Two elements of the scene troubled the chief inspector deeply.
One was the look of terror frozen onto the man’s face. His eyes and mouth were wide open and his lips curled back over white teeth, a scream frozen at the instant of death. The second was that every inch of the pale skin of the man was covered in strange markings, each symbol raised in an angry red weal suggesting a fresh burn, as if hundreds of red hot brands had been applied.
He stepped forward to look more closely, flashlight spraying over the corpse. He was well educated but none of the markings triggered any form of recognition. He had been on the force a long time but this was something new and in wartime exploring all the angles was non-optional.
‘Take as many photos as you can before the body is moved. Cover him and let’s get the poor bastard back for the autopsy. Pearson and Ward; scan the area for possible witnesses. The rest of you; full ground search in the morning and no one breathes a word, not even to your colleagues. If I hear that anyone has spoken of what we have seen tonight, so help me…’
Clearly the chief inspector was not a man to be ignored judging by the nervous glances and sudden burst of activity from the four constables. ‘And someone find out where the bloody hell Templeton is!’
