‘The Sands of Love.’ Sy pulled on one glove then the other, his fingers resembling over-stuffed sausages, straining against the latex.
‘What was that?’
‘Her first film role. Nineteen fifty three. Blink and you’d miss her.’
Francie looked down at her paperwork. ‘Never seen it.’
‘Not missing much. Gangster B movie. But she had glamour. Stood out, you know?’
Francie scribbled her signature at the bottom of the form before looking up.
Soap scum floated on the bath water, strands of long grey hair looped on the enamel. A crumpled square if tin foil – grubby brown shining at its centre – lay by the taps. One of the officers had found a teaspoon and a lighter in the bottom of the bath wedged under the body. She must have wriggled some as she died.
‘Doesn’t look too glamorous now. Okay, Sy. You can move her.’