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“That lot on the floor looks like an accident to me, not the result of a tussle.”
“If it got out of control in here,” said Reilly, “they’d have needed to disable her in some way so they could drag her into the bedroom.”
“Which means that some of that stuff down there would have ended up on the landing.”
Reilly nodded and turned his head.
“I’m not fully convinced that the burglar is responsible for Jane Carter’s death. It almost looks like he hasn’t been up here.”
As Gardener studied the items on the floor, one in particular stood out.
He bent down and retrieved a small glass bottle of pills. He had absolutely no idea what they were. Couldn’t pronounce the name. He unscrewed the cap and shook a few into his right hand. They were small and circular, with a hard shiny polished surface.
“Interesting,” said Gardener.
Reilly studied the rest of toiletries on the floor – also inspecting the smashed bathroom cabinet. “Looks like the only bottle.”
“Freshly opened as well. The label says there should be one hundred. It won’t be far off.”
“Prescription?” inquired Reilly.
“Definitely.”
“Could be another option here,” said Reilly. “Maybe Jane Carter was in the bathroom getting ready for bed when she was startled by a burglar. They have a fight, things get broken. She has a medical problem, takes a turn for the worse and the burglar bails out, leaving her to it.”
“Possibly. Either that, or like we said, the burglar didn’t make it up here. Maybe Jane Carter was getting ready for bed and suddenly felt unwell: she couldn’t reach the tablets in time. She panicked, lost her sense of balance, brought this lot down on herself and ended crawling back into the bedroom when she couldn’t find the pills.”
“Suggesting she wasn’t attacked at all.”
A familiar voice from the ground floor broke their conversation.
Reilly smiled. “Is that the sharp, reptilian voice of our beloved Pathosaurus just arriving?”
“Don’t you go winding him up,” said Gardener.
“As if.”
Fitz’s tall, lean frame came bounding up the stairs. His wrinkled, grandfatherly complexion greeted them. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, pushing his half-lens spectacles further up his nose. In his right hand he held a black medical bag.
Reilly held his chest and feigned a fainting.
“What’s up with him?” Fitz asked.
“He’s probably wondering the same about you,” replied Gardener.
“When have we ever called you out to a scene, day or night, and you’ve greeted us like the human beings that we are?” Reilly asked.
Fitz simply stared on. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. Good morning, Stewart.”
Both detectives laughed.
Gardener took Fitz into the bedroom, explained what he knew, before informing him that he was going to check on something downstairs while Fitz examined Jane Carter. Before leaving he asked the pathologist about the pills. He couldn’t help, so Gardener bagged them and gave them to him to take back to the morgue.
Downstairs in the living room, four CSIs were busy taking the place apart – one in each corner: two on the floor, combing through the carpet, and two others peering into the cupboards.
Gardener made a beeline for the photos on the walnut finished sideboard. As with those upstairs, most of them featured Jane Carter with a number of horses; in three of them she held a trophy. As Gardener glanced around the room, he couldn’t locate those trophies: he’d be surprised if a burglar had lifted them, they were too easily traceable.
“Why do you keep looking at the photos?” Reilly asked.
