The Cutting Crew Read Online Free PDF Page B

adults, waited outside while we went in with torches, wary of our footing.
    I could sense death the second we entered the house. There was a presence to the place. It was very quiet, but it felt like someone was in there with us and keeping still so as to not make any noise. Like even though the girl we would find upstairs was dead, she was still aware and watching us: flickering in the corner behind a soundproof screen that prevented her from screaming to us. Perhaps it was just the house itself: its mouldy walls broken down, paper peeling, everything reeking of damp and decay. The floor was covered with dust, old bricks, wood. Our flashlights carved across it, and wherever they weren't shining immediately seemed blacker as a result. We both had our guns drawn. Even though there was nothing alive in here to shoot, it felt like you might need to defend your soul against something.
    We found her upstairs, exactly where the kids told us. Sean holstered his gun and got out a handkerchief to cover his face, while I toughed it out, shining the torch around the room to check what else was here. The walls were covered in shreds of paper, with strips of it hanging off, and the plaster beneath was mottled with damp and rot. A lot of old, stained graffiti. There didn't seem to be any furniture. The only real thing to note was a window opposite us, which was slatted, coated over with grey paper and thick with flies.
    She was in the centre of the room, staining broken floorboards we could hardly see. Forensics would later determine that her body had been left balanced in a kneeling position. Her hands and feet had been bound behind her, and the cord around her neck had been tied tightly back to join the one at her ankles. When we arrived, however, decomposition had toppled her. She had lost most semblance of form, swollen from the slim girl she had once been into something awful and tight and black: something you'd have nightmares about. Her head looked like an odd pile of pebbles; you couldn't even tell where her eyes had been. A thin line of fungus trailed away across the floor, reaching for the window.
    'Do you think she's dead?' Sean asked.
    I gave him a look. Then we quickly checked around and went outside to call it in. Confirmed dead body; forensics required.
    They'd go in first and do whatever they needed to do before the scene became even more contaminated, and then we'd get a chance to examine the area and get a feel for what might have happened there. We took details from the children who'd found her, and I tipped one of the other kids some money to get us both a coffee, and then we waited out in the open air for people with scientific qualifications to arrive and start measuring shit.
    'This is going to be a bad one,' Sean said.
    I nodded. But really - back then - I had no idea.
    We worked that investigation hard: all of us. Each person that touched the file on the dead girl in Bull felt it burn their fingertips a little and not want to leave them.
    This wasn't a business hit; it had none of that cool efficiency. As a cop, you have a certain understanding of professional hits: you might not like them, but you know why it's been done and a lot of the time it ends up making your life a bit easier. It's about greed, and everybody feels greedy once in a while. You can relate. But this kind of crime stemmed from something darker and more unpleasant.
    And the worst part is that you can still relate. It's all the same building, but some crimes happen in the nice, clean offices upstairs, whereas others take place in the basement, beneath the rust and cobwebs, in rooms that you're scared to go into. You recognise the roots of everything you investigate, but you learn quickly that some are more uncomfortably damp than others.
    The other reason we worked so tirelessly was Sean. As the case progressed - or didn't - he grew ever more distant and haunted. I saw less and less of him, and I started to realise that he wasn't sleeping much.