The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,51

much that night. “I thought it would be appropriate for me to be here for Emma—to provide a spiritual presence, no matter the outcome. And my wife will have coffee for your team whenever you’re ready for it. Just knock on the door and let her know.”

“That’s very good of you, Rector,” replied Davies. “We’re going to press on, now, but I’m sure the coffee will be most welcome in an hour or so. We’ve put up the barrier tape, so if you wouldn’t mind standing just over there,” he said, pointing in the direction of a small stand of trees at the edge of the tenting which had been erected to protect the site, “we’ll try to do this with the least amount of disruption possible. I think everything’s in position now.”

He gestured to the officer standing nearest the earth mover and, as the first notes of birdsong announced the beginning of the dawn chorus, the sound of heavy equipment starting up filled the air. The machine worked viciously, swiftly and efficiently. The grave was opened and lifting equipment placed under the coffin. With large clots of mud clinging to its sides, the coffin containing the mortal remains of Emma Teasdale was slowly lifted out of the earth and gently swung to one side where it was lowered to the ground and covered with a tarpaulin. The grave gave off a dank smell of dark, forbidden earth mixed with rotting leaves.

Standing at the top of the empty grave, Davies motioned to the lighting expert to switch on the overhead set of tungsten lights. Suddenly, the scene was lit with the bright white glare of lights that shone with ferocious intensity into the grave.

Davies nodded again and the videographer and still photographer took their places, ready to record everything as it happened.

“Ready, sir!” said a scene-of-crime expert as he lowered a small ladder into the grave. He scrambled down, stepped off the second to last rung with a soft thud, and began working carefully and systematically in one corner of the grave. The tension grew as he brushed aside the damp dirt and placed it in a small bucket which was then lifted to the top and piled to one side.

A few minutes later, he gave a shout.

“I’ve found something, sir. Look, it’s a shoe.”

He held it up for those above him to see.

“It’s a strappy, black sandal type.”

He handed it up to Morgan, who took it in her gloved hand and examined it before placing it in a plastic evidence bag.

She nodded at Davies.

“It’s a Chanel sling back. It could very well belong to Meg Wynne. If the shoe fits, sir—”

She was interrupted by another shout from below.

“There’s definitely something here.”

They leaned over the side and looked where the officer was pointing. There, emerging from the rich, dark Welsh soil, was a human foot.

“Female, by the looks of it, sir. The toes are painted.”

Seventeen

Sergeant, ring the coroner. She’ll have been half expecting the call.”

Davies then ducked his head and turned away. Morgan, making no effort to conceal her excitement, leaned over for a better look.

The officers continued with their work and a few minutes later the body was revealed. She was lying on her side, fully clothed, with her arms above her head.

“She looks as if she had been thrown or rolled over the side,” Morgan commented to Davies. “She isn’t displayed or laid out. She’s floppy. She was dumped.”

Davies glanced at the photographer and videographer to make sure they were capturing everything.

A few moments later came another shout. “I think we’ve got her handbag, sir!”

“Let’s have it,” Morgan called down.

She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, reached down for the small black bag, and turned it over to look at the logo. Kate Spade.

“For everyday,” Morgan muttered. She unzipped the bag and looked at the contents. A lipstick, a mobile telephone, a small change purse, and a leather billfold bulging with plastic cards. She pulled out the first one, a platinum American Express card, and showed it to Davies. He looked at the name and nodded.

“Make the calls, Sergeant,” he ordered, “but I want the important elements done in person, not by phone. Ask the Durham force to go to her parents’ home to tell them that we’ve found a body answering their daughter’s description so they can prepare themselves, pending a formal identification. This could be national news within hours, and best they hear it from us. We’ll ask Emyr Gruffydd if he’d be willing to