“Was there any possibility Daniel was stealing them?”
“Daniel? But he had his own prescription pad. He wouldn’t need to. Not unless …” Eleanor’s mouth made an ‘O’ at this new line of thought. “You think he took them? But why?”
“You didn’t discuss them with Daniel then?”
She shook her head, mutely.
“One more thing, just to remind myself. Did you see Daniel’s face at the window?”
“Yes, yes I did. I told you already. I was looking around, because fireworks don’t interest me that much, and saw him at the window. He was looking out, almost like he was waiting for something. Then he turned away, and began banging, and Jane began screaming.”
“And according to you, after you rushed upstairs, Dennis was with you the entire time?”
“Yes. I’ve told you that. I’m sure he never left my side.”
“Yes. Well. We’ll perhaps come back to that in the future.”
She stared at him archly. “You should go back to that Jane girl in the future,” she said, her tone spiteful for the last few words. She was staring at Daniel all night, like … like she was on heat or something! And I told you already that Daniel had been saying things to her at work, also saying how nice she looked. There was definitely something between those two.”
DI Thomas sat back. “We’re pursuing all lines of enquiry, thank you.” He nodded over at DC Lemkin. “Well, thanks for your help. Like I said at the start, I’m sorry we had to ask you a second round of questions. You can go now.”
Mrs Lawson looked at each of them, nodded eventually. “And Dennis as well?”
DC Lemkin was nodding. The woman stood and was halfway to the door, DC Lemkin escorting her, when DI Thomas cleared his throat.
“Actually, I need to ask him one or two more questions. Something that just came up.”
“For goodness sake! Will this never end?” she demanded, her composed expression quivering.
“Sorry about this, Eleanor. I’m sure it won’t be more than a minute or two.” DC Lemkin was aiming for the butter-wouldn’t-melt tone, but Eleanor didn’t even bother looking at him, instead glaring at DI Thomas.
She turned abruptly and left the room, DC Lemkin heading out after her, his frame filling the doorway to the point where his cropped blond hair almost skiffed the wood at the top. DI Thomas got up and began to walk slowly towards the window.
“I know you’re there, Dakar. You and your bloody notes. I haven’t missed them.” His eyes widened, and his head went side to side as his glare slid around. Stewart realised with a shock that the window was only one-way, and DI Thomas couldn’t see them.
DI Thomas glared for a moment longer, then turned and went back to his seat. A few moments later, DC Lemkin reappeared, a small, balding man following him. Stewart recognised him as Dennis.
“I must protest,” the man spluttered as DC Lemkin brought him in. “You told me earlier that I—”
“Sit down,” DI Thomas practically barked at him. The man complied, sullenly. DC Lemkin retook his seat, getting a fresh sheet of paper in front of him.
“Mr Lawson, I need to ask you something else. You went downstairs at one point, didn’t you, when everyone else was upstairs?”
Dennis looked appalled. “No, I did not!” he said. “I was upstairs with everyone else the whole time after we saw Daniel at the window. This is harassment!”
“There is a witness—”
“I’ve already told you, I didn’t go downstairs. Eleanor will vouch for me. I don’t know who this witness is, or what their problem is. Is it Tom? I bet it’s Tom. He’s always had it in for me. Listen, I didn’t go downstairs after we went up to see what had happened to Daniel. Not until we’d finished searching the second floor, and everyone went downstairs.”
DI Thomas held up the bit of paper he’d placed down on the table. “Mr Lawson, are you sure you didn’t go downstairs, perhaps to Daniel Mannings’ study?”
The man froze in his seat, eyes slowly widening. The only audible sound in the room was his breathing. “I want a lawyer.”
DI Thomas sat back. “Don’t think that’s necessary just yet, Mr Lawson. I just want an answer to one question. Did you hide downstairs while everyone rushed up, or did you go upstairs and then come back down?”
Dennis’ eyes slipped from DI Thomas to DC Lemkin and back again as he licked his lips. His eyes slid over to the door.
“Just answer that one question, and we’ll release you, I promise. We know you were downstairs.”
