217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
“Poor girl didn't stand a chance. Stabbed five times with a machete. Another archaeologist found her body near the moat."
Donna paced the inspector's office. She'd seen worse photographs but never got used to the shock.
"So why have you called me in?"
"Expertise, Dr Townes. We'd like you to come to the castle and help us with a few things. We found traces of the victim's DNA in places we wouldn't have expected her to go."
"And do you know the time of death?" Donna took a swig from her water bottle.
"Not confirmed. We know she ate shortly before death. An examination of the contents of her stomach showed food, probably pasta -
"Oh, stop Harry. That's disgusting."
Margaret shut her eyes, swallowed.
"I thought you didn't mind the gory bits."
"Well, I do. Why do I want to know the contents of someone's stomach? Why do they have to put that sort of thing in?"
Harry shrugged. "I suppose the writer thought it was important."
Margaret didn't seem to mind a good stabbing, bludgeoning or hanging but this, apparently, was too much. How was he supposed to know what was best?
Margaret was crying.
"I'm sorry, love. Really.' He reached out and caught a tear on his fingertip.
"I can't imagine eating anything these days," she said. "I just can't imagine it. I feel so bad."
He closed the book, placed it on the floor.
"Let me run you a bath."
She nodded, sniffed, half-smiled. Her I'm-pulling-myself-together face.