Karen felt like the meanest person in the world. Snapping at Emma was like telling off a puppy. Emma didn’t understand why her behaviour grated, and really was only saying these things because she cared. Karen was lucky to have her sister rooting for her, and her mum and dad in her corner. They were all concerned because they loved her, though at times they watched her so closely she felt like she was suffocating.
She picked up the beer again and held it out to her sister. ‘Why don’t you go and give this to Mike and tell him what a fab job he’s done with the sausages?’ Karen suggested with a wink.
Emma tried not to grin, but the edges of her mouth quirked upwards. ‘I’ll give him the beer, but I’m not giving him any compliments!’
‘I think I’d better head home,’ Anthony said, stifling a yawn as he entered the kitchen. ‘I’ve eaten myself into a stupor. Fell asleep out there. Next thing you know, I’ll be snoring. Oh . . .’ He broke off and lifted his bushy eyebrows. ‘Sorry, I’m not interrupting, am I?’
‘Not at all,’ Emma said briskly, sweeping past him and heading back to the garden.
‘My timing is impeccable, as usual.’ Anthony put his glass on the counter.
‘It’s not you. Emma would just prefer me to live my life differently.’
‘Ah, I see. I’m sure that’s just because she cares.’
‘I’m sure it is too, but sometimes I wish she wouldn’t care quite so much.’
‘It’s hard for normal folk to understand the job, Karen.’
She started to load glasses into the top rack of the dishwasher, and looked over her shoulder at Anthony. ‘Is it bad that I’m hoping for a work call to get me away from Emma and her plans for my perfect life?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, Karen, it is. Very bad. Now enjoy the rest of the day with your family.’ He wagged a finger. ‘That’s an order.’
After Anthony had gone, Karen poured herself a glass of orange juice and carried it out to the garden. She was about to sit beside her mum when her mobile rang. She fished the phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and glanced at the display. It was DI Scott Morgan.
‘DS Hart,’ she answered as her mother shot her a sympathetic glance.
‘Karen, it’s Scott. A dead IC1 male has been found in woodland in Canwick, at the top of the South Common. He’s been bludgeoned to death. I don’t have any more information at this stage, but can you meet me at the scene?’
That was typical of DI Morgan. He wasn’t one for small talk.
‘Absolutely. I can be there in fifteen minutes.’
After she hung up, she saw the disappointed look on her mother’s face and tried to match it.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. It’s work. You’ve got the spare key with you, haven’t you? You can lock up?’
Her mother stood and gave Karen a peck on the cheek. ‘Of course, darling. Just take care of yourself.’
‘I will. Tell everyone I’m sorry I had to dash off. Enjoy the rest of the barbecue. Don’t forget the meringue in the fridge!’ Karen called over her shoulder as she headed inside to grab her car keys.
CHAPTER THREE
When Karen arrived at the scene, DI Morgan was already present – along with Raj, the pathologist, and the crime scene crew. Karen donned a white protective bodysuit and blue overshoes before following the carefully marked path under the trees.
She tried to force herself to relax and make her muscles unknot, but her stomach continued to churn violently and her body felt rigid and awkward as she walked to the scene. She always had the same reaction when attending the aftermath of a violent crime. As a rookie PC on the beat seeing her first dead body, she’d assumed her strong physical reaction to such sights would fade eventually. But it hadn’t. The tension, the dread, it was there every time she visited a scene like this one. Maybe it was even worse now that her head was filled with images of previous victims.
She muttered a hello as she passed two crime scene officers who were taking photographs of what looked like a fresh shoe print in the dark soil. Under the trees, the limited light meant bare patches of earth existed between clumps of long, tough grass and bluebells gone to seed. That could help them when it came to footprints, though this area was popular with dog walkers and eliminating prints from innocent walkers wouldn’t be easy.
DI Morgan was standing back some distance from the body, talking to the pathologist. He nodded when he saw Karen. Rather than head over to her boss straightaway, Karen felt her eyes drawn to the body at the foot of a tall beech tree. He was white, medium height and build, shabbily dressed in dirty jeans and an old, frayed, checked shirt and scuffed trainers. The arms of the shirt had been rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. On his left arm, he had a small infinity tattoo midway between his wrist and elbow. Karen stared at the mark, then the rest of his body, taking her time, noticing the details and filing them away. She had a strange urge to pull him away from the tree roots that looked like they were digging into his hips and ribs, so he’d be more comfortable, but of course, that was stupid. He was beyond pain. He couldn’t feel anything now. Someone had made certain of that.
She took a step to her right and crouched down, not getting too close but near enough to see the tiny blond hairs covering his tanned arms. His hands were dirty – filthy, really. Were those bite marks? Had they occurred before he’d died or after? From a scavenging fox perhaps?
She wondered how long he’d been outdoors. Was he homeless? An addict? Was this violent crime some kind of retribution from an angry dealer? Or perhaps he was a small-time dealer himself.
They couldn’t jump to conclusions at this stage. She allowed her gaze to slowly travel up the body towards the head, preparing herself for a grisly sight. Her stomach protested, still full from the barbecued food she’d eaten earlier, but she kept her gaze steady, assessing his injuries, processing them, making a mental list of the details that could be pertinent later. His face had been destroyed. The delicate bones near his eyes were smashed, and the nasal cartilage was dislodged so his nose was squashed into his face. Even the stronger bones protecting his brain hadn’t stood up to the assault. An area just above his ear was caved inward.
Thick, dark blood coated most of his scalp and face, obscuring any identifying features. He’d worn his hair in a buzz cut. Bristle-like fuzz protruded from his scalp. Most of his hair was tinged dark red from his head wounds, but the few remaining areas not coated with blood revealed the colour to be a mix of light blond and grey. His face was so badly damaged it was hard to judge his age. Perhaps early to late forties?
‘Karen?’
Karen turned to see DI Morgan and Raj behind her. She straightened. ‘It’s a nasty one.’
Morgan nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘Whoever did this was very angry. It looks personal to me. They’ve completely obliterated his face.’
‘It certainly makes him harder to identify,’ Raj said.
‘Did you find any ID?’ Karen asked, turning to Raj.
The pathologist shook his head. ‘We haven’t found his wallet and there was nothing on him to give us a clue to who this poor bloke was. No house or car keys, and no mobile. We’ll check DNA and see if he’s in our database, otherwise we’ll have to look at other ways to identify him – dental records and so on.’