Another lick of the lips. “After I went upstairs.” The words came out in a low croak. “I went up, then when everyone else went through to the guest bedroom, I ran back down. I didn’t go into the study though. I got to the door, then that girl Jane began shouting about other people being dead, and I chickened out. Ran back upstairs. That’s it. I swear it.”
“And you went downstairs for this?” DI Thomas waved the bit of paper.
“Yes.” Dennis spoke in a rasping voice.
DI Thomas leaned back in his chair, staring at Dennis, head cocked to one side. Eventually he leaned forward again.
“We’re not holding you. You can go. For now.”
“Can I … Will you …” Dennis looked helplessly at the piece of paper.
“Forging prescription pads is a serious offence, Mr Lawson. Saying that, we’re looking for a murderer. If you didn’t murder Daniel Mannings, then I suppose you don’t have to worry about this. Just don’t do it again.”
Dennis almost collapsed with relief, DC Lemkin having to take him by the arm and help escort him out. DI Thomas scratched his nose for a few seconds before he also got up and exited the room.
Stewart subconsciously began to crouch back as soon as DI Thomas disappeared from sight. He took a step closer to Dakar as the door to their own room opened. DI Thomas was shorter than DC Lemkin and far less aggressively muscular, neat hair combed off to the right with a side parting, but as he stood silhouetted in the doorway he seemed like a massive, towering giant.
“You two. Outside. Now.”
Chapter 34
Stewart scurried past DI Thomas out of the door. DC Lemkin stood waiting, not exactly releasing balloons or popping champagne corks at seeing them again.
“This way,” DC Lemkin grunted, turning and heading along the corridor. Stewart followed him, then paused, looking over his shoulder. Dakar was strolling along, DI Thomas marching firmly behind him. DC Safdar had, disappointingly, disappeared.
They ended up outside, back in the parking lot. DI Thomas stopped and looked at them both, lighting up a cigarette as he did so.
“You two.” He said it flatly, the tone leaden. He took a deep draw, and blew out the smoke to one side.
Stewart nodded, tried a smile. No response from either cop.
“You bloody two. Like a nightmare I can’t get rid of.” The same tone, a leaden monotonous black that matched the dark clouds overhead. DI Thomas took the cigarette out, tapped the ash and watched it drift down to the ground. “C’mon,” he said suddenly, the moment the ash hit the ground. He began walking away from the police station, out past the barrier.
Stewart hesitated for a second, then saw DC Lemkin standing watching him, daring him to disobey. Stewart quickly hurried down the steps after DI Thomas.
DI Thomas stopped at a car parked on the street, and told Stewart and Dakar to hop in. They got in, taking the back seat, while DC Lemkin got into the driver’s street and DI Thomas took the passenger seat.
“The local,” was all DI Thomas said, opening his window and blowing smoke out.
It was a short ride, over across The Meadows, deserted now as everyone and their dog prepared for the dreich assault that was about to hit the land. They passed Edinburgh Uni, the buildings like merciless judges as they passed.
The car came to a halt. DC Lemkin and DI Thomas got out, opening the doors for Stewart and Dakar. Stewart went to thank them, then remembered they’d been in a police car and it was
almost certain that you couldn’t open the doors from the inside. He thanked them anyway, expressions about it costing nothing jumping into his mind.
They were on a street just off Clerk Street, only about ten minutes’ walk from Stewart’s flat, directly outside a pub called The Bothie. It had always seemed a pretty ordinary pub to him. He’d passed it several times in his comings and goings, in fact, and at no point had he ever guessed that it was some kind of secret police torture chamber.
The sun hadn’t quite set, but it was on its way down, the short days becoming shorter. The wind had picked up, whistling along the Edinburgh streets, stealing any heat that had remained. The smell of rain in the air was getting stronger. Stewart cast his eyes upwards. Impossible though it was, the clouds seemed somehow closer, as if they were coming down on the city from above.
DI Thomas didn’t wait for the rest of them, instead heading in, the others coming along behind. There hadn’t been much light outside but even so, Stewart’s eyes took a minute to adjust to the gloom of the bar. It was a pub, much like Whisky, except it hadn’t got around to cleaning up its act yet. The barman was wiping the bar when they entered, not so much cleaning as spreading the dirt more evenly.
