No Tears for the Lost

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The box contained a severed finger.

It lay on a bed of cotton wool like a grisly jewel, dark in colour and slightly curled, the nail torn and rimmed with dirt. The amputation had been made just forward of the main knuckle, the separation ragged and crude, a flap of skin hanging on one side.

‘Who delivered this?’ He couldn’t take his eyes off it, his voice barely above a whisper. A faint smell of chemicals hung in the air, overlaid with something he didn’t recognise. The unstamped brown envelope which had contained the box lay discarded, the front bearing three simple words in bold print: Sir Kenneth Myburghe.

‘I don’t know, Sir Kenneth.’ The man in the smart grey suit spoke respectfully, his voice a deep rumble. He stood in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame. ‘It was on the doorstep.’ His face, all angles and crags, stayed carefully blank. ‘There was nobody about.’

‘Go check. Search the grounds.’ Myburghe brushed at a stray lock of distinguished grey hair above one ear. A faint sheen of perspiration had appeared on the mottled skin above his cheekbones, adding to the already unhealthy appearance of a gaunt face.

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