The Road to Hell

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘Fine. On you go, Mr Brand,’ the Sheriff said, pointing at him.

  ‘Doctor Alton, there is no reference to the GCS in the notes, is there?’ the Procurator Fiscal said. He looked paler than before, and was scanning his file closely, his eyes darting all over the page as he tried to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

  ‘Not in the copy notes you showed me a month or so ago, no, but in the principal records that I’ve now got in front of me there is. I can show you. It’s in my writing. I’ve given her a score of 15. That means she was normal, drunk or not drunk.’

  The doctor held out the principal records, pointing