Detective Inspector Ifan Rhys-Morgan shook his head sadly as the last body bag was zipped up. “I hate these mass suicide cases, Tommie.”
Detective Sergeant Thomas Jenkins nodded with equal sadness. “Me too, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan shivered but was not sure whether it was the cold. No crimes scenes were nice but there was something particularly unerring about this one.
A uniformed officer, over to Rhys-Morgan’s left, pointed at the ground away from the site of the bomb. “Something was caught in the blast – the tracks go off in that direction.”
A second officer, near the focus of the pointing digit, bent down and picked up something that had been half-embedded under a large grassy clump. He held it up and examined both sides. It was the crumpled remains of a golden sickle. “Look, sir. Druids.”
Rhys-Morgan turned to Jenkins. “It’s just as well you and Tommo were videoing the whole thing or we might have an awkward investigation on our hands. It’s a shame you were unable to hear anything.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Police Constable Rhys Thomas – or Tommo to his colleagues – shifted his considerable bulk with some discomfort. “What do you want me to do with the videotape, Guv?”
“The ones with…” Inspector Rhys-Morgan consulted his notebook, “naked frolicking of an explicit nature. I think I should take a look at it. Verify your account of events. Get the lip sync experts working on dialogue, that kind of thing.”
“Yes, Guv. Will you want the whole collection, sir?”
Rhys-Morgan looked at Jenkins. Jenkins coughed in a slightly embarrassed way and looked at his feet.
“I think that would be splendid, Tommo. Splendid indeed.”
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