His & Hers(5)

I sometimes wonder whether my colleague sleeps fully dressed, just in case she needs to leave the house in a hurry. She put in a special request to transfer here to work under me a couple of months ago, though god knows why. If there was ever a time in my life when I was as eager as Priya Patel, I can’t remember it.

As soon as I step outside the car, it starts to rain. An instant heavy downpour, saturating my clothes in seconds, and assaulting me from above. I look up and study the sky, which thinks it is night even though it is now morning. The moon and stars would still be visible, had they not been covered with a blanket of dark clouds. Torrential rain is not ideal for preserving outdoor evidence.

Priya interrupts my thoughts and I slam the car door without meaning to. She rushes over, trying to hold her umbrella over my head, and I shoo her away.

“DCI Harper, I—”

“I’ve told you before, please call me Jack. We’re not in the army,” I say.

Her face experiences a freeze frame. She looks like a chastised puppy, and I feel like the miserable old git I know I’ve become.

“The Target Patrol Team called it in,” she says.

“Is anyone from the TPT still here?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I want to see them before they leave.”

“Of course. The body is this way. Early indications show that—”

“I want to see it for myself,” I interrupt.

“Yes, boss.”

It’s as though my first name is simply a word she can’t pronounce.

We pass a steady stream of staff I vaguely recognize—people whose names I’ve forgotten, either because I didn’t learn them in the first place, or I haven’t seen them for so long. It doesn’t matter. My small but perfectly formed Major Crime Team is based near here, but covers the whole county. We work with different people every day. Besides, this job isn’t about making friends, it’s about not making enemies. Priya has a lot to learn about that. The hushed quiet we walk in might be uncomfortable for her, but not for me. Silence is my favorite symphony; I can’t think clearly when life gets too loud.

She shines a flashlight on the ground a little way ahead of our footsteps—irritatingly efficient as always—as we crunch over a dark carpet of fallen leaves and broken twigs. Autumn has been and gone, a guest appearance this year before shying away to make room for an overconfident winter. The top button is missing from my coat, so it no longer does up all the way. I overcompensate for the gap with a Harry Potter–style scarf displaying my initials—a gift from an ex. I’ve never quite managed to part with it, a bit like the woman who gave it to me. It probably makes me look like a fool, but I don’t care. There are some things we only hold on to because of who gave them to us: names, beliefs, scarves. Besides, I like the way it feels around my neck: a cozy personalized noose.

My breath forms clouds of condensation, and I shove my hands a little deeper into my coat pockets trying to keep dry and warm. I’m pleased to see that someone thought to put up a tent around the body, and I step inside the white PVC door. My fingers find the shape of a child’s dummy in my pocket at the exact moment my eyes see the corpse. I grip the pacifier so hard that the plastic cuts into my palm. It causes a small burst of pain, the kind I sometimes need to feel. It isn’t as though I haven’t seen a dead person before, but this is different.

The woman is partially covered by leaves, and quite a distance from the main path. She would have been easy to miss in this dark corner of the woods, were it not for the bright lights the team have already set up around her.

“Who found the body?” I ask.

“Anonymous tip-off,” says Priya. “Someone called the station from a pay phone down the lane.”

I am grateful for an answer that is as short as the person who gave it. Priya is prone to being a talker, and I am prone to impatience.

I take a step closer, and lean down toward the dead woman’s face. She’s in her late thirties, slim, pretty—if you like that kind of thing, which I suppose I do—and her general appearance suggests three things to me: money, vanity, and self-control. She has the kind of body that has been taken care of with years of gym visits, diets, and costly creams. Her long, expertly bleached blond hair looks as though she might have just brushed it before lying down in the mud. Strands of gold in the grime. No sign of a struggle. Her bright blue eyes are still wide open, as though shocked by the last thing that they saw, and from the color and condition of her skin, she has not been here long.

The corpse is fully clothed. Everything this woman is wearing looks expensive: a woolen coat, a silky-looking blouse, and a black leather skirt. Her shoes appear to be the only thing missing—not ideal for a walk in the woods. It’s impossible not to notice her small, pretty feet, but it’s the blouse I find myself staring at. Like the lace bra underneath, I can see that it used to be white. Both are now stained red, and it’s clear from the frenzied pattern of flesh and torn fabric that she was stabbed multiple times in the chest.

I have a curious urge to touch her, but don’t.

That’s when I notice the victim’s fingernails. They’ve been roughly cut to the quick, and that isn’t all. I loathe being seen wearing glasses, but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I find the nonprescription pair I keep for emergencies and take a closer look.

Red varnish has been used to spell letters on the nails of her right hand: