by
Little Dot
Dot
marked her 3000th posting on The Archers message
board with this "police procedural"
It
was a cold day in late February and Alice Aldridge was returning from
a long hack through the fields and byways of Borsetshire. She was tired
and hungry and eager to get home to a warm Aga and hot drink and when
it came to choosing between the long ride 'round the roads or a short
walk, leading Chandler, through Leaders Wood she chose the latter option.
The day had been a dull one. The freezing fog she had woken up to had
still not lifted completely and the weak sunlight didn't reach the edges
of the wood. Peering into the interior Alice could distinguish no colours,
but she knew the place well, and grasping Chandler's reins tightly over
her shoulder she led the way into the wood.
The
narrow path was carpeted with several year's worth of dead leaves which
stuck to Alice's boots. Her and Chandler's footsteps were the only sound
and she began to feel apprehensive, the silence and gloom pressing in
around her. She quickened her step wanting to get back into the relative
brightness as soon as possible, but suddenly the reins went taught in
her hand. Behind her Chandler had stopped. Alice turned to him, saw his
ears were pricked, nostrils flairing, his brown eyes were focussed on
a point over her right shoulder and turning back and staring through the
dimness she could make out a shape lying across the path. Warily Alice
walked towards it. Something inside her made her scared to look, as though
she already knew what was lying there.
Alice
felt very afraid, but she walked steadily forward, eyes fixed on the shape.
She was within five paces before she knew for sure that it was a body,
but by then she couldn't stop. Reaching
it Alice stood for a moment, swaying, staring down into Debbie's sightless
staring eyes. She felt her blood turn to ice and heard a scream that seemed
to come from outside her body.
---
"Nasty
business, sir," the uniformed constable said to his superior as the
two turned away from an examination of the scene. Detective Inspector
Andrew North nodded mutely, wondering if the young PC really meant what
he said, or if he'd seen one too many crime dramas. It was a stock phrase,
but this really was a bad business, North thought, an attractive young
woman found murdered, for it was murder, the marks on her neck were quite
conclusive in North's mind, though officially he would wait for the postmortem,
the body discovered by her teenage sister: the child had been hysterical
when he'd seen her, a village full of her extended family, and they'd
be demanding quick results; it was an added pressure that North could
do without.
"Let
the doc know he can take the body away, Goddard" North said grimly.
"Let's see what he can tell us. And I hope it's something useful,"
He added as an afterthought. He watched as the forensics team zipped the
corpse into a body bag and took it off towards the ambulance.
"What
now, sir?" PC Martin Goddard was walking back towards him. North
checked his watch. The gunmetal grey Tag Heuer showed quarter to six,
almost completely dark now.
"I
think that's all we can do here for now," North said grudgingly and
began to pick his way back out of the wood to where they'd parked. "Get
the lads at the station to find you a list of all the residents... electoral
role, or whatever," he waved his hand vaguely, "and as good
a map of the village as they can, and pick me up tomorrow at 08:00. We
should have the PM report by then."
"Can I take the patrol car home, then?" Goddard asked. North
raised one eyebrow at him and smiled, not unkindly.
"Yeah, just don't forget to pick me up," he turned towards his
own car, "And, Goddard,"
"Yes, sir?"
"Bring coffee."
---
It
was not North's custom, as he sat in his favourite battered leather armchair,
in his Felpersham flat, to think about work, but tonight that was proving
rather difficult. He walked to the stereo, ran his fingers along the rows
of CDs, categorised and alphabetised, he'd often joked that his CDs were
the only part of his life that he kept in order. He finally selected a
Green Day album, cranked up the amp on the aging Nakamichi, topped up
his glass of Laphroaig and settled back in his chair. There was something
about this case he didn't like. He'd dealt with murders before, plenty
of them. Not that Borsetshire was a hotbed of bloody crime, but over the
years... he downed the last of the whisky.
At
some point in the early hours he staggered through to the bedroom and
fell asleep, fully clothed, on top of the bed. He slept fitfully, dreaming
of the dead woman's face with its expression of terror.
