Sarah grinned at him and punched his chest, lightly, with her left hand. 'Maybe, when you learn to stop thinking everything through, and just do what instinct tells you.'
He looked at her sharply, with an old hurt in his eyes. 'I did that once, remember?' he said quietly.
`Yes, so you did. Stupid of me to say that.
`Look, enough of this. I take it that our customer's through there, where Neil went.'
Mcllhenney had withdrawn tactfully to the Jacuzzi cubicle almost as soon as Sarah had entered.
Martin nodded, and led her through the empty changing area, past the navy blazer, white shirt and grey slacks which hung on three separate hangers from a frame in the centre of the room, past the casual sports clothes which lay crumpled on the floor beside a gaudy pair of white and tan leather shoes, and a blue sports bag, gaping open.
Sarah paused in the doorway. 'He's in the tub,' said Martin, pointing. 'Big wound to the throat.'
She nodded. 'So where's the blood?'
`None. Only what's in the bath and the splash down the side.'
`Got a theory?'
Martin pointed to his left. 'See that shelf. His car keys, house keys and some loose change are there, but there's no wallet or wristwatch. Looks like murder associated with theft. White comes in here, puts his gear on the shelf beside the towel-rail, gets into the Jacuzzi. Neil checked: it was made ready for him by the steward. This changing suite was Michael White's private facility. The steward told us he didn't like showers. Someone follows him in, does him as he's lying in his bath, and makes off with his watch and wallet. Apparently the watch was a gold and diamond Rolex, and his wallet was always stuffed.'
`That's your thinking?'
`What else fits? The shelf's just inside the door, behind the tub. Maybe the guy hoped to sneak in and get out without White hearing him, only it didn't work out that way.'
`Mmm,' said Sarah, thoughtfully. 'I've met this man, you know. The Whites were at the Prouds' party last Christmas. And Bob knew him reasonably well through the New Club.'
She walked over to the Jacuzzi and looked down at the late Michael White. She shook her head sadly for a second or two, but then her expression changed, becoming completely professional and dispassionate. She put down her bag, opened it and took out a pair of disposable latex gloves, which she snapped on. 'Just for the record.' She reached into the bath and held the right wrist for a few seconds. 'What's the time, Neil?'
Two-twenty-seven, Doctor.'
OK, better note that down as the moment when life was declared extinct.'
She grasped the jaw and raised the head for a closer look at the wound. 'Big knife did that. No weapon found?' She looked up at Mcllhenney, who shook his head.
Wisps of brown hair floated up as she let White's head sink back down to his shoulder. Idly she stirred the water, from which the crimson blood had begun to separate. 'He must have died very quickly, otherwise there'd be even more blood than that. A single cut, almost to the bone, yet hardly anything splashed outside the bath. What d'you think guys?'
Martin stepped over beside her. 'He's lying with his back to the door. He hears the thief, but before he can pull himself up the guy takes two steps across and does him.'
`Yeah, but even at that… Come here, Neil. Down on your knees with your back to me.'
Mcllhenney, puzzled, did as he was told.
`Now look, to do that, our killer, having stepped across that tiled floor, would have had to grab his man by the chin with his left hand, and pull him round…' she took hold of Mcllhenney and pulled his head up and to the left `… to expose the neck so that he could make the cut.' The sweeping movement of her right hand left nothing to the imagination. In her grasp Mcllhenney paled.
She released the big detective. 'What's wrong with that?' she asked him as he stood up.
He shrugged his shoulders. `Dunno.'
`What's wrong with it, colleagues, is that if it had happened like that, even if it was so quick that White had no chance even to struggle, when he hit the artery, the blood would have gone halfway up the wall on the right there. Yet there isn't any, apart from that smear over the edge of the tub. There's no knife, so no attempt to make it look like suicide. And there's been a theft. So if it happened the way you say, why would our killer wipe the wall, so carefully as not to leave a trace? And if he did that, why would he leave that one smear?'
Martin smiled. He knew Sarah Skinner, nee Grace, from many crime scenes. He was in awe of her eye for detail. 'So tell us, why?'
`He didn't. That's not what happened.' She knelt beside the tub and reached into the water once more, with both hands this time. She took hold of White's head firmly, moving her fingers around the skull. The two policemen watched in fascination. Eventually, she nodded and hissed, 'Yes!! Got it!' She looked up at them, still holding the victim's head.
`There's another injury! Above the hairline, on the right temple. He has a depressed skull fracture.' She let the body go and stood up. 'No one followed him in here. Someone was waiting for him. Behind the door, I'd say. White opens the door right-handed and comes in.
Even as it's closing, he's putting his gear on the shelf, standing naked and with his back to the man who's waiting.
`Whack! The attacker beans him with something, on the side of the head. He goes down, and from that blow he's out, believe me. Our guy could have taken the money and run. But he doesn't do that. Instead he hauls White, a dead weight, across and heaves him into the Jacuzzi. Then he outs with a long-bladed knife and cuts his throat, in the tub. When the artery shoots, only the first spurt breaks the surface.'
`Why should he do that?' asked Martin, but it was more a prompt than a question.
`So that he wouldn't get blood on him. This guy didn't come in here to steal from White. If he took his watch and wallet it was only to make you dumb coppers assume that was the motive.
This man, our perpetrator, came in here to kill White, and to walk away quietly afterwards.'
`Hi Pops.'
She stood in the doorway. The peach-coloured towel trailed on the hallway floor, hanging loosely from her right hand. Her long dark hair, its natural waves dampened down by the shower, was ruffled from vigorous rubbing. The blue satin bathrobe, tied firmly at the waist, clung tightly to her, its 'AM' monogram featured by the swell of her left breast.
Bob Skinner stared down at his daughter, in his best friend's hallway, in his best friend's robe. His eyes were wide with astonishment. His mouth began to form words, but no sound came out. He shook his head, as if to clear it.
Alex frowned suddenly as she noticed the lump on his forehead, and the cut, with its two stitches.
Oh pops. Your head! Andy told me, but…'
The sudden narrowing of his eyes cut her off short. 'Never mind my head.' His voice, recovered, was hard and grim. 'Is this what it seems?'
`What do you mean?'
`Don't give me that!' he snapped, with a coldness that shocked her. 'You know bloody well what I mean! How long has this been going on? You and Andy. Shacking up!' He slammed the flat of his right hand against the blue-painted front door, sending it flying back on its hinges.
For the merest instant alarm showed in her face, and then it was gone as she flared back at him. lust what has that got to do with you? What the hell happened to belief in me and trust in my judgement… or in Andy's for that matter?'
`Trust in your judgement! Don't make me laugh. I did that once before. Remember him? And as for Andy, he's a walking disaster when it comes to relationships. I have a fair idea of the number of women that have stood in that doorway — and probably worn that dressing-gown too — and none of them stayed around longer than a couple of months.