It was clear to Culverhouse that sunlight rarely permeated any part of this wood. It smelt dark and musty, hundreds of years' worth of rotting leaves and vegetation compacting to form the rich compost on which he now stood. “Right, where is it?” “Down there, guv,” Frank Vine offered, pointing to the crater-sized dip in the forest floor which was coated with a thick layer of deep-green ivy. Grunting to himself, Culverhouse scuttled down into the crab position and worked his heels down the steep edge of the ravine. Losing his footing just once or twice, he righted himself at the bottom of the dip and almost overcompensated but for the saving grace of a well-place tree trunk. “Just to your right, guv. Over towards the birch tree. You'll see the newspapers.” Makes a change from black bin liners, Culverhouse supposed. He made his way, slowly but surely, towards the body, being careful not to tread anywhere he shouldn't. “What the fuck is this?” “Is there a problem, guv?”
