The Unquiet Grave by Steven Dunne Read Free Book Online

Noble mumbled, righting himself, hand twitching in his ache for a chemical friend. He took out a cigarette from beneath his protective layers and, without lighting up, jammed it behind his ear to let the virgin tobacco’s earthy aroma promise future comfort.
    Like lightning striking, the flash of the camera heightened the drama of the desolate tableau as scene of crime officers went about their grisly work. Noble stepped back for the bigger picture as DI Brook had taught him. It didn’t matter. Whichever way he faced, his eye returned to the boy.
    Some mother’s son. So young. So dead .And no balm to pour on parental wounds, no comfort to take from a quick and painless death. This poor kid had died in humiliation and distress over the course of many hours – maybe days – the story of his final moments evidenced by the tear tracks on the undamaged side of his face as the cries for help went unheeded. In this grim place the boy had died in agony, able to feel his young life ebbing away before it had really begun.
    Noble nuzzled the cigarette, shaking off an image of the young man pleading in vain for his mummy. He stared at the first-floor landing to plot the body’s trajectory, the handrail long since torn down and used for fuel by squatters and other indigents. Judging by the distance of the corpse from the top of the stairs, the boy hadn’t merely fallen or stumbled. He had been thrown, launched even, from the upper storey to where he still lay, immobilised by a broken neck and maybe a collarbone and pelvis too.
    Emerging from his detection bubble, Noble turned away, becoming aware of others waiting for him to finish.
    ‘Let me know if you find the kid’s shoes,’ he said, gesturing to the nearest SOCO to commence the bagging and tagging before stepping outside on to Whitaker Road, fingering the cigarette with more urgency. He smiled briefly as he imagined Brook standing next to him, darting a glance first at the cigarette, then up at his face until he cracked and offered his DI the pack. But Brook’s comforting presence was missing and, until DI Ford managed to drag himself out of bed, Noble was on his own.
    Far enough from the scene, he lit up with a deep sigh as he watched uniformed officers setting up the crime scene tape around the large plot of scrubland, while others stood around their flashing vehicles, waiting in vain to control a non-existent crowd, not yet awake to the drama in their midst at three in the morning.
    A black Mercedes drew to a halt behind the line of emergency vehicles and Dr Higginbottom, the duty police surgeon, already decked head to toe in protective coveralls, stepped from the vehicle. After a brief reconnoitre he made for Noble at the front of the derelict building.
    ‘Sergeant,’ said Higginbottom. The doctor’s eyes looked tired from lack of sleep despite the wind and rain trying to rouse him.
    ‘Doc. Through the entrance then second door on the right,’ said Noble. ‘Follow the lights.’
    Higginbottom glanced at Noble’s cigarette. ‘Next time you see me in the mortuary, remind me to show you a smoker’s lungs.’
    ‘Look forward to it.’
    ‘Are you the lead?’ asked Higginbottom, with little semblance of interest in Noble’s reply.
    Noble shook his head. ‘DI Ford.’
    ‘Brook still on leave, is he?’
    Noble’s smile made a reply unnecessary.
    ‘Is DI Ford with the body?’ asked Higginbottom mischievously.
    ‘No. He’s. . . been delayed,’ muttered Noble.
    Higginbottom affected surprise. ‘Really?’ With a sly grin, the doctor moved towards the building. ‘Must be traffic,’ he said, before taking his leave.
    Noble’s minute grunt of appreciation was barely audible. The doctor must know Ford lived less than half a mile away, barely across the ring road in upmarket Littleover. He’d been alerted two hours ago and could have walked to the scene in fifteen minutes.
    Noble pulled his coat tighter against the cold and drew on his cigarette again, his