Luca Veste is a debut author with a big future – but how do you launch a debut author? Blog tours are a superb way to get the message out, and to show you just how it’s done, we’re taking part in Luca’s tour. To kick off, we’ve asked him to tell you a bit about his writing and his book…
“Dead Gone is out and available to read now. Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d be writing.
It’s not been a long road really – relative to some of the journeys I’ve heard from other writers before being published – but for me personally, it’s been something that became a seemingly unattainable dream that became reality.
I started writing Dead Gone at the end of 2011. It started out vastly different (something I’ve already discussed on this blog tour, check out the previous posts to find out more!), but thanks to a little serendipitous reading, good timing of a psychology lecture, and the time and bravery to scrap three months work, Dead Gone came into being. I wrote the first version in a little over three months. I thought it was great, absolutely what I wanted it to be, and sent it off to an agent I’d been in contact with (and dearly wanted to be represented by) for a while before then.
He rejected it, saying it needed more work.
Not to be deterred, I went away for a few more months and reworked it.
He rejected that version as well.
Thankfully, he was impressed enough with the writing and me as a person, that he offered representation, and after a long conversation, I went back to work on the book. In six weeks, I completely reworked the book. I changed the timeline completely, I rewrote the ending extensively, and changed the gender of one of my main characters.
DI David Murphy and DS Laura Rossi were born and instantly clicked into place. The serial killer they were tracking became more real to me – the story more terrifying.
My agent loved the rewrite and off it went into the land of submission. I’d been aware of the HarperCollins imprint, Avon, for a while before this, due to being mates with one of their authors (who had nothing but good things to say about them). So, when the offer came in from them, I was delighted. My editor there studied in Liverpool, so she knows the city well, and is also an unbelievable source of support for a green around the gills writer.
Still, that was a year ago. Since then, it’s been a nervous wait for this month to arrive. Thankfully, I’ve found support amongst the crime writing community to be incredible. Many, many of my favourite writers read the book and enjoyed it. I’ve got amazing quotes from some massive names in crime fiction adorning the cover. It’s all quite unbelievable.
This blog tour has been fantastic. New reviews and readers. New people met. The response has been amazing and overwhelming. Appreciation exudes from me like a big exude-y thing.
Next month, the paperback comes out. I’ll be launching it in London in a great independent bookshop. The week after, I’ll be ticking another item off the bucket list by having an event at Waterstones in my home city, Liverpool.
Dead Gone is out and available to read now…and no matter what the journey has been, or how long or difficult, having the opportunity to say that is something I wouldn’t trade in for anything.” Luca Veste
Below is a list of the blogs hosting articles by Luca to celebrate the launch – at each one you’ll see he has given a slightly different angle on the book, creating a narrative thread that reveals more at each stop…each blog also displays the blog badge below, thereby benefiting from the backlinks from each article (and Google loves backlinks!).
Blog tours are a win win for authors and bloggers. But if you’re planning a blog tour, don’t just pick any blog or your best friend’s blog – try and match your book to your reader, working out which blogs potential readers of your book will be interested in – your aim is to spread the word to as far as possible to a targeted readership. Here are the blogs involved in Luca’s tour:
A Lover of Books (Sonya Kemp) – 4th December
Fiction Fascination (Carly Chambers) – 5th December
Raven Crime Reads (Jackie Farrant) – 6th December
Laura’s Little Book Blog (Laura Delve) – 9th December
Novel Kicks – 10th December
The Little Reader Library (Lindsay Healy) – 11th December
And writing.ie on 12th December…
Dead Gone was released as an eBook on 5th December, £1.99, and has been described as “a chilling début from a writer to watch…” by Mark Billingham, and “tense and darkly playful, Dead Gone is a cleverly constructed début thriller that explores the twisted potential for psychological experimentation. Murphy and Rossi are a fresh and intriguing detective partnership and Luca Veste casts a fascinating new light on the Scouse sensibility,” by Chris Ewan.
So what’s it about? Here’s the blurb: A serial killer is stalking the streets of Liverpool, gruesomely murdering victims as part of a series of infamous unethical and deadly psychological experiments.
When it becomes apparent that each victim has ties to the City of Liverpool University, DI David Murphy and DS Laura Rossi realise they’re chasing a killer unlike any they’ve hunted before – one who doesn’t just want their bodies, but wants their minds.
