Like Doreen, he’d unzipped his SOC suit to the waist, only instead of a sports bra he’d opted for a T-shirt. ‘TIMMY & THE TIMEONAUTS ~ DUCKING ABOUT IN SPACE AND TIME’ with his nips clearly visible through the soggy white material. A sniff. ‘Took your time.’
‘Bloody right I did: gotnointention of going for a sploosh for your entertainment.’ Logan scanned the slippery riverbank. ‘What you got?’
‘Over here.’ He led the way to a cluster of rocks and dead branches that reached about seven feet out into the water.
It looked a bit like a half-arsed beavers’ dam, made of crud washed downstream on the swollen river. A flash of bright-red-and-white leather glimmered at the far end, caught on a branch. There was more of it submerged below – but the silt-stirred water blurred the outline, making anything more than six inches beneath the surface fade from view.
One of Biohazard’s team stood on the bank, clickity-clacking away with a large digital camera. Recording the scene.
Logan frowned out at the dam. ‘Body?’
‘’Bout to find out.’ He jerked his thumb towards the patch of mystery leather. ‘You want to?’
Maybe yes, maybe no.
‘Should really get Scenes down here first: tape off the area, common approach path, organise a diving team, health-and-safety audit, hazard report, risk-analysis briefing...’
‘By which time it’ll be half-past next Friday.’
And it might not evenbeanything.
Given how short they were on people and resources, doubt the Chief Super would be pleased if he wasted hundreds of man-hours on a red-and-white-leather herring.
Logan nodded. ‘Give us your wellies.’
He wobbled his way along the accidental beavers’ dam, arms out for balance, shirtsleeves rolled up, borrowed wellies on his feet, nitrile gloves on his hands, and that huge digital camera slung around his neck. Gritting his teeth, because the chunks of branch and bits of stick were not exactly stable.
Both teams watched him from their own side of the river, no doubt praying for Logan to fall in. Because people were bastards.
Halfway along, and they were going to get their wish, because the branch beneath his boot gave a rice-crispy bout of snap-crackle-and-pop, bits crumbling off it as it rolled out from under him, leaving Logan stumbling forward, arms cartwheeling, camera dragging him down. Then crash and splash as the branch hit and floated off downstream.
One of Biohazard’s team waved at him. ‘Watch the camera! Watch the camera!’
Sodthe bloody camera.
Logan stumbled headlong, grabbing at random sticks and lumps of wood and...thump. His knee hit a rock, stinging like an absolutewanker. But it was enough to stop him following the branch into the Don.
He stayed where he was, eyes closed, breath hissing between clenched teeth. ‘Stupid, bloody, idiotic...’ Ow. He gave it a count of five.
Doreen’s voice wafted across the river. ‘You OK?’
‘Of course I’m not O-sodding-K!’ He struggled into a bent-back crouch, glowering at that stupid chunk of traitorousleather. Muttering away to himself as he inched along the rickety dam. ‘Bet it’s not even him. Bet it’s just a...seat cushion or some shite...’ Going much slower now, testing every foothold before trusting his weight on it.
All the way to the far end.
OK.
Wedging his wellies in place, Logan switched on the camera and clacked-off half a dozen shots. Zooming in on the red-and-white patch, visible through the silty water.
This time it was Biohazard’s turn, using his hands as loudhailers: ‘SEE ANYTHING?’
‘Give us a bloody chance!’
If they thought this was so sodding easy, they should come out here and try it themselves.
Logan squatted down as far as possible, one welly jammed against a weed-slimy rock, just beneath the surface, the other into the gap between two branches. And reached...
And reached...
