Rach, and get the scene
secured. And radio for SOCO.’
‘Is it suspicious, then, sir?’ asked Rachel, craning to look at the body. The carpet and the brown upholstered bench seat
near by were splattered liberally with crusted blood.
‘Unless he was a contortionist who could stab himself in the back, I’d say it looks very suspicious. Give Colin Bowman a ring
and all, will you.’
Rachel left the caravan quickly, relieved to be out of the place. Gerry Heffernan stood beside Wesley, staring down at the
body. ‘Now how did this poor bugger come to end up stabbed to death in a place like this?’ he said, scratching his head.
Wesley had been wondering the same thing himself. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he replied softly, before walking out into
the sweet, fresh air.
It had started. Bloxham View Caravan Park (family-run with shop and modern toilet and shower facilities) was now awash with
police officers. The curious were kept well back behind the blue-and-white tape than cordoned off the crime scene, and Scenes
of Crime Officers, clinical in their white overalls, came and went up and down the caravan’s clanging metal step, absorbed
in their grim tasks.
With true British reserve, the people in the nearby caravans had studiously ignored the young man in static caravan numbersixty-three. And the young man had gone about his business quietly, had no antisocial habits, and had attracted little attention.
He had kept himself to himself and had therefore gone unnoticed.
Steve Carstairs had recovered from his shocking discovery with what seemed like indecent haste, and was soon out knocking
on caravan doors with the rest of the CID team. Wesley was about to join them when Gerry Heffernan called him back.
‘I think you and me should have a word with the owner of the site. It’s a Mr Fielding. He lives in that ugly bungalow down
by reception.’
Wesley had noticed the bungalow, a concrete box designed in the 1960s on an architect’s off-day.
‘He might have a name for us,’ said Wesley hopefully as they walked through the fields of caravans towards the site entrance.
Gerry Heffernan didn’t reply but marched purposefully onwards.
They found Mr Fielding in the site shop, talking animatedly to a young girl who wore an expression of habitual boredom. Fielding
was in his late thirties and almost bald apart from a few wisps of reddish hair at the back. He looked worried, anticipating
cancelled holidays, demands for refunds and a heavy dint in the reputation of the caravan site that was his sole source of
income. He hurried the two officers out of the shop and through the front door of the bungalow: he didn’t wish to be seen
consorting with the forces of law and order.
‘This is awful,’ he said as he invited them to sit down on a large, shabby sofa. His accent was northern. Heffernan pinpointed
it to around forty miles from his native Liverpool, somewhere in the Manchester area. ‘Are they sure it’s murder? I mean,
yesterday afternoon one of our visitors told me that they’d seen a lad going round trying caravan doors, but I can’t believe
…’ He shook his head, trying to convince himself that it was all some horrible mistake.
‘This lad who was trying doors … did you report it to the police?’
‘Yeah. A constable came up from Bloxham but said that as there had been no damage done and nothing had been reported missing
there wasn’t much that could be done. He just told me to keep an eye on things. You don’t think it’s got anything to do with
…’
‘Someone made an anonymous call to say that there was a body in one of the caravans. If there was an opportunist thief trying
doors it’s possible that he discovered the body and decided to report it to us,’ said Wesley.
Fielding looked at Wesley with thinly disguised curiosity, then nodded.
At that moment the door opened and a woman walked into the living room. She was thin, almost skeletal,
secured. And radio for SOCO.’
‘Is it suspicious, then, sir?’ asked Rachel, craning to look at the body. The carpet and the brown upholstered bench seat
near by were splattered liberally with crusted blood.
‘Unless he was a contortionist who could stab himself in the back, I’d say it looks very suspicious. Give Colin Bowman a ring
and all, will you.’
Rachel left the caravan quickly, relieved to be out of the place. Gerry Heffernan stood beside Wesley, staring down at the
body. ‘Now how did this poor bugger come to end up stabbed to death in a place like this?’ he said, scratching his head.
Wesley had been wondering the same thing himself. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he replied softly, before walking out into
the sweet, fresh air.
It had started. Bloxham View Caravan Park (family-run with shop and modern toilet and shower facilities) was now awash with
police officers. The curious were kept well back behind the blue-and-white tape than cordoned off the crime scene, and Scenes
of Crime Officers, clinical in their white overalls, came and went up and down the caravan’s clanging metal step, absorbed
in their grim tasks.
With true British reserve, the people in the nearby caravans had studiously ignored the young man in static caravan numbersixty-three. And the young man had gone about his business quietly, had no antisocial habits, and had attracted little attention.
He had kept himself to himself and had therefore gone unnoticed.
Steve Carstairs had recovered from his shocking discovery with what seemed like indecent haste, and was soon out knocking
on caravan doors with the rest of the CID team. Wesley was about to join them when Gerry Heffernan called him back.
‘I think you and me should have a word with the owner of the site. It’s a Mr Fielding. He lives in that ugly bungalow down
by reception.’
Wesley had noticed the bungalow, a concrete box designed in the 1960s on an architect’s off-day.
‘He might have a name for us,’ said Wesley hopefully as they walked through the fields of caravans towards the site entrance.
Gerry Heffernan didn’t reply but marched purposefully onwards.
They found Mr Fielding in the site shop, talking animatedly to a young girl who wore an expression of habitual boredom. Fielding
was in his late thirties and almost bald apart from a few wisps of reddish hair at the back. He looked worried, anticipating
cancelled holidays, demands for refunds and a heavy dint in the reputation of the caravan site that was his sole source of
income. He hurried the two officers out of the shop and through the front door of the bungalow: he didn’t wish to be seen
consorting with the forces of law and order.
‘This is awful,’ he said as he invited them to sit down on a large, shabby sofa. His accent was northern. Heffernan pinpointed
it to around forty miles from his native Liverpool, somewhere in the Manchester area. ‘Are they sure it’s murder? I mean,
yesterday afternoon one of our visitors told me that they’d seen a lad going round trying caravan doors, but I can’t believe
…’ He shook his head, trying to convince himself that it was all some horrible mistake.
‘This lad who was trying doors … did you report it to the police?’
‘Yeah. A constable came up from Bloxham but said that as there had been no damage done and nothing had been reported missing
there wasn’t much that could be done. He just told me to keep an eye on things. You don’t think it’s got anything to do with
…’
‘Someone made an anonymous call to say that there was a body in one of the caravans. If there was an opportunist thief trying
doors it’s possible that he discovered the body and decided to report it to us,’ said Wesley.
Fielding looked at Wesley with thinly disguised curiosity, then nodded.
At that moment the door opened and a woman walked into the living room. She was thin, almost skeletal,
Similar Books
