Corn Dolls [antikvár]

Monday Morning Tom Fletcher loosened his tie. His neck felt damp, due partly to the summer heat. He watched the photographer take another shot, using flash despite the sunlight streaming through glass panels in the roof. The photographer stood back and turned to him. 'Is that the worst you've seen?' Hetcher nodded. In eight years with the Cambridge police, it was the nastiest death he'd encountered. He brushed a fly away from his face. He was standing in a large hangar-type building used as a showroom for farm machinery. In front of him was a line of yellow tape set up by the accident investigators, then a half-circle of tractors for sale. The pairs of headlamps all seemed to be watching something. There was a different machine in the centre of the group. It was a heavy-duty mechanical shredder, designed for cutting up tree branches - really just a set of blades inside a chute that a man could fit into. A man had. A pair of legs was projecting from it, the feet twisted at unnatural angles. Fletcher noticed something puzzling. The shoes. He studied the shoes.