Angel’s face brightened.

‘The result of a struggle?’

‘Don’t think so. There don’t appear to be any signs of a struggle. The woman appears to have been moderately attractive, but no clothes disarranged or anything like that, so I’d rule out any sexual motive. The downstairs seems pretty tidy; I don’t think the place has been searched, so I’d also rule out robbery.’

Angel pulled a face. ‘It’s going to be one of those cases, is it?’

‘That hair may or it may not prove to be helpful.’

Angel pursed his lips.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Mac said, quickly stepping out of the paper suit and rolling it into a ball. ‘Peculiar. Very peculiar,’ he added. He threw the roll into the back of the car, closed the door and then looked up at him. ‘Yes. Strewn about the body and on the settee was … orange peel.’

Angel blinked.

‘Orange peel?’ he said, much louder than he had intended.

An old woman pushing a pram with a sleeping baby in it passed between them, heard Angel’s outburst and stared at him as if she thought he was ready for a session with Dr Raj Persaud. He watched her until she was out of earshot.

‘Orange peel?’ he repeated quietly. ‘Like Reynard?’

Mac nodded.

Angel’s heart started pounding again. This was going to attract national interest if Reynard was responsible for the murder.

‘Was a card found? Like a visiting card? His are supposed to say, “With the compliments of Reynard”.’

‘I didn’t see anything like that,’ Mac said, as he threw the rest of the discarded white suit into the back of the car. ‘SOCO are still hard at it in there. They’ll find it, if it’s there.’

Angel started rubbing his chin. His mind began to dart off in all sorts of directions. If Reynard was suspected, the Serious Organised Crime Agency and its high ranking medico-forensic staff might bustle into Bromersley nick, take over the case, the station, the canteen and probably his office, too. He didn’t want that. At the same time, they had expressed a particular interest in Reynard and it would be churlish not to inform them if there were clear pointers that that man might be the murderer.

Mac was now changed and behind the wheel of his car.

Angel stood on the pavement in the shade of the horse chestnut, deep in thought.

‘The meat wagon’s on its way, Michael. I’ll send you my report later tomorrow.’

He looked up.

‘Yeah, right, Mac. Thank you.’

Mac engaged the gears, pulled out of the sombre, leafy backwater and was soon out of sight.

Angel made straight for the gate to The Beeches, pushed it open and strode quickly up the path to the house door. Across the doorway was ‘POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS’ tape. He reached forward, deliberately avoided the button for the doorbell and banged on the door. It took some time for the door to be answered. A detective constable in whites opened it.

‘DS Taylor there?’ Angel asked.

Taylor came up behind the DC.

‘Come in, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ve finished the initial sweep downstairs, except for the search after the body has been removed.’

‘Right. Give me some gloves.’

A white paper packet was passed to him from a plastic container.

‘Nothing been moved at all?’ he asked as he tore the packet open and took out a pair of white rubber gloves. ‘Everything exactly as it was?’

‘Except for Dr Mac’s close examination of the body, sir.’

Angel nodded as he snapped the gloves on.

‘Aye. Anything else?’

‘He took a small piece of orange peel.’

Angel raised his head thoughtfully. He didn’t say anything.

Taylor stepped back and pulled open the door.

Angel heard the humming of a vacuum cleaner. A SOCO man was upstairs sucking round for evidence. He stepped into the house. There were sterilized white sheets covering most of the floor. He followed Taylor into the sitting-room. He was slightly shocked to find the victim seated upright in the middle place of a three-seater settee. He walked tentatively over to a position in front of the fireplace and looked at her. There was a patch of dried brown blood on her forehead. Her hair was mousy-coloured and tidy; in fact there was not a hair out of place. She had clearly been a pretty woman. Her head was on one side, her eyes closed and her hands on her lap. Pieces of orange peel were strewn across the settee and several pieces on her skirt. It almost looked as if she might have peeled and eaten the orange herself, but he knew it could not have been so.

She still looked alive … although sleeping. He shuddered and briefly felt cold. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He had seen so many bodies, but he felt he would never get used to death, especially murder. He turned away.

Taylor had been was standing in the doorway, watching the inspector taking in the scene.

He came up to him.

‘Peculiar, sir. Isn’t it?’

Angel nodded and rubbed his chin.

They both looked at the figure sitting on the settee.

After a moment, Angel said: ‘Did you find anything like a business card on or around the body, Don?’

Taylor frowned.

‘No, sir. Nothing like that.’

‘Any doors or windows forced?’

‘No, sir. Back door closed but unlocked. Front door ajar. Several windows open.’

Angel shook his head censoriously.

‘Well, sir, it is a warm day.’

He nodded then turned away. He found the kitchen. Everything spotless and cleared away. On the draining board at the sink, he spotted a small pile of coins neatly placed on top of a five pound note.

He turned to Taylor and pointed to them.

‘What’s this, Don?’

‘Dunno, sir. Just as we found it. Six pounds, fifty-six pence.’

Angel stood pensively. He wondered if it meant that the murderer was honest? Unusual. Was it likely that a titled lady might be up to murdering somebody for money, but above taking six pounds odd after they were dead?

He found a door leading out of the kitchen.

‘That’s a pantry, sir,’ Taylor said.

Angel opened it and found a large storage room. It looked clean, well-stocked and everything seemed in order. At the end of the room was a fridge. He stepped inside and accidentally kicked something. He looked down and there were two shopping bags overflowing with groceries.

He looked back at Taylor, with eyes narrowed.

‘That’s just as it was, sir. I don’t know why.’

Angel nodded. He strode over the tops of the shopping bags and made the few paces down to the fridge. He opened the door, looked inside, observed that it contained nothing unusual. He checked the ‘use by’ date on a container of milk, replaced it and closed the door.

He returned to the entrance hall followed by Taylor. Together they went upstairs and looked round all the rooms. Angel saw nothing that was remarkable. They made their way downstairs. At the bottom he turned to Taylor.

‘Don, I want you to look out for any reference at all to a Lady Blessington. We desperately need her address. She’s our number one suspect. In fact, she’s our only suspect. Letters, cards, any mention of her at all, I want to know about it. Might be in the victim’s address book. The poor woman was blind, so she may not have used such a thing. The description of Lady Blessington is that she’s of medium height, between forty and sixty and last seen in a powder blue dress, described as “fussy”. I’m not sure what that means in this context. OK?’

‘Right, sir.’

There was a knock at the door. Taylor opened it. It was DS Crisp.

Angel’s mouth tightened.

‘I want you, laddie!’ Angel bawled before Crisp had chance to say anything.

Crisp knew he was in trouble.

Angel turned back to Taylor. ‘I must get away, Don. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Right, sir.’

The door closed.

DS Crisp was a clean-shaven, dark-haired man, much admired by the ladies, particularly by WPC Leisha Baverstock who was on the strength of Bromersley force. He was always very smartly turned out. Tidy hair. Suit sharper than a broken vodka bottle.