‘Silence of the Lambs?’
That got her a puzzled shrug.
Seriously?
Thought he was meant to be into movies?
‘Oh, come on, youmust’veseenSilence of the Lambs! The victim’s got a death’s-head moth in his throat? That’s how we know the killer’s into metamorphosis?’
‘Sorry.’
Unbelievable. ‘I’m working with cultural philistines.’ Shepuffed out a deep, disappointed breath, then went back to the body. Cupping the jaw between her hands and wobbling the whole head from side to side. Moved without a problem – nice and loose. ‘No sign of rigor mortis, so death was probably between twelve and eighteen hours ago. Six hours to get stiff, six hours being stiff, six hours to go floppy again. Like with Viagra.’ She gave Moore a wink and he blushed. ‘Attend enough post mortems and something’s bound to rub off.’ Like morbid frottage.
‘It’s...’ he checked his watch, ‘twenty-five to ten. Eighteen hours ago we’d only just finished the ceremony. They were still doing photographs.’
‘Well, maybe he’s at thegetting-stiff stage, then? Time of death’s more an art than a science. That’s why pathologists make such a production out of it.’
She worked her fingers down and in, feeling her way through that suspiciously dark mop of hair, which wasdefinitelydyed, because a teeny sliver of grey roots was just visible where they joined the scalp.
Ooh, now that was interesting.
The fingers on her right hand explored the indentation again. Little hard bits moving beneath the skin, about the diameter of a golf ball. Like someone had been a bit too rough with a chocolate Easter egg.
‘Got a squishy bit at the back here, on the right – well, my right, not his – the skull’s gone crackly.’
‘Blunt instrument to the back of the head?’
‘Probably.’ She let go and held her hand up, rubbing her fingertips together in the fridge’s cold light. A tiny smear of dark red marked the blue nitrile. ‘Or he fell on something. Difficult to say without X-rays.’ Frown. ‘Anyway, time for the main event.’ She tilted Sir Reginald’s head back and opened his mouth wide. Took her phone and shone its torch inside.
‘Well? Is it a moth?’
‘Course it’s no’ a moth.’ Black and a little bit shiny. Fabric. All balled up in there. She held out her hand. ‘Pass us those tongs.’
He did.
To be honest, they were far too large, clearly the kind of implements more suited to burning sausages on a barbecue than performing delicate post-mortem procedures, the tips covered in thick red silicone. Still, it wasn’t like Sir Reginald was going to complain, was it?
Roberta went fishing in his gaping mouth, pinching an edge of fabric between the silicone points. ‘Gotcha!’ She pulled whatever it was free and held it aloft in triumph. Where it promptly unfurled itself like a little black flag, revealing its true nature. ‘Oh.’
Sergeant Moore cleared his throat. ‘Dearie me...’
The ‘thing’ stuffed down Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott’s throat was a pair of lacy silk panties. Expensive ones, not end-of-season-bargain-bin Ann Summers. A thong, though, so even more bumcrackular than the Brazilian ones Susan had bought. ‘Well, I guess that explains why his PJs were round his ankles.’
‘Dirty old bugger.’ The smile faded on Moore’s face. ‘You don’t think we should check he’s not been... you know, erm...interferedwith. Sexually.’
Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘You any idea how to do that?’
A grimace and a shaken head.
‘Didn’t think so.’ She lowered the panties into a pilfered freezer bag and tied the top. Didn’t look as if they’d been worn – no handy stains on the gusset – but maybe, when the cavalry arrived, they could get some DNA off the things? ‘So, we’ve narrowed it down to: sexual adventure goes horribly wrong; jilted lover takes revenge; or jealous husband, in the library, with a claw-hammer.’
Sergeant Moore snapped off his nitrile gloves. ‘Or business deal turns sour and the killer makes it look like something kinky to hide their tracks.’
True.
She frowned at the partially cocooned body. Lot of possible motives there, which didn’t exactly help whittle down their list of suspects. Only one way to make any progress, then.
Roberta wrapped the sheets over Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott’s face again. ‘Get breakfast down you, then we start interrogating folk. See if we can’t find ourselves a murderer.’
