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There are some titters from the back of the room. Bradley raises an eyebrow but says nothing; revenge is best served cold, where Holloway is concerned. ‘I’ve been to plenty of postmortems, DC Holloway, and I’ve never found my breakfast interfered. For your information, DS Heston is attending and will report back as soon as possible. He’s already texted me to say that they’ll be using dental records to confirm the identity.’She gives Holloway a steady look. ‘And if you’ve bothered to read my initial report, you’ll also know that the victim was found face down, with her hands tied behind her back with duct tape. The sort of thing you’d find in any garden shed.’
‘Right,’ says Tate crisply, who’s evidently decided Bradley’s had quite enough airtime. ‘So is it too much to hope that a house-to-house is already in progress? What about the woman who found the grave, have we talked to her?’
‘Took a statement last night,’ mutters Holloway. ‘About as useful as a chocolate teapot. Just kept crapping on about the bloody dog –’
‘We’re starting the house-to-house this morning,’ says Bradley quickly. ‘The nearest properties are some distance away, but they still need covering off –’
‘Thank you, DS Bradley,’ says Tate, ‘for that helpful reminder from the Beginner’s Guide to Policing. And by way of reward, you get to spend the morning doing precisely that with DC Holloway.’
There’s a malicious glint in Tate’s eye that Bradley hopes she’s imagining but probably isn’t. Holloway, meanwhile, looks like his pet goldfish has just died.
‘House-to-house? Isn’t that what Uniform are for?’
‘That’s whatyou’refor, Holloway,’ says Tate crisply. ‘Until I say otherwise.’
‘And that grave must’ve been dug weeks ago – what are the chances anyone will even remember?’
‘Well, you won’t know until you ask, will you? And besides, it’s pretty thinly populated out there – not to mention rolling in it. People like that tend to notice anything out of the ordinary.Andhave security cameras.’
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An hour in and Bradley and Holloway have very little to show for themselves. Of the dozen or so houses in the immediate area, they’ve only found occupants in three so far: two where the door was opened by members of staff with minimal English who said the owners were away and refused to be drawn on anything else, and one stay-at-home hipster dad in a singlet and shorts who said he ran a ‘cryptocurrency investment fund’. Bradley had to pretend to sneeze to cover her guffaw.
But they won’t be laughing if they go back to base empty-handed; Bradley can already hear Tate’s voice in her head, slathering on the sarcasm like it’s the Great British Shade-Off. But there’s still one more house left to try on this lane, a colour-supplement dream in creamy stone and ancient wisteria. Holloway parks the car on a circular gravel drive with a large bluish metal hare posed in mid-leap in the centre.
‘This’ll be another complete bloody waste of time,’ he grumbles as they walk up to the door. ‘You can’t even see the bloody road from here, never minds the woods.’
‘Well, you never know,’ says Bradley brightly. ‘Maybe they were out walking the labrador and came upon a scene of unimaginable horror.’
Holloway gives her a sidelong glance. ‘You don’t even know they have a dog –’
But he’s drowned out by the sound of barking. From the side of the house a large yellow lab comes hurtling towards them, slithering to their feet in a machine-gun splatter of dust and gravel.
Bradley turns to Holloway. ‘First rule of rural policing, the Up From Londonsalwayshave a labrador.’ She gestures towards the house: the door has opened and there’s a woman on the step, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Thirties, expertly cut hair, expensive jeans, a T-shirt so white it’s clearly never been through a hot wash. ‘Looks like the canine alarm has done the trick.’
It’s hard to exude gravitas with a happy labrador slobbering on your thigh, but Bradley does her best.
‘DS Bradley, DC Holloway, South Mercia Police; I believe you are Mrs Philippa Waverley? Could we come in for a moment?’
The woman looks from one to the other. ‘Is this about all that hoo-hah in the woods? I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about that. I don’t know anything.’
Bradley leaves a beat, then, ‘All the same, it would greatly assist.’
She has a stock of phrases like this; not quite standard police lingo, not quite everyday vernacular either. Just a little bit off-centre, and designed to very slightly wrong-foot whichever unsuspecting member of the general public she happens to be addressing.
The woman looks undecided. ‘I have yoga in an hour –’
Bradley beams at her. ‘How lovely. This won’t take long.’
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Text message from CSI Barbie Markey to DS Triona Bradley
Quick heads-up. Your vic is definitely NOT Ellie Harben. Other news is that we found an earring in the soil covering the body (pic attached). Not the vic’s as she doesn’t have pierced ears, and it’s possible it’s nothing to do with the body at all but we’ve swabbed it for DNA just in case. The downside is that it’s just a simple silver stud so probably not distinctive enough to be recognisable. I also spoke to that botanist mate of mine and he says that based on the growth rate of that type of nettle and the weather pattern recently we’re probably looking at between five and six weeks since the ground was disturbed. So something like 10-17 June. Hope that helps.
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