Looking beyond the decay, he noticed that the dissection lines were clean and precise.
If he had been a religious man, Ryan might have said a prayer. Instead, he made a promise to find the person responsible. He was inclined to think it was a more productive outlet for his grief, for that was what he felt.
The sound of Faulkner’s suit rustling as he moved around taking photographs of the area brought him out of his reverie.
“Initial thoughts?”
Tom blew out a long breath and took another survey, though he too had committed much of it to memory.
“Might be able to pick up something, but the ground was dry last night. No juicy mud for us to capture a boot print, if that’s what you’re thinking. Jeff should have a lot more to work with on the body since the tissues are still there,” he looked across at the pathologist, who was crouched near the cavity, mask covering his face, hairnet protecting his hair. “There’s no clothing on this one and zero in the way of personal possessions, which is disappointing. On the upside, there’s white tape strapped around the body, which we might be able to trace. We’ll do a fingertip search for anything else.”
Ryan could see what he meant. There were no obvious tracks on the ground, no blood spill to indicate a kill site.
“Might be something on the skin,” Faulkner carried on, sounding tired. His body seemed to hunch inside its white suit. “We’ll look for chemicals, fibres, DNA. The usual.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Ryan was about to turn away, but placed a hand on Faulkner’s shoulder before he left, the only thing he could think of to express solidarity, because it got to you sometimes. “Call me if you find anything.”
Faulkner nodded and snapped his mask back into place.
Ryan left the CSIs to their work and re-joined Phillips at the top of the hill.
“How bad is it?”
“How long is a piece of string?” Ryan muttered, shrugging out of the overalls before dropping them into a sealed container. They would be inspected for trace evidence later. “It’s bad enough. Looks like another young, dark-haired female, but this time the body has been dismembered.”
Phillips pursed his lips in distaste.
“It’s hard to believe she was still a person eight or nine hours ago.”
“You reckon that’s the timescale?”
Ryan ran a hand through his mop of black hair.
“Rough estimate. Pinter will be able to give us a better idea. For that matter, give it a couple more hours and Ambrose would have a field day down there.”
Phillips took his meaning, straight away. Doctor Ambrose was an insect man and he held off scratching the phantom itching, which began whenever he thought of the forensic entomologist.
“Thought it’d be a bit early for maggots and all that,” he muttered.
“It was warm last night …” Ryan trailed off and looked away. Some things didn’t require exhaustive explanations.
“If it weren’t for that Professor, blabbing about it all on the morning news –”
“No,” Ryan shook his head decisively. “This girl was killed overnight, before the discovery of Amy’s body was made public.”
Phillips tugged at his ear while he tried to make sense of it all.
“Word spreads, boss. You know that. Got more leaks in the department than a drippy tap.”
Ryan had to admit it was an unhappy truth. Members of CID ended up having a few pints after work and blabbing about their exploits of the day to all and sundry. He had always shunned the local booze hole, on the basis that his presence might make others in his team feel uncomfortable. It was hard to relax with your boss hanging around, even after you’d clocked off.
He remembered one occasion when Gregson had invited him along to one of his wife’s drinks soirees. The event could only be described as a soiree; it far exceeded the classification of ‘informal gathering’, taking into account the five-star catering, professional cocktail waiters and uniformed serving staff. For Ryan’s part, his background had provided him with extensive training in the business of soirees, but it didn’t necessarily follow that he enjoyed them. When he entertained … if he ever entertained friends, he was more of a barbeque and plastic cup sort of man.
It saved time on the washing up, for one thing.
In any event, the evening had been nothing more than a gigantic bore, from start to finish. As soon as it was polite to do so, he had extricated himself and caught a taxi home.
Rousing himself from his recollection, he was amazed to find that his disdain for the Gregsons’ invitation had apparently conjured up the man himself, for the Chief was at that very moment battling his way through the pack of journalists at the car park barrier.