With a series of psychological twists, Dead Gone will chill readers to the bone, and keep them guessing until the very end. Utterly gripping and perfect for fans of Stuart MacBride and Mark Billingham, Luca Veste has succeeded in weaving a darkly sinister world within the streets and educational institutions of his hometown.
And HERE are the opening pages:
Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
We are taught from an early age to fear death, that unknowable force we are all moving towards, simply by existing. However, this aspect of human life is not one discussed easily amongst those in western society. Death is not an easy topic to discuss openly, without the fear of perhaps upsetting or insulting. This one aspect that binds us all together, touches us all, irrespective of race, gender, or orientation; the one thing we all have in common, yet so often it is considered a ‘dark’ subject. Talking about one’s own mortality is considered morbid and morose.
One truth remains however. We all die. Every single living organism experiences death. Indeed, according to Dr. Sigmund Freud, ‘It is the aim of all life.’ We live to die. Homo sapiens as a species have shown great technological advances over the past few centuries. Yet one thing we have not, and will arguably never achieve, is to create a way of dealing with death in a uniform manner as a population. We grieve differently, we die differently.
Death touches us all. Should we fear death, try to actively repel it, through attempts to prolong our lives? If technology moved to such a point that death could be avoided, endless life became a possibility, would we ever be able to really live?
Without being able to investigate death and the repercussions for the deceased, is it possible to study death in any meaningful way, without being able to experience it?
Taken from ‘Life, Death, and Grief’, published in Psychological Society Review, 2008, issue 72.
She hadn’t been afraid of the dark.
Not before it entered her life without her knowing, enveloping her like a second skin, becoming a part of her.
She hadn’t been claustrophobic, petrified the walls were closing in around her. Crushed to death without knowing they’d even moved. Not scared of things that crawled around her toes. Wasn’t afraid to sit alone in a darkened room and wonder if something was touching her face, or if it was just her imagination.
Nope. She wasn’t scared before.
She was now.
It took time to become afraid of those things, and time was all she had, stretching out in front of her without end.
She blamed herself. Blamed her friends. Blamed him. She shouldn’t be there, and someone was to blame for that.
Had to be.
She’d become a responsible adult. The right thing, supposedly. Gone were the days she’d spent going into town, two, sometimes three times a week. Karaoke on a Friday, pulling on a Saturday ‒ if there were any decent lads out ‒ quiet one on a Sunday. Now she was always the first one to leave, early on in the night, when everyone else was just getting started.
She didn’t like the feeling of being drunk. That loss of control, of sensibility. She’d been hungover so many times. She’d decided it wasn’t what responsible adults did. Her mum had drummed that into her one night, holding back her hair as two bottles of white wine and god knows how many vodka and lemonades decided they wanted out.
She’d rather be at home now, watching TV after a day’s work, especially if it meant he was sitting close to her. She didn’t even mind that he always had the laptop on, playing that stupid football management game. Just being there with him was enough.
She still enjoyed a drink at the end of a work day, a glass of wine with a meal and the occasional full bottle at the weekend. But the binging had stopped. That was for certain.
When a Cheeky Vimto cocktail had been forced into her hand by one of the girls who told her she’d love it she didn’t say no. Port and WKD. Who thought of these things? She didn’t care. It tasted bloody great.
One more led to four more, and before she knew it, she was in an eighties-themed nightclub, dancing her heart out to Chesney Hawkes. Two a.m. hit, and she was saying her goodbyes. She loved them all. Her girls. Always left wondering why they didn’t see her more often.
‘Don’t go yet, we’ll all share a taxi later. Club doesn’t shut for another hour.’
‘It’s alright, I’ll be fine. I’m knackered, want my bed. Need to get back … No, it’s okay I’ll walk up to the tunnel stretch by the museum if I can’t get one.’
Voice going hoarse from shouting over the music. Promises to do it all again soon. To give them a text when she’d arrived home.
