Rusty iron railings separated the litter-strewn sites; a Tesco carrier bag snagged on a spike, flapping desultorily in a light breeze. Through the gaps a straggly row of motley shoppers gawked at the crime scene. A podgy bleached blonde in a pink shell suit shovelled popcorn like she was watching Casualty. Her moon face beamed when a local radio hack thrust a mic towards it. Put new meaning into sound bite. Mac scowled as he ran past. Further along the line, he spotted a couple of school kids videoing the action on their mobiles. Others were yacking into theirs, probably inviting mates round for a viewing. Panting and wheezing, Mac pulled up at a police cordon protecting the ongoing drama. He tried to catch his breath as he took in the scene. Whoever made the 999-call hadn’t got all the facts straight. There was a body. But it was breathing. Just. It lay on a slatted wooden bench; the way the hands were crossed it looked as if it had been laid out. Except for the battered bloodied face, spattered with white chips of bone and teeth.
