Inspector White looked at the mud from the relative safety of the road. “What’s in this field?” he asked.
“Well…” DS Peters was uncertain of the question. “The body, sir, obviously.”
White scowled at him. “I know that,” he said. “The police cars, crime scene tape and coroner’s van give it away. I meant what crop?”
“Oh.” Peters looked down where several stalks still adhered to the mud on his Wellingtons. “Wheat, I think.”
“And a veritable bog after last night’s rain.” White looked up at the sky and back at the field. “The grass-”
“-Wheat has been flattened for quite a distance around the body. Give the Met boys a call and ask them to send a chopper up, would you? I want to see the pattern.”
“Yes sir.” Peters reached for his radio.
White looked at his feet. “Before you do that, Peters, What size shoe are you?”
Peters looked down. “A ten, sir. Why?”
“Then lend me your wellies, lad. I haven’t got any with me and I’m damned if I’m going to ruin my brogues.”
© Rachel Green 2007