Ian Barnes scrawled his name onto a clipboard held by a uniformed female constable, then lowered his head under the crime scene tape she raised.
The blue and white plastic cordon snapped back into place as he hurried towards the base of the multi-storey car park.
A small crowd of uniformed officers and protective suit-clad CSIs milled back and forth beside a white tent, its outline stark against the gloom of a service alleyway for the shopping centre.
The earlier mist had turned to drizzle, a fine rain that clung to his trousers and ran in rivulets over the shoulders of his waterproof jacket.
He spotted Laura talking to PC Aaron Stewart and headed over to where they stood beside a second cordon that separated them from the white tent.
‘What happened?’ he said as he drew closer.
In response, Laura pointed to the top level of the car park and peered out from under the hood of her coat. ‘A woman fell from the rooftop.’
‘Suspicious, or a suicide?’
‘We don’t believe anyone else was involved, Sarge…’
‘But?’
‘There was a witness who says she thinks the victim might’ve been stoned or something.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Barnes craned his neck up to the rooftop, and saw two CSIs working beside the concrete parapet. ‘What do we know about the victim – anything?’
‘She had a small handbag strapped over her body,’ said Stewart. ‘The sort of thing my daughters take to gigs or out nightclubbing. Most of the contents spilled out when she hit the ground so Harriet’s team are searching for anything that might relate to her.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘There’s so much litter and crap down here, it’s taking a while. We did find a purse with a driver’s licence, though. Her name’s Felicity Gregor. Lives at an address in Wrotham Heath.’
‘Shit.’ Barnes lowered his gaze, his brow furrowing.
‘Do you know her, Sarge?’ said Laura.
‘I know of her. Her father is Peter Gregor. He’s the bloke who’s rumoured to be launching his campaign next month to be voted in as the next Police and Crime Commissioner.’
‘Oh.’ She frowned.
‘Be warned, Hanway – this one could get political.’ He turned to Stewart. ‘How old was she?’
‘According to her driving licence she was twenty-two, Sarge.’
‘Anyone spoken to the next of kin?’
‘I’ve sent two officers over to the address five minutes ago, Sarge. They’ll speak to the parents if they’re there, otherwise they’ll report back to me and we’ll try to trace them before any media find out about this.’
‘Thanks, Aaron. What about the witness?’
Laura flipped open her notebook. ‘Margaret Swinton. Fifty-three, lives in Otham. She stayed at work late and was returning to her car when she saw the victim standing beside it. She says she called out to her, thinking she was trying to break into it. She says the woman turned away from her, climbed over the parapet and just… well, she just launched herself over the edge.’
Barnes swallowed. ‘No chance of talking her out of it?’
‘Not by the sounds of it, Sarge. She didn’t get a chance. One minute, the woman was crawling over the safety fence, the next she was gone.’
‘And she’s sure she stepped over without saying anything?’
‘If she did, Sarge, Mrs Swinton didn’t hear.’
‘What about a suicide note? Anything?’
‘Nothing up there.’ Stewart jerked his thumb towards the rooftop car park. ‘Mind you, it could’ve blown away in this weather.’
‘Harriet’s team haven’t found a note near the body either,’ Laura added.
He turned as the tent flap rustled and the Home Office pathologist emerged, lowering his mask after he negotiated the cordon.
‘I’ll arrange to do the post mortem tomorrow morning,’ Lucas Anderson said by way of greeting. ‘We might be able to deduce what she took – if anything.’
‘What’re the chances of that?’ said Barnes. ‘Some of the drugs around these days can disappear within a matter of hours.’
The pathologist shrugged. ‘I can only do my best, Ian. I’ll warn you now, the laboratory results are backed up for weeks as well.’
Barnes groaned.
‘Ian!’
He turned at the voice to see Harriet emerging from the tent.
The CSI lead crossed to the cordon and held up a small sealed plastic bag in her gloved hands.
A pale-coloured powder was sealed inside, smudged into one corner.
‘Where did you find that?’ said Barnes.
‘Tucked into her bra.’ Harriet turned the bag between her fingers.
Laura took a step back and peered up at the parapet. ‘So she might have been as high as a kite when she went over after all.’
‘Okay, Aaron – get that logged into evidence. Until we have confirmation what this substance is, we’ll interview all of Felicity’s acquaintances, work colleagues, family, the lot. One of them might be able to tell us where she bought this stuff.’ Barnes jerked his chin at Laura. ‘Has anyone checked her social media profiles yet?’
She held up her phone in response. ‘Most of her accounts are set to private, except for this one – looks like she’s involved in some sort of interior design business.’
Barnes squinted at the grid layout of photographs showing artistically-arranged rooms and huffed under his breath. ‘In the morning, arrange to get access to all of her other profiles, and find out how much involvement she has with this account. Have Andy Grey over at digital forensics get involved with that – we’re going to be busy enough as it is.’
‘Will do, Sarge.’ Laura tucked her phone away and then watched as two men entered the white tent carrying a stretcher. ‘What a waste of a life.’
Barnes peered at the pale broken face of the woman lying on the concrete inside the tent flap and sighed.
‘You’re not wrong there, Hanway. Maybe we can find out where it all went wrong for her.’