The last one

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.