Free Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) by Oliver Tidy

the intensity of his climax? Or as he lay nestled, spent, against the woman, whose bed he had shared, sleeping contentedly?
    Although the scene gave him little hope, resembling as it did the macabre tableau of the ultimate self-criticism that he had witnessed a handful of times in his long career, Romney said, ‘Any evidence of foul play?’
    ‘Actually, yes.’ Romney shot the pathologist a querying, almost hopeful look. ‘Around the neck, can you see the bruising? That’s consistent with strangulation.’
    Romney crouched down and gently pushed aside the mass of sodden hair that had gathered around her throat.
    ‘Sir,’ said Marsh.
    ‘What is it?’ The DI was looking closely at the neck of Claire Stamp, an idea forming.
    ‘She had those marks on her neck yesterday evening. I met her on the seafront. She showed them to me.’
    Romney stood and gave Marsh his full attention. ‘Go on.’
    ‘As I was driving home last night, I saw her sitting alone on a bench staring out over the Channel. I stopped, bought her a cup of tea. We talked.’
    ‘And those marks were definitely on her then?’
    ‘Yes. It was one of the reasons she was there.’
    Romney looked back down at the corpse. ‘I see,’ he said. His disappointment was obvious.
    ‘There is one other thing,’ said the pathologist. ‘Might be of interest to you.’
    ‘Yes, Maurice, what’s that?’
    ‘Let me start by saying that I’ve not seen a lot of suicides from jumping, but the few that I have, none of them landed flat on their backs. It doesn’t strike me as a natural position for someone who jumps to be able to land in, deliberately or otherwise.’
    ‘You’re suggesting she could have been pushed?’
    ‘All deaths from falling could be the result of a push, Inspector,’ chided the pathologist gently. ‘That’s where you come in. I’m merely providing you with the benefit of my experience.’
    The pathologist and Romney had shared many crime scenes in their long careers in the town, and each had a healthy professional and personal respect and liking for the other. Because of this, the pathologist’s remarks, which may have seemed pompous and unnecessary, even something to be taken issue with, by another unschooled in the way that they behaved towards each other around such horrors, were all but ignored by the DI.
    Romney thanked the older man and turned away from the body. ‘I’ve seen enough. We’ll leave you to it. Come on, Sergeant, let’s take a look around the flat.’
    ‘What about Avery, sir?’ said Marsh, as they went in search of the building’s superintendent and access to the apartment.
    ‘He won’t be bothering us in the near future.’
    ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘Don’t you know? He’s back in the nick.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way up.’
    The building’s superintendent had been loitering in the lobby out of the weather, waiting for the police that he knew would come. He led them up to the flat. Romney thanked him and sent him on his way, closing the door behind him.
    The officers retraced the steps they had taken only the day before. The flat generated a chill, peculiar silence, as though the extinguished life-force in the car park had a symbiotic effect on the apartment. It hadn’t seemed particularly welcoming, or homely, on their previous visit. Now, it felt positively vacant.
    Marsh explained to Romney why the mother was no longer there. She had walked in on the scene that they had left the day before and decided she’d been there long enough. She’d packed her bag and left. Romney aired the thought that he wouldn’t be the one who made the call that got her back for the official identification of the body. The implication being that Marsh would. He added that the woman would now be someone who would need to be spoken to officially, whatever the outcome of their further investigations – suicide or murder.
    ‘Do suicides shut doors after them?’ said Romney, taking in the firmly