The Lochside Murder: A Dorset Crime Novella by Rachel McLean, book 7.5 in the Dorset Crime series - Chapter 1

The room was dark when DCI Lesley Clarke woke up, and for a moment she wondered where she was.

She lay back on the pillows, listening. The flat she and Elsa shared in Bournemouth was quiet in the mornings, the only sound the seagulls screeching over the beach three streets away.

But the bed was at the wrong angle. She could see light seeping round curtains and it was at the side of the bed, not the foot.

She remembered, smiling. Rolling over, she snuggled up to Elsa.

“Morning, Mrs Clarke.”

Elsa grunted and turned over. There was no Morning, Mrs Short in return.

Lesley rolled onto her back and stared up into the darkness. They’d arrived late the previous night, picking their way down a path lit only by dim wall-mounted lanterns and convincing themselves that the vague reflections they could see and the quiet swish they could hear meant that Loch Lomond really was right in front of their cabin. In the dark, it was difficult to tell.

She reached over to the bedside table and picked up her phone. 6.45 am. Her subconscious was insistent on reminding her it was a work day.

She yawned.

Go back to sleep, woman.

But she was wide awake. And she wanted to check the view beyond those curtains.

She slid out of bed, careful not to wake the now-snoring Elsa, and padded to the stairs leading from their mezzanine bedroom to the open plan living room below. She’d hauled their cases up those stairs last night; there was no way she was forgetting the layout.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lesley paused. The windows spanned almost the entire front wall of the cabin, so close to the loch they might as well have been in a boat.

She walked to the nearest window and leaned her forehead against the glass. It was cool, but not as chilly as she’d been expecting.

But out there, it would be freezing. March in Scotland? Ice blocks.

Yawning, she flicked the coffee maker on and inserted a pod. Five minutes later she was back at the window, watching birds skim across the water and clouds scud over the mountains beyond the opposite bank.

It was beautiful.

She checked her phone again – still not seven o’clock. She had a good hour before Elsa would stir.

She went to the rucksack by the front door and pulled out her fleece, hat and gloves. She crept back upstairs and grabbed her jeans from a chair, then crept downstairs to pull them on over her pyjamas.

Her thickest winter coat, the one she’d bought after her first case in Dorset had made it clear that practical clothes would be the order of the day, was on a hook by the door. She shrugged it on, turned the key in the lock and stepped outside.

My God, it was cold.

She tugged on her gloves and pulled her hat further down her head, wishing she’d brought a second one. She zipped up the coat and batted her hands together to try and inject some warmth into her arms.

Get moving. That would warm her up.

The only way along the loch side – or anywhere, really – was back up the narrow path they’d come down last night, through a gate and along another path leading past two other holiday homes to the south. To her right, past some trees, was the A82. Elsa had driven along it the night before, headlights appearing intermittently from the opposite direction and blinding them. It was a fast road, but a quiet one. The worst kind.

Beyond the holiday homes, she found a path leading along the banks of the loch. This was better. She picked up her pace, feeling the blood return to her extremities, and hummed under her breath.

The Wedding March.

She smiled. They hadn’t even played that, but it had been stuck in her head for days now. Days during which she’d been busy solving the murder of a local criminal, and worrying her new wife might have something to do with it.

She’d stopped worrying now. Elsa had promised to have nothing to do with the Kelvin family from now on, and they couldn’t exactly forge a life together if Lesley wasn’t prepared to believe her.

After five minutes of walking, she came to a bend in the path leading inland and around another group of houses. More holiday properties. No actual homes along here, it seemed. It reminded her of parts of Dorset. Bustling in the summer, deserted in the winter.

She liked the winter months. At least she could get to a crime scene in under an hour, and didn’t have to fight her way past the queue to use the Sandbanks ferry.

She rounded the houses and followed the path back to the water’s edge. It led to the back door of one of the properties, but there was no sign of occupation. Besides: this was Scotland. Wasn’t there a right to roam?

There was a small shingle beach next to the house. It would give her a great view.

But as she neared the water, she smelt something that made her stop in her tracks.

Lesley sniffed again, then stopped herself, wishing she could close her nostrils.

She knew that smell.

Shit.

I’m on bloody holiday.

She should turn back.

Turn around and go back to her wife. Forget all about it.

But any responsible member of the public would investigate further. Make a call.

She didn’t have to be a copper. She could just be a civic-minded passer-by.

She picked her way over the shingle towards a jetty that led out over the water. There was a shape under the jetty, partially but not completely obscured.

Lesley’s stomach lurched.

She put a hand to her mouth.

Dear God. Poor bastard.

The body was on its back, legs splayed into the water. It wore what looked like red trousers and a brown jacket.

It was wedged under the jetty, jammed there in a way that prevented the body from moving with the currents in the water.

It wasn’t clear if it was a man or woman, young or old. Mainly because the face had been all but destroyed.

Lesley turned away and took a breath.

OK. She took another breath. Make the call. Don’t get involved.

Police Scotland would sort it out.

Wouldn’t they?

Of course they would.

She’d brought her phone with her, in case Elsa woke. She turned away from the body, pushed out a juddering breath, and dialled.