Aftershock

Forty-four

‘What made you come to this place?’ the officer asked, in clear English. He wore three chevrons on his epaulettes, which told Skinner that he was dealing with a sub-inspector, a rank in the Mossos d’Esquadra that had no direct equivalent in Scotland.

He pointed back towards the town. ‘I have a house over there. Earlier today, I happened to look at this area through my binoculars and noticed the woman. A few hours later, I looked again. I saw that she was still here, and that she didn’t appear to have moved.’

‘You were watching her, señor?’ The policeman’s left eyebrow rose; so did Skinner’s hackles.

‘I was observing the scene, sonny. It’s a habit of mine; it comes with my profession.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I’m a police officer, in Edinburgh. In your ranking structure I’m a comisario. What’s your name, Sub-inspector? Como te llamas?’

‘Torres.’ Caution crept into his voice; Skinner guessed that he might be remembering hearing of a senior Scottish policeman who was in town.

‘Well, Señor Torres, I suggest that you stop playing the boy detective and get your arse into action. This lady is dead. That’s not in doubt; I’ve seen more dead people than you have officers in your local station, and I’m telling you she is. You need to find out how and why. You may have been the first available English-speaking officer to respond to my phone call, but now it’s time for you to follow proper procedures. You need to get a medic here, and you need to call in your specialist colleagues. Then you need to position your corporal colleague to prevent any curious people making their way down here to see what’s happening.’

Sub-inspector Torres came approximately to attention and saluted. ‘Yes, Comisario.’ He reached for the radio on his belt, then hesitated. ‘What should I say? She died of the heat, yes? Too long in the sun?’

Skinner sighed; clearly, Torres had spent much of his career in the administrative section of the Catalan force. ‘If she did,’ he said, ‘she committed suicide. And in twenty-five years’ police experience, I’ve never heard of anyone setting out to kill themselves by UV radiation. Look at her, man! She has no water. She has no sun-cream. She has no shade. She has no towel. Last, but not least, she has no clothes. That tells you what, Señor Torres?’

The sub-inspector shrugged, in a way that very few people can, other than Catalans.

‘It should tell you,’ Skinner continued patiently, ‘either that the seagulls have stolen everything she had, that she threw her kit into the sea, that she walked here naked and unburdened, or that somebody walked with her or followed her here, and took everything away after she was dead, after he had killed her.’ He looked at the man intently. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

‘Sí, Comisario,’ Torres murmured.

‘Then get on your radio, and tell your criminal division they’re needed here.’

As the sub-inspector did as he had been ordered, Skinner stared down at the woman’s body. With his instructions being relayed, his thoughts returned to other images he had seen, photographs taken in other places, and the uncanny similarity to his own discovery.

He knelt beside the body once more, but this time he rolled the dead woman on to her side. It was difficult, as rigor mortis was advanced, even in the heat, but he had the strength to turn her and then to hold her in position with one hand, as he lifted the hair from the back of her neck with the other. . and looked at the impossible.

There, just above the hairline, in the centre of a patch of encrusted blood, was a single small entry wound.

He laid the body of the murder victim back as he had found her, then sat on the rocks. ‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered softly to himself, allowing all the implications of his find to flood into his mind.