A Commonplace Killing by Siân Busby

through which, as it dispersed, Cooper could see DI Lucas. He was standing on the pavement in front of a house-sized gap, smoking a cigarette, with the perpetual air of dismay he always exuded. The poor chap ought by rights to have been pruning the roses in his bungalow garden, and it was a great misfortune to him that he was that rare commodity: a hard-working and dependable copper in a time of national emergency. A short distance from Lucas, a group of headscarved women and scruffy kids marked the arrival of the patrol car with a slight stirring of interest. Lucas ground his gasper underfoot and removed his hat – not as a sign of respect, but because he needed to fan his beetroot face.
    It was immediately apparent to Cooper, as they pulled up alongside, that the murder scene was in the grip of a deep torpor: the uniform on sentry duty was stifling a yawn; a detective sergeant was standing idle in the shade of a shrapnel-scarred tree; and a couple of other flatfoots were poking a rubble-strewn area in front of a sort of makeshift doorway constructed out of corrugated iron, in what could only be described as a desultory fashion. It was uncommonly hot for the time of day, but this alone did not account for the general apathy. Fact was, there was none of the excitement that attends a crime scene when it is replete with evidence.
    Cooper pinched the corners of his eyes between a thumb and forefinger. He was already out of his depth and he hadn’t even left the car.
    Lucas leaned in at the passenger window.
    “The pathologist is already here, sir,” he said, “and I took the liberty of summoning someone from the fingerprint department.”
    Cooper made a little moue of disapproval. He was as fastidious in his work as he was careless with his appearance, and always preferred a scene of crime to be as unharried as possible. They never were, of course – what in life is? You must always adjust to the precedents set by others.
    “Run along and fetch a cup of tea for the guv’nor,” Lucas instructed Policewoman Tring, who had come round to open the passenger door. “There’s a good girl.”
    “Milk, please. No sugar,” Cooper said.
    “I’ll try and dig up a sandwich for you as well, sir,” she said.
    He glanced up at her, meeting her crystal-clear green eyes. He was surprised to see that she was smiling at him, and shaking her head.
    “Whoever is supposed to be looking after you,” she said, “is doing a rotten job.”
    He stepped on to the pavement, self-consciously smoothing back a slick of hair. He was thinking, I must look positively distempered. He was long overdue a haircut and it was easier to find a piece of the True Cross than a jar of ruddy Brylcream.
    “Thanks,” he said. “A sandwich would be just the ticket.”
    He glanced back at her as he followed Lucas towards the relative safety of the murder scene. She had retrieved his mackintosh from the back seat of the motor and was shaking it out. He watched her fold it neatly and place it on the passenger seat. The action made him feel momentarily benign, then he remembered that he was about to visit a murder scene. He sighed, and braced himself against the inevitable proliferation of doubt and disappointment.
    You could say that the first visit to a crime scene was a sort of fresh start: a prelude of calm, organisation and procedure, before the descent into the chaos of human entanglement. For the next few hours all he would have to do was scrutinise the surface for physical evidence, finding sanctuary in the forensic analysis of telling details. Murder is, of course, an all-too-human matter, but on the first visit to the scene of a murder a detective is obliged to detach himself from the muck and confusion of feelings. And nobody appreciated more than Jim Cooper how a detective flourishes best in a solitude that is uncontaminated by the traces of others.
    They pressed through the piece of corrugated iron, lighting upon a stretch of wilderness where