a bit that’s neither too short nor too long

Zdravko woke at the sound of the car horn blaring. He got to his feet and brushed himself off. “Over here,” he called, then turned to the tree he’d been leaning on with its sawed-off log for a seat. He thought of Robert Gjoeb sitting there in the cool, not asleep but just thinking, the light angled above him and the smell of pine needles. Maybe not even thinking.
“Zdravko,” said Rusim squeezing through the shrubs.
“Rusim,” said Zdravko turning around.
“You’re the Shakespeare then, isn’t it? You find anything?”
“I found a seat in the forest.”
“Forensics are still fluffing around. But that cottage is a shell.”
“Power on?”
“No power. What seat?”
“We need to check when it was turned off. You sure there’s nothing?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then all we’ve got is a log.”
“What log?”
“This one.”
Rusim leant to one side to look at what was behind Zdravko. “I’ll check the power,” he said.
“Good.”
There was only so much you could learn from a log seat. It was built for someone short. Or maybe for someone who didn’t like to share. Most likely a man, if you could gauge from the wear. But a man who knew how to get his hands on a chainsaw. And a plum property in Mafiaville.
Zdravko and Rusim walked back to the cottage.
“He was a smoker,” said Rusim.
“I know,” said Zdravko.