Dead To Me | страница 2
Nowhere else she’d rather be. Not strictly true – she’d rather be inside the cordon than guarding the periphery. She’d rather be in an MIT syndicate some day. Major Incidents: running a team, catching killers. But there was no shortcut. She had to work her way up, build her portfolio. And she was on track, she allowed herself a little pat on the back. Five years in uniform, nearly five in Sex Crimes. Stepping stones, foundations for the bigger stuff. Rachel did another shuffle, waved her arms to get the circulation going. Times like these she made the best use of, alert to what was required of her, but in the lulls when no one was entering or leaving the scene she practised her definitions. Knowing the law, criminal law, inside out, upside down; because anyone who had to enforce the law needed to understand it. She was practising homicide, murder or manslaughter now. That’s where she wanted next. It was a big jump and they were queuing round the block for opportunities. She just needed a chance, an opening, and she needed to spot it before her competitors.
Rachel glanced behind her where the CSIs were still busying about, the tent now up, protecting the scene. She wanted to pee, but it could be hours. They never put that in the job description. Candidates must be able to demonstrate significant bladder capacity.
In the valley, a train sounded its hooter, taking people into work. Greater Manchester conurbation, home to 2.6 million people. In the police service over 8,000 cops, and Rachel was one of them, the only job she’d ever wanted. She could see the arterial roads filling up with commuters, too. The dual carriageways funnelling traffic to the M60 and the M62. Manslaughter: voluntary and involuntary. Voluntary manslaughter – due to… diminished responsibility, loss of control…
She watched the new arrival, suited, booted, carrying a face mask and gloves, cross the grass to meet her. ‘Constable,’ the woman said, barely glancing at Rachel, and made to pass through the cordon.
‘Identification,’ Rachel said bluntly, blocking her way.
The woman sighed, patted at her sides, then shoved a hand down the front of her disposable jumpsuit. ‘Fuck,’ she barked.
Rachel blinked, waited.
‘DCI Gill Murray,’ the woman rattled off, ‘SIO.’
Shitshitshit. Gill Murray. And Rachel hadn’t even recognized her. Blame the protective suit. Golden girl Gill. Though the gold had tarnished a bit since all the stuff with her husband. Rachel swallowed. ‘I still need formal identification. “The preservation of the scene is a primary responsibility”,’ she quoted. ‘“No exceptions”.’