Narrow is the Way Read Online Free

concrete floor, was a young bride, dressed in a fabulous white gown.
    She opened her mouth, then closed it again. For a split second, she wondered if now wouldn’t be a good time to wake up. She’d had particularly vivid dreams before, that had abruptly wondered off in outlandish Monty Python-like directions , but this one took the biscuit.
    Then the surreal moment passed, and she shook her head. ‘What the hell?’ she said simply.
    The dead girl didn’t look a day over twenty, and had a mass of glorious, red-gold hair, swept up onto her head in what hadonce been a magnificent chignon. Now it was spread out in an untidy mass, and lay against the foul concrete like an ignominious halo. The wide-open eyes were a velvet pansy-brown, and beneath the voluminous, snow-white dress, Hillary guessed was a five-foot eight or so, lithe and willowy figure.
    The dress itself was sumptuous – all satin, lace, and handstitched pearl beadwork. The bodice had a wasp-like waist, with the skirt flaring out into ballooning shimmering satin. The only thing missing was a wedding veil and a bouquet.
    ‘Boss, there’s been a fancy-dress party up at the farmhouse,’ Janine said, reluctant to explain, but supposing she’d better. She so rarely got the chance to see her super-efficient DI lost for words that she wanted to revel in it for a few seconds more.
    ‘Oh,’ Hillary said flatly, then nodded. That explained the presence of the crowd back at the big house then. ‘Obviously this is one of the guests?’
    ‘Yes, boss,’ Janine agreed.
    Hillary stared down at the girl, noting the congested and contorted face, the protruding bluish-tinged tongue and tightly clenched fists. Even so, Hillary could tell that this young woman had once been very beautiful indeed. Kneeling down beside her, dressed in white coveralls, was a dapper man, currently inspecting the bride’s neck.
    ‘Has all the appearance of a manual strangulation,’ Hillary said out loud, not a question so much as an opening gambit.
    Doctor Steven Partridge looked up, and smiled briefly. ‘Looks like it. And before you ask, I’d say she’d been dead less than an hour. Poor cow.’
    Everybody groaned. Even Hillary.
    She wasn’t shocked by the bad-taste joke, because morgue-humour was something every cop quickly became used to. And she wasn’t fooled into thinking, as some did, that Steven Partridge lacked respect for the dead. In fact, she knew the pathologist was one of the most compassionate men around. It was just … dealing with stuff like this on a regular basis, most people preferred to use humour, especially macabre and politically incorrect humour, as a handy armour.
    Behind her, she heard the approach of another pair of feet, and automatically glanced down. But she could see why duck-boards hadn’t been set up here either. The chance of finding recognizable footprints on filthy wet concrete, trampled daily by cows, was pointless.
    Tommy Lynch and Frank Ross approached curiously.
    Frank took one look and whistled. Tommy Lynch seemed to pale visibly, although the big constable gave no other outward sign of distress. ‘Guv,’ he said instead and waited patiently for orders.
    Hillary turned back to the corpse. ‘She’s wearing a gold and what looks to me like a real, diamond ring. Also a gold locket, and a fairly expensive looking wrist-watch. Any sign of a handbag?’
    ‘Yes, guv,’ a uniformed officer, obviously the designated Evidence Officer, came forward with a pile of neatly tagged plastic evidence bags and a list of contents.
    ‘Was there a purse?’ Hillary asked, ignoring the lipstick and other items of make-up, perfume and assorted detritus associated with females.
    ‘Yes, guv,’ the evidence officer, a middle-aged WPC, said at once. ‘Contents: forty pounds in notes, two pound coins, and forty-two pence in change. Also two credit cards bearing the name Julia Reynolds, an organ donor card and driving licence ditto, a pack of condoms and a national