‘Paul taught me to treat every unexplained death scene as a possible murder – we don’t know yet whether she fell or was pushed. I’m just going to take a quick look and see if there’s anything that needs urgent preservation for forensics.’

She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her shoulder bag.

‘You always carry those around with you?’

‘Yep, a couple of pairs at least. If you go around touching things at a scene without them, you could destroy or contaminate potential evidence. If the locals turn up before I’m back, you tell them to stay out of the pub.’

Jane stood at the top of the short flight of steep stone steps leading to the cellar and crouched down. The light was on and she could see the dead woman’s face, her eyes wide open as if frozen with fear. A two-foot pool of blood surrounded her head and the outer few inches of the pool had congealed, indicating to Jane that Fiona had lain there motionless for some time. She looked closely at the steps and the carpet in the hallway leading to the cellar, but there was no sign of any blood trail or droplets. She made notes in her pocket notebook of her observations, and the fact that the cellar light switch was in the hallway by the cellar door. Then she checked the saloon bar door, which was bolted shut, top and bottom, as was the public door to the beer garden. There were dirty beer glasses on the tables and bars, and no sign of any disturbance to indicate a struggle might have taken place.

Jane went into the beer garden through the private rear door, to look at the gate in the wall. It had a Yale lock, which could only be opened from the inside by turning the oblong knob. She made some notes before removing the set of keys from the private back-door Chubb lock, which she put in an empty plastic coin bag she found next to the till.

She went to speak to Teflon, who was talking with a PC. Jane asked the officer to man the lounge bar door and not let anyone in without her permission, and to record the names and times any authorised persons entered and left the premises.

‘Is it Fiona Simpson?’ Teflon asked.

‘Yes. Did you have to unbolt the lounge bar door to get out?’

‘Yes. Is there a problem?’

‘It seems she’d locked up the lounge and saloon bar doors before she died, but she left the back door open, which makes me wonder if someone other than Fiona opened the back door to leave via the beer garden.’ She held up the coin bag with the keys in it. ‘With a bit of luck, we might get a fingerprint off the Chubb key or Yale lock on the garden door. Was the cellar light on or off when you found her?’