More Deaths Than One
“IN DEATH, the man in the Porsche was seen to be tall and slimly built, with dark brown, longish hair, dark hairs sprinkling his forearms, nicotine stains on his fingers. There was nothing much else left to tell what he’d looked like in life. The shot had been fired at close range and his face was missing.
He was wearing a heavy dark blue woollen sweater and jeans, and a Rolex Oyster on his wrist. His fashionable grey suede jacket had been thrown onto the seat beside him and was now spattered with the rusty stains of dark, dried blood. He had fallen half across the steering wheel. The shotgun lay on the floor of the car which had been parked in a small clearing under the beeches in the forest, away from the road which wound through it but just off the chief ride where horses were regularly galloped. It had been a late afternoon rider going home who’d found him: a woman, who’d dismounted to point out the notices forbidding parking and got more than she bargained for.
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