‘Newspaper? Which bright spark thought that would be a good idea?’
Dixon recognised the voice. Harinder – ‘call me Hari’ – Patel, the frighteningly efficient crime scene manager. It was no surprise he had arrived, clipboard in hand, before anyone else, even beating the traffic officers summoned to close the road.
Cole and Sarah were knocking on the doors of the immediate neighbours, looking for anyone who might have seen anything; dashcam and doorbell camera footage too. The sleet had turned to rain and Dixon was sheltering in the porch of Deirdre Baxter’s bungalow, replying to a text message from Jane.
Roger’s not happy with you. He was just about to sit down to eat :-) Jx
He dropped his phone in his coat pocket, looking up to see Hari standing on the doorstep, taking a photograph of the line of soggy newspaper in the hall.
‘Uniform attended an unexplained death,’ said Dixon. ‘The deceased’s carer put the paper down to protect the carpets.’
‘An unexplained death?’
‘They, quite properly, referred it to CID, and it was my decision to treat it as a crime scene.’
‘Oh, right.’ Hari softened. ‘I’ll bag it up in that case. You never know, there might be something on it.’ He had already put on a hazmat suit and a very fetching hairnet. He was leaning on the front door frame, stretching a pair of latex overshoes over his white wellington boots. ‘You decided to stay then?’ he asked. ‘Rumour had it you were on your toes.’
‘I decided to stay.’
‘Pleased to hear it.’ Gloves now, his clipboard tucked under his arm. ‘I had a call from a CSM in Warwickshire; wanted to know how I got on with the dipstick of a DCI who likes to trample all over crime scenes.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Get there first in future and lock the door.’
‘Good advice.’
‘I’m going to need to ask you to step outside so I can secure the perimeter.’ Hari had unrolled a length of blue tape – ‘Crime Scene Do Not Cross’ – and was waiting to stick it across the door. ‘This is now a controlled area.’
‘Even the porch?’ Dixon sighed. ‘It’s pissing down with rain.’
‘I’ve got a brolly you can borrow.’
Both ends of the road had now been blocked by patrol cars – more uniformed officers arriving to help with the house to house enquiries. It was late, but not that late, and most of the houses in the lane had lights on behind the twitching curtains anyway.
Dixon watched the patrol car at the top end reversing out of the way to allow a Volvo through the roadblock. This was going to cost him a trip to the Zalshah.
‘Nice curry, was it?’ he asked, approaching the back of Poland’s car, the boot already up. Mercifully, he caught the hazmat suit that came spinning towards him through the air like a frisbee. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ripping open the plastic bag.
‘I never got to eat a bloody thing.’
‘It’ll warm up when you get home.’
‘This is going to cost you a biriani,’ said Poland, his head appearing around the side of the car fleetingly before ducking back inside.
‘I thought as much.’ Dixon had dropped his coat on the back seat of Poland’s car and was putting on the one-piece white suit, which seemed to glow in the streetlights. ‘Did you stay for the end of the wassailing?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much. Jane insisted on leaving before the Morris dancers got going, though.’
‘She shouldn’t be out in the rain in her condition.’
‘That’s what she said.’ Poland was leaning on the back of the car now, trying to wriggle his large frame into a hazmat suit. ‘The message said it was suspected strangulation?’
‘Unexplained, according to the duty doctor, but there are red marks on her neck, Roger.’
‘Could be any number of reasons for that, but then you’ll tell me that’s why I’m here.’
Scientific Services had arrived and two officers were carrying arc lamps into the bungalow, a line of stepping plates replacing the newspaper that was now bagged up and in a plastic crate on the garden path, under a gazebo to keep it out of the rain. Hari had been busy.
He was standing under cover, presumably to keep his clipboard dry. ‘Dr Poland, you may go in,’ he said, ticking the box with a flourish. ‘And DCI Dixon. Time is twenty-two-seventeen.’
Dixon followed Poland along the stepping plates and into the living room.
‘Well?’
‘Her alarm is on the floor under the table, there.’ Dixon watched a suited and booted Scientific Services officer lean over and take a photograph of it. ‘That chair is pulled forward,’ continued Dixon. ‘And someone’s eaten the nut centres. She only liked the soft.’
‘Fuck me, is that it?’ The Scientific Services officer clearly couldn’t help himself.
‘No, it isn’t,’ snapped Dixon. ‘And where’s Donald Watson?’
‘On his way, Sir. He said we should make a start.’
‘There’s something not right about her face, Roger,’ Dixon said, turning back to Deirdre Baxter.
‘The eyes have been closed after death.’ Roger was leaning over the body. ‘The mouth too, by the looks of things. The lips aren’t sitting naturally, but it’s hardly conclusive.’
‘Look at her neck.’
