They walked back down the path, picking their steps as the snow gradually turned to slush.
‘You want to head over to the care home?’ Chris said.
Clare considered this. ‘I’m not sure. If the mother isn’t capable of understanding what’s happened…’
‘Maybe worth speaking to the matron, or whatever they’re called these days.’
Clare nodded. ‘Can you call the home, please? Find out if it’s worth us sending someone over.’
‘Yeah, sure. What about the ex-husband? Want to call in on him?’
Clare frowned. ‘I’m not sure. If it’s five years since they divorced, would he know anything?’
‘If the mother’s not able to tell us anything it might be worth speaking to him.’
‘Fair point. Can you get onto the control room then? See if they can find the number in Buchanan Gardens. Remember he’s a partner in Sharp and Lafferty. Might help track him down.’ She glanced back at Alison’s front door. ‘I just want a quick word with Raymond.’
Clare went through the tedious but necessary process of suiting up again then she stepped back into Alison Reid’s house. Raymond was standing just outside the bathroom door directing the police photographer while his team were waiting to take swabs from around the bath.
‘Anything significant?’ she asked.
‘Not much yet,’ he said. ‘Place is pretty tidy. No evidence of forced entry. Some snacks in bowls on a coffee table so we’ll take them away and check for DNA. I’m not convinced it is a suspicious death but we’ll check anyway. There is one thing, though…’
‘Yes?’
‘In the kitchen – we found a cork from a wine bottle. And the corkscrew sitting beside it.’
‘Do you think she got drunk and fell asleep in the bath?’
‘As to that, you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem. See how much alcohol’s in her system. But that’s not what I meant.’
Clare waited.
‘We’ve had a good look round and can’t find the bottle. No glasses in the sink either – or the dishwasher.’
‘Neighbour says she was very tidy. She’ll have washed up. Put the glasses away, no?’
‘If she was that tidy, Clare, why leave the cork and corkscrew out? And would someone drunk enough to fall asleep in the bath manage to wash and dry her wine glass, never mind dispose of the bottle?’
Clare considered this for a moment then said, ‘What about recycling? She might have a bag of bottles somewhere.’
‘Way ahead of you. There’s a bag in the utility room but only one bottle and it’s a screw cap. And no bottle in the fridge or anywhere else, as far as we can see.’
‘Checked the bin?’
‘Yep. Nothing there, although we’ve not been right through the contents yet. But the cork and corkscrew being on the kitchen table suggests she had the wine recently. So even if she did put the bottle in the bin it would be at the top.’
Clare fell silent again. Was there something here? Or was Raymond reading too much into a carelessly discarded wine cork? If Tanya Sullivan was to be believed, Alison Reid wasn’t the carelessly discarding type. ‘Okay, Raymond. Best check the rest of the bin. Let me know if you find the bottle. What about the body?’
‘You’ve had a look, yeah?’
‘Just a peep. Fully suited up, of course.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not accusing you, Clare.’
‘So?’
‘Well, it’ll be the pathologist’s call but I’d say she’s been there a maybe a couple of days. The abdomen’s distended which suggests putrefaction and there’s a tidemark round the bath above the current water level.’
‘The body gases have raised her up, allowing the water level to drop.’
‘You’re learning! We’ll make a scientist of you yet, Clare.’
‘And her neck – any thoughts on the marks?’
Raymond’s brow clouded. ‘It’ll be easier to see once they have her at the mortuary. But there definitely is some bruising.’
‘So she could have been strangled…’
Raymond hesitated. Then he said, ‘I think you need the pathologist’s opinion on that, Clare. I wouldn’t like to commit myself. The bruising – I’m not sure it’s enough for strangulation, unless she really was so drunk that she didn’t put up a struggle. But even then…’
‘Okay, Raymond. Thanks for that. Let me know if there’s anything else once you’re done please.’
‘Will do, Clare.’
‘Mind if I just…’
‘As long as you’re careful. You know the drill. Touch nothing, take nothing.’
