She found it a curious experience, involving herself in the local community-even if with a faintly obsessive minority component of it. Most police members spent their leisure time out of the public eye or with other police, for the very good reason that they tended to unnerve the innocent and arouse the hatred of the guilty. But Pam felt welcomed by the Bushrats; it made no difference to them that she was a police officer. And it was a powerful antidote to the daily misery and pointlessness of crime to see ordinary people placing a value on openness, collaboration and benefiting the community without expectation of personal reward.
Last Friday she’d attended a public meeting held to discuss the fate of several stands and avenues of pine trees on the outskirts of Penzance Beach. Some of the pines were immense, casting permanent shadows over nearby houses. Others had died and looked ugly. All had inhibited the growth of grasses and native trees. Some residents had been in tears of fury and outrage that anyone should want to rid Penzance Beach of its pines, but Pam had sided with those who believed the pines should be chopped down and replaced with indigenous plants. A divided community, sure, but one in which the factions were talking and listening.
Reaching a wooden gate, she perched on the top rail and waited for the other Bushrats to arrive. The rail was damp and mossy under her thighs but she wore old jeans and didn’t care. She sat staring out over the orchard where the stolen Toyota had come to rest, and then glanced around at the reserve. The driver of the Toyota had fled towards it, but then she’d lost sight of him and he could easily have doubled back amongst the clumps of old apple trees. Andy Asche was his name, according to Scobie Sutton. Where had he been headed with the stolen gear?
‘Hello, there!’
A voice, torn into ribbons of sound by the wind. Pam turned her head. A fellow Bushrat, slogging across the paddock towards her. He must have parked further down the road; probably feared getting bogged, she thought. He was in his sixties and made heavy work of it. Partly his weight, partly the sodden terrain, for the old orchard was full of corrugations and drainage channels. He waved. She waved back.
Suddenly he stopped dead. Even from a distance of fifty metres, she saw his jaw go slack, his face white. He stared down at his feet, sunk in dead grass and tussocks.
His voice failed him on the first attempt. He tried again. ‘There’s a body in the drain.’
57
Ellen Destry stared gloomily at the body, which lay face down in a reedy drainage channel. Female, judging by the skirt, tights, smallish trainers, hair-tie and ankle bracelet. She guessed that the face, which lay in water, would be too decomposed to allow immediate identification, but she recognised the Waterloo Secondary College uniform, and the hair was blonde, so this was probably Scobie Sutton’s missing teenager, Natalie Cobb. Scobie Sutton had tied her boyfriend, Andy Asche, to the stolen gear found in the Toyota, so it was reasonable to suppose that she’d been along for the ride. If so, she must have been thrown out when the Toyota overturned, then dragged herself or stumbled for some distance before collapsing into the drainage channel, which was partly obscured by long grass and nearby apple trees.
Ellen swallowed, feeling a stab of pity and guilt. Would Natalie have been found if she’d ordered a grid-pattern search? Was she dead already, or had she lain in the grass for a while, before falling into the channel? Ellen looked across at Pam, who was securing the scene with tape. I accepted her word that there had been only one occupant. Always check, she admonished herself. Always check.
Then she was running: the Bushrats were entering the reserve. ‘Sorry,’ she gasped, ‘you’ll have to cut down pittosporum elsewhere this morning.’
There were eight of them, wearing old clothes and kindly smiles. ‘We won’t get in your way,’ they said politely.
‘I’m afraid you will,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m securing the reserve as a secondary crime-scene.’
She saw understanding dawn on their faces, and then they were moving off obediently, one woman touching her arm and murmuring, ‘You poor thing, I hope you keep dry and warm.’
Ellen returned to the body. Pam joined her, and together they waited for the crime-scene techs, Scobie Sutton, and the ambulance that would take the body away. No need to call Challis, not unless Dr Berg ruled it a suspicious death. But, suspicious or accidental, what if the girl’s death was unrelated to the crashed Toyota? What if she’d been murdered and dumped here at a later date? Or had come here to party and died of an overdose or something? Ellen turned to Pam and said, ‘Let’s have a scout around for empty bottles and cans, joints, any kind of drug paraphernalia,’ she said.
‘Sarge,’ said Pam, moving off, and then stopping. ‘Do you think she was in the van?’
‘Did you see a passenger?’
‘No. Tinted windows.’
They searched for several minutes, then returned to the body. ‘Maybe she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt,’ Ellen said. She swallowed, thinking of Heather Cobb’s grief and feeling suddenly vulnerable and helpless. The last time she’d seen her own daughter there had been a blazing row, Larrayne furious with her for leaving Alan. She badly wanted to fish out her mobile and call Larrayne, to see if she was safely tucked up in bed on this Sunday morning, but knew she wouldn’t get any thanks for it if she did.
‘Sarge,’ Pam said, breaking into her misery, ‘look at her hands.’
The right hand was outstretched and touching the bank of the drain. Two fingers were missing. The left lay in the water, the skin partly detached, like a glove. Ellen grimaced: she knew that the ‘glove’ could be removed by the pathologist, distended and then fingerprinted, but she was hoping that the dead girl’s teeth would provide all the identification they needed.
‘You don’t have to stay here, you know,’ she told Pam.
The wind blew, laced with misty rain. They both shivered. ‘I’d like to stay,’ Pam said. ‘Keep you company and watch and learn.’
‘Appreciated,’ Ellen murmured. She cleared her throat. ‘By the way, I’m glad the inquiry cleared you.’
An awkward moment. She knew exactly what a prick her husband had been. ‘By attacking you,’ she wanted to say, ‘Alan was attacking me. By taking broader swipes-at Challis, CIU, and the conduct of plainclothed police-he was attacking me.’
But she didn’t say any of this and they talked desultorily of other things. Thirty minutes later, several vehicles arrived: Scobie Sutton, a crime-scene photographer, a video operator, an exhibits officer, the pathologist and several uniformed police. Ellen stationed a couple of the uniforms on the road to wave on the gawkers, and directed another half dozen to search the orchard and along the fence line, then rejoined Scobie and Pam, who were watching the pathologist and her assistant work on the body, which had been pulled from the water and now lay on its back in the grassy verge. The face was pulpy; Ellen looked away.
‘Doc,’ she managed to say, ‘I don’t want to influence you, but this could be related to an incident that happened here about three weeks ago.’
Freya Berg glanced up at her quizzically.
Ellen pointed. ‘A van crashed through the fence and rolled, coming to rest just over there.’
‘About three weeks ago? I’ll bear it in mind.’
They moved away while the pathologist worked. ‘I should have searched the area more thoroughly, Scobe,’ Ellen said.