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The body was lying supine on the kitchen floor just inside the French windows to the patio. She was wearing a mini-dress, pale pink with a swirly pattern in darker pinks, and from this angle Slider could see a glimpse of pink cotton panties. He felt a rush of relief that they were in place. Statistically, most homicides were young male on young male and heat-of-the-moment, and that was bad enough. He hated it when the victim was female and still more when it was a young one. As the father of two girls, he couldn't bear to think about it.

Dr Gupta was just leaving. His job was only to pronounce life extinct.

Even if the head and body were on opposite sides of the room, a policeman couldn't do it, nor, in the case of suspected crime, could a paramedic. Gupta was a tiny man, thin, bent and shabby-looking, who gave the impression of being desperately over-worked and under-paid. Slider had always felt sorry for him, until he happened to drive past his house one day and was reminded of how much doctors made.

As always, Gupta was dashing off, no time to spare. 'Strangulation. With a ligature,' he threw out, free of charge, as he hurried past.

'Ligature?' Slider queried.

'Not present.' And he was gone.

'Why, his time is worth a thousand pounds a minute!' Atherton said.

'Eh?' said Slider.

'Alice. Through the Looking Glass.' Slider looked blank. 'Never mind. His speech is worth a thousand pounds a word.'

'He didn't have to give an opinion as to cause of death,' Slider pointed out.

That would be the job of the forensic pathologist—in this case Freddie Cameron, who was on his way.

 

He took one last look round the garden, noting how remarkably un- overlooked it was. The fence was too high for anyone to see over, and the neighbouring gardens had mature trees and tall shrubs which would block the view of the patio from upstairs windows. He could only see one window from here, belonging to the house in the next street and catty-corner to this one. That would put it about eighty feet away. Of course, everyone wanted privacy in their garden. Nobody anticipated actually wanting witnesses.

Now he had to look at the body, which was always, even after all these years, a shock. The rituals surrounding death in every society came about for this very reason, that humans, the only animals with awareness of their own mortality, found dead bodies unsettling. It was only a momentary thing before professionalism took over; but it was right that it existed. For the good of a policeman's soul, he should never stop feeling that scalp-prickle at the first sight of the mortal remains of a life untimely extinguished.

Rhianne Morgan had been about five feet five or six. She had been pretty, neat-featured, full-lipped. He saw the livid red mark around the neck, but the face was a normal colour, even pale. The eyes were shut. Her fair hair, a shade below blonde in colour, was loose, shoulder-length, wavy. The dress was fitted at the bust with a short row of buttons from the neckline down to the sternum. The buttons were undone, showing the tops of round young breasts. She had a small tattoo on her left bicep, the circle-and-cross female gender symbol and underneath it, in script, the words Just Be.

'Just be what?' Slider said.

'Hippy-dippy stuff. If you have to ask the question, you won't understand the answer,' Atherton said.

The short nails were painted pink, and she was wearing several cheap silver rings. The feet were bare, and the toenails were painted to match. 'What's in the tumbler?' Slider said. There was about an inch of dark liquid in the bottom. 'Looks like Coke.' He sniffed it. 'Maybe with something in it? We'll get that analysed.'

'So she was just lounging there, reading magazines,' Atherton said, inspecting them. ''Elle, Prima. A couple of months old.'

'They're expensive,' said Slider. 'Maybe she couldn't afford them new.' 'Ah, but this Vogue is the current number.' He turned it over, and read the label stuck on the back. '"Wendell Dental Surgery. Do not remove." She nicked it, the little minx.'

 

Slider felt sad. This child—eighteen was still a child to him—had had nothing to do on a nice day in August but sit alone and leaf through fashion magazines full of clothes she couldn't afford and a glamour beyond her even if she could. Why wasn't she out with friends? Or doing a summer job where she'd meet people and have new experiences? Well, all her experiences were over now. Just be? Now she only had been.

'Scissors?' Atherton queried.

'No sign of blood on 'em,' Slider said. 'But bag 'em anyway. Maybe she was threatened with them.'

'No sign of a struggle,' Atherton said. 'If it weren't for that ligature mark...'

'Maybe she was wearing something tight round her neck—a scarf or something,' Fathom offered.

'It wouldn't leave a mark like that,' Slider said.

'And anyway, who took it off?' Atherton added. He looked around. 'Did he come in through the garden or did she let him in to the house? Renker said there's no sign of a break-in.'

'We'd better go and talk to the father,' Slider said. 'Find out how much got tidied up before Renker arrived.'