Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

‘It’s Doctor Walker’s analysis I want to hear, Delaney.’

‘Inspector Delaney is an extremely experienced and senior Metropolitan Police detective, superintendent,’ said Kate, a quiet anger gleaming in her eyes. ‘Why don’t you climb off your high horse and accept help when it is willingly offered?’

‘I-’

The superintendent didn’t get to finish her sentence as Kate carried on. ‘As Jack rightly said, the very high level of salt acts as a preservative in the soil, so I will need some forensic analysis before I can give you any rough approximation of when he was buried.’

Without waiting for a reply, Kate carefully used her hands with painstaking gentleness, moving them over the dead man’s body. She peered down to look at his right wrist and then moved closer, gently lifting the sleeve back a little. There was a glint of metal.

‘Something?’ asked the super.

Kate used a pen to hook the item. ‘A wristwatch. Not an expensive one.’

The watch slid down the corpse’s wrist and rested against the hand. ‘There is a silver inset on the leather strap. With writing on it, but I can’t quite make it out.’ She lifted her hands away and signalled for the photographer to take shots. ‘I can tell you three things for now, though.’

‘Go on,’ prompted Susan Dean.

‘He was not married. At least, he is not wearing a wedding band as far as I can tell. When we get the gloves off we can see if one has been removed — there will be marks, probably.’

‘And the other things?’

‘He was probably not a manual worker.’

‘I gathered that from the suit he was wearing.’

‘People wear suits for all kinds of reason, Susan,’ I said. ‘Weddings, funerals. . court appearances.’

The superintendent nodded. ‘True.’

Hell. Maybe I was making progress with the woman. Was always only a matter of time. The Delaney charm: like I say, they should put it in a bottle.

‘Mostly they wear them for work, though, inspector,’ she added. ‘And, looking at the fraying around the cuffs and lapels, I would say this wasn’t an occasional suit.’

Kate opened the jacket out. There was a tailor’s label on the inside pocket on the right-hand side. The writing was illegible. ‘It’s a classic-cut design,’ she said. ‘And tailored. So he was probably a professional man. To have a suit tailored isn’t cheap. But the watch doesn’t look like an expensive one.’

‘So we have a professional man, somewhere between thirty or fifty-’

‘Possibly,’ interjected Kate.

‘OK, possibly between thirty and fifty. And he could have been in the ground for, what, anywhere from a few months to thirty years?’

‘Could be longer than that. We won’t know until I get the body to the mortuary in Norwich,’ said Kate, watching as the forensic photographers took more shots and video footage.

‘Better make it quick,’ I said as a corner of the marquee came loose, flapping in the wind and letting a spray of freezing rain in. A few uniforms hurried to secure the breach and Kate beckoned to a couple of scene-of-crime officers who came forward with a stretcher.

‘And what was the third thing you can tell us?’

‘His bones have been broken in several places.’

‘As a result of the landslide.’

‘It’s possible. He is close to the cliff edge, or what is now the cliff edge. Most of the debris has fallen beyond him to form the mound outside this marquee.’

‘So what does that tell us?’

‘I have no idea. Just telling you what I can deduce at this stage. I wouldn’t like to speculate on probable causes. Like I say, when I have him on the table. .’

‘You’ll be able to tell if the broken bones are post-mortem or pre-mortem?’

‘Yes, I will,’ said Kate, watching as the man was delicately manoeuvred onto the stretcher and covered with a waterproof cloth.

‘Why the hell would someone bury a person at the base of a cliff?’ I asked.

If there was an answer in the howling wind and pelting rain it was in a language I didn’t understand.

Lunchtime.

I was sitting at the bar again, in my usual corner, watching as the rain poured down the steamed-up windows, blurring the view outside into an Impressionist painting. I could just about make out the hazy shapes of people dashing along the street, seeking cover in shops or rushing to get back to their cars.

I was drinking a cup of coffee out of a glass cup. The coffee came from an expensive machine that the landlord seemed extremely pleased with. I didn’t much care for the cup or for the coffee that was in it. It wasn’t as strong as I like it but it was hot, though, and that was the main thing. I’d had enough lukewarm coffee to last me a good while. Times past I’d have slipped a shot or two of brandy in it, warm the inner man. But, like I say, those times were past. At least, I hoped they were. It was just good to be in from the weather. It had by no means been a good start to the day but the heat was working its way back into my bones.

There were a few people in the lounge bar for lunch, but not many. The open log fire that was roaring and crackling away was very welcoming but the town was quiet. Unusually quiet for Sheringham, even out of season. If people didn’t have to venture out of home or office I quite frankly didn’t blame them. Not that there were many offices or office workers in the town. The population of six thousand or so was mainly made up of an older demographic. A lot of retirees. Mind you people did live in the town year round, unlike other places further west — like Blakeney, for example — where most of the property was owned by rich people from London. Bankers and the like who kept a place as an occasional weekend bolt-hole, somewhere they could moor their yacht and chill their champagne. Sheringham might have been a bit of a bucket-and-spade seaside town, but it was a vibrant one with a strong sense of community. It was lived in.

The door to the lounge bar opened and a couple sitting at the window scowled across as the wind blew a light spray of rain in from the street and in their direction. I’m not quite sure what they expected — did they reckon that people should just not walk through the door and go the long way round the pub to come in by the back entrance?

The umbrella that had entered was lowered, revealing its owner: Amy Leigh. She was dressed more soberly than when I’d last seen her, in a matching black skirt and jacket and a smart blouse. Her hair was windswept yet somehow managed to look chic rather than bedraggled. If I hadn’t known her I would have had her down as a ‘Blakeneyite’ type. What we used to call a Sloane Ranger back in the day. But I did know her, and she certainly wasn’t that. She rattled her umbrella, oblivious to the scowls she was receiving from the couple at the window table, propped it against the bar and nodded to me. The man by the window made a big show of rattling the business section of the Daily Telegraph and the woman made a clearly audible tutting sound. I looked at them steadily and after a moment they suddenly took a much keener interest in their own affairs. Very wise.

Amy pulled up a stool and sat next to me, gesturing at my coffee glass.

‘Fancy something stronger?’

I shook my head as a tall young girl with red-streaked blonde hair and who weighed about seven stone came out into the bar, holding a plate in her hand. ‘Fifty-eight,’ she shouted out, a tad louder than was necessary considering how many people were in the bar.

‘Bingo,’ I said and smiled.

‘Oh, it’s you, Delaney,’ she said and handed me the plate. ‘Your salad sandwich.’

Amy Leigh cocked an eyebrow at me.

‘I know, Kate’s idea! She thinks I need to lose a few pounds before the wedding. Got me on the Hay Diet.’