Detective Chief Inspector Roy Thoroughgood ducked low, and eased his giant bulk into the tent. ‘Miller, what’ve we got?’
‘One fortune teller, sir, one crystal ball and one very dented skull,’ DS Grace Miller replied.
‘Surprised she didn’t see it coming,’ the DCI said, deadpan.
Grace and a white-suited forensics guy kneeling on the ground exchanged eye-rolls.
‘Don’t hold your breath for anything useful on this, sir,’ the man said, pointing to the grubby-looking ball. ‘Smells like it’s been doused in coffee.’
‘Do your best,’ the DCI urged, aware that hot liquids were not helpful when it came to fingerprints and DNA.
‘Very little blood around the body,’ Grace continued. ‘Looks like her headscarf prevented spatter. The other stallholders swear no one came in here between Madame Zita, aka Polly Squires, fetching herself a drink at around 11.15am, and Celia Harris, the fete’s organiser, finding her dead 20 minutes later.’
‘Well, someone did. Disgruntled customer, maybe?’ the chief suggested, studying the scene. The corpse lay face down beside a toppled fold-up chair, the glass ball a
