“Look up? Why? Did Palmer say that?”
“No idea. I was just told to pass it on. It is now passed on, so my work is done.” The constable tapped a finger to her ear. “Although… that sounds like the chopper starting up now.”
Clearly, the younger PC’s hearing was better than Logan’s. He tilted his head, angling an ear in the direction they’d driven from, but didn’t hear anything.
Then, just as he was about to say as much, he picked up the faint whumming of helicopter blades firing up.
Just a minute or two later, and the sound was unmistakable. They must’ve driven four or five miles from the site to get to the caravan, but the helicopter sounded like it was just a couple of hundred yards away.
Mind you, the way that bloody road twisted and turned, maybe it was that close if you were to draw a straight line between there and where they stood.
The way the sound bounced off the surrounding hills made it difficult to pinpoint where it was coming from, and had Logan not remembered the vague direction they’d driven from, he’d have no idea of which way to look.
Even then, when the helicopter did finally rise high enough to come into view, it was further over on the right than he’d been expecting, and the sight of it took him by surprise.
Although, not as much as the sight of the woman dangling from a harness beneath it.
Even at that distance, and over the sound of the rotors, Logan could’ve sworn he heard her laughing. She waved both hands—not directly at him, exactly, but at the world in general in the hope that he saw, and Logan raised a hand to wave back.
“Who’s that?” Constable Tanaka asked.
“That,” Logan said, as both helicopter and winch raised higher into the air. “Is someone making the best of a bad situation.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The key, blackened and charred as it was, fit the lock of the caravan door perfectly. Given the smell that rolled out when Logan pulled the door open, though, he almost wished that it hadn’t.
“Jesus Christ,” he uttered, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow to stop himself boaking.
He was no stranger to the scent of death, and identified it right away. There was something different about this version, though. It was gamier.
The partially eviscerated remains of a pheasant hung from a hook that had been screwed into the caravan ceiling, like the world’s most gruesome light fitting. Its feet were attached to the hook with a bent length of wire, and its bloodied wings had fallen open so they were pointing almost directly to the floor.
A bucket had been placed beneath it, though judging by the dried brown stain at the bottom of it, there hadn’t been much blood left in the bird to catch. No bloody wonder, given the mangled mess of its torso, which had exploded under the pressure of a motor vehicle driving straight over the top of it.
The pheasant seemed to move as the sunlight from the open door hit it, then Logan saw the maggots wriggling around in its rotting carcass.
“Aw, you manky bastard,” Logan said, then he stepped back out of the caravan, coughed, and spat onto the grass.
“You alright?” asked the constable who had turned up with the key. He was a young lad. So young, in fact, that he’d make Tyler seem like an elder statesman, and Ben look like some sort of reanimated cadaver.
He was good-looking, too, with blond curly hair, skin as smooth as marble, and eyes of such a deep, rich brown you could almost fall right into them.
Logan had taken an instant disliking to the bastard. Judging by the way Constable Tanaka stared at him, though, she held him in much higher regard.
“I’m fine,” Logan said, not wishing to show even a suggestion of weakness in front of this younger, fitter, significantly more attractive man. “Just needed to take a couple of big breaths.”
Constable Chris Miller nodded sagely. “Swimming.”
Logan blinked. “What?”
“Swimming. That’s what you do. You take big breaths.”
He took a big breath to demonstrate, and held it, held it, held it…
Logan watched the younger man going red, then purple.
“Aye. I suppose so,” he said, calling an end to the demonstration before the silly bugger passed out.
Chris exhaled sharply, like his lungs had gone into full reverse thrust. “I’m good at swimming,” he announced out of nowhere.
“He’s really good at swimming,” Constable Tanaka said. “He’s being modest.”
“No, you’re good at swimming,” Chris told her.
“Not as good as you, though,” Suzi replied. “You’re way better than I am.”