did.”
    “Didn’t deserve that,” she said. Stupid thing to say, but she wasn’t so hot first thing in the morning, either.
    “Not many people do.”
    Like, maybe some do. She liked that. He wasn’t all black and white, but he didn’t lie, either. At least, it seemed so, but her days of being a good judge of character had been drowned a long time ago.
    But then there was Miles. He was rapt. Looking at the policeman, his game with the sand forgotten.
    There was something, alright.
    It might be that she could trust him, but she was basing it on her shaky reasoning and a happy little dead boy. It wasn’t the soundest way to go about making decisions.
    She heard a car pull up in front.
    “That’ll be my relief.”
    “I bet it is, too.”
    “No. I meant it. You’re all right, Beth. Some people in this job...well. They ain’t the best. But you didn’t do anything to bring this on. I’ll do right by you, if I can. I promise you that.”
    That nearly brought a tear to her eye, but she didn’t usually cry unless she was drunk, and she was stone-cold sober this morning.
    “Thanks. I mean, seriously. Thank you.”
    He nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    She heard him close the front door. She lit a cigarette and watched the tide come in. Miles, down by the water, feet in the surf. Running.
    She could almost hear him giggling, as the breakers chased up the sand and wet his feet. It might only be her imagination, but it was sweet. She let it be, and smoked, and smiled.

     
     

Part Three
    The Hermit
     
     

Chapter Twenty-Four
     
     
    Sunday 16 th November
     
    Coleridge ate a cold bacon roll for breakfast while he watched the pathologist, Donald Freeman, work on Sam Wright’s corpse. He couldn’t help thinking she looked pretty good for a chain-smoking hack. He didn’t reckon she’d been one for exercising, but everything seemed to be in the right place.
    Well, mostly.
    The bacon was pretty gross. He ate the roll, though. He was upset, and being upset made him hungry.
    “Hmm.”
    “Hmm, what?”
    “Have a look at this.”
    Coleridge stepped up and craned over Sam’s body. Freeman pointed at something stuck in the torn windpipe, right the way up her throat and probably into her mouth.
    “You mind not dribbling crumbs on the evidence, detective?”
    “Sorry, doc.”
    He put the remains of his bacon roll on the instrument tray.
    “These are clean, right?” he asked.
    Freeman shook his head and ignored Coleridge.
    Some people, Coleridge thought, had no manners.
    “See?”
    “I see, but...”
    “It’s a feather.”
    “I know it’s a fucking feather. What’s it’s doing in her neck?”
    Freeman shrugged and took a camera from beside the body. He snapped a couple of photos, spoke into a mike for a while, then clicked the recorder off.
    “Let’s have a look shall we?”
    “Knock yourself out,” said Coleridge, pushing the last of his breakfast into his mouth.
    Freeman pulled out the feather with a pair of long tweezers. Held it up. “A feather.”
    Coleridge sighed. “What kind of bird?”
    “I’m a pathologist, in case you hadn’t noticed the body of the decapitated woman I’m working on. I am not an ornithologist.”
    “Fair enough, doc. I’m a detective. I’ll do some detecting, I guess. I reckon that might be what we call in the trade ‘a clue.’”
    “I would surmise as much myself.”
    “Stick to doctoring, Freeman. You ain’t got the lingo.”
    “Not street enough?”
    “Too damn smart,” said Coleridge. “Thanks, doc. That it?”
    “That’s it. Same as the others, excepting the presence of the head. I’ll email you the report.”
    “Alright. I’m off to find a bird watcher.” Coleridge hunted around for the last of his bacon roll.
    “In Norfolk? I shouldn’t think it’d be too hard,” said Freeman.
    “No. I suppose not. But then, that’s what phones are for. See, doc?