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A crime scene guard presents them with the head-to-toe white suits, and they pull them on, wobbling awkwardly on one leg and then the other, putting plastic covers over their shoes and a double layer of gloves on their hands.
They push under the tape and walk down the path, negotiating their way across the stepping plates put there by the scene of crime officers already flooding the woods. In the dim light they seem otherworldly, ghostly figures moving between the trees. She sees the occasional flash of a camera, documenting the scene.
The car was found at five AM. A man walking his dog noticed bloody lines on the bodywork and a puddle of something red by the trunk. The call woke her soon after that, jerking her rudely out of the darkness. She’d dressed quickly, picking up Noah on the way.
She sees the car. She recognizes the make—a Ford Galaxy, beloved by many a mother on the school run. It’s pale blue, old, and slightly grubby. The back light is smashed, small fragments of red plastic on the ground. The trunk is open, a tall figure peering inside.
Large floodlights on metal frames have been put up around the car, the sudden brightness making her squint.
The man notices them and stands up, stretching out his back.
“Detectives,” he says. She recognizes his voice and posture—straight, tall, middle class.
“Dr. Ross,” she replies. “I’m DCI Cara Elliott; this is DS Deakin.”
“Detective Chief Inspector. They’ve sent the big guns in.” He sighs, turning back to the car. “What a fucking mess this is.”
He stands back, allowing them to see inside. They both recoil, Cara’s hand going to her mouth. She knew what was coming, but seeing it in person is still shocking. It’s inhuman.
“Fuck,” she hears Noah mutter next to her, his voice guttural and hoarse.
She looks back to the trunk, trying to stay dispassionate. A blanket has been pulled aside, revealing two dead bodies. She assumes them to be women. Their clothes are torn, tights ripped, bare legs.
There is blood everywhere. Smudges and smears across the skin, clothes soaked, dyed red.
“Any idea about cause of death?” she asks.
“Clear evidence of penetrating wounds on both girls,” the pathologist says. “Although I’ll have to get them back to the mortuary to ascertain definitive COD. Time of death, between three to eight hours, but don’t quote me on it. Rigor has set in; bodies are still fairly warm.”
“And when will we get the post back?”
Dr. Ross surveys the car. “Probably not before tomorrow. Give us twenty-four hours before you start nagging.”
He passes Cara an evidence bag, and she holds it up to the light. Two driving licenses are inside. She looks at their faces in the photos. They’re young, around twenty years old, with long brown hair, innocent smiles. Unrecognizable from what’s in front of her now. “Found in their pockets along with quite a bit of cash,” Dr. Ross adds.
“Not a robbery, then.”
“Not for me to say, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Deakin takes the evidence bag from her and makes a note of the two names on the driving licenses.
Cara forces herself to look back to the trunk. The bodies are heaped on top of one another, abandoned with no thought for the victims. Plus the—
She shakes her head, trying to get what she’s seeing out of her mind. Who would do such a thing? Whoever it was had no boundaries, no hesitation. He—and she assumes it was a he—was devoid of compassion.
Blood has run out of the car, pooling in the mud below. She notices two deep ridges running across the width of the bumper.
“What do you make of these?” Cara asks Ross, pointing toward them. They are straight, about six inches long.
“My guess?” Ross makes a downward chopping motion with his arm, and Cara shudders. “Forceful enough to break through the black plastic. SOCO will take impressions when I’m done.”
Cara’s had enough. She moves away from the trunk and opens the door to look in the back. There’s blood pooled on the seats, splatters and drips up the sides of the car’s interior and across the roof. She can see what she assumes to be vomit in the footwell, and even through her mask, the car smells of urine and sweat. Of fear.
She clears her throat. She has a job to do. “Killed in here?” she directs backward at Deakin, who looks over her shoulder.
“Maybe. Did you see the marks on their wrists? Obviously restrained. He came prepared.”
They look in the front, opening the glovebox, peering under the seats. She wants to see for herself, although Cara knows the crime scene techs will do a full sweep, check for anything left behind: biologicals, fingerprints, trace evidence. But there’s nothing obvious here.
