Dead Girls. Graeme Cameron
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‘Which was thoughtful of them.’
‘Ha. So who, and why now? It’s been two months.’
He thought about it for a moment. Scratched his head. ‘Is there anything significant about the date?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
I knew where he was going to go before he went there. ‘Well, if we were in a film, I’d say The perp is sending us a message, but . . . we’re not, are we?’
‘Well, you might be,’ I conceded, ‘but whoever dumped this here isn’t. We’ve got a convenient trail of breadcrumbs, but it’s just muddy tyre marks and you can’t really engineer those. If they lead all the way to the burn site, it’s an accident. Also, never say “perp” again. You sound like an idiot.’
‘Agreed.’
‘It’s a pretty thin theory, isn’t it?’
‘Kind of.’
‘So what am I going to find when I leave you here to chase around after Sandra and go follow that trail by myself?’
‘Oh, come on!’
No, you come on. I was tired, hungover, thirsty, more than a little confused, and I wasn’t even supposed to be here today or indeed any day this week, and I thought a nice gentle drive in the countryside would do me good. Frankly, I thought it was probably a waste of time; you can only load your tyres with so much muck, so the trail was bound to go cold in short order, leaving me free to pop into the nearby village and buy some sugary drinks for myself and maybe even Kevin, if I was feeling more generous by then.
He didn’t put up too much of a fight, either. He was obviously enjoying his moment, peacocking around the place as the only – and therefore most senior – detective on the scene. He probably had another hour to enjoy it, so I was happy to let him. And Geoff was clearly happy to let me go, too, because he lifted the tape clean over my head this time.
The trail was laughably easy to follow; clumps of earth and sand and clay, and weeds snatched out from the verge by a vehicle clearly a few inches wider than the single-track road. And leaky, too. Whether it was oil or hydraulic fluid, it shone beautifully in the sunlight, a spot the size of my fist every ten yards or so.
I was in no hurry. I didn’t even touch the throttle, just stuck it in second and let the clutch out and allowed the car to roll along at its own leisure. It was that kind of morning. The roadblock slid lazily aside to let me out, and we all exchanged smiles and waves as I idled by. Then I was free, turning right onto the little B-road that led to the village, and immediately I knew my hopes for a jolly to the shops were dashed because there were muddy tracks and spots of oil on the other side of the road, too, and I only had to follow them for a couple of miles before they arced left onto a wide concrete track and escaped under a three-bar metal gate.
I stopped the car, and sighed, and thought about what I might do next. I knew exactly what I should do, but my mouth was dry and tasted evil, and my temples were threatening to throb, and I had no phone signal anyway, and the village was only a mile further down the road, so I thought fuck it and did that instead.
There was, thank God, a newsagent’s shop in the village, and it was open, if not altogether welcoming. A portly, ruddy-cheeked old chap in a tweed jacket eyed me from behind the counter in some kind of appraisal or other, his eyes boring into the back of my head as I grabbed three cans of coldish Coke from a chiller that was probably older than me. I forced myself not to meet his eye, instead scanning dusty shelves packed with canned goods and decade-old toys, looking for something I might want to eat at this time of the morning and happily finding a box of Nurofen that was, surprisingly, in date. That would do, although I grabbed a handful of Twixes and a mint Magnum for good measure and finally gave the guy a smile as I dumped the lot on the counter. ‘Morning,’ I said.
He gave me a tight nod and a casual ‘How are you today, officer?’ as he rang up the till.
My neck prickled and my breath caught in my throat and I instinctively flashed a look over my shoulder at the empty shop. Was his face familiar? Should it be? Was mine? ‘I’m sorry?’
He paused for a beat, then hit a button on the till with a sound like crashing thunder. The total flickered green on the little pop-up display. ‘How are you?’ he repeated.
I held his stare for a moment, perhaps a moment too long. His left eyelid began to twitch. ‘I’m good,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Sorry, have we met?’
He narrowed his eyes, flickered an inscrutable thought and said, ‘I don’t think so, Miss, no. That’s six eighty-five.’
What does six eighty-five mean? Mind racing, panic setting in. This was not expected. ‘Six eight—’ I noticed the till then: £6.85, all squared off and glowing green. Right. ‘Right,’ I nodded, shaking the blankness out of my head and fumbling for my purse. Only then did I realise that I was still wearing the lanyard around my neck, which of course made me bark a startled laugh that must have made me look even more special than I already did. ‘Right,’ I reiterated, holding the badge up meekly as I handed the guy a tenner. ‘God, I thought you’d recognised me from somewhere. Sorry, I’m not awake yet,’ I smiled, in an effort to pretend I wasn’t suddenly entirely on edge.
He relaxed visibly, even if he didn’t return my grin. ‘Best part of the day,’ he said, handing me my change.
I took the opening. ‘It is peaceful,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you that. I don’t suppose you have the need to call my lot out too often, do you?’
He regarded me curiously, a blue twinkle flashing across his bloodshot eyes. I’m sure he knew as well as I did that I already knew the answer to that. He humoured me, though. ‘Not really,’ he agreed. ‘We don’t have a lot of differences we can’t take care of between us. They say strange things pass through here at night, but the streetlights go out at eleven so I don’t see none of ’em.’
I hid the shiver that ran down my spine, and asked him, ‘What about in the daytime?’
He just shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell me anything, but he might at least be able to save me some time, so I pressed on. ‘Maybe you can help me,’ I said, undeterred by his blank expression. ‘About a mile back that way, on the right-hand side, there’s a concrete track with a gate across it. Can you tell me where that goes?’
He gave it a moment’s thought. Probably figured it was nothing I couldn’t look up on a map anyway. ‘The old airfield,’ he said.
‘It’s not an airfield any more?’
‘Not since the war. Bomber base.’
‘So what is it now?’
‘Wheat and barley now.’
‘Can you tell me who owns it?’
‘That’ll be Giles.’
I waited for him to crack a smile, but his poker face was strong. ‘And Giles is a farmer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Farmer Giles.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I never heard it like that before,’ he said. ‘That’s funny,’ though he still didn’t smile.
I quit while I was ahead.
Farmer Giles timed his arrival perfectly. I knew full well that the creepy shopkeeper would phone him the second I was out the door, so I saved myself some hard work and just sat in the entrance to the old airfield until he turned up, which he did, in a brand-new Range Rover, just as I was nibbling the last of the chocolate from my ice cream stick.
‘Giles, is it?’ I said, stepping from the car as he did the same. ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly. I’m Detective Sergeant Green. I was wondering if you might