Page 29 - WaitingForMurder

off down the back of my neck.
I spend the whole day sitting and watching Mum
and the team scraping a centimetre of earth from a pit. They sweat. In the absolute hottest part of the day we lie in the shade and eat pots of salad from Mr Hughes’ shop. With each mouthful I think about the dead birds he keeps in the freezer and the salad becomes less delicious. I look out at the reservoir, watching the water slowly drain. The thing at the side is definitely a car roof.
During the afternoon the woman I now know is called Laura Barlow comes to the dam and stares into the water. She talks to the chin-strokers and then visits the dig. At first I don’t think she’s actually coming over, she takes such tiny steps and moves so lightly over the burned grass, but she stops about twenty metres away and peers at us. “You want to go and dig up those fields if you’re after bodies,” she says.
“We’ve got one here – do you want to come and see?” asks Dave, straightening up and moving over to greet her. “You’re very welcome.”
“Ooh my, no,” says Mrs Barlow, flapping the idea
Waiting for Murder by Fleur Hitchcock Uncorrected Sample
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