Tide of Death

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Andy Horton stared at the body. The face was almost obliterated. Blood had seeped on to the pebbled beach, dark red, staining the stones around the man's head. Bottle-green seaweed was wrapped around his ankles and he was naked; his arms were outstretched, the palms facing upward, fingers curled.

Horton averted his eyes and lowered his head over his torso, trying to catch his breath from his run. His stomach churned at the shock of such a gruesome discovery. It wasn't that he had never seen a dead body before, or a violent death; on the contrary in his job they were all too plentiful. No, it was the unexpectedness of running into one that temporarily unnerved him. He usually arrived after some other poor sod had found it. And he'd got out of practice; eight months away from the sharp end had softened him.

He straightened up, wiping the sweat from his face, and stared around but all he could see was fog and all he could hear was the mournful boom of the foghorns in the Solent calling to one another like long lost giants.

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