abrasions. A silver chain around her neck. No wristwatch but craft-market silver rings on her fingers, and in her visible ear a silver ring decorated with a Scrabble piece in the letter “M.”
That made Hirsch think about ID. He couldn’t see a bag or wallet anywhere. If she was struck by a vehicle, and knocked or carried some distance, then bag or wallet would be further up or down the road. Time for that later.
He crouched, peering at the area of waist and spine between the low-riding jeans and the scrap of T-shirt, and saw a smallmanufacturer’s tag on the G-string. Her underwear was inside out. He crab walked closer to the body and lifted the T-shirt: a rear-fastening black bra, fastened with only one of the two hooks.
None of that proved anything. It was suggestive, that was all. He could think of plenty of scenarios to explain it, some of them innocent. For example, she’d dressed in a hurry, she’d dressed in darkness, she was shortsighted, she was slapdash, she’d dressed in a cramped space, like the rear seat of a car.
Or someone else had dressed her.
He peered at her back, but couldn’t read anything into the surface damage. Dirt on her bare ankles and arms, dirt on her cheek. But you’d expect dirt if she fell or was tossed by tires—or by hand—down a dirt incline. That was all he could tell. Dr. McAskill would do the rest.
Now Hirsch brought himself to examine her head. The eye socket stared at him as he stared at a small, fine-boned face, small, slack mouth, tiny teeth and a swollen tongue. A pert nose. A bruised, misshapen cheek. Something had hit the girl pretty hard, and he was thinking
girl
, not
woman
—the designation given him by Kropp and Nancarrow.
She’s maybe sixteen
, thought Hirsch.
Somewhere between mid and late teens
.
Then he wandered along the road in each direction. He found a small fabric bag twenty meters from the body, strap and flap torn, still damp. He photographed it
in situ
and then fossicked around the contents. No mobile phone, but a wallet with $3.65 in coins, a tampon, tissues, chewing gum, a packet of cigarettes, disposable lighter, supermarket receipts. The only ID was a Redruth High School student card belonging to Melia Donovan, Year 10. A card under a clear plastic window confirmed the name and gave a Tiverton address.
So, fifteen? Sixteen?
H IRSCH WAITED FOR THE doctor to arrive. He wanted to walk across the highway and knock on doors, but couldn’t leave thebody unattended. He glanced at his watch: 1 P.M. A bus passed, heading north, PERTH on the sign above the windshield. A couple of cars, a handful of semis. Hirsch thought of their tires, their bull bars.
When a silver Mercedes appeared, twenty minutes later, decelerating, he stepped into the road, one hand raised. The car pulled in opposite the HiLux and an unhurried, neatly-put-together man got out, hauling a doctor’s bag with him. He crossed the road, stopped when he got to Hirsch. “You must be Constable Hirschhausen.”
“That’s me.”
The doctor stuck out his hand. “Drew McAskill.”
He was about fifty, fingers of grey in his brown hair, dressed in a tan jacket, dark trousers, white shirt and blue tie. His hand was pale, scrupulously clean, untouched by the sun, hard labor or mishaps, which put him at odds with the men, women and children Hirsch had encountered so far in the bush. People out here were blemished a little: farm grime under fingernails, garden scratches, schoolyard scrapes, sun wrinkles, dusty trouser cuffs, tarnished watch straps and gammy legs. To top it off, McAskill wore gold-rimmed glasses, and the overall effect was ascetic.
The spotless hand was barely in and out of Hirsch’s grasp. “I understand I’m to pronounce on a body?”
McAskill ran a medical practice in Redruth and was on call to the local police. In cases of suspicious death, he’d call in an official police pathologist from Adelaide, but otherwise he was there to save department pathologists a
That made Hirsch think about ID. He couldn’t see a bag or wallet anywhere. If she was struck by a vehicle, and knocked or carried some distance, then bag or wallet would be further up or down the road. Time for that later.
He crouched, peering at the area of waist and spine between the low-riding jeans and the scrap of T-shirt, and saw a smallmanufacturer’s tag on the G-string. Her underwear was inside out. He crab walked closer to the body and lifted the T-shirt: a rear-fastening black bra, fastened with only one of the two hooks.
None of that proved anything. It was suggestive, that was all. He could think of plenty of scenarios to explain it, some of them innocent. For example, she’d dressed in a hurry, she’d dressed in darkness, she was shortsighted, she was slapdash, she’d dressed in a cramped space, like the rear seat of a car.
Or someone else had dressed her.
He peered at her back, but couldn’t read anything into the surface damage. Dirt on her bare ankles and arms, dirt on her cheek. But you’d expect dirt if she fell or was tossed by tires—or by hand—down a dirt incline. That was all he could tell. Dr. McAskill would do the rest.
Now Hirsch brought himself to examine her head. The eye socket stared at him as he stared at a small, fine-boned face, small, slack mouth, tiny teeth and a swollen tongue. A pert nose. A bruised, misshapen cheek. Something had hit the girl pretty hard, and he was thinking
girl
, not
woman
—the designation given him by Kropp and Nancarrow.
She’s maybe sixteen
, thought Hirsch.
Somewhere between mid and late teens
.
Then he wandered along the road in each direction. He found a small fabric bag twenty meters from the body, strap and flap torn, still damp. He photographed it
in situ
and then fossicked around the contents. No mobile phone, but a wallet with $3.65 in coins, a tampon, tissues, chewing gum, a packet of cigarettes, disposable lighter, supermarket receipts. The only ID was a Redruth High School student card belonging to Melia Donovan, Year 10. A card under a clear plastic window confirmed the name and gave a Tiverton address.
So, fifteen? Sixteen?
H IRSCH WAITED FOR THE doctor to arrive. He wanted to walk across the highway and knock on doors, but couldn’t leave thebody unattended. He glanced at his watch: 1 P.M. A bus passed, heading north, PERTH on the sign above the windshield. A couple of cars, a handful of semis. Hirsch thought of their tires, their bull bars.
When a silver Mercedes appeared, twenty minutes later, decelerating, he stepped into the road, one hand raised. The car pulled in opposite the HiLux and an unhurried, neatly-put-together man got out, hauling a doctor’s bag with him. He crossed the road, stopped when he got to Hirsch. “You must be Constable Hirschhausen.”
“That’s me.”
The doctor stuck out his hand. “Drew McAskill.”
He was about fifty, fingers of grey in his brown hair, dressed in a tan jacket, dark trousers, white shirt and blue tie. His hand was pale, scrupulously clean, untouched by the sun, hard labor or mishaps, which put him at odds with the men, women and children Hirsch had encountered so far in the bush. People out here were blemished a little: farm grime under fingernails, garden scratches, schoolyard scrapes, sun wrinkles, dusty trouser cuffs, tarnished watch straps and gammy legs. To top it off, McAskill wore gold-rimmed glasses, and the overall effect was ascetic.
The spotless hand was barely in and out of Hirsch’s grasp. “I understand I’m to pronounce on a body?”
McAskill ran a medical practice in Redruth and was on call to the local police. In cases of suspicious death, he’d call in an official police pathologist from Adelaide, but otherwise he was there to save department pathologists a
Similar Books
Red Mesa
Aimée & David Thurlo
A Taste of Pleasure
Antoinette
Seven Dirty Words
James Sullivan
2 The Dante Connection
Estelle Ryan
The Misbehaving Marquess
Leigh LaValle
A Sea of Purple Ink
Rebekah Shafer
T.J. and the Penalty
Theo Walcott
She's Gone: A Novel
Joye Emmens
The Dolls’ House
Rumer Godden
Kydd
Julian Stockwin