Noakes felt a lump in his throat. The shape under the body bag was so small, so defenceless. Elford might have been a smarmy, self-important git, but to die like this with no dignity — everyone knowing you’d been perving. Poor, poor sod.
The pathologist looked sombre. ‘Let’s speak in here,’ he said, gesturing to the living area.
They perched awkwardly on the cream dralon three-piece suite, whispering as if Elford could still hear them, though the silence in the administrator’s ear was nevermore to be broken.
‘This wasn’t a natural death, Markham,’ Dimples began.
‘I’ll say.’ Noakes couldn’t restrain himself.
‘Shut up, Noakesy.’ Markham looked expectantly at Davidson.
‘I mean, Inspector, that he was murdered.’
‘Murdered!’
Davidson nodded, clearly gratified to have taken the wind out of Noakes’s sails. ‘Obviously, this is unofficial until after the PM.’
‘Of course.’
‘Granted, it looks like a case of autoerotic asphyxiation, but how many blokes would do that in full view of a French window with the curtains tied back?’
‘I take it there’s something else to go on beyond his proximity to the French window?’
‘Yes there is, Inspector.’ Davidson paused dramatically. ‘I found this under the fingernails on his right hand.’
The pathologist flourished a plastic evidence bag in their direction.
‘What you got in there then?’ Noakes was determinedly unimpressed.
‘An itsy-bitsy fragment from what I believe to be a surgical glove.’ Davidson smiled complacently. ‘I think something interrupted your killer before they had time to clear up as thoroughly as they intended — the doorbell . . . or the phone perhaps . . .’
‘Well, it’s deffo wall-to-wall nosey parkers in this place,’ said the DS as though the good doctor had merely confirmed his dyspeptic world view.
‘Maybe the murderer had arranged to meet Elford,’ Burton said tentatively. ‘But he or she had counted on having more time . . . Got spooked and then bottled it . . .’
The DI gestured towards the narrow hallway. ‘Check the Ansafone, will you Kate? It’s possible Elford arranged to meet the murderer here but forgot about his meeting with the council . . . and then they rang to check where he was.’
Burton slipped into the narrow hallway where they could hear her checking 1471.
The DI returned his attention to the pathologist. ‘You found something else as well, didn’t you?’
‘It so happens I did, Markham.’
‘Well, spit it out then,’ Noakes groused. ‘Or d’you want a drum roll or summat.’
Davidson was unruffled, well used to what passed for banter with the DS. ‘I’m just waiting for your colleague to re-join us,’ he said equably.
‘You’re right, sir.’ Kate was back. ‘The Clerk of Works rang in a snit about Elford missing his appointment with some advisory committee or other. Said she couldn’t raise him on his mobile either . . . asked what the hell he was playing at.’
‘Ah, the mobile.’ Markham raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
‘No sign of it so far as I could see, sir.’
‘So the murderer switched it off.’
‘You said there was summat else, doc.’ Noakes was getting impatient. ‘Not jus’ the scrap of glove.’
‘That’s correct, Sergeant.’ Davidson spread his hands in front of him, contemplating the signet ring on his pinkie with what Kate Burton privately thought of as his superior air. ‘The victim had ingested something. There were traces of it in his mouth.’
‘Like what? You mean drugs?’
‘I would say some sort of sedative or muscle relaxant . . . slipped into a drink.’
‘There’s a tumbler in the kitchen sink, sir,’ Burton said. ‘Just the one, mind.’
‘The murderer must have talked Elford into offering him — or her — a drink,’ Markham said slowly.
‘Then slipped him a Mickey Finn.’ Noakes nodded. ‘Had to make sure he was out of it before . . .’ He mimed a strangling.
‘Afterwards, they took the second glass away, along with Elford’s mobile and his clothes,’ Burton concluded.
There was a brief silence then, ‘Will there be anything from the murderer, doc? Skin cells, trace DNA . . . ?’ Burton asked desperately.
‘Oh sure.’ There was something maddening about Davidson’s cheery self-possession. ‘But not much use to you unless they’re already in the database.’ He met three pairs of anxious eyes in turn, rolling the words round in his mouth as though savouring a fine wine. ‘And even if you turn someone up — a lover, a colleague — your average clever-clogs brief will argue flawed DNA transfer or incriminating secondary touch.’ He beamed at their disconsolate faces. ‘Forensics is a bit of a minefield these days. That’s where you sleuths come in.’
‘Right little ray of sunshine you are,’ Noakes muttered balefully. But before he could start a barney, one of the SOCOs poked his head round the archway.
‘The ambulance is here, doc. Happy for this one to go?’
This one, thought Markham sadly. The paragon of animals now reduced to a quintessence of dust.
He bowed his head out of respect as Peter Elford’s pitiful remains set out on their last journey. After a moment’s hesitation, Noakes and Burton followed his lead. Davidson, well used to the DI’s insistence on reverence for the deceased, paused in locking his medical bag and watched the sombre little procession wend its way out of the flat.
It felt hotter than ever indoors. The pathologist, florid and stocky, ran a sweaty hand through his thinning sandy locks. ‘I’m done here, Markham. Post-mortem at 5 p.m. All welcome.’
‘I’ll be attending, doc,’ Kate Burton piped up.
Davidson looked at her benignly. ‘Oh, Buggins’ turn is it, m’dear?’
‘No, she freaking volunteers, would you believe?’ Noakes’s voice cracked with incredulity.
‘Kate will be liaising with the scene of crime team on this one, Doug,’ the DI said firmly.
Dimples looked
