Ice and blood.
The ice on the surface of the floe was granular, suffering from spring sun and strong winds, and the blood soaked into it. Constable David Maratse knelt beside the patch of blood. He clutched the painter attached to his fibreglass dinghy, ignoring the persistent bump of the sharp bow against the side of the floe, and traced the blood with the tip of his finger. The blood was thick, cool like the ice, but sticky to the touch. The seal carcass, gutted with its skin spread like a bloody angel to Maratse’s right, was a distraction. Maratse had seen the same setup before. And, like before, he was supposed to think the blood came from the seal. The stink of it was in his nose – blood and the creamy fat of blubber.
“Hmm.”
He had fallen for it once.
He would not fall for the same trick twice.
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