Fletcher tugged up the collar on his sodden coat. It was a futile gesture. He’d probably barely notice the difference if he tumbled into the canal, he was that soaked through.
‘Sir!’ A torch beam danced amongst bare branches; a figure appeared on the towpath. ‘We’ve found her!’
Fletcher picked up his pace, mud sucking at his shoes.
‘This way, Sir.’ The policeman pointed his torch towards a derelict building.
She was lying in the grate of a half-collapsed chimney. Brown hair covered her face, her dress bunched around her waist.
‘She’ll be the last one,’ Fletcher vowed. ‘The last.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.