Birthdays for the dead

Smith folded his arms. I see. That s the way it is, is it? Fine.

Poor baby.

Weber looked past Smith s shoulder. What have you got, Matt?

A figure in full SOC suit was lumbering across the car park towards us, carrying a plastic crate with a mound of evidence bags in it. Mmmphnn-fmmmmnnnn-nnnmmph.

He plonked the crate on the damp grass and stretched, making grunting noises, one hand in the small of his back. Then hauled off his facemask, exposing a round sweaty slab of flesh with a little cupid s bow of a mouth. Fuck me, it s hot in these things. He nodded towards the trench. Our forensic archaeologist s sodded off for lunch, so we ve finally got the poor cow uncovered. You want to take a look before we cart her off to Teaboy s lair? Indian Jones ll be back in twenty minutes if she s not out of here by then we ll still be pissing about at bloody midnight.

Weber raised an eyebrow. I don t think Professor Twining would really appreciate being called

Fuckim. Matt sniffed. You coming or what?

Someone tugged at my sleeve.

It was Dr McDonald, her voice so quiet I had to bend down to hear it. Ask them if I can see the body.

It was like having a six-year-old again. I turned my back on Smith. Can we tag along?

Weber fiddled with his scarf. I don t see why not. Just He frowned at the psychologist. Sorry, who is this?

I did the introductions. Dr McDonald only managed a sickly smile and a little wave.

Weber nodded. Ah, good. For a minute there I thought your Katie had grown a bit since last time I saw her. That probably wouldn t have been appropriate. Right, suit up everyone. He paused, then patted Rhona on the shoulder.

Do me a favour and find out how they re getting on in Tent B, would you?

Oh She drooped a little. Yes, Boss. Rhona slouched to the exit, paused on the threshold to stare back at Dr McDonald struggling her way into a SOC oversuit that looked two sizes too big, then slipped out into the rain.

Suited and booted, we followed Matt back to the open trench. It was about three feet deep, the soil dark as tar, streaked through with veins of milky coffee. They d set up a grid of yellow string, segmenting the burial site into fourteen-inch squares.

A skeleton lay in the middle of the grid, bones the colour of dried blood.

Something fizzed at the base of my throat, then down my aching chest and gravel-filled stomach, making my knees lock. Mouth bone dry. A high-pitched whine swirling in my ears.

Please don t be Rebecca

Inside the SOC suit, my shirt clung to my clammy back like a cold wet hand.

Please don t be Rebecca

The remains lay on their side, left arm draped across the ribcage, knees bent double so the feet were under the pelvis. The spine ended in a ragged-edged vertebrae, just above the collarbone the smooth dome of the skull poked out of the dark earth in the gap between the ribcage and the pelvis.

Dr McDonald put a hand on my arm, and I flinched. Turned it into a cough. Nothing to see here. Everything s fine.

She leaned forwards standing on the lip of the trench, peering in at the remains. Then back up at me. She d put the safety goggles on over her own glasses, the lenses already starting to mist up. Dr McDonald stepped away from the edge and tugged at my sleeve again, keeping her voice almost too low to hear. It s Lauren Burges, she was abducted seven years ago.

Thank God. I closed my eyes. Let my breath hiss out into the facemask. Not Rebecca. Thank you, God.

I passed on the information. Everyone stared at me.

DS Smith snorted. What, are you psychic now? I think we might just wait for the DNA results before we go flying off on

Don t speak shite. Matt hopped down into the trench, moving his blue plastic bootees through the yellow-string grid like an overweight ballet dancer. DNA? Be sod all left. See that? He pointed at a scrap of black plastic sticking out of the soil by the body. He wrapped her in bin-bags.

Smith stiffened. What s that got to do with

Mr DNA likes it cool and dry. Stick your dead girl in a bin-bag, and she ll rot away, making lots of nasty heat and lots of icky moisture: all trapped inside. Mr DNA hates that: goes through him like a paedo in a nursery. Matt knelt by the side of the body and gently eased the skull out of the ground, then lowered it into a clear plastic evidence bag. We might scrape some DNA from the tooth pulp cavity, but after seven years I doubt it. Got more chance getting a blowjob off the pope.

I don t appreciate your

Course, on the plus side: he wrapped her in bin-bags.

You just said

Like little hoovers made of static electricity, they are. Should get some fibres if we re lucky. Matt cradled the skull in the hollow of his elbow, filling in the form printed on the evidence bag. And before you ask, our wee skeleton s that colour cause of iron and aluminium elemental staining. This whole area s hoaching with old red sandstone mudstones. He popped the top back on his pen.

Any other basic science lessons you re needing while I m here?

Smith actually trembled. You don t ever speak to me like that!