So he was all the more astonished when she raised her hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. ‘OK, I give in. The right thing to do is contact the police.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Before you ask, I’d say somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six hours ago.’

The jowly, time-wearied features of the medical examiner were in sharp contrast to those of the ashen-faced cadaver of the young man on the metal trolley that lay between them. Mid to late twenties, Frank had said. Sally had had little doubt he’d been drinking before he died, even before Frank had confirmed it from the tests he’d run. The stench of it managed to overpower the unpleasant whiff of the examination room. There was no sign of illegal substance abuse and none of the tell-tale needle marks. But from his build and muscle development Sally had already known this one wasn’t going to turn out to be drug-related. That at least gave her something to be grateful for. She’d seen enough of those to last her a lifetime when she’d been a young beat copper in Bristol.

‘You can put the sheet down now, Frank! I’ve seen a dead body before,’ Sally said.

‘But they’re all different, you see. This particular example has been struck down from behind with something heavy.’ The rotund little Welshman swung his arms above his head theatrically, miming the way in which the fatal blow had been dealt. ‘Left what you might call a lasting impression on him.’ He smiled, clearly satisfied with his humorous offering.

‘Couldn’t he just have fallen backwards and hit his head on something?’

‘You tell me. I’m the medical examiner, not SOCO. Did they find any blood spatter at the scene?’

Sally shrugged. ‘I’m still waiting for the report.’

‘Well, patience is a virtue.’ He paused then winked at her. ‘So they tell me.’

He washed his hands at a small stainless-steel sink in the corner of the room before turning to face her. ‘Fancy a cuppa? I might be able to stretch to a slice of malt loaf if you’re lucky.’

As long as Sally had known him, Frank Barlow’s office had suffered from a slightly unsettling odour that sat somewhere between mouldy fruit cake and Milton fluid. It was a cramped affair on the ground floor, with a window that gave onto a view of bumpers and exhaust pipes in the car park. But Frank wasn’t a man to grumble. Instead he found solace in food and drink.

His desk was jammed up against the wall and they were sitting knee-to-knee eating buttered malt loaf.

‘How’s it going with Morgan off?’

Sally shrugged her shoulders and munched on a mouthful.

Frank peered over the thick frames of his glasses. ‘You look knackered, girl.’

‘Thanks, Frank. You always know how to make a girl feel better.’