Jem wished she’d been privy to that discussion. She might not know the AP, but she was very well acquainted with the “lady doctor” in question, and Harriet Lacey did not suffer fools.

“Speak of the devil,” Rosie said, and Jem looked up to see the AP stalking across the small clearing. He was younger than her, and his ill-advised moustache and goatee combo spoke of a thwarted desire to mask his baby face. She knew his type well: excellent in paramedic theory but craptastic in practice.

“Jemima Pardon?” he said.

“Yes.” Jem stayed seated, despite the authority he was trying to project. “Well, Jem. I go by Jem.”

“I need to speak to you about all this.” He gestured offhand toward the body. “Are you in tomorrow?”

“No, I’m back on a day shift on Wednesday.”

He entered a note on his mobile. “Darnton, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I work the six-six line.”

“I know. I’ve heard all about you.” There was no humour or kindness in the comment, just a snide undertone that made her bristle.

“I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking,” she said, and he stared at her as if she’d slapped him. She didn’t care. If his role here wasn’t to support her and act as her advocate, then he was surplus to requirements. He scratched his beard, seeming simultaneously ill at ease and irritated by her insubordination.

“Wednesday morning, then. I’ll arrange for you to be taken off the road.”

“Fill your boots,” she said, but he was already striding away, his radio bleeping for attention. “Tosser,” she muttered.

Rosie leaned into her in a subtle show of support. “Ignore him,” she said, and gave her an Uncle Joe’s Mint Ball.

They sat in silence, sucking their sweets and waiting for permission to start the long walk back to Ellery. The scene grew brighter as a generator rumbled to life and then quieter as people dispersed to fingertip-search the immediate area. Jem was half-dozing, mechanically crunching the last of her mint, when a touch on her shoulder startled her. Harriet Lacey was standing in front of her with her arms folded, radiating authority in a manner the AP could only have dreamed of. If the mud allowed, she’d probably have been tapping her foot.

“Do I need to take a look at you?” she asked, and clipped a probe on Jem’s finger regardless.

Jem squinted at the numbers. Pulse at one hundred and two, and oxygen saturations of ninety-five percent. Not brilliant, but acceptable by her standards.

“Apparently not,” she said, and stuck out her tongue as Harriet narrowed her eyes.

“Warm shower, dry clothes, hot drink, and something to eat,” Harriet told her, and then switched her attention to Rosie, who appeared to be on the verge of saluting. “Officer Jones, could you please call me on this number if Jem decides not to follow my advice?”