Nodding curtly, Slomon bent forward, looked at the face with disgust, then moved the head forward so he could examine the base of the skull with probing fingers. It was a brief examination. “As I thought,” he said, treating the inspector to a self-satisfied smirk, ‘the head injury was not the cause of death and was not the result of a blow. The damage probably resulted from his head colliding with the stone flooring when he fell.” He looked around, then pointed to something glinting on the floor, by the wall. “Something you missed, Inspector. Fortunately I keep my eyes open whenever I do an examination.”

Frost swore softly as Shelby retrieved a broken wine bottle from the gully. There was no way they could have seen it earlier, as the dirty water had completely covered it.

Stretching out a hand, Slomon received the bottle from the constable and cautiously raised it to his nose. A delicate sniff, followed by a smug nod of satisfaction at his own cleverness. “Wine laced with industrial alcohol, a potent combination.” He handed the bottle to Frost for confirmation. Frost took his word for it and passed it to the constable. “He drank himself senseless, then fell,” continued Slomon dogmatically. “Then he choked on his own vomit. I’ll arrange for the hospital to carry out a post-mortem first thing tomorrow, but they will only confirm my diagnosis.” He consulted his watch. “The party calls. I’ll leave the tidying up to you.” With a curt nod he was up the steps and out into the clean night air.

“I wish they were doing a post-mortem on you, you bastard,” Frost muttered. He again looked around his unsavoury surroundings. Why was something nagging away? Why was that little bell at the back of his head ringing insistently, warning him something was wrong? He looked around again, slowly this time. But it was no good whatever it was, it wasn’t going to show itself. And why was he worrying? Death was from natural causes, and he had the party to go to.