Free Deadly Waters by Pauline Rowson

asked Walters.
    ‘He has a code.’
    Horton stepped inside. This could, of course, be the scene of a crime and as such should be sealed off, but Horton’s instincts told him Langley hadn’t been killed here. He could be wrong (it had been known) so he urged caution as Cantelli took the rooms to the right of the hall and Walters the left.
    Horton entered the lounge. He was relieved to find no blood-stained walls or carpet.
    Walters called out. ‘Bathroom’s clean.’
    ‘So’s the bedroom,’ came Cantelli’s cry. ‘Just checking the kitchen. It’s clean.’
    Horton glanced around the lounge seeing something of the disarray he’d witnessed in Langley’s office. Newspapers and magazines were scattered on the coffee table in the centre of the room in front of a low-slung maroon sofa. He flicked through them. There was the Sunday Times from last Sunday, a couple of copies of The Times Educational Supplement and SecEd magazine as well as Sailing Today and Yachts and Yachting , which certainly tied in with the photograph he’d taken from Langley’s office. The cream-coloured cushions were squashed rather than plumped up. Scented candles adorned the mantelpiece and hearth, and tucked behind a gold carriage clock was a photograph of a large ginger cat. It was the only photograph in the room. He picked it up and turned it over.
    Just like the sailing photograph there was nothing written on the back of it. The mantelpiece was covered with a thin layer of dust, as was the widescreen television in the left-hand corner of the room in front of the patio doors. A smattering of DVDs lay scattered beside it, some with their discs discarded.
    Langley’s tastes in DVDs amounted to modern feature films of the popular type that didn’t need a lot of effort or imagination, which surprised him a little, but then maybe she just liked to chill out after a hard day’s work at the Sir Wilberforce with something undemanding, and who could blame her.

    He looked up and saw, through the now streaming rain, that the flat gave on to a communal garden, complete with a small fountain, and a row of black iron railings that led directly into Feltham Row, beyond which was the Town Camber. Although it didn’t look as if she had been killed inside this flat, she could have been attacked in the garden. But surely someone would have seen that.
    ‘There’s not a lot of medication in her bathroom cupboard,’
    Walters said with disparagement. ‘Must have been a healthy type.’
    ‘We’re not all inflicted with the ailments of the medical dictionary.’ Horton turned away from the window, thinking the Internet must be a boom to people like Walters, and a curse to the GPs who had to suffer patients like him. ‘Bag up her bank statements and telephone bills. See if there’s a diary.’
    Strictly speaking, he should wait for the formal identification to be made, but he was sure their victim was Langley. And he didn’t have time to waste. Not if he wanted to solve this case before Dennings showed his ugly mug in the incident room. He stepped into the kitchen where Cantelli was poking about.
    ‘Just a coffee cup and cereal bowl in the sink,’ Cantelli said.
    ‘No cat dish?’ asked Horton.
    ‘Should there be one? The cupboards are fairly well stocked, though the place could do with a clean.’
    Horton could see that. It wasn’t that the grime was inches thick but from what he had gleamed so far, cleanliness was not next to godliness in Langley’s book. Maybe she was an atheist. Though Horton got the impression that Langley didn’t have time to clean being too devoted to carving out her career as a super head. And maybe she hadn’t yet found herself a reliable cleaner.
    ‘There’s a couple of bottles of white wine in the fridge, one half drunk,’ continued Cantelli. ‘There’s also a bottle of champagne and some red wine over there.’ Horton followed Cantelli’s glance, where four bottles nestled in a rack. Cantelli added, ‘There’s