Seventeen
“There’s no dignity in death.” — Francesca BoyleBailey Troy stepped aside from the doorway, allowing the two scene-of-crime officers to bustle out of the bedroom and prepare for their methodical examination of the lounge. Then she walked in, stood by the foot of the bed and looked on as the medical examiner completed his inspection of the naked body of Jenny Watson. He was kneeling down by the side of the bed to Bailey’s left, squeezed uncomfortably into the small gap — barely eighteen inches wide, she estimated — between the bed and an old wooden chest of drawers against the wall.
Medical examiners were not, she reflected, the sort of people who were easily distracted by the obvious. In spite of the belt looped around her neck and untidily knotted to the bedstead, the examiner
