but that doesn’t mean the neck wasn’t broken as part of the death.”
“That’s unusual, surely? If he hung himself, his cause of death would be the broken neck? If the break occurred after death, you’ve got murder on your hands.”
“Look, don’t get excited, Meinwen. It wasn’t a murder. You’ve been watching too much television.”
“I don’t have a television. You should know that.”
“Reading too many books then. Laverstone has more than its fair share of murders, I’ll admit, but John Fenstone isn’t one of them.”
“All right.” Meinwen dropped her voice low. “What if I asked you very nicely, though? Could you find out if the neck was broken at the time of death or afterward?”
“Oh, don’t...” Peters laughed. “You’ll have me thrown off the force. I can’t ask for a second autopsy without a damned good reason. White would have my guts for garters for squandering police resources.”
Meinwen sighed. “Very well. Why did you send him to me if you’re so convinced his brother’s death was suicide?”
She heard the hiss as Peters drew his breath through his teeth. “There were a few things odd about the report.”
“Such as?”
“Well, his shoes for one. He was only wearing one shoe. Now before you interrupt, it’s common in a slow hanging, one where the neck doesn’t break and the victim dances on the end of the rope, for him to kick his shoes off. It’s even possible for a shoe to fall off at the end of a long drop but this bloke’s shoe wasn’t under the body. It was in the hall below. It’s possible he kicked it off down the stairs but not very likely.”
“I see.” Meinwen frowned. She had to stop herself from smiling. Jimmy was right. His brother was murdered, she was sure of it. “What else? You said there were a few things.”
“Yeah. No recent pictures in the house, either. There were a couple of obvious gaps, according to the SOCO report. Again, could be an innocent explanation.”
“No pictures? That’s strange. Jimmy said he had a girlfriend, too.”
“No evidence of a girlfriend. Bloke kept a candle for his mother, according to Josh the SOCO. Still had her things in the bedroom and she’s been dead years.”
“Some people never get over their mothers.” She thought back to her own mother. Despite all the shouting, the arguments and the beatings with a hazel withy, she still missed the old harridan.
“I suppose not. Was there anything else?”
She mentally reviewed the conversation she’d had with Jimmy “Not yet. I sent Mr. Fenstone back to the station, though. Death certificate and body release. Also, a list of what your lads had removed from the house.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure he gets it. I’ve got to pop back to the office, anyway. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about blood in the cemetery, would you?”
“No.” Meinwen’s mind raced, trying to make a connection between the death of John Fenstone and this new information but couldn’t think of any. “Has there been some foul play I should be aware of? Especially as I live in the vicinity.”
“I just wondered if you’d been conjuring devils or something.”
“I’m a pagan, Sergeant. What would I be doing in a Christian burial site?”
“Fair point. Must be kids, then. We used to get a lot of that when I first joined the force.”
“Well it’s nothing I know of, but I’ll keep my eye out. If I see anything I’ll let you know.” She tried to think of her recent customers at her pagan supplies shop but there had been no bulk purchases of black candles or myrrh.
“Appreciate it. ‘Bye then.”
The phone went dead, leaving Meinwen staring at the lump of red plastic. She put it down and yawned. She needed a shower and a kip before anything else.
She went upstairs. There were only two rooms up there. There would have been three but the owners had elected to extend the bathroom into the second bedroom for which Meinwen was very grateful. She rarely had visitors and on the odd occasions her brother came she put him up on the sofa in the study.
She turned on the shower and let it heat up while she stripped, dropping her clothes into the washing basket and judging there was enough of a load to wash. She hoped it was dry later. She hadn’t got a tumble dryer and had to rely on a washing line and radiators when it rained.
She stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over her like the caresses of a water nymph, turning in a slow circle to get every part of her wet. Pouring a generous amount of shampoo into her hands, she massaged it into her lengths of red hair until it was a single, soapy mass. While it soaked in she picked up the bar of honey-scented soap and began to wash her body, running it over her breasts, her stomach, her mound...
Her nipples hardened as she ran the soap over the deep cleft of her sex, imagining those strong, calloused hands holding her, brown eyes boring into hers, forcing her down, his lips hungering for her breasts, demanding she take his cock into her mouth and tease it to full size with her tongue until he pushed her over and forced himself into her dripping cunt.
Meinwen pressed the soap inside her, using her fingers and pelvic muscles to simulate a great, wet cock while the ball of her palm thumped and ground against her clitoris until she peaked, her spasm sending the molded soap clattering against the shower drain.
She leaned against the wall of the shower to catch her breath, shampoo dripping over her breasts.
Chapter 5
Meinwen was woken by the tiger-rumble of her stomach. Apart from the cup of tea with Mr. Fenstone, she’d had nothing to eat or drink since the cheese sandwich during her vigil for the Holly King. The momentary thought of Jimmy prompted a rush of heat to her loins but, tempted though she was to dally under the warm sheets, she bridled her desire and rose, pulling fresh clothes out of her chest of drawers and trotting downstairs with the washing basket.
In the kitchen she was faced with the mud all over the floor and the sodden blanket. She kicked it into the corner and put her clothes in to wash at the ecological thirty degrees. She made herself a cheese and mushroom omelet with the shaggy ink caps, a pot of fennel and raspberry tea and headed into the tiny conservatory with the morning’s Laverstone Times. The headline today was “Cat rescued from Heating Vent.” Sometimes she missed living in cities. When she first moved to Laverstone she’d seen a headline about a cyclist prosecuted for speeding. The strains of Radio Three filled the air with Mozart and Debussy in an effort to compensate for the pendulous nimbostratus currently soaking Laverstone. The inclement weather made her wonder if she could rain check the visit to John Fenstone’s house. She was worried her fantasies about him might affect how she dealt with him. After a minute’s thought she decided the pros of going outweighed the cons of girlish infatuation.
When she finished lunch, she carried her plate back into the kitchen and went into the study for her laptop. All that remained of the tower system she’d come to Laverstone with was the hard drive, now mounted in an external USB case. Harry Prosser, who lived by the bus station, did computer work. Not publicly, for there was no shop front and not even a brass plaque next to the door but he’d do small things for friends.
A quick internet search revealed John Fenstone had worked for Smiles Estate Agents in Dark Passage. By an odd chance, if there was such a thing, the Estate Agents was next door to the bookshop run by Harold Waterman and his friend, Mr. Jasfoup. The Estate Agents listed the deceased as a “vibrant, fun-loving agent with a passion for selling ‘quirky and individualized houses.’” He also had a FaceSpace account, which, most interesting of all, referenced a Dominus account, a matchmaking service for people into BDSM. Meinwen had let her full membership there lapse, but she still had basic access.
She