Finally she was out of the club, the bouncer helping her down the final step. Fresh air hit her, along with the realisation she was as drunk as she’d been in a long time. She began searching through her handbag for her phone, eventually finding it in the same pocket it was always in, wanting to call a taxi to pick her up.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
Too loud. Not in the club any longer, but her voice hadn’t caught onto that fact yet. A couple stared as they passed by, as she continued her argument with the stupid battery-sucking smart phone. The decision to wear comfortable shoes becoming the best idea she’d ever had. She set off for the taxi ranks at the end of Matthew Street, hoping it wouldn’t be too long a wait. She walked past the old Cavern Club, the sound of some shitty band murdering old hits wafting out of the doors, as a few tourists spilled out onto the street.
She couldn’t find a taxi, queues of people down North John Street. She walked away from the lights of the clubs in the city centre, hoping to get one coming out of the tunnel. When she was younger it had been easier, as there was always enough of them to be safe getting the night bus home. Now she had money in her pocket she wouldn’t have to sit on a full bus, the stink of kebabs and vodka shots seeping into her clothes. The lads who were either squaring up to each other, or trying it on with any girl with a pulse. No thank you, she could pay the eight quid and get home without any of that.
She stood on the corner near the museum, waiting for a hackney with its light on to pass her. She wrapped her arms around herself, cold air beginning to bite as she stopped walking and leant against the St John’s Gardens wall, the museum over to her right. The entrance and exit to Birkenhead tunnel directly opposite her. Swaying to silent music.
She was cold, wishing she’d picked a warmer coat when she’d left the house earlier. She’d picked the right shoes, that was supposed to be enough. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen, before a hackney finally came towards her, slowing down before passing her.
It went up towards town, then did a U-turn and headed back her way, coming to a stop in front of her. She opened the door, barely registering the driver at all, just shouted her address at him, and settled back in the seat. She was glad to be in the warmth of the car.
As they drove through the city centre, she began to feel just a little uncomfortable, the driver looking straight ahead, barely acknowledging her presence. He’d not said a word since she’d entered. Must be one of the new foreign drivers that were coming over from Eastern Europe or wherever. Her mum would know. She should ring her mum tomorrow, she thought. She hadn’t been in touch much lately, and she wanted to catch up.
She yawned a few times in succession, the blurred buildings going past becoming hypnotic as the cab wound its way out of the city centre towards home. She battled her tiredness and lost, as her eyes closed and stayed that way.
That was her mistake.
She woke when the cab came to a stop and looked up to see the driver getting out of the cab. Through bleary eyes, confused by the sudden absence of movement, she sat fully upright.
‘I’m awake, it’s okay,’ she called out, but he was already walking around the cab, past her door and out of her sight.
Panic didn’t set in straight away. Confusion was first.
‘Where are we?’ The windows inside had misted over, and she swiped her hand over the pane. To one side she saw trees lining a gravel driveway. She tried opening the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. She moved across the seat, and tried that door handle. Same result. She swiped her hand over the window again, seeing a house to the other side. A strange house. Not her house. Oh shit, not her house.
‘What’s going on?’ She could hear the man’s shoes crunching through the gravel behind the car and then her window darkened. She jumped in her seat. He was crouched level with the window, his face obscured by a black balaclava.
Panic started then.
His voice came through the window. Slow, precise.
‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. So if you scream, no one will hear you. More importantly, if you do scream, I’m going to break the fingers on your right hand. Scream again, and I’ll cut them off. You understand me?’ There was no trace of an accent, yet there was something odd about his voice.
She started to move across the back seat to the opposite door. Adrenaline kicked in. The need to get away, to get out of there, overtaking everything else.
He was quicker though. The door opened behind her and a hand grabbed her by the shoulder. He was strong.
Fight back, fight for her life, fight back.
She used her fists against the opposite window, pulling on the door handle with all her weight, as the man attempted to drag her out.
He got a firm grip of her dress, and placed his arm around her neck, turning her around. She kicked out at him, but felt herself being lifted from the car. He dragged her all the way inside the house, his grip around her throat choking the air out of her lungs. Her eyes drifted downwards and then around. Stone steps with marble pillars to the sides marked the entrance, but she had no time to look at them as she was pulled along a darkened corridor. She needed to breathe properly. Watched as one of her comfortable shoes slipped off and became lost in the darkness. She kicked at the ground, scratched at his arm, used her fingers to try and prise her way out of his hands, but nothing worked. She was being dragged along on her heels.
He stopped, shifted his grip so she was now in a headlock. She could breathe a little. They went through an opening, before she bounced downwards. A staircase, she guessed. She couldn’t tell. It was too dark.