Leaving Raymond to his photographer, Clare moved carefully through the house. The safety conscious part of her wanted to switch off the Christmas tree lights but she resisted the urge. The sitting room was tidy enough, similar in size to Tanya Sullivan’s house next door but Clare couldn’t help thinking how two people can make the same room look quite different. Instead of the large dark blue sofas there was a small two-seater in a dark red fabric, dotted with cushions, and two occasional chairs, different from the two-seater. There was a TV set but it sat inconspicuously in a corner, the remote control on a nearby shelf. One wall was lined with bookcases and Clare’s eyes flicked across, taking in Alison’s eclectic choice of reading matter: from Jane Austen to Kingsley Amis; Lonely Planet travel guides, political biographies and books by Ben Goldacre. Clare thought she might have liked Alison Reid.
She turned away from the bookcases and her eye fell on the coffee table – solid oak with chunky legs. It was clutter-free, apart from a copy of the Christmas Radio Times and two bowls of snacks. She wondered about that. There were pistachios in a bowl but no empty shells. Peering down at the carpet she could see a few crumbs had been dropped from the Bombay Mix. Maybe they would get something from the bowls. She had to hope so. She looked round the room once more then moved through to the dining room. The table was clear, apart from a laptop and a poinsettia, now drooping for the want of water. A light wood sideboard stood against one wall and Clare saw that none of the furniture matched. The sideboard didn’t look new and she wondered if it was a family heirloom or if Alison had been reduced to furnishing this house from one of the growing number of second-hand shops. Maybe Miles Sharp had played awkward when it had come to dividing up their possessions. Or maybe she preferred recycled furniture. Judging by the contents of her bookshelves, Alison Reid was someone who cared about the planet.
She glanced in the kitchen and saw it was serviceable enough. Probably the original cupboards from when the house was built. It was miles away from Tanya Sullivan’s kitchen with its integrated appliances and modern units, but it was clean and well cared for. A SOCO officer was bagging the wine cork and the corkscrew and Clare drew back so she wasn’t in his way. Something caught her eye and she bent to peer at the oven.
‘Something in there, I think,’ she said and the SOCO officer nodded.
She made her way back out into the hall and ascended the stairs. There were two rooms furnished as bedrooms and a smaller one which appeared to be a study. Clare stepped carefully into the room. It was built into the eaves and surprisingly bright for such a small space. The only window was a small Velux above Clare’s head. She looked up and saw snow sliding slowly down the glass, allowing a shaft of sunlight into the room. A bookcase stood against the wall below the window, filled with books which Clare assumed were related to her work. There were tax manuals, books on accounting principles and a guide to Excel spreadsheets. A Pukka pad sat on the desk with a tray of pens and paperclips to the side. Clare smiled at a coaster bearing the words,
There are 3 kinds of accountants in the world:
Those who can count and those who can’t
To the right of the desk was a sturdy shelf holding a row of neatly labelled lever arch files. Clare studied the labels: Bank Statements, Bills, Legal Correspondence, Training Courses… all perfectly normal. She stepped carefully back out of the room and opened a door to the right.
Alison’s bedroom was painted in a pale lavender shade, carpeted in a grey flecked pattern. The matching bedding and curtains were a deeper shade of lilac and Clare thought they were vaguely familiar. Marks & Spencer, maybe? She wasn’t sure. She glanced round the room and saw it was as tidy as the rest of the house. A paperback sat on a bedside table, alongside a radio alarm clock and a pair of reading glasses. A cream dressing gown hung on a hook on the back of the door, reminding Clare of Tanya’s comment about Alison’s clothes, carelessly discarded on the bathroom floor.
The other room had a bed and a chest of drawers but otherwise was unfurnished. Looking round, Clare thought Alison couldn’t have had many house guests.
She made her way back down the stairs, reflecting on the house and its occupant, now lying dead in the bath. Nothing in these rooms particularly matched. Some of the furniture had seen better days. And yet Clare thought she would have felt more at home here in these simply put-together rooms than in the newly carpeted house next door.
Outside, Chris was on the phone, scribbling something on his hand. As Clare approached he ended the call.
‘Got the address for Miles Sharp.’
‘And the care home?’
He shook his head. ‘I spoke to the manager. The mother’s dementia is pretty advanced. She doesn’t think the news would sink in. I’ve asked her to let us know if there’s any change.’
Clare glanced at her watch. It was eleven already. ‘Alison Reid’s work won’t be open until tomorrow at the earliest. Let’s call on the ex-husband. I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to help after five years but it’s worth a shot.’