It was almost eight when Kim and Bryant showed their IDs and entered the ground-floor flat.
Keats was in the doorway to the living room holding out two pairs of blue plastic slippers.
‘Dress-down Tuesday is it, Bryant?’ he asked, appraising Kim’s colleague’s attire of rugby shirt and jeans.
‘Shockingly I wasn’t at work,’ he answered.
‘Then you’re slacking,’ he said, standing aside.
The stench from inside the lounge had already found her.
‘Been a while?’ she asked, stepping into the small space.
‘At least twenty-four hours,’ Keats called after her, meaning she was killed some time on Monday.
Mitch and one photographer blocked the view of the body. The lead forensic tech turned on hearing her voice. ‘Good to see you back, Inspector.’
‘She’s not back, she’s just nosey,’ Keats clarified before she had chance to speak.
Kim remained silent as the pathologist ushered the photographer out of the way.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said as Bryant exclaimed behind her.
A figure dressed in jeans and a university sweatshirt sat in a single armchair, both hands resting on the arms of the chair. The scene was completely normal from the trainer-clad feet up to the chest area. Above that the head was covered with a bag made of thick clear plastic with the open edge of the bag taped closed with white masking tape.
The visibility was obscured by moisture stains left from the breathing once the bag had been applied, but Kim could see the victim appeared to be a female in her mid-twenties.
‘Thoughts?’ Keats asked.
Kim studied the scene for a moment before speaking. ‘Initial opinion would be sex game gone wrong or suicide.’
Plastic bags were often used in extreme sex games where the brush with death was supposed to heighten the sexual pleasure.
It was also being used increasingly in the case of suicide, normally in conjunction with a cocktail of drugs.
‘And yet…’ Kim said, taking another walk around the body.
‘Go on,’ Keats urged.
‘The tape is too evenly applied.’
The layers of tape were almost exactly on top of each other.
‘It’s too tidy,’ she said, raising her right hand and circling her neck. ‘The tape would have criss-crossed all over the place as she bent her neck to tape around herself.’
‘Anything else?’ Keats asked.
She looked closer. ‘There are no scratch marks on the plastic. Even if you’re taking your own life, there’s a moment of panic when you’re fighting for breath. Instinct would take over and you’d try and claw it away.’
‘Agreed. Anything else?’
She turned to Mitch. ‘Check her fingers for residue from the masking tape. If she touched it, there’ll be a trace.’
‘And here was me having never done this job before,’ Mitch offered.
‘Yeah, but were you gonna check her wrists too?’ she asked.
Mitch looked down.