They came to a stop. He took his arm from around her head, and before she had a chance to move, he pushed her with two hands. She fell backwards, landing hard.
She heard, rather than saw a door close. She sprang up, the pain from the fall lost in the midst of heavy breathing and adrenaline.
‘Let me out of here you bastard! Open this door, open it now.’
She was in darkness and grasped at the door, trying to find a handle or anything that would open the door. She used her fists, banging on the door with all her strength. ‘Please, don’t leave me here.’
She continued to bang on the door until her hand started to ache.
She switched hands.
It came then. A voice through the walls, an audible static over it. She stopped, cocking her head to listen.
‘You will be fed. You will have water. There is a hatch opening on the door which can only be opened from the outside, through which this will be provided. On some days your food will have an extra ingredient, in order for me to clean up. You will not know when this is. If you’re good, I won’t have to kill you.’
The voice was silent then. She stood still, straining to hear any other noise, backing away from the door carefully. She put her hands out in front of her, her eyes trying to adjust.
There was no sound, other than her own breathing, panting in and out. She spread her arms around, jumping a little as her hand brushed against a flat surface.
She took a large breath in, struggling to keep the panic in. She couldn’t see the walls around her, yet she could already feel them. Closing in on her.
She was alone, in the darkness.
Sunday 27th January 2013 – Day One
Frosty, brisk air swirled around Sefton Park and its surrounding area, the early morning mist only just beginning to lift above the tree line. Detached houses, set back from the main road, lined the street on one side, where flashing lights from multiple vehicles had drawn out bleary eyed gawkers. They stood on the pavements shifting on cold feet in the early morning light. Mostly, they wouldn’t say two words to each other, but the early morning excitement had driven them out, even caused conversation to break out. At one time the houses had contained whole families, now most were converted apartments, selling for six-figure sums.
Detective Inspector David Murphy turned his attention back to the park over the road; not your small, family friendly, swings and slide type of park. Instead, acres of greenery, beautiful old trees, and enough space to see something new each time you walk through there.
And the odd dead body turning up unannounced.
It was usually suicides.Hanging from a tree or a bunch of pills in the middle of a field. Hoping no one finds them before they go.
But at times it was something else.
He saw the lights in the distance. Blue, red, shifting from left to right. The constant pattern having a seemingly hypnotic effect on those straining to see further into the park beyond. Murphy was sitting in his car, the engine settling as he summoned up the energy to get out and make his way over. The lights of the marked cars parked in front of his Citroen reflected off the dark interior inside, a strobe effect bouncing off the dashboard.
Murphy shook his seatbelt off and leaned forward, attempting to see past the lights and people milling around the park. He slumped back in the seat when it became clear he wouldn’t see anything.
He scratched his beard, the trim he’d performed the previous night giving it a coiffed edge, which he decided said ‘distinguished’ rather than ‘hiding a double chin’. He stifled a yawn and opened the car door, stretching his long legs out, the tight feeling in his calves telling him he’d maybe overdone it on the cross trainer the previous evening, trying to shift those last few pounds of weight.
He’d been awake no more than fifteen minutes when his DCI had called. That made it less than an hour into the day for him, and he was walking towards the body of a dead girl.
Not how Murphy usually liked to start off a day…especially a Sunday. A phone call from work before he’d even had chance to drink his coffee. Have a slice of toast. Put a fresh suit on.
Death could be incredibly selfish.
‘Murphy,’ he’d answered once he’d finally located the phone hiding in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. Stabbed at the screen, trying to answer the stupid thing.
Murphy’s shoulders slumped. DCI Stephens. Which, outside of normal hours, usually signified nothing good. ‘What’s happened?’
‘A body. Suspicious circumstances. Found in Sefton Park.’
‘Not sure of all the details at the moment.’
‘Why else would I be calling you David? I’m not your bloody alarm clock.’
‘It’s been a while, that’s all. Was starting to wonder if I’d be stuck on break-ins for another six months.’
‘Well you’ve got something else now.’
‘Who’s with me?’
‘Rossi or Tony Brannon. Your decision.’
‘Great. Not exactly Sophie’s fucking Choice.’
‘Language. Weren’t you taught never to swear in front of a lady? And anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. How long until you can get down there?’
