Dead in the Water by Aline Templeton Read Free Book Online

concerning a murdered young woman thrown into the sea at the Mull of Galloway and some sort of scandal, the detail of which eluded her. It wasn’t like a case where the body was there in front of her. And yet, and yet . . . those photos.
    The photos were on the top of the first, catalogued box. There was one of Ailsa Grant, alive: a studio portrait of the type then fashionable, showing a face broad across the cheekbones, with strongly marked brows and a wide mouth. The hair was long and blonde, though dark eyebrows suggested this was not its natural colour. She had slightly hooded, grey-blue eyes and a tiny mole to the left of her mouth. Her nose and chin were a touch too prominent and she had, Fleming suspected, the sort of looks that wouldn’t wear well. Here, though, with the blush of youth and her lips parted in a studied smile, she looked pretty enough.
    The post-mortem photographs showed wide-open, glassy eyes and a water-bloated face, battered with gashes and what looked like a smashed cheekbone, but she was perfectly recognizable.
    As Fleming looked at her, the dead case came to life. This wasn’t just a murder statistic, this was a girl who would have been her own age, if she had lived. She had worn the same fashions, danced to the same music, dreamed dreams and had visions of her future too. The gross injuries had been suffered by flesh and blood, and Fleming heard the cry for justice as if the images themselves had given voice. With new enthusiasm she turned to her dusty task.
    She had come in reluctantly this morning. She was feeling edgy, and though she was technically off duty she wasn’t relaxing. When Bill, exasperated by her fidgeting, suggested she’d feel better if she went in to work, she had groaned and agreed.
    There were practical difficulties to deal with, but she knew in her heart that it was the link with her father here that was bothering her most. She didn’t want to be a witness to the humiliation he had suffered in being reprimanded. Snooping on something he had chosen to keep a secret from her was distasteful enough, and the thought that she was reviewing his work as a superior officer was even worse. He’d minded that he’d never made rank as an inspector; she had only realized how much when she told him of her promotion with pride, then had responded to his bitter reaction with a certain bitterness of her own.
    There had always been respect, though, and after his death she had even come to admire the way he had upheld the standards he believed in. If he had been arrogantly unprofessional, as it sounded as if he might have been, it would hurt to find her respect and admiration misplaced.
    The investigation, though, wasn’t about her domestic hang-ups. It was about this girl, whose case deserved the exhaustive investigation it would be getting if this had happened yesterday, and it merited urgency, too. After all, Ailsa had waited long enough for justice.
    Fleming focused first on the post-mortem shots, and frowned. Ailsa’s hair seemed to have been neatly combed back from her face – that was odd, surely, given what the other photos showed of extensive injury to the back of the skull. They were interior shots, not taken in situ when the body had been brought ashore.
    How, Fleming wondered, had foul play been established? She could see no signs on the clothed body which weren’t consonant with a violent sea. Many suspicious features can have an innocent explanation and there are no universal lab tests for murder by drowning.
    Turning next to the box of personal effects, Fleming ripped off the sealing tape and lifted the flaps. On top, neatly folded, was a pale blue tweed coat, ragged and stained and bleached by sea-water. It still had two elaborate flower-shaped buttons, one hanging by a thread. There was a shapeless green dress and some underwear. That was all. Fleming closed the box on the pathetic collection, then hesitated.
    She was tempted to go straight to the pathologist’s