‘Come into the house,’ Beth said. She led the older woman away from the scene.
Gribble must have been both intelligent and quick because he appeared from the house with a wet cloth and a bowl of ice cubes. He delivered his burden to the Inspector. ‘I’ll mind the radio,’ he said.
‘And help McAndrew,’ the Inspector said, ‘before somebody gets hurt.’
He wiped gently at Garnet’s head. As a crust of earth left by the weapon was washed away I saw that Garnet’s brow was swelling and that blood was running from a cut. The blood, I thought, was a good sign, if one wanted him to live.
The Inspector sat back on his heels. ‘He’s alive. I can’t feel any sign of a fracture. I think he’ll make it.’
I tried to look pleased. ‘What will become of young Guffy?’ I asked.
He looked up from the improvised ice-bag which he was holding on the wound. ‘The boy? There’s no denying that he’s made at the very least one murderous attack. The best advocate in the world couldn’t turn the shot fired at you into anything less than attempted murder. But in this liberal-minded age, who knows?’ The Inspector gave vent to a surprisingly human sigh. ‘I’m sorry for the old man,’ he said. ‘Don’t quote me, but you can suggest to him, as your own opinion, that because the boy’s been registered as mentally handicapped, he’ll probably be detained under the Mental Health Act.’
‘Where?’
‘Depends where they have a bed for him. Liff Hospital would be my best guess.’
I hoped that he was right. Liff, in Dundee, would be within easy reach for Mr Fergusson to visit. I had been imagining Guffy many miles away and among strangers. ‘He’ll be allowed out?’ I asked.
‘Not the least doubt of it,’ the Inspector said disgustedly. ‘If they’re not actually foaming at the mouth they’re soon turned out for the community to care for them. The old chap may have him back on his hands before he knows he’s gone. Och well, I suppose it’s progress of a sort.’
There was a sound in the distance. The Inspector looked round. ‘Ambulance,’ he said. ‘You hold this in place.’
I knelt down and held the cloth and its cold contents against the wound. If I was tempted to make his condition worse, perhaps by pushing pebbles up his nose (which would undoubtedly have been blamed on Guffy) I resisted temptation nobly. Beth, after all, had handed me all the weapon that I needed.
Garnet stirred and his eyes, although unfocused, were half open and settling on my face. ‘What . . .?’ he said. ‘What . . .?’
I hoped that he was taking in my words or at least that his memory was registering them. ‘Tell me, little man,’ I said. ‘What do you hope to be . . . if you grow up.’
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Part of this book was written in the light of a passing comment by a police officer who spoke at the preceding conference of the Crime Writers’ Association.
Just after its completion, I bought a copy of Murder Under the Microscope—The Story of Scotland Yard’s Forensic Science Laboratory, by Philip Paul, published by Macdonald, at a large bookstore. (‘You see,’ I heard one member of staff say to another, ‘somebody did buy it!’)
I was discomfited to read that the superglue cabinet has to be heated. Not to a very high temperature, I should add; but I hurry to reassure any reader who chances to step on a tube of superglue while making an obscene or threatening phone call that he or she need not fear that they are perpetuating their fingerprints—not, at least, unless they are gifted with exceptionally hot feet.
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