The Bone Garden by Kate Ellis

caravan
     doors like the rest of us. Where have you been anyway? We already solved three murders and half a dozen armed robberies before
     you had your ruddy cornflakes.’
    ‘Didn’t feel well this morning, sir.’
    ‘None of us do after a night out clubbing it in Morbay. Now get your finger out and do some work. If you’d rather be directing
     traffic in Tradmouth High Street, that can be arranged.’
    Steve shot the inspector a resentful look, extracted his foot from the glutinous mud, and limped away towards the row of static
     caravans lined up against the far hedgerow.
    Wesley found himself teamed up with Rachel. He walked besideher, breathing in the fresh sea air and her musky perfume. The view from the top field was indeed spectacular. The site was
     perched on the headland overlooking the fishing port of Bloxham, which stood between the town of Tradmouth and the sprawling
     seaside resort of Morbay. Bloxham was stretched out far below them, its tiny pale houses tumbling down to the vast glittering
     sea. Large vessels crawled across the distant horizon while smaller boats scurried like insects across the calm waters of
     the English Channel.
    ‘Lovely view,’ he commented.
    Rachel looked at him and smiled shyly. ‘If you start at the end of this row, I’ll do the next one. I don’t think we’re going
     to find many people at home.’
    ‘Mmm. There seem to be a lot of closed curtains.’
    ‘So either no one’s in or there’s hanky-panky going on inside,’ said a loud Liverpudlian voice behind them. The inspector
     was back. ‘I’ve done plenty of house-to-house inquiries in my time but never a caravan-to-caravan.’
    Wesley didn’t reply. He knocked on the door of the first caravan in the row while Rachel gave her attention to the one next
     door. Gerry Heffernan stood behind him expectantly, but after a while Wesley turned to him and shook his head. Nobody home.
    ‘Well, try the door.’
    Wesley hesitated, then attempted to turn the handle. The door was locked. Then the inspector disappeared round the back, moving
     quickly for a big man. A minute later he returned, disappointed. ‘I’ve looked in all the windows … nothing. Come on.’
    He bypassed the next caravan, where Rachel was talking to a young red-haired woman, and carried on down the row. But there
     was nothing even remotely suspicious. The caravans were either empty or occupied by ordinary citizens going about their lawful
     holiday business. Not a corpse in sight.
    Just as Wesley was starting to suspect that the telephone call had been someone’s idea of a joke, he heard Steve Carstairs
     shouting. Without a word Wesley and Heffernan began to run over to the far row of caravans.
    Rachel caught up with them. ‘Was that Steve shouting?’
    ‘Sounded like it.’
    ‘Probably stepped in some more mud and ruined his other trainer,’ mumbled Heffernan uncharitably.
    But when they reached the far row of static caravans they foundSteve sitting on the step leading up to the door of the fourth van with his head in his hands. Wesley began to sprint towards
     him, leaving the other two behind.
    When he reached the caravan, Steve Carstairs looked up at him, the usual wariness gone. ‘In there,’ he muttered. ‘Been dead
     a few days, I reckon.’
    Wesley stepped past him and opened the caravan’s flimsy door, taking a deep breath and dreading the sight that would greet
     him inside. At first he saw nothing. The curtains were drawn and it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.
     But he could hear the low-pitched buzzing of flies. And he could smell death.
    ‘So he wasn’t having us on,’ said Gerry Heffernan softly as he entered the caravan. Wesley stared for a few moments at the
     body which lay like a marble statue on the floor. Then he averted his eyes. He would never become hardened to the sight of
     violent death.
    Heffernan turned to Rachel, who had just come in behind them. ‘Get the others down here will you,