It was a familiar scene: a small table on one side of her with a copy of the TV Times and the remote control, an open box of chocolates, a pair of glasses, the telephone handset and an empty mug. A walking frame was carefully positioned on the other side, if needed.
‘She looks like my nan,’ said Sarah. ‘Her hair looks nice too.’
A single curl of grey had slipped out of place and fallen across the old lady’s forehead.
‘Trish somebody does it for her,’ offered the carer. ‘Her details are in Deirdre’s address book. Does the rounds, you know.’
‘So, you can’t give a cause of death?’ asked Cole, turning to the doctor.
‘I’m afraid not.’ He was shuffling his way towards the door. ‘I’ve got no idea what it is, but she’s not seen her GP in the last twenty-eight days, so it needs to be referred to the coroner anyway.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’ asked Sarah.
‘I’m a doctor not a pathologist, I’m afraid.’ Two steps towards the door this time. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else?’
‘Who closed her eyes?’
‘Nobody, if she died in her sleep.’
‘I think we can let the doctor go now,’ said Cole, stifling a sigh. ‘Sorry.’ He listened to the footsteps on the newspaper in the hall, then the front door slammed shut. ‘When did you last see Mrs Baxter?’ he asked, the carer now following Sarah around the living room, placing newspaper in front of her.
‘I see to Deirdre twice a day. Half an hour in the morning, nine till nine-thirty. I get her up and do her breakfast, make sure she takes her tablets, that sort of thing. Then I come in at six for an hour, cook her supper and get her ready for bed. Trish was cutting her hair late morning, so she must’ve died this afternoon, I suppose.’
‘Tablets?’ Cole again – he was supposed to be in charge, after all.
‘She took a statin and one for her blood pressure. Apart from that she was fine, really. She had a few mobility issues, but that was it.’
‘Would the television usually have been on?’ asked Sarah. She was looking at the family photos on the mantelpiece now. ‘My nan’s is always on.’
‘It’s always on when I come in at six.’ The carer smiled to herself. ‘Deirdre never missed Countdown. She loved watching the golf too; she could tell you who all the players were. Used to be quite a good player herself, apparently. Ladies club champion at Burnham and Berrow back in the day. There are some trophies in the corner cabinet.’
Sarah was standing in front of Deirdre Baxter now, staring down at her body. It wasn’t her first dead body, so Cole wasn’t entirely sure he could understand the fascination.
The carer looked at him and raised her eyebrows, waving what was left of the newspaper in his direction.
‘Miss Marple,’ whispered Cole, with a smirk.
‘Who’s the duty detective inspector?’ asked Sarah.
She had heard his Marple remark, and either blushed with embarrassment or flushed with anger, he couldn’t tell, but he suddenly felt guilty for having said it. ‘Oh, come on, what makes you think CID are going to want to have a look?’ Cole was scrolling though the contacts on his phone, about to ring the coroner’s office.
Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but he didn’t give her a chance.
‘And you know very well who the duty SIO is this weekend. It’s me you have to impress, not him,’ he said, tapping his chest with his phone. ‘I’m the one they’ll ask for a report at the end of your probation.’
‘When was the last time you looked at the intranet?’
‘A couple of weeks ago, maybe.’
‘A couple of months, more like.’
‘There’s never anything on it about rural crimes.’ The sudden realisation she knew something he didn’t washed over him, much like the time that child had thrown up in front of him on the rollercoaster. ‘Let’s hear it then,’ he said, with an air of resignation.
‘Be on the lookout for elderly persons dying alone in unexplained circumstances in their own homes, and refer to CID.’
‘You don’t even like cider.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Detective Chief Inspector Nick Dixon sniffed the mulled cider in the plastic cup that had been thrust into his hand by Home Office pathologist Dr Roger Poland. The pungent waft of mixed herbs and spices was rising in the steam from the hot drink, the warmth from the cup just about making it through his thick gloves. Cinnamon certainly, but God knows what else. Dixon held it up to the light from the fire pit, trying to work out what it was that was floating on the top. Cloves, bits of apple, a twig of some sort. It was best not to look too closely.
‘Try it then,’ said Detective Sergeant Jane Winter, clearly determined not to let him off the hook.
Poland was pushing through the small crowd at the bar, a drink in each hand. ‘Here’s an orange juice for you. It was either that or lemonade,’ he said, offering it to Jane. ‘How far gone are you now?’
‘Six months.’
‘Not long to go then.’ Poland grinned. ‘Think of all those sleepless nights you’ve got to look forward to.’
‘We’re used to them, Roger,’ replied Dixon, still summoning up the courage to try the mulled cider that was rapidly cooling in the cold night air.
‘Good, isn’t it? I got a pint.’ Poland took a swig from the large plastic cup in his right hand. Clearly a connoisseur of mulled cider, he looked as if he was about to gargle with it.
Dixon had taken the glove off his left hand, passed it to Jane, and was now trying to fish a piece of apple from his cup without burning his fingers.
‘Stop mucking about and drink the bloody stuff,’ she muttered. ‘At least you can have a drink.’
‘It smells like mouthwash,’ whispered Dixon.
