“Must be up here somewhere.”
They kept walking, found a farm gate, and started to pick their way across the sodden ground. Almost immediately, Cormac’s right leg sank into the mud. He swore.
“Don’t lose a shoe,” Peter said.
They chose their route carefully, around stacks of turf and drainage trenches, until they reached the group. A few heads came up to examine the newcomers, but most kept their attention focused on a deep, flooded trench, where one police diver was engaged in the difficult task of trying to hold a floating body in place, while another tried to slide a tarp underneath it. The divers weren’t wearing respirators or masks – the water wasn’t deep enough for that – but they wore their drysuits, presumably with thermals underneath, and they still looked like they were freezing.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” snapped Yvonne Connolly.
She was standing to the side, observing, and her focus was complete. She didn’t so much as glance their way. Yvonne wore full wet gear under her white forensics overall – Cormac could see the collar of her jacket where it was zipped up to her throat. Blonde hair peeked from under the hat. Cormac and Yvonne knew each other from any number of crime scenes, but she wasn’t one to make friends.
Standing a few metres back, looking more than a little cold and bedraggled, there were three strangers, a family. The man looked to be in his late forties, the woman a little younger, and the girl Cormac pegged at 15 or 16. Presumably these were the people who had found the body.
Cormac turned away from the family and took a step closer to the drainage trench. He wanted to get a better look. Peter leaned forward too, the expression on his face a mix of revulsion and fascination. The body had been mutilated. The divers were struggling to get the tarp in place because their efforts were hampered by two long branches which protruded from wounds in the upper arms of the corpse. The branches seemed to be tangled in something beneath the water, which made manoeuvring the body more difficult.
“We’ll have to cut them,” said the diver in the water, after another failed attempt. “I can’t get him out without cutting the branches. They’re caught in weeds and roots under the water.”
“Just lift him,” Yvonne Connolly said. She demonstrated a lifting motion with her hands. “Just lift him higher.”
“I can’t bloody lift him,” the diver said. “It’s deep in here. There’s nothing for me to stand on.”
The body looked wizened. The skin was a light brown colour, as if it had been partially tanned. The hair was longish, a tangle of dark strands with a reddish tone. Cormac’s eyes strayed again to the wounds on the back of the arms. How difficult would it have been to make those incisions, to force a long branch through each arm? Had it been done while the victim was still alive? As a form of torture?
Cormac turned back to the divers, and Yvonne Connolly. She must have sensed him coming, because without looking in his direction, she raised an abrupt hand, signalling him to wait while she finished her work. The diver had finally managed to free the body and get it on the tarp, and Yvonne was directing progress. Only when the body was fully out of the water, and covered, did she glance briefly at Cormac.
“Well,” she said.
“Yvonne.” Cormac gave her a nod. “Anything you can share with us?”
“Nothing you haven’t already observed yourself. For everything else, you’ll have to wait for the test results.”
“But this is a murder case? The body isn’t historic?” The tanned, shrunken state of it had left Cormac with some doubts on that front. It was well known that bog environments were very good at preserving bodies. The victim could have been there for hundreds, even thousands of years.
But Yvonne gave a short nod. “It’s definitely a murder,” she said. She crouched down by her bag and started to pack the few instruments she’d taken out. Cormac knew from experience that when she was finished she would likely just walk away, leaving him either to stand there like a gormless eejit or to hurry after her with his questions, like an eager puppy.
Peter didn’t seem convinced. “You’re sure the body is contemporary?” he asked doubtfully.
“I am.”
“How can you tell?”
She didn’t look up, just zipped her bag closed briskly as she said, “I suppose the fact that it was wearing underpants was a bit of a giveaway.” She stalked off towards the track, making easy work of the heavy ground, leaving Cormac and Peter to exchange glances and then to follow her as best they could.
Extract from The Unquiet Grave by Dervla McTiernan. Published by HarperCollins Australia. Out now. McTiernan will be appearing at the Auckland Writers Festival May 13-18. For more information and tickets, visit writersfestival.co.nz.
