All the Rage

Adam Fawley
2 April 2018
14.35

`˜OK,' says Quinn. `˜That username could mean this bloke is in Oxford. But we don't actually know that. For a start, there must be other places called Botley, right?'

`˜Two I've found,' replies Asante steadily. `˜There's a village near Chesham, in Buckinghamshire, and another one in Hampshire.'

I see Somer start a little, and then I remember `“ her new bloke is with the Hants force.

`˜Right,' continues Quinn. `˜So that's two to one against for a start. And even if it is the Oxford Botley, we don't know when it happened `“ we don't even know if it happened at all.'

Asante leans over and presses a key. The comments under the last entry are now visible on the screen.

`˜Shit,' says Gislingham under his breath. `˜Shit.'

* * *

At the allotments, it's starting to rain again. Nina Mukerjee parks the forensics van on the far side of the car park and sits there a moment taking in the location. The line of compost heaps, the noticeboard with posters offering surplus plants and second-hand tools, the skips loaded with broken bits of pot and slate. She's been doing the job so long she sees everything as a crime scene. Fingerprints, smears, flakes of skin, tumbleweeds of dust. It makes eating at other people's houses especially trying: the only kitchen that ever looks really clean is her own.

She pushes open the door and pulls her kit across from the passenger seat. A few yards away she can see Clive Conway standing by a shed behind a line of blue-and-white crime scene tape. The tape is whipping in the wind and Clive has his hand to his head, keeping his hood in place. She pulls on her protective suit then moves as quickly as its bulk will allow to where Clive is waiting for her. There's no sign of CID, just a couple of uniforms milling about and stamping their feet to keep warm. She wonders who's been put on the case `“ whether it might be Tony Asante. They discovered a while back that they have a couple of friends in common at the Met and he's bought her a coffee once or twice since. She can't decide if it was just out of politeness or whether he's actually interested. Or what she'd do if he was. She's seen the mess made by relationships at work and she likes that aspect of her life clean too.

Clive doesn't bother saying anything when she reaches him, just pushes open the door, letting her see inside. Her uncle had a shed about this size when she was a child `“ she remembers the windows thick with cobwebs and sticky with snail trails, the shelves haphazard with rusting implements, the musty, dead-insect smell. But this is different. It's neat enough to live in `“ well, almost. There are watering cans and plastic flowerpots stacked in lines on the shelves, spades and forks hanging on their own individual hooks, and on the work surface two bags of seed potatoes and a neat line of earth-filled seed trays with small white plastic labels and tiny spikes of green just visible here and there. The floor has been swept, even in the corners, but the dark stain spread across it tells a different story. As does the smell.

`˜I don't think there's any doubt that's urine.' He crouches down and points. `˜I also found some shreds of hair. But no roots as far as I can see. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're going to turn out to be extensions.'

* * *