Gardener spotted something. The left hand of the skeleton was closed up, the fingers gripping a silver object. Using gloves, Gardener reached into the grave and carefully teased out the item from the ossified digits; a solid silver, heart-shaped pendant on a chain. He turned it over. On the reverse, he read the inscription.
For my Mum, J
Love you forever, G
Gardener passed the pendant to his sergeant. “So who the hell is she?” asked Reilly.
“And how did she end up here?” asked Cragg.
“Finding out who she is will be a nightmare,” said Gardener. “We’ll need dental records, possible DNA samples from the bones. We’ll need to check the missing persons file.” He ran his hands over his face, wondering where to start.
He turned and asked the young constable who had come with them – and whose name he had not yet discovered – to take notes for the incident room back at the station. “We’re going to need an entomologist to give us some idea of how long it’s been in the ground.”
“I doubt bugs are gonna help us much in this case,” said Reilly. “Especially if it’s been here as long as Fitz thinks.”
“I agree, Sean, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”
Gardener addressed Fitz. “We’ll need a bone specialist, someone who can extract bone DNA.”
“I think we should be able to get the bones dated,” offered the Home Office Pathologist. “Might get a good idea then how old the skeleton is.”
“And how old she was when she was stuck in there,” said Reilly.
“And I’d like the soil sifted from ground level to two feet below the body,” said Gardener. “There could be anything in there, fingernails, hair… anything.”
“There’s a bunch of weird little experts out there that can have a look at this site,” said Reilly. “Tell us if the killer had special knowledge in locating and digging these things.”
“Weird little experts,” repeated Gardener.
“Come on, boss, you know what those people are like. You can’t do what they do and be classed as normal.”
Gardener glanced at the pendant as Reilly handed it back, studying the message. He could do with another weird little expert right now, to answer three more not so weird little questions: who’s J; who’s G? And what connection could it possibly have to his case?
Chapter Thirty-three
Manny was back in town. He’d had enough of living in someone else’s gaff, especially when it belonged to Stitch. Manny wasn’t known for his cleanliness. God knows Mary would attest to that. But Stitch was a fucking health hazard.
He was sitting on a bench, opposite the travel agent on the high street in Bursley Bridge, wearing a pair of working overalls and a fluorescent jacket. To his right he had his clipboard, to his left a discarded McDonald’s bag that had held three Big Macs, two McFlurrys and two Red Bulls, all of which had now gone. He laughed at the thought that most nights he took a tin of baked beans, a spoon, and a tin opener to bed with him.
He glanced furtively up and down the high street before checking his watch. It was twelve-thirty. The main street was pretty quiet. The day had started off okay – blue sky, a few clouds. Now it had done what it always did: grown overcast and cold.
Right! Now or never. He picked up the clipboard and the false identity card, looping it around his neck. People were stupid. They didn’t check things. No one would ask him if they could inspect the card more closely. He walked briskly and firmly toward the travel agent, leaving his shit on the bench.
He knew that the place was manned by two women; he’d seen one of them go for dinner, so it was easy pickings as far as he was concerned. In and out within five minutes, a wad full of cash if he was lucky; if not, at least he would have a credit card to play with for a while. All thanks to Stitch.
He opened the door, stepped inside. The place was spotless, smelled fresh. Two desks, wooden flooring. A number of potted plants decorated the room. On the window ledge a small radio quietly pumped out pop music. He thought the place was empty until one of the women came into view with a glass of water.
“Can I help you?” She stared at Manny as if he was something she’d stepped in. Snooty cow. He’d teach her a thing or two before the day was out.
He peered at her nameplate. “Miss Bunting?”
“Yes.”
“I’m from Northern Fire.” He held the identity card aloft, waved it around so she couldn’t fix on it.
“And?”
And? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Her attitude matched her appearance; black hair severely pinned back, piercing blue eyes, and a figure a rugby player would be proud of. Her dress sense was pretty butch as well: plain grey trouser suit and brown brogues. “I’m here to check your fire extinguishers.”