“You. What’ll you have?” DI Thomas stood at the bar, looking at Stewart.
Stewart froze. He’d have to have a beer. DI Thomas already had a pint of what looked like heavy plonked in front of him. But on the other hand, he couldn’t have a beer. He was working. What happened if Green or Sudgeon materialised in here, demanding to know what he was doing? Granted, the chances of Sudgeon and Green coming in here were approximately the same as the survival expectancy of a snowball trying to tap dance its way past the denizens of hell, but still.
DI Thomas was looking at him. The barman was looking at him. Christ, it felt like every person in the bar was looking at him, eyes in all the dark corners leering in his direction. Couldn’t have a pint. Too much. Couldn’t have a soft drink. Too little. Maybe a shandy? Half beer, half soft drink? Stewart began to sweat. Right, yes, a shandy. But maybe that was still too much.
The barman began to look really bored now, even annoyed, sunken eyes seeming to sink deeper as he stared at Stewart …
“Half a shandy please!”
The words tumbled out without a space between them, one long sound, his voice echoing around the bar. If everyone in the bar hadn’t been looking at him before, they definitely were now. Stewart felt his face light up.
“Shandy? Half?” The barman had one of those particularly masculine voices, a deep, Scottish voice which sounded like he gargled pebbles each morning to roughen up his throat. He wasn’t even attempting to mask his contempt.
Stewart nodded, mutely. The barman turned to look at DC Lemkin and Dakar, standing behind Stewart.
“Pint, half orange, half lemonade?” DC Lemkin nodded once. He didn’t look embarrassed at all. “And what about you?”
“Water, my brother.”
The barman gave Dakar an odd look, but turned to get the drinks. DI Thomas relocated them to the corner booth, which stood on its own, and faced the door. Stewart and Dakar sat down opposite him, Lemkin arriving a second later with the other drinks. Stewart could feel his face begin to cool again.
DI Thomas took a deep pull of his heavy, supping the cold dark liquid before he sat back and smacked his lips. He said nothing, instead taking a deep sigh of heavenly satisfaction. He looked skywards for a few seconds before his eyes came back down.
“Normally I wouldn’t drink on the job, not any more. New regulations and all that shit. But when I see it’s you two – you bloody two – that are investigating this … Needs must, when the De’il drives.” He took a second deep pull on the pint, smacking his lips again.
He leaned forward. “Baffled, Seb. That’s what the papers are saying I am. Baffled. I’ll show them though. I’m close. It’ll come. And then I’ll show them baffled.” DI Thomas spoke with a certain warm promise in his tone.
“Good of you to ask Dennis that question for me. The answer narrows down the list of liars quite a bit.”
DI Thomas scowled. “It wasn’t a bloody favour. Think I would let you anywhere near an interview in an ongoing murder investigation if it was up to me? No bloody chance.”
Another deep pull from the pint, his tongue wiping away the white foam left behind. It was a heady mix that reached Stewart’s nose, dark chocolate of the heavy, the fizzy lightness of orange mixed with lemonade and the lemony smell of his own shandy, all mixing with the dark, deep bouquet of the bar .
“I’m under orders. The powers that be. Apparently the dead boy’s father is an old pal of the chief. I’ve to give you a look at some evidence. No statements, though. Privacy concerns. The autopsy reports.” DI Thomas paused, another pull, wiping stuff away again. “Apparently once you’re dead, no-one really gives a shite.”
Chapter 35
Stewart looked on, astonished, as Lemkin wordlessly produced a file.
He spread out photographs on the table in front of them. Stewart glanced at them, and found he couldn’t pull his eyes away. He’d seen Daniel in life in a photograph, and now he was getting treated to him in death. The photographs showed the stairs down to the cellar, plus the cellar itself, this time complete with body. Stewart began to get his notepad out.
“No notes!” DI Thomas growled the words at him.