Murphy crooked his phone between his shoulder and ear. Grabbed his trousers from where they had been lying next to his jeans. ‘Which end?’
‘Which end of what?’
‘The park.’ Jesus wept.
‘Oh, Aigburth Drive. Just look for the lights. Sounds like half the bloody force is there.’
Murphy zipped up his trousers and gave the previous day’s shirt a sniff. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
He left the house five minutes later reversing out the driveway, and onto the road. Decided twenty minutes was probably a little optimistic. It’d probably be double that this time of the morning, even without the usual weekday traffic through the tunnel. He shook his head, tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth, and turned right out of the small winding road which surrounded the small estate, lamenting the fact he was already going to be playing catch up when he got there.
The commute may have been bad, but at least it gave him a chance to wake up. Within five minutes he was on the motorway heading for the Wallasey tunnel, which separated the Wirral and Liverpool. The Wirral is a small peninsula, only separated from Liverpool by the River Mersey, and connected by a mile-long tunnel underneath the seabed.
The Wirral hadn’t always been home. In fact, he’d only been able to call it that for the previous few months. The differences between the two places was closing in recent years. The Wirral was historically known as simultaneously living in Liverpool’s shadow, whilst also enjoying much more wealth than most of Liverpool. These days, the link was closer. Whilst the wealth was still strong in the west of the Wirral, with the likes of West Kirby and Heswall, the destruction of the shipping trade at Cammell Laird’s on the east side meant that the Wirral now had its own pockets of deprivation. Even the kids spoke in a Scouse accent these days, albeit a bastardised version of it. Murphy was comfortable living there, even if the subtle differences became more apparent every day, needling at him.
He loved the city of Liverpool. The people, the buildings, the history. He just needed to time away. Working there was enough for now.
He used his fast tag when he arrived at the Wallasey tunnel booths, and broke the forty mile an hour limit going under the River Mersey, but it was still forty minutes after the phone call by the time he’d pulled the car to a stop.
He walked out into the damp and cold January morning, zipping his coat up as he walked towards the railings which lined the path, hastily strung-up crime scene tape strewn across them. The wide main road was shadowed by high trees on both sides, which masked most of the view. A couple of uniforms stood guard at the park entrance ‒ a quick flash of his warrant card and he was able to pass through.
He could see the hive of activity a couple of hundred yards or so up ahead, near a stone path which cut through the grass on either side, leading from the entrance into the distance. The main activity seemed to be concentrated on a grass verge which went up into the treeline. Murphy dropped his head as the wind picked up, and began walking towards it.
‘Sir!’ Detective Constable Laura Rossi, second generation Italian. Five and a half foot tall, dark long hair. Strong looking, from the broad shoulders which made her look stocky, to the roman nose which complimented her features. Most of the single, and quite a few of the married, lads at the station had tried and failed with her. Murphy wasn’t one of them. She came bounding towards Murphy and brushed her hair away from her face, tucking strands behind her ear. ‘You all right?’
‘What have we got?’ Murphy said as she reached him.
‘Morning to you too sir.’
Murphy looked down at her, Rossi being at least eight inches smaller, and about half his weight. He smiled as she looked up to him, before realising where they were and adopting a stoic face once more. He was glad she was there. In a weird way, and completely without context given he had no kids of his own, he wanted to look after her; be a father figure of some sort. She was inexperienced, he supposed. Needed some guidance. Which, if this was a bona fide murder case, he could definitely do without. Especially considering his last effort. ‘Let’s get on with it. And stop calling me sir, how many times do I have to tell you.’
‘Course. Sorry sir. Young female, found by a corpse sniffer around six a.m. Fully clothed. Nothing around the body, just laid out beneath a tree.’
Murphy looked around and spotted the man she was referring to, talking to some uniforms. An older guy, probably in his mid-sixties, his dog sitting next to him, silent on his lead.
‘He have anything to say?’ Murphy said.
‘Not much, dog ran off into the trees, he went looking for it and found the girl.’
‘Is nobhead here?’
Rossi looked confused. ‘Who’s a nobhead?’
Murphy smiled, still finding it amusing that the Scouse accent didn’t match the Mediterranean looks. ‘Brannon. Is he around?’
Rossi attempted to hold back a laugh behind a hand. Murphy noticed her fingernails, bitten down rather than manicured. ‘Yeah, he’s off on the hunt for clues. His words, not mine.’
