1

A Crime Scene

The extraction fan whirred with gentle insistence. Claire peered into the bathroom from the doorway, leaning a bit awkwardly to avoid stepping over the threshold. It was quite a shocking sight. The bathroom was tiled in white over all four walls, the ceiling and the floor. Claire had always hated the claustrophobic design: it made her feel like she was inside a giant tooth.

But today every shining white surface was spattered with red. There were small dots, smeary streaks, little bits of spray that looked as if they came from an aerosol can. There were even long, elegant, looping lines that dripped down, like you’d see on the more lurid kind of police-procedural show (which were obviously Claire’s favourite kind). There were red spots on the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, on the white shower curtain pulled half around the bath and on the narrow mirror reflecting the scene back doubly. Everywhere you looked you saw more. The taps, the hand-towel, the soap. Like noticing an ant on a paving slab and, as you relax your eyes, suddenly becoming aware of dozens of them over the entire pavement. All the spatter in a bright, deep arterial red.

A body was lying half in and half out of the bath. Legs and a skinny bum in similarly skinny – and offensively lime-green – jeans were hanging out over the side and partially splayed over the fluffy white bathmat, while the head and torso were slumped on the inside, mostly held up by the body’s head being wedged against the bottom of the bath.

There was a rush of cool air as Sophie, Claire’s closest friend and constant companion for more than fifteen years, stepped past Claire and into the room. She whistled.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘This mess is, like, comprehensive. LOL.’ Sophie pronounced itel-oh-el. She looked round the bathroom with interest, the action setting the brown curls of her hair dancing in their tight, high ponytail.

Sophie wore a turquoise velour tracksuit of the kind that was popular among teenage girls in the early- to midnoughties, and the acid brightness of the colour against the white walls, the green legs and the red splatter made Claire wince. She’d finished off a bottle of white wine the night before, ploughing on despite the fact that it had started to go a bit vinegary. It wasn’t really an ideal morning to confront…this.

‘You need some of those little crime-scene booties. Come and have a look, Weirdo,’ said Soph, beckoning her in.

Claire stepped gingerly around the sticky marks on the floor. It was a small room and the