Holding the photo in my hand, I could feel myself shudder as though someone was walking over my grave. What a choice of words I thought to myself as I looked once again at the pale waxy death mask staring up at me from the photograph.
I heard my name call from a far distance, something trying to snap my conscious back to reality, however my brain refused to return, it seemed stuck on the fact that a dead body does not look like anything Hollywood cooks up.
The distant calling becomes more urgent and pressure on my shoulder forces my attention into the present, away from the sanctuary my brain had created for me.
My eyes were sent searching for the person who had torn me away from my inner dialogue, my eyes rested on a police officer who introduced himself and Detective Constable Northwood. He came forward to shake my hand, up close were the smells of stale sweat mingled with newly applied aftershave. Up close, I could not help but notice the smirk his mouth was portraying. I'm used to this look "young one, we can pull one over on her", this is the general consensus as you don't fit the bill of a grey haired, straight backed, professional.
The telephone call had come at 2.00am, the same drill, "client in custody at the police station requiring legal advice. Police are ready to interview and require your attendance as soon as possible." Only problem is, after tearing down the police station like a bat outta hell, your left waiting for three quarters of an hour. I had made that mistake once in my rookie days, and have not repeated the mistake. This morning was no different, after being left to wait for an hour, and after several complaints as to the delay, I was invited into the Custody Suite.