Read Online Past Tense by Catherine Aird - Free Book Online Page A

injury on the body but that was something that would have to await the arrival of Dr Hector Smithson Dabbe, the forensic pathologist. Post-mortem evidence was what would be wanted, not the unskilled observations of anyone else.
    â€˜Tape off the site, Crosby,’ he ordered, ‘watch out where you walk and establish a single route to the scene.’ He turned to the fishermen. ‘You two stand over there until we’ve had a chance to take down your names and addresses.’
    â€˜But I told my wife I’d be home for breakfast,’ began one of them.
    His protest fell upon deaf ears. Sloan thought he himself would be lucky to get home for his supper. Making a mental note to ring Margaret, his wife, and tell her so, he pointed authoritatively to the spot where he wanted the men to stand and then got back to business – police business.
    Meanwhile Detective Constable Crosby was obediently pegging out the ground. Then suddenly he raised his head, dog-like, for all the world like a pointer scenting game. ‘I can hear a car coming.’
    â€˜Then get back up to the road, Crosby, and if it’s the doctor let him know exactly where we are.’ Injuries examined in situ after death were in the first instance a matter for Dr Dabbe, not a policeman. Police interest, if any, usually only arose after that. Natural causes let everybody off the hook – except perhaps the doctors. ‘The photographers should be on their way, too,’ he reminded Crosby.
    â€˜And the river bailiff,’ said one of the fishermen. ‘He’s always about.’
    â€˜You can count on it,’ added the other fisherman bitterly.
    Sloan made another mental note. The river bailiff, then, might well be the man to ask about the rate of flow of the River Alm. And if the pathologist could tell him how long the body had been in the water, then working out where the girl had gone in the river shouldn’t be too difficult. And if neither of them could help, the River Board should be able to provide the answer.
    â€˜Ah, there you are, Sloan.’ The pathologist advanced across the grass and stepped carefully down the slope towards them. He was followed by his perennially silent assistant, Burns, who was carrying the doctor’s black bag. The doctor waved his hand airily. ‘Your photographer chaps are on their way, Inspector. They’ll be here soon. I overtook them about four miles back.’
    This came as no surprise to Sloan. The pathologist was one of the fastest drivers in Calleshire and that was without even having the excuse that his patients were urgent cases. ‘I expect they were obeying all the rules of the road, Doctor,’ he said without inflexion. ‘It wouldn’t do for them to be caught speeding, would it, now?’
    â€˜Point taken, Sloan,’ said the pathologist jovially. ‘Now then, what have you here for me?’
    The detective inspector indicated the body of the girl outstretched on the riverbank.
    â€˜She was floating in the rushes, Doctor.’ One of the fishermen hurried into speech. ‘On her back.’
    â€˜Just like Ophelia,’ murmured the pathologist. ‘At least, just like Sir John Millais’ portrait of Ophelia.’
    â€˜Beg pardon, Doctor?’
    â€˜A girl in a famous painting, Inspector, who had drowned herself for love. Amazing what some girls will do for love, isn’t it?’
    â€˜So I’m told,’ said Sloan austerely, not diverted from the matter in hand. What he himself had done for love was not something he cared to reveal to anyone. His wife, Margaret, knew and that was all that mattered. All he was ever prepared to say on the matter was that faint heart had never won fair lady.
    â€˜Ophelia but without the flowers,’ said the pathologist, taking in the surroundings with a practised eye. ‘Burns, we’d better have the ambient temperature.’
    â€˜What flowers?’ asked a