***
By the time Paul arrives back at the shop, the distant wail of a siren is breaking the stillness of the countryside.
Richard hurries toward him. ‘I was getting worried.’
‘There’s a guy in that van, covered in blood. I think he’s dead,’ Paul says, the words tumbling out in a rush.
‘Dead?’ Richard repeats, as if the word doesn’t register.
‘As in brown bread,’ says Paul. ‘The police told me to get out of there and come back. Maybe they think he’s armed.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. It’s frightening. It must have something to do with that poor woman who was murdered.’
Christine, her eyes welling with tears, adds softly, ‘Oh, I can’t bear to think of that little boy without his mum.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Josie
With sirens blaring, we arrive at the dirt track. I draw my taser and follow the other officers towards the van, Burrow leading the way.
My heart pounds. My finger hovers over the trigger as Burrow yanks open the driver's door.
I hold my breath. Then I see his shoulders relax.
‘Okay, stand down. He’s dead. Cordon off the area,’ he says.
Diane, one of the Forensics team, begins photographing the body. ‘I don’t think this is his blood,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’ Burrow says, and frowns. ‘It’s all over him.’
‘I can’t find any signs of chest trauma.’
‘Then what did he die from?’ Dario asks.
‘Without a post-mortem, I can't be sure,’ Diane replies. ‘But from the signs, I’d guess a heart attack.’
She pulls on gloves, unbuttons the man's coat and slices cleanly down the centre of his shirt.
‘Nope,’ she says, straightening up. ‘A few bruises, but nothing that would cause this much bleeding. He’s a big guy. If it wasn’t a heart attack, I’ll eat my hat. There’s some old blood in his hair and a few scalp wounds, but they wouldn’t explain the state of his clothes. This blood came from someone else.’
We move to the back of the van cautiously; not because we think we’re in danger, but because none of us wants to find Joanna Neal’s body.
Burrow opens the rear doors. There’s no body.
But thereisa blood-stained raincoat. It’s clear plastic, of the kind I once bought for the kids; cheap, rainproof, and see-through.
‘That’s what he used to carry her,’ Burrow mutters. ‘Question is, to where?’
‘Or carriedbitsof her,’ Dario adds.
I shiver. ‘I wish you’d shut up.’
Burrow slips on fresh gloves and, using a screwdriver, removes the number plate. It confirms what we already suspect: it’s the stolen van.
‘Mr Reynolds is going to be thrilled when he finds out his van was used to dump a body,’ Dario says.
Personally, I imagine Mr Reynolds will be more upset about how long he’ll have to wait to get it back.
