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curiously. ‘Does it upset you?’
    She shook her head. ‘No. It isn’t the sudden death, Mike. It’s the utter ...’ She struggled to find the right words to encompass the whole sordid atmosphere, still illuminated by the pink light from the two shades.
    She suddenly snapped. ‘Switch those bloody things off,’ she said. ‘It’s the unexpectedness of it all.’ She took a deep breath. ‘She didn’t expect to die. I’m sure of that.’
    â€˜Don’t you believe it, madam.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Women,’ he said.
    She couldn’t think of an answer.
    â€˜Well...’ He spoke again after a pause. ‘You’ve had five minutes alone with the body. Who done it?’
    She ignored the jibe. ‘Who done what?’ she said irritably. ‘I’m not sure anyone did anything.’
    â€˜Tell me something, madam.’ He grinned. ‘Do women go to bed alone in that sort of get-up? Do they?’
    â€˜Well, I don’t,’ she said shortly.
    His lips tightened. ‘Or is it only when they’re waiting for a lover? Or don’t you know?’
    â€˜Let’s wait for the doctor, Sergeant. Don’t let your imagination run away with you.’
    â€˜Or perhaps,’ he continued, ‘it was the dog. Then again maybe it was suicide. Or then again, madam, it is just possible it was murder.’ He smirked. ‘Have you looked for the knife in the back?’
    â€˜It’s all possible,’ she said. ‘That’s why we have postmortems.’ She glanced out of the window and caught sight of a white van pulling up. ‘Let the photographer in, Mike. And, Mike,’ she added, ‘we’ll need the next of kin.’
    The indignity of death, she thought, as she watched the flash bulb explode time and time again. ‘And don’t forget the bed,’ she said. ‘I want a picture of that too.’
    She wanted to remember this room in all its sorry gaudiness. Whatever had happened needed light shining through it – not sunlight, flashlight, or moonlight as it would have had last night when Marilyn Smith died, but the full unkind glare of truth.
    The sound of tyres crunched through gravel and Mike crossed to the window. ‘You’ll soon have all your answers,’ he said. ‘Dr Bose has arrived.’
    Sammy Bose had qualified in Nigeria and arrived in Leek eight years ago. At first the locals were suspicious, but Sammy’s genial behaviour plus a certain clinical acumen and an outgoing personality had soon secured him the unenviable burden of police surgeon, and he spent many nights drawing blood from motorists who assured everyone, including the brick walls of police cells, that they had not had one drop over the limit.
    They heard him whistling tunelessly as he mounted the stairs three at a time.
    â€˜Well, what have we here?’ he said. ‘Hello, you two.’ He grinned at them and stared at the figure on the bed. ‘I ...’ He seemed lost for words.
    Joanna stepped forward. ‘Dr Bose,’ she said, ‘can you give us a positive identification? Is this Marilyn Smith?’
    Dr Bose nodded, still speechless, then he swallowed. Yes,’ he said. ‘I knew her quite well. But, God – who would have thought it? Excuse me,’ he said. ‘It’s a shock. I never expected to see her like this.’ He touched the stiff black lace of the basque.
    They stood around the bed while Sammy Bose stared at the corsetry.
    â€˜God,’ he said, ‘this stuff looks expensive.’ Then he grinned suddenly and his dark eyes sparkled. ‘Well, who’d have thought it?’ he said again. ‘I would never have guessed Marilyn had such exotic taste in ... Do they call this stuff underwear? Marilyn.’
    He stared down at the still figure on the bed, her eyes looking at him dumbly from almost-closed lavender lids.