Page 12 of In Too Deep

“Inner cordon’s wet, sir. From last night’s downpour.”

Harrison glanced down at his trainers, already marked from the track in. “Great day to wear white Gazelles.”

He bent to pull the covers on, snapping them into place over his trainers, then tugged the gloves on as he straightened. The tape lifted again, and he ducked beneath it in one smooth movement. His attention immediately went to the activity on the bank, past the white suits and measured movements, towards the stretch of river beyond, where the shape of the scene was something he could work with.

DS Calder stood a few metres inside the cordon, notebook open in one hand, coat shrugged on over what looked suspiciously like yesterday’s shirt. He looked as if he’d been there a while. He wasn’t a polished detective. Never had been. Calder was Hartswick through and through. Late fifties, broad-set, built on years of pie suppers and pints at the King’s Arms, with a face that had weathered into permanence rather than age. His dark hair had long since started its retreat, leaving more claim to his thick, stubborn moustache than to anything on his head.

“Guv.” He fell into step beside Harrison.

Harrison acknowledged the formality with a brief nod. The move from sir hadn’t gone unnoticed. Calder had relaxed into him now, the idea of him, the outsider brought in to run things. He trusted the rank, the role, and, after the last case, that Harrison was capable. It would make the day run more smoothly. It wouldn’t, however, change Calder’s opinion on certain things.

Jake Whitton still sat firmly on the wrong side of that line.

“What have we got?” Harrison rubbed his hands together.

He was dimly aware of how he must look. Blue jeans too tight from wear rather than intention, a loose white tee, jacket thrown on without thought. Not how he’d usually walk into a scene. Called in, not prepared. The faint trace of last night lingered too, red wine clinging stubbornly where it shouldn’t.

And beneath that, the taste of Jake Whitton on his tongue.

Calder gestured with his pen at the river. “Dog walker found the body. About half eight. Control logged it just after. Uniforms were on scene within ten.”

Harrison narrowed his eyes as he tried to pick the shape out through the movement. White suits moving, light catching and breaking across the water.

“Dog went in after something,” Calder went on. “Wouldn’t come back out. He thought it was a branch at first. Then got closer.”

Harrison stepped forward, focus narrowing instinctively, the rest of the world slipping back as the job took hold. Ahead of them, two CSIs stood near the waterline, one crouched with a knee bent as they leaned toward what had been caught in the reeds, partially submerged, held there by the steady pull of the current.

“Anyone been in?” Harrison asked.

“Uniform confirmed a body. No further disturbance. We’ve kept it contained.”

“Good We’ll need to get the divers in there to retrieve.”

“On it.”

They moved closer together, his covered trainers sinking into the softened ground as they approached the edge. The mist had lifted enough for the shape to resolve as they drew nearer, and there was no mistaking what it was.

A body.

It lay half-caught in a tangle of reeds and low willow branches where the river narrowed, the current pulling steadily past as if reluctant to give up its prize. Naked. Pale-blue skin visible beneath a slick coating of river silt. One arm was trapped beneath exposed roots at the water’s edge, pinned there by the angle of the bank, while the other curved inward across the torso. Not natural. Not at rest. But neither did it immediately suggest placement.

As if the river had simply run out of places to take it.

Harrison took another step closer, eyes tracking the line of the bank, the movement of the water, the way debris had gathered in the same place. A choke point. It was a natural spot where things drifted in and stayed.

“Female?” he asked Calder.

“That’s the initial call.”

He dumped his hands on his hips as he took in the scene with deliberate restraint, refusing to let his focus linger too long on any single detail. Up close, the illusion of distance fell away.

What the water had done was one thing.

What had been done to her was another.

Her face gave him nothing. Turned into the current, hair moving across it and covering most of it, what he could see had been damaged. Not just from the water, either. There were significant injuries. Enough to remove any chance of recognition. Whatever had been done, it had changed the structure enough that he couldn’t rely on it. Not even someone who might know her could fully ID her on the face alone. Nor did it give him any outright indication of how long she might have been in the water.

So he trailed his gaze over the rest of her to find something else he could work with. Completely naked, she had no clothing, no jewellery, nothing obvious to help identify. Then the current shifted her where she’d caught on the reeds, but not enough to move her free and he could see the marks all over her body. He noted them without focusing too long. Injuries. Consistent with the damage to the face. Enough to suggest violence. Or it could be damage in transit; how long she might have been…floating. Hitting things. He couldn’t tell from where he was standing.