Линда Ла Плант - Buried

‘It looks like you could have a dead sex offender. And I doubt he got here on his own.’

Prescott got his vape out of his left-hand jacket pocket.

‘I know that should make me feel better about having to wait to gain access to me crime scene, but it just annoys me more. I don’t know if that word relates to this dead body or not, do I? So now I’m more frustrated than before you showed me.’ He dragged on the vape, but couldn’t for the life of him get it to work. He put it back into his pocket and, from the other jacket pocket, got out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘You follow your rules and get that place scaffolded up asap and I’ll be over there shortening me life.’

It took six hours before Martin Prescott could don a blue paper suit and shoes. His white paper face mask sat round his neck as he watched Sally pointing at the partially collapsed roof and muttering to Sub. When Sub nodded, Prescott immediately pulled up the mask. The man of few words had spoken.

Inside Rose Cottage, scaffolding held up the charred ceiling beams and the loose stones from the walls had been removed, leaving behind a relatively solid and safe structure. Visually, the scene was as Prescott expected, based on the preview he’d got from Sally’s videos, but nothing ever prepared him for the smell of a body. The stench of burnt flesh and bones overpowers every other sense and, even through his face mask, he could smell and taste the distinctive miasma of ‘long pig’.

‘ “Long pig” is what cannibals call human beings,’ Sally had explained on their first ever meeting at a crime scene, more than fourteen years ago. ‘By all accounts we taste like barbecued pork and, as we cook, we definitely smell like it.’

‘Fuck me,’ Prescott had mumbled through his face mask. ‘No wonder you’re single.’

Now, Prescott and Sally paused just inside the jagged hole in the wall that used to be the front doorway of Rose Cottage and watched the dog handler lead her spaniel through the rubble. The dog wore tiny red canvas boots, Velcroed in place around the ankles and with thick rubber soles that protected her paws from smouldering embers and sharp debris, allowing her to work safely and comfortably. The single repeated command of ‘Show me, Amber’ was all that could be heard inside Rose Cottage.

Amber’s handler kept her off the sofa, as the charred body was still there. The dog worked hard, sniffing and moving around the remnants of furniture. Her tail wagged, her tongue lolled, she jumped and rummaged, but she didn’t make one single indication that an accelerant was present.

‘Maybe the fire burnt intensely enough to destroy any accelerant?’ Sally speculated. ‘Or maybe a less common one was used. The dog only knows the most common ones, such as petrol or household flammables. Your forensics people might still find accelerant on the items you collect.’

‘I’ll make sure I’ve got a tennis ball in me pocket if they do.’

Sally giggled at the unstoppable image that popped into her head, of an entire forensics team being trained to seek out evidence with the promise of a ball as a reward.

‘I think the ball only works with Amber.’

Prescott signalled for his blue-suited SOCOs to descend on the scene. He pointed at the sofa.

‘There’s a body in there, fellas, but it’s goin’ nowhere, so don’t rush and don’t compromise evidence just to get it out.’

A sea of nodding blue paper heads dispersed around the room and set about collecting anything and everything that might be useful — wood, brass hinges, plaster, bed springs. All items were individually double-wrapped into nylon bags to preserve any traces of accelerant.

Now that Prescott was inside his crime scene, he had the patience of a saint. He could see the wheels of the machinery turning, see his officers working and progress being made. He followed his SOCOs deeper into the mess, allowing them to clear and preserve the way in front of him, and Sally followed after. This was his scene now, and she totally respected the shift in authority.

Eventually, and in relative silence, Prescott and Sally made it as far as the sofa. The iron bed frame, which had now been removed, had missed the body when it fell. Even so, the body was massively damaged. The face was not only burnt down to the skeleton, but the cheekbones and lower jawbone were smashed and many of the teeth were missing.

‘Could that damage to the skull be from falling debris?’ Prescott asked.

Sally leant in to get a better look. ‘The ceiling was largely gone by the time we arrived, so God knows what might have fallen through and landed on the sofa. The cleaner-looking skull fractures around the temple area could be heat stress. The skull can sometimes just pop, depending on the intensity of heat.’

‘Damn shame this fella’s teeth are so damaged,’ Prescott commented, almost to himself. Then louder, ‘Look at the bloody mess your lot have made of this place!’

Sally was just about to tear a strip off him when she looked at his partially hidden face. His eyes were crinkled at the edges and she knew he was smiling.

‘Bloody fires,’ Prescott continued, avoiding her gaze. ‘If the flames don’t destroy the evidence, the water does.’ He scratched his head through his blue paper hood and his eyes flicked about again as he thought through everything he was seeing. ‘If this is murder, we might be looking for someone who’s savvy about forensics, you know. I mean, you can’t print burnt wood and you can’t find shoe prints under water.’

He was suddenly distracted by the contents of the hearth. The water from the fire-hose on the floor in this area of the room looked like thin black paint — a result you might expect to get after paper is burnt, creating a fine, soluble ash. Further back in the hearth, untouched by the water altogether, were the remnants of what looked like stacks of dry, charred paper. The paper was now nothing more than tiny fragments of its original form, but the volume was confusing.

Prescott picked up the longest of four fire pokers, and gently nudged the top layer of paper away in the hope of getting to some less burnt samples underneath. He tried not to damage any of the delicate paper. Eventually he spotted a single intact piece, no more than one centimetre in length, showing the instantly recognisable pale blue-green pattern from the bottom left-hand corner of an old five-pound note. Prescott carefully picked up this fragile piece of evidence and placed it in the palm of Sally’s gloved hand.

‘It’s cash, Sal. These stacks of paper... it’s all cash.’

Jack Warr was a strikingly attractive man. Thick, dark hooded brows hid the deepest brown eyes. He had a cleft chin which showed the permanent shadow of impending stubble and, when he smiled, two long dimples appeared on either side of his mouth, running from his chin to his cheekbones. He had a naturally athletic physique that looked great in anything.

Maggie, his partner, always said it was a good job that his body was so amazing as he made no real effort with the clothes he dressed it in, but she fancied the pants off him no matter what he wore. It was those eyes that had got her in the first instance, though. Eyebrows down, Jack’s eyes would express such incredible intensity that if he told you he could take on David Haye and win, you’d believe him. Eyebrows up, he looked like a delicate, innocent soul that any woman would love to care for. This balance between man and boy was why Maggie loved Jack so much. He was her protector and her lover, her rock and her friend.

‘Where’s the jacket that goes with this shirt you’ve put out?’ Jack shouted from the master bedroom. He liked to call it the ‘master’ bedroom, regardless of the fact that it was exactly the same size as the spare bedroom. The view over Teddington was what made it masterful, according to Jack.