I glance at Asante, who raises an eyebrow, but she forestalls us.
‘Look, I know that probably looks dodgy or something, but I spilt some wine on it, OK? That’s all. And I was going past the cleaner’s on my way to college anyway.’ She shrugs. ‘It was just convenient, all right? If I don’t do it now I’ll forget, and by the time I drag it out of the wardrobe for the next shindig it’ll be too bloody late.’
It might make sense, it might not; but either way it’s going to have to wait. I’m not having this conversation here.
‘So,’ I say, ‘could you speak to Beatriz now? And our CSI team will also need access to the premises to conduct a forensic search. DC Asante will stay here until they arrive.’
She holds my gaze for a moment and then nods. ‘OK. I’ll tell her.’
She seems on the verge of tears.
* * *
* * *
The dry cleaner’s is on the Woodstock Road, and it is, indeed, in a direct line between St Luke Street and Edith Launceleve. But the affluent of North Oxford clearly have better things to do on a hot July afternoon than dirty laundry, so Asante isn’t at all surprised to find he’s the only person in the shop. In fact, he suspects the not-much-more-than-a-lad behind the counter was hoping to bunk off early, given the aggrieved look he shoots at Asante when he pushes open the door. Though he cheers up considerably when he discovers it’s the police. And not just police, CID. This is better than the footie.
Asante does his best to rise above it. ‘I believe you took in an evening dress for cleaning earlier today?’ He checks his tablet. ‘Full-length red satin gown with a sequinned bodice and chiffon sleeves. It would have been booked in under the name Marina Fisher.’
The lad drags the order book towards him and flicks back through the pages.
‘Yeah,’ he says after a moment. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Could I see it, please? The dress?’
The lad makes a face and flips the book shut. ‘Nah, sorry, mate.’
Asante frowns; they must clean on-site, he can smell the chemicals. ‘What do you mean, “no”?’
‘She asked for an express job, didn’t she – two-hour turnaround. It’s been done already.’
Asante sighs. RIP any chance of forensics. Sometimes luck is on your side; sometimes it just isn’t.
‘Can I take it anyway?’
The lad shakes his head. ‘No, sorry, mate. Like I said.’
Asante grits his teeth; frankly, it would be easier pulling them. ‘Why not, if you’ve finished doing it? Look, if it’s paperwork you need –’
The lad grins. ‘No, it ain’t that, mate. It’s been cleaned, yeah. But it’s not here. The van picked it up an hour ago.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘We clean here, but alterations – hems, that sort of stuff – that’s done off-site. And according to the docket, this one was a repair job.’
Asante’s eyes narrow. ‘Exactly what kind of a “repair job” are we talking about?’
* * *
Adam Fawley
7 July 2018
18.43
I’m not in the room when CSI process Marina Fisher, but I am waiting at the coffee machine when Nina Mukerjee comes out. She doesn’t look surprised to see me.
‘Waiting for an update?’ she says, going over to the water cooler. She sticks a paper cup under the dispenser and presses the button. ‘We’ve taken all the usual swabs, but the only thing visible to the naked eye was the slight bruising on her right wrist.’
I frown – I don’t remember seeing that. And the sundress was sleeveless –
But then it comes to me. She had a heavy silver cuff bracelet on one wrist. A bracelet big enough to cover any damage. And it was her right wrist.
‘What did she say about it? The bruising?’
‘Claimed it was probably her kid, but couldn’t remember exactly how it happened. If you ask me, the marks were too big for a small child, but there’s no way to prove it one way or the other.’
‘And it couldn’t have happened at another time? Earlier that day, say?’
‘Impossible to say for sure. It might be worth trying to get hold of any photos taken at the dinner, see if they show anything.’
‘Is there likely to be any DNA?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. I took fingernail scrapings though I doubt they’ll yield much. But you said Morgan hadn’t showered, so if there are marks on him and she made them, we’ve got a pretty good chance of proving it.’
‘And how did she seem to you, in general?’
Mukerjee considers. ‘Surprisingly composed, actually. She was a bit stressed when she first came in, and the lawyer fidgeting about like a mother hen probably didn’t help, but as soon as we got into it she calmed down at once.’
‘I guess she’s a scientist. Of sorts, anyway.’
‘Funnily enough, that’s exactly what she said. That she found the environment soothing, because it’s what she’s used to.’
Mukerjee picks up her water. ‘One thing’s for sure – she was a lot more composed than most people in her position. The lawyer couldn’t wait to get out of there but Fisher made a point of stopping and thanking me. She said that when it came down to it my job was the same as hers: it was all about the facts. And the facts would prove she’s telling the truth.’
* * *
When Clive Conway gets to the St Luke Street house it’s a uniformed PC who opens the door.
‘Afternoon, Puttergill. Some sort of rave round here last night, was there?’ he says, scraping his shoes on the mat. ‘There’s bits of glass all over the step.’
Puttergill looks blank, then ducks his head outside to look. ‘Is there? I can’t see anything.’
‘Curse of CSI,’ says Conway with a sigh. ‘Every random bit of crap looks like trace evidence.’ He unloads his forensic case in the hall and closes the door behind him. ‘So you got dumped on too, did you?’
Puttergill grins. ‘I was on
