Free The First Apostle by James Becker Page B

staircase.”
    He riffled through the papers and selected a page containing outline diagrams of the anterior and posterior views of a human body. The drawings were annotated with a number of lines pointing at areas of the body, and at the end of each was a brief note. Bronson took the sheet and studied it.
    “May I have a copy of this?” he asked. “It will help me explain to Mr. Hampton exactly what happened to his wife.”
    “Of course. This copy of the report is for Signor Hampton.”
    Ten minutes later Bronson closed the door behind the police officer and walked back into the kitchen. He spread the pages and photographs out on the table in front of him and read the report in its entirety.
    Halfway down the second page he found a single reference that puzzled him. He looked carefully at the injury diagrams to cross-refer what he’d read, but that merely confirmed what the report stated. He walked out into the hall and up to the top of the stairs, and looked very carefully at the banister rail and the stairs themselves. Frowning, he returned to the kitchen to look again at the pathologist’s report.
    Half an hour later he heard the sound of movement upstairs, and shortly afterward Mark walked into the kitchen: he looked a lot better after a couple of hours’ sleep. Bronson poured coffee and made him a ham sandwich.
    “You’re probably not hungry, Mark, but you have to eat. And then we need to talk,” Bronson finished.
    “What about?”
    “Finish that, and I’ll tell you.”
    He sat quietly as Mark drained his cup and sat back in his chair.
    “So talk to me, Chris,” Mark demanded.
    Bronson paused for a second or two, choosing his words with care. “This won’t be easy for you to accept, Mark, but I think we have to face the possibility that Jackie didn’t die from a simple fall.”
    Mark looked stunned. “I thought the police said she’d hit her head on the banister.”
    “She probably did, but I think there’s more to it than that. Take a look at this.”
    Bronson got up and led Hampton across to the kitchen door. He opened it and pointed to the compressed area of wood on the frame close to the lock.
    “That mark was made by a jimmy or something very similar,” he said. “When I checked the lock on the inside of the door, I found that all the screws had been pulled out. But the lock had then been refitted on the door and the screws replaced. Someone broke into this house and made every effort to keep that fact a secret.”
    “You mean a burglar?”
    Bronson shook his head. “Not unless it was a very strange kind of burglary. I’ve investigated dozens back in Britain, and I’ve never encountered one where the criminals tried to hide the fact that they’d broken in. Most thieves take the easy way in, grab whatever they can, and get out again as quickly as possible. They’re interested in speed, not stealth. I’ve looked around the house and I haven’t found any sign of anything missing. It’s difficult to tell, because of all the work being done, but your TV sets and computer are still here, and there’s even some jewelry and money lying on the dressing table in the master bedroom. No thief would ignore stuff like that.”
    “So what are you saying—someone broke in but didn’t take anything? That doesn’t make sense.”
    “Exactly. And the other thing I’ve found relates to Jackie. I’m really sorry about this, but we need to consider the possibility that she didn’t just fall. She may have been pushed.”
    Mark studied his friend’s face for a moment. “Pushed?” he echoed. “You mean someone . . . ?” Bronson nodded. “But the police said it was an accident.”
    “I know, Mark, but while you were asleep an officer brought the autopsy report to the house, and after he left I studied it very carefully. There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense.” Bronson selected one of the sheets of paper and showed it to Mark. “Jackie’s body had numerous bruises on it, obviously