The younger detective took half a step away from the smoke and seemed about to protest, but decided against it.
‘You want me to do that now?’ he said.
‘In a minute. Let’s have a look at the scene first.’
Yellow and black crime scene tape was strung between trees to create the inner perimeter, a small square scene-of-crime tent at its centre. The tent’s flap was pinned open and they could see a pair of feet, one shoe on and one fallen to the side. Stepping plates had been laid on the ground to create a common approach path, leading away from the tent to the edge of the inner cordon. The plates – ridged metal squares that stood proud of the ground – didn’t follow the trodden path through the woods. Instead they went up and to the side, an awkward route that would have been chosen as the least likely to have been taken by the suspect, to prevent trampling of evidence by investigators.
Gilbourne could feel the tingling buzz as the pills started to kick in, lighting up his nerve endings, making everything sharper, clearer; the muted colours of the day that little bit brighter. Was it even the pills, or was it something else? The buzz of the scene, the mental challenge of putting the pieces together, the thrill of the chase? Maybe a bit of both.
He was going to miss this.
He nodded a hello to the lead SOCO, Fiona Whyler, as they approached. She was in white crime scene overalls, masked and hooded and with one booted foot on either bank of the small stream.
‘Stuart,’ she said with a small wave. She stepped back onto the near bank and made her way carefully along the stepping plates to the crime scene tape. She had a pale, milky complexion, a few strands of red hair escaping from the hood of her overalls. She smiled, crow’s feet crinkling at her eyes. ‘Thought retirement had caught up with you by now.’
‘Still a few months off my thirty, Fiona,’ Gilbourne said with a smile.
‘Feels like you’ve been saying that for the last three or four years,’ she said. He indicated the white crime scene tent behind her. ‘How are we doing?’
‘Well, we’ve got a female victim, early twenties, looks like at least two stab wounds to the back, possibly others. Fully clothed.’
‘Weapon?’
‘Nothing yet. The size of the wounds suggest we may be talking about a broad-bladed kitchen knife, something like that. Something big.’
‘Defensive injuries?’
‘Not that I can see on an initial examination.’
‘Was she killed here, or somewhere else?’
Whyler shrugged, eyeing his lit cigarette with something like hunger. ‘Ask me again in a couple of hours’ time.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to help me out with an approx. time of death, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet, we need to do more work. I’d be guessing.’
‘So what’s your best guess?’
‘I don’t guess, Stu, I’m a scientist. That’s why they give me this nice white suit.’
Gilbourne clasped his hands together in front of him. ‘Just for me?’
She stared at him for a moment, then blew out a breath. ‘The body’s been lying half-in, half-out of that stream for an unknown number of hours which will have accelerated bodily cooling rates and messed with various other things.’
Gilbourne nodded, waiting.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘OK. If I had to guess, I’d say more than twenty-four hours, less than forty-eight. And probably leaning towards the higher end. Butdon’tquote me on that.’
‘You’re a star, Fiona.’
‘When the PM’s done, you’ll be the first to know. But for right now, that’s the best I can do.’
She glanced back at the scene to where one of her white-suited colleagues was securing clear plastic bags over the victim’s hands to preserve any forensic evidence under her fingernails.
‘I’d best get back to it.’
‘Thanks, Fiona. I appreciate it.’
