Page 39 of And the Corpse Wore Tartan
‘I’m in civvies!’
‘How are we supposed to arrest them without cuffs?’
The grass got longer closer to the woods, snatching at their legs with long wet tendrils, then whooooomph, they were in beneath the canopy of pine and beech.
Gloom wrapped itself around them – what little sunlight there was, banished by the thick lid of leaves. That dark brown earthy smell of damp vegetation and waterlogged earth. A toilet-cleaner whiff of pine.
No sign of their mysterious figure, but a thin trail twisted off into the forest ahead.
Roberta lumbered down it, getting slower, each breath more of a struggle than the last. Sweating like a bastard in this rotten high-vis too. Puffing and panting. Till a dagger lanced in under her ribs, yanking her to a halt, one hand clutching her side. ‘Arg... Stitch, stitch!’
Sergeant Moore pushed past. ‘Get out the way!’ And he was off, running full tilt along the path, disappearing into the woods.
She bent double, clutching her knees and wheezing like an elderly Jack Russell terrier.
Should really... should really exercise more... Join... join a gym... Eat fewer... pies.
Pfff...
Getting old, Roberta.
Old and slow.
Finally, the ache in her side faded and she straightened up. Puffed out a few hot breaths and wiped the mix of rain and sweat from her face. Rummled her hands through her wet hair. Managed a sort of limping jog, following the path again.
It twisted and turned, around trees, bushes, more trees.
Probably not even a path. Probably a rabbit track. Completely unsuitable for fully grown women who were a bit less fit than they used to be. It vanished under fallen logs, only to reappear on the other side, jinked around swollen mounds of sickly mushrooms – their yellow domes glistening like unsqueezed plukes.
And then it disappeared completely.
Because why not make thingseven worsethan they already were?
Roberta did a slow three-sixty, peering out into the dark woods.
No sign of anyone. The only sound: the patter of rain filtering through leaves to drip onto the loam below.
‘Sergeant Moore?’
No reply.
She did another slow-motion pirouette.
Where the hell had the idiot got to?
She cupped her hands either side of her mouth and dragged in a deep breath. ‘SERGEANT MOORE!’
There wasn’t even an echo – the forest swallowed it whole.
Oh,well done, Roberta. Take the daft sod out into the woods and get him killed by some murderous maniac.
Another deep breath. ‘SERGEANT MOORE!’
Still nothing. Just the dripping and the gloom and the eerie rows of bone-grey trees beneath that dark lid of branches and leaves.
‘Come on, Roberta, think!’
Well, standing here wasn’t helping, was it?
