Scaredy Cat by Mark Billingham Page A
Authors: Mark Billingham
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Police, England, Serial Murders
Ads: Link
the nurses about the flowers. There was no card and the nurse went away to ask one of her mates. Now I think T#n suspects I'm having an affair with a policeman. Obviously, he must be a fairly strange policeman with a taste for cheap yel ow nighties and extremely compliant girlfriends who never answer back.
58 MARK BILLINGHAM
What's that old joke about the perfect woman? If I was a nymphomaniac and my dad owned a brewery, he'd be quids in...
FOUR
The Sierra pul ed up behind the operations van. As soon as Thorne stepped out of the car he could see that things were going to be difficult. Even at two o'clock in the morning it was stil muggy but there was rain coming. Valuable evidence would be lost as the scene turned quickly to mud. The various photographers, scene-of-crime-officers and members of the forensic team were going about their business with quiet efficiency. They knew they didn't have very long. Anything useful was usual y found in the first hour. The golden hour. Tughan would stil have everything covered anyway: he'd have rung for a weather forecast. This was their first sniff of a crime scene, and nobody was taking any chances.
Thorne set off down the steep flight of steps that led to Highgate tube station and gave access to Queens Wood the patch of woodland bordering the Archway Road. As he walked he could see the glare of the arc lights through the trees. He could see the figures of forensic scientists in white plastic bodysuits, crouched over what he presumed was the body, in search of stray fibres or hairs from the girl's clothing. He could hear instructions being barked out, the hiss of camera flashes recharging and the constant drone of the portable generator. He'd been at many such scenes in
60 MARK BILLINGHAM
the past, far too many, but this was like watching the A team work. There was a determination about the entire process that he'd seen only once before. There was a distinct absence of whistling in the dark. There was no gal ows humour. There wasn't a flask of tea to be seen anywhere.
It was only when he ducked under the handrail and began to pul on the plastic overshoes provided by a passing SOCO that Thorne realised just how difficult a crime scene this would be to examine. He also saw at once how cal ous the kil er had been in his choice of dumping ground. The body lay hard against the high metal railings that bordered the pavement al the way down the hil . On one side lay the main road and on the other, some hundred feet of dense woodland on a steep hil leading down to the underground station at Highgate. The only access to the body was up the hil and through the trees. Though a wel trodden path had already emerged, it was stil a slow process negotiating the route to the body. The ground was hard and dry but it would take only ten minutes of rain to turn it into a mud chute. By the time they'd got the scene protected with polythene tents it would hardly have been worth the effort.
He hoped they got what they needed quickly. He hoped there was something to get.
Dave Hol and came jogging down the slope towards him. He was backlit beautiful y by the arc lights. Thorne could quite clearly make out the silhouette of a notebook being brandished.
He doesn't look like a policeman, thought Thorne, he looks like a prefect. Even with a hint of stubble, his tidy blond hair and ruddy complexion made him the obvious target for comments of the aren't-policemenlookingyoungerthese-days variety. Pensioners
SLEEPYHEAD 61
adored him. Thorne wasn't sure. Hol and's father had been in the force and, in Thorne's experience, that was rarely without problems. He doesn't even move like a copper, he thought.
Coppers don't skip down hil s like mountain
goats. Coppers move like.., ambulances.
'Cup of tea, sir?'
OK, perhaps he'd been a bit naive. There was always tea. 'No. Tel me about this witness.' 'Right, don't get too excited.'
Thorne's heart sank. It was obviously not going to be earth shattering.
'We've got
58 MARK BILLINGHAM
What's that old joke about the perfect woman? If I was a nymphomaniac and my dad owned a brewery, he'd be quids in...
FOUR
The Sierra pul ed up behind the operations van. As soon as Thorne stepped out of the car he could see that things were going to be difficult. Even at two o'clock in the morning it was stil muggy but there was rain coming. Valuable evidence would be lost as the scene turned quickly to mud. The various photographers, scene-of-crime-officers and members of the forensic team were going about their business with quiet efficiency. They knew they didn't have very long. Anything useful was usual y found in the first hour. The golden hour. Tughan would stil have everything covered anyway: he'd have rung for a weather forecast. This was their first sniff of a crime scene, and nobody was taking any chances.
Thorne set off down the steep flight of steps that led to Highgate tube station and gave access to Queens Wood the patch of woodland bordering the Archway Road. As he walked he could see the glare of the arc lights through the trees. He could see the figures of forensic scientists in white plastic bodysuits, crouched over what he presumed was the body, in search of stray fibres or hairs from the girl's clothing. He could hear instructions being barked out, the hiss of camera flashes recharging and the constant drone of the portable generator. He'd been at many such scenes in
60 MARK BILLINGHAM
the past, far too many, but this was like watching the A team work. There was a determination about the entire process that he'd seen only once before. There was a distinct absence of whistling in the dark. There was no gal ows humour. There wasn't a flask of tea to be seen anywhere.
It was only when he ducked under the handrail and began to pul on the plastic overshoes provided by a passing SOCO that Thorne realised just how difficult a crime scene this would be to examine. He also saw at once how cal ous the kil er had been in his choice of dumping ground. The body lay hard against the high metal railings that bordered the pavement al the way down the hil . On one side lay the main road and on the other, some hundred feet of dense woodland on a steep hil leading down to the underground station at Highgate. The only access to the body was up the hil and through the trees. Though a wel trodden path had already emerged, it was stil a slow process negotiating the route to the body. The ground was hard and dry but it would take only ten minutes of rain to turn it into a mud chute. By the time they'd got the scene protected with polythene tents it would hardly have been worth the effort.
He hoped they got what they needed quickly. He hoped there was something to get.
Dave Hol and came jogging down the slope towards him. He was backlit beautiful y by the arc lights. Thorne could quite clearly make out the silhouette of a notebook being brandished.
He doesn't look like a policeman, thought Thorne, he looks like a prefect. Even with a hint of stubble, his tidy blond hair and ruddy complexion made him the obvious target for comments of the aren't-policemenlookingyoungerthese-days variety. Pensioners
SLEEPYHEAD 61
adored him. Thorne wasn't sure. Hol and's father had been in the force and, in Thorne's experience, that was rarely without problems. He doesn't even move like a copper, he thought.
Coppers don't skip down hil s like mountain
goats. Coppers move like.., ambulances.
'Cup of tea, sir?'
OK, perhaps he'd been a bit naive. There was always tea. 'No. Tel me about this witness.' 'Right, don't get too excited.'
Thorne's heart sank. It was obviously not going to be earth shattering.
'We've got
Similar Books
