Free Body Line by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

the road and the house and the barrier tape, and some white-clad forensic bods coming out past the doorkeeper constable. The victim had not been named, went the commentary, but the police confirmed that they suspected foul play. With no name or even description of the perpetrator there was nothing else to put out.
    But by the next day the press had got hold of the Firmans, and the story of the girl dropping off the balcony was too good to leave alone. Fortunately the old people had still got the name wrong – they had given it as Katrina Old – and so far the hospital was maintaining discretion.
    ‘So we’ve got a bit of time left,’ Porson said to Slider first thing, his hands clasped around a mug of tea, inhaling the steam as though for medicinal purposes. His tremendous eyebrows, so bushy they looked like an advertisement for Miracle Grow – the sort where a small child stands next to a chrysanthemum bloom as big as her head – were drawn down to bask in the fragrant vapours, and he peered out at Slider from under them. ‘We have to decide whether to put Rogers’s name out,’ he went on. ‘Will it stand us any good? Are we wanting anyone to come forward? What about next of kin?’
    ‘He doesn’t seem to have had any,’ Slider said. ‘The ex-wife says there were no children, his parents are dead, and he didn’t have any brother and sisters or uncles and aunts.’
    ‘Very tidy of him,’ Porson commented, sucking in tea with a noise like a horse at a trough. ‘Hot,’ he explained. ‘Got any suspects?’
    ‘The only connection we have so far is the ex-wife,’ Slider said, ‘but I’ve no reason to suspect her. She does seem to have a man living with her, so it’s possible he’s involved. Or it could have been a contract killing.’
    Porson made a restless movement. ‘Don’t like the idea of contract killers. Hardest thing in the world to prove. You’re on the back foot all the way. Still, if that’s what it is, you can’t disignore the facts.’
    ‘We have precious few of those,’ Slider admitted.
    ‘Then maybe we should put the name out. Poke a stick down the hole, see what comes out. You might stir up a whole new kettle of worms.’
    ‘On the other hand, putting out his name may expose Catriona Aude,’ Slider said. ‘Her friends may know she was going out with him and make the connection. And the strip club does know there was a relationship.’
    ‘Getting her jugs out for a living, she’s no shrinking violet,’ Porson objected.
    ‘She’s afraid the killer may come back for her.’
    ‘Unlikely,’ Porson decided.
    ‘Still, she’s all the witness we have. We have to do our best for her,’ Slider urged.
    ‘I suppose so,’ Porson sighed. ‘I’ll make a press statement that the witness didn’t actually see the intruder, only heard him. Makes us look behind the curve, but there’s no harm in putting the killer off his guard. Speaking of which,’ he went on sternly, ‘what about the killer?’
    ‘We’re still combing the streets and canvassing the neighbours, but without even a description to go on, we’ve nothing to canvass with. No point in leaflets or posters. We’re trawling records for a similar MO, but there’s not much to go on there, either – a single shot to the back of the head.’
    ‘Sounds like the bloody KGB. Ballistics?’
    ‘Report’s not back yet. I expect it today.’
    ‘Fingermarks?’
    ‘Rogers’s and the girl’s. The killer was professional enough not to leave any. But the fact remains that Rogers let him in, so it looks as though he knew him.’
    ‘Could’ve been a meter reader,’ Porson pointed out.
    ‘Rogers seemed to have been leading him into the sitting-room.’
    ‘TV repair man.’
    ‘Early in the day for either of those. I suppose the killer could have made some excuse to get admittance – people are very gullible when it comes to inspectors with official-sounding business. But there’s no apparent robbery, so if Rogers didn’t