He passed over the keys and examined the dead animal while Peters trooped back to the car. The bite mark did indeed look human, but that didn't necessarily mean the perpetrator was a zombie, however convinced by the idea his sergeant was. There were, he was quite certain, no such thing as zombies. Nor...
White faltered. He was about to say vampires, werewolves and ghosts but he'd seen a lot of odd things in his time as a detective-inspector, some of which he couldn't explain with a plausible theory of cold-war cryogenic chambers. Not that he believed in the Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff versions of the monsters but, well, nature could always be counted on to exploit a niche.
He glanced up. Peters was at the car and had the boot open, searching through the evidence collection kit for a suitable bag. He shooed a fly away from the wound and examined the leg, twisting the body to one side to extend the remains of the leg. The bone was completely gone. It was a wonder the fox hadn't died on the spot from shock and blood loss.
He gave a start when the fox grunted, suddenly afraid Peters had been horrible right, but it was just the fox's lungs collapsing, expelling whatever air had remained in them. He remembered the first time he'd been in a morgue and a body had done that. He'd been the laughing stock of his peers at Hendon police college for weeks.
Peters returned, wading through the undergrowth as if evidence was something that happened to other people. “You need to re-stock your kit, sir. You hadn't anything big enough for a fox.” He handed white a plastic Tesco bag, the reusable sort Beryl made him buy. “This is the best I could find.”