" black lace-ups and wiggled her toes inside her ugly police-issue regulation black tights. Her big toe had gone right through the hole in the tights now and a ladder was climbing up towards one of her big footballer’s knees. ‘It’ll be some old bloke who’s been lying here for weeks,’ she said. ‘I bloody hate them.’ ‘I hate train jumpers.’ ‘Dead kiddies.’ ‘Yeah. They’re the worst,’ Arkwright agreed. Dead children were trumps, every time. Tracy took her thumb off the doorbell and tried turning the door handle. Locked. ‘Ah, Jesus, Arkwright, it’s humming in there. Something that’s not about to get up and walk away, that’s for sure.’ Arkwright banged on the door and shouted, ‘Hello, it’s the police here, is anyone in there? Shit, Tracy, can you hear that?’ ‘Flies?’ Ken Arkwright bent down and looked through the letterbox. ‘Oh, "

― Kate Atkinson , Started Early, Took My Dog (Jackson Brodie, #4)