Eye Contact by Fergus McNeill

morning he felt a renewed sense of loss as her face smiled out at him from years ago. He’d tried to bury his feelings, but the part of him that cried out for her rose starkly in his mind once more.
    ‘Hello?’
    The quiet voice on the other end of the line snapped him back to the present.
    ‘Morning, Charles . . . Tell me you’ve got some good news.’
    ‘Patience is a virtue, Graham. We’ve only done the preliminary workup and there’s still a lot to go over.’
    ‘That doesn’t sound encouraging.’
    ‘It is what it is. Want me to run through the headlines?’
    ‘Please.’
    ‘Okay . . .’ Brennan started reading through his notes. ‘Cause of death was asphyxia – she was strangled, and it was hands-on-the-throat as you said. Killer was probably male, judging by the force used and the size of his hands. Oh, and I can’t be sure yet but I think he may have worn gloves.’
    ‘Really?’ Harland scribbled in his notebook. In warm weather, gloves suggested something premeditated.
    ‘Yes, thought you’d like that,’ Brennan said. ‘We’ve narrowed the time of death to somewhere between three a.m. and nine a.m. the day before, so the body had probably been out there for twenty-four hours or so when it was discovered. It’ll be hard to get more specific – the tides haven’t done us any favours.’
    ‘Do you think she may have been washed up from somewhere else?’
    ‘No. Her lungs were absolutely dry, and there was a clog of undissolved mud in her mouth. It looks as though she was killed right there where you found her.’
    ‘That’s what we thought,’ Harland agreed. ‘Anything else on the body?’
    ‘She appears to have taken a serious blow to the stomach. Did you see the bruising?’
    ‘No . . .’
    The door opened and DS Pope wandered into the room. Harland’s shoulders sagged. Somehow Russell Pope just didn’t look like an officer – below average height, slightly chubby figure, with glasses that made his eyes appear small.
    ‘Morning, sir,’ he mouthed, with a bland smile. His thick hair seemed lighter since the holiday and he was undoubtedly pleased with his tan.
    ‘Something hit her very hard,’ Brennan was saying. ‘It looks like there was a bit of a struggle but this blow was much worse than the usual knocks and grazes you’d expect to find – one of her ribs was pushed right back into the abdomen.’
    Harland nodded and continued to make notes, aware of Pope hovering in front of his desk.
    ‘I’d say that it happened just before she was killed,’ Brennan continued. ‘But there’s no sign of any interference with the body after death, sexual or otherwise.’
    ‘Sorry, Charles, just a moment.’ Harland put his hand over the mouthpiece and stared up at Pope. ‘I’m on the phone.’
    Pope just nodded.
    ‘No rush,’ he shrugged, oblivious.
    Harland glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the call.
    ‘So, no DNA then?’ He sighed.
    ‘Nothing so far.’
    ‘And the fragments of plastic?’
    ‘They’re all consistent with the type of sports watch a runner might wear,’ Brennan said. ‘The pieces under the body suggest there may be a small patch of ground that wasn’t swept clean by the waves but we’ve not found anything else in it yet.’
    ‘Keep looking, will you?’ Harland continued to make notes but his eyes were following Pope around the room.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Brennan replied. ‘Look, I have another call waiting, can I get back to you on the rest of it?’
    ‘Of course.’ Harland put his pen on the desk. ‘Thanks, Charles. Bye.’
    He put the phone down as Pope turned to face him with his usual watery smile.
    ‘Things going badly?’ he asked, with a monotonous contentment that Harland had learned to detest.
    ‘Today hasn’t started that well,’ Harland answered truthfully, but the irony was wasted on Pope. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
    ‘Well, first day back after two weeks lying in the sun . . .’ he gave a