Stewart slid his notepad back into his bag. DI Thomas glared at him for a second longer, Stewart focusing on his bag, before the man turned back to Dakar.
“Body was at the bottom of the stairs. This is it in situ. The dark patches on the stairs and floor are blood. DNA tests show it belonged to the deceased.”
Stewart stared at the bizarre photographs. There Daniel lay, eyes closed, facing out, arms and legs splayed out. There was blood coming out of his mouth, and dark stains on the front of his shirt. It was horrible but fascinating at the same time.
“The blood in the bedroom and the en suite. Was it Daniel’s?”
“Aye. All of the blood, upstairs and downstairs, all his.”
“Bugger. That makes life harder. And the knife?”
“His blood as well. No fingerprints.”
Dakar nodded without looking up. “Defensive wounds?”
“None. No bruising or cuts to the arms or hands, not even any of that handy DNA they always find under fingernails in all that CSI malarkey. Absolutely diddly-squat. Some bruising on the torso though, back and front.”
“And this is the suit jacket we’ve heard so much about?” Dakar pointed at the body.
DI Thomas picked up a different photograph and handed it over, the suit jacket on its own, body-less. It truly was hideous.
“What about the stuff everyone else was wearing?”
DI Thomas nodded, and picked up some more photographs. He gave them over. Stewart watched as Dakar studied each set of clothing, recognising each one from the photographs. Martina’s was first: the trousers, shirt and scarf. Russell and Charles came next: smart-casual and then a suit. Then Sarah-Anne’s: the red dress, this time with gloves, and an apron, a pure, spotless, innocent white. Sandra and Janes’ outfits followed, then Stewart recognised Craig’s description of his stuff. There was a final set, jeans, a t-shirt and a jumper.
“Whose are these?” Dakar fingered the photograph.
“Donaldson’s. The elder. We seized them when we found them in the car.”
“Anything on any of them?”
“Not a drop of anything suspicious anywhere. On anything.”
Dakar sat back, then nodded. “How did he die?”
DI Thomas nodded to DC Lemkin, who cleared the first set of photographs and replaced them with a second. Stewart looked eagerly at them, then looked even more eagerly away from them. He’d never seen a post-mortem before. Having had a glimpse of one, he didn’t really fancy ever seeing one again.
After a deep breath, Stewart forced himself to take a second look at them. He managed one more glance, then turned quic
kly away again.
It was Daniel’s body, on one of those thin metallic tables they used to cut people up, with drains for the blood. There were some big wounds in his chest. The body was a kind of pale grey, and in various parts of the photo bits were open, before being sown shut in later photos. The face looked peaceful enough, although Stewart felt sure there would be an expression of pain at what was happening down below.
It was as he was looking away from the photos, taking a deep breath, that the words came quietly in his ear.
“Do you know, they take a circular saw and open up your skull? Then they take your brain out, and slice it up, bit by bit?”
Stewart looked around in shock. DC Lemkin had leaned over the table towards him and was whispering the words softly in his ear.
“Don’t ever die in a suspicious or unexplained way in Scotland. Otherwise …” DC Lemkin indicated the photographs, Stewart straining to hear him, before the cop suddenly made a loud, high-pitched whining noise, like a saw. Stewart jerked back away from him. DC Lemkin leaned back with a satisfied look on his face.
“He died …” DI Thomas stared at DC Lemkin before turning to Dakar, “… from four stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, which caused massive blood loss. Mainly internal bleeding.” DI Thomas pointed to one of the photographs, which showed the wounds on the dead man’s chest. “Although—”
“What?”
“Turns out the boy was going to be shaking hands with death pretty soon anyway. When they opened up his head, they found a tumour in his brain. In the frontal lobe.” He looked down at some notes, a frown on his face. “The experts tell me it involves loss of social inhibitions, personality change, and a lack of realisation of the above. Basically you go bad, and don’t know you’re out of order. His wife did say he was acting a bit weird recently. Six to eight months he had left, untreated, and no guarantees it could be sorted even if they did catch it.”
Dakar sat back, the wood creaking as his back weighed against the booth. “And he didn’t know he had it?”
The Price to Pay Page 19
