Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

He gave an expansive sweep of his arm. ‘And this is Skenfrith Street CID. Only, most of the firm are on a shout. A murder, down Gartonside.’
    So much for hopes of a quiet day. ‘Is that where DCI Fielding is?’
    Cody gave a twisted little smile. ‘Got it in one. And she’s not very happy that her new bag man isn’t with her.’ The caterpillar eyebrows rose again. He was enjoying himself.
    Paula wasn’t about to explain herself to him. ‘You got an address for me?’
    ‘Rossiter Street, Gartonside.’
    ‘Do we have a number?’
    He smirked. ‘The numbers fell off those doors years ago. The houses are boarded up, waiting for the council budget to afford bulldozers. You’ll recognise the crime scene from the activity.’
    And so she had. Paula dodged the puddles and potholes and climbed the metal steps into the mobile incident room. As she entered, a tiny woman wrestling her body into a white protective suit paused to look her up and down. ‘McIntyre?’
    Clearly the standard form of address in this firm. ‘That’s right. DCI Fielding?’
    ‘That’s me. Nice of you to join us. Get suited up, quick as you like.’ There was something bird-like about Fielding. It wasn’t simply her size or her fine-boned appearance. Her eyes darted around, even as she climbed into her suit, and there was a quick jerkiness to her movements that made Paula think of a blackbird raiding the earth for worms.
    ‘I was taking a witness statement. Misper.’ Paula checked the pile of J-suits. Fielding had snaffled the only small. She settled for a medium and began the inconvenient process of getting into it.
    ‘That’s a bit beneath your pay grade.’ Fielding’s Scottish accent was the honey-seductive rather than the half-brick aggressive sort.
    ‘I happened to recognise the teenager who was reporting. I’ve actually met his mother. I thought it would save time if I dealt with it since the front counter was sticking to the letter of twenty-four hours.’
    Fielding paused with the zip halfway over her small bosom. She frowned, olive skin crinkling into a relief map of shallow furrows and ridges. ‘That’s because he’s been trained to follow protocols. Protocols that are put in place so detectives like us don’t waste our time on folk having a spur-of-the-moment night out.’
    Paula shoved a second leg into the suit, annoyed by her trouser leg rucking up around the knee. ‘I’ve always understood that when there’s a child or a vulnerable adult left at risk by a disappearance, we take action straight away.’ According to the grapevine, Fielding was a mother. She should get it.
    Fielding grunted. ‘Been a while since you’ve been at the sharp end, McIntyre. Major Incident Team’s spoiled you.’ She pulled a face. ‘In an ideal world, you’d be right. But we’re not in an ideal world. Cuts and redundancies have fucked us all up.’ She frowned again, brown eyes glaring at Paula. ‘We haven’t got the bodies to jump in early on mispers. We leave that to uniforms. I need you here. Not fucking about on the tail of somebody who’s probably chosen not to be where they’re expected to be.’ She held up a hand to shut Paula up before she could speak. ‘I know. The reasons for those choices are usually fucking horrible. But we’re not social workers.’
    ‘Ma’am.’ Angered but not chastened, Paula turned away and finished zipping herself into the suit. OK, Fielding had a point, but that didn’t mean Paula had to hang up her humanity at the door. She’d check Bev’s movements on her own time. Somehow. Still facing away from Fielding, who had the kind of physical presence that filled more space than seemed possible, she dragged the conversation away from her supposed transgression. ‘So what are we looking at here?’
    ‘Junkie squatters have been using one of the houses on and off for a few months now. They were at some music festival near Sheffield at the weekend. They got back a couple of hours ago and found the body of a woman in the middle of the living room.’ Her voice muffled as she bent to pull on the blue plastic shoe covers. ‘I suppose we should be grateful they phoned us instead of doing a runner.’
    ‘Did they recognise her?’
    ‘They say not.’
    Paula raised the hood to cover her hair and pulled on the chilly blue nitrile gloves. ‘Given that they phoned it in and didn’t leg it, they’re probably telling the truth. If they’d known her, they’d have been less likely to