‘Okay, partner, let’s crack on and do the job we’re paid for,’ she said and got out the car.
Three
The piece of waste ground Keats had described lay behind the fish and chip shop on Balds Lane, famed for its orange chips. The cordon was just beyond the entrance and was holding back crowds of people who’d likely got distracted from collecting their Sunday night supper.
Kim pushed her way through, holding up her ID to the two officers keeping order. She could hear the words rape, beaten, butchered being passed around the onlookers. It wasn’t the speculation that surprised her. In the absence of facts, people made up their own. What galled her was the excitement and anticipation that the words had been dipped in first. Whoever the victim was, they were someone to someone. But none of them were thinking about that.
A part of her wanted to go up to the worst offenders, the most vocal spectators, and shout ‘It’s your sister’ or ‘It’s your daughter’. Would the excitement level still be as high if she dragged one of them over to see a real life crime scene?
‘Not worth it, guv,’ Bryant said, as if reading her thoughts, and he was right.
It didn’t matter how many crime scenes she attended, the macabre joy at the suffering of others was always sure to get under her skin. To the spectators, it was a story to tell at work tomorrow, but to someone else it was going to be the worst day of their life.
She could still feel the disgust resting on her face as Keats headed towards her.
‘Looking very dapper this evening, if I might say so.’
‘I’m only wearing?—’
‘I was talking to your colleague,’ he said, looking Bryant up and down. ‘New suit?’
Kim glanced at her colleague as Bryant nodded. In all honesty, she hadn’t noticed. Why on earth had he bought a new suit for the occasion?
‘As if I’d even bother asking you,’ Keats continued. ‘You’ve been wearing the same black jeans and leather jacket since the day I met you.’
‘Well, not the same…’
‘I know that. And now you mention it, you do look a bit spruced up.’ He took another look at Bryant. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you two have a thing tonight?’ he asked, knowing full well what night it was.
‘Nothing that couldn’t be interrupted,’ she said. ‘Now, what have we got? I’m sure you didn’t call us out to discuss Bryant’s tailor.’
Over the years, Keats had developed the annoying habit of simply barking a location at her before hanging up.
She’d recently challenged him on this, and he’d replied that it was a dead body that hadn’t got that way on its own and what more did she need to know?
He was right, to be fair, but a little more detail wouldn’t go amiss.
‘Victim is female, early to mid-thirties,’ he said, walking towards a semi-circle of high-vis jackets.
‘Any ID?’ Kim asked.
‘Not touched anything yet,’ he said, nodding towards Mitch, who was still taking photos.
The forensic techie nodded at her before continuing.
The uniformed officers began to move away, but Kim was careful not to get any closer, remaining a good three metres away from the body.
The woman did indeed appear to fit the age range Keats had given.
A handbag and a small sports bag were lying within a metre of her body.
Her hair was dark brown and tied in a ponytail. Her pretty face was devoid of make-up, her skin was smooth with that ‘just washed’ look. She wore no jewellery except for a single wedding band and a sports watch.
That plus the sports bag and her leisure wear made it a pretty good guess that she was heading home after a sporting activity.
Kim allowed her gaze to travel down to the single stab wound to the chest.
There were visible defence wounds on the hands and tears in the sleeves of her fleece. She had put up a fight, but one well-placed strike had ended the battle quickly.