‘Good.’ Murphy replied. ‘Fat bastard could do with some exercise. SOCOs here yet?’
‘About twenty minutes before you.’
‘Any other witnesses?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Okay. You looked at the body yet?’
Rossi shook her head.
‘Well then. Let’s not keep her waiting.’
Murphy snapped on his gloves, extra-large, and began walking towards the scene. He could see the Palm House, a large dome building which was the centrepiece of the park, in the distance, past the trees. The great glass windows which gave it the appearance of a huge greenhouse looked dull and lifeless in the muggy morning light.
Murphy and Rossi entered the tent which was being erected around the body. The treeline was thicker there, the ground, still not completely unfrozen from the previous harsh winter, crunching underneath his feet.
The click and whirr of photographs being taken was the only soundtrack to the scene. Murphy let his eyes be drawn to the girl. Early twenties he figured. Plain looking, dressed conservatively in black trousers and a red v-necked jumper. One earring, which meant either one was missing or was now a souvenir.
His money, as always, was on the latter. Always to the morbid thought first. To be fair, he was usually right.
Murphy side-stepped around the edge, carefully avoiding anything that looked important, and stood at the foot of the body, taking it in. She had the distinctive pallor of the dead; pale, the colour drained out of her as the blood stopped flowing. The clothes looked new, unworn, the creases on the jumper looking like they were from packaging, rather than wear.
She was spread-eagled, her arms outstretched in a V, her legs doing the same. Carefully placed in the position. It looked unnatural, posed, which was probably the intention, Murphy thought. Her face was what drew his gaze. Half-lidded eyes, staring right through him. Blue, glazed, the last image they’d captured that of whoever had left her here. Her mouth was slightly parted, the top row of her teeth on show in a final grimace. Ugly, red marks over her bare neck.
Dr Stuart Houghton, Stu to his friends, was crouched next to the girl. He’d been the lead pathologist in the city for as long as Murphy had been working. His grey hair was thinning, his posture looking soft as he stood up from his haunches. His short, squat stature only enhanced by the ever-growing paunch he was cultivating around his middle. He turned to look at Murphy.
‘Dr Houghton, what have we got?’
‘Took your time Dave.’
Murphy shot his hands to his mouth. ‘Calling me Dave when you know I don’t like it? You never fail to shock. And it was only because I knew you’d be here already. What can you tell me?’
‘Are you running this one?’ Houghton said.
Murphy gazed at the pathologist and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I just do as I’m told.’
Houghton pursed his lips at him. ‘Well then, can’t tell you much at the moment,’ he said, gesturing towards the young woman. ‘This is how she was found, her arms and legs outstretched like she’s doing a star jump, only lying down. There’s no evidence around the body as far as we can tell so far, and she’s been dead around twelve hours. No ID, handbag, purse, nothing. Other than that you’ll have to wait for the post mortem for me to tell you more. We’re moving her out now.’
‘Why suspicious then?’ Murphy asked, knowing the answer but wanting to piss off the doc a little more.
Houghton muttered something under his breath before continuing. ‘ As you can no doubt already see, there’s bruises around her neck which indicate asphyxiation. First paramedic on the scene noticed them, and, in my opinion correctly, assumed it was better to call in the big boys.’
Murphy looked closer at the girl. Large bruises under her chin, turning darker as time moved on. A large birthmark, or mole, the colour of strong coffee on the lower left side of her neck.
‘Did she die here?’
‘Not certain yet, but I’m almost positive she wasn’t. No signs of struggle around the area. The grass is flattened only in the immediate vicinity of the body.’
‘Any other distinguishing features aside from the mole, I need to know about straight away. And let us know when the post mortem is.’
Houghton nodded, and went back to work.
Murphy left the tent, Rossi trailing behind him. ‘We’ll take a statement from the witness and then we should try and find out who she is.’
Rossi nodded and set off towards the witness. Murphy began the process of removing his gloves and looking around the area, seeing a few familiar faces from older crime scenes about the place. He nodded and exchanged greetings with some of them.
No one stopped to talk to him.
He wasn’t surprised. He gave one last look at the finished tent, the uniforms walking around the area, looking under the bushes and scouring the ground.
Back to it.
Now you can see how it’s done!