"Oh sir!" Peters shook his head at the injustices of a sergeant's life, then nodded at the chalk pattern on the floor. "Had to be murder, didn't it?"
"Had to be." White nodded. "Suspenders over the top of her knickers. Yesterday's perfume. No fingerprints anywhere in the house." He reached for his cup shaking his head. "It doesn't take a mad genius to work out there's something fishy going on here."
"Maybe it was a mad genius who killed her." Peters put his cup down to utilise his hands. "I saw a film once where this serial killer cuts off his own fingerprints with a razor blade."
"I saw that too. Criminal." A taste of weak tea was followed by pursed lips. "Brad Pitt forced to join the Church of Scientology."
"That's the made up religion, right? John Travolta's one of them. I like John Travolta."
"Aye. Made up by a science fiction writer who made millions more from religion than he ever did from his books." White put his tea down. "Now that's what I call Pulp Fiction."
"Yeah." Peters gathered up the cups. "So what now? Nothing we can do here until the SOCOs have finished taking prints."
"I suppose not." White stared at the door to the hall. "I wouldn't mind having a proper look round wile the house is empty, though. I've never had the opportunity before. Nearest I ever got was when they ran their Christmas balls and even then I only got the guided tour. Did you know there are three levels of cellars in this place. Goes right back to the fourteenth century, I'm told. The foundation stones are monoliths pulled from the Welsh mountains."
Peters looked doubtful. "Who told you that, sir?"
"Oh." Peters stifled a grin.
"I saw that. What was that all about?"
"Well sir, it's well known in the office. "
"You and Meinwen Jones. You're always going on about her. Grass roots policing you call it, though I know what most people call it and it's less to do with grass and more to do with rooting."
"Ms. Jones and I have a purely platonic relationship, Sergeant."
"Course you do, sir." Peters turned away to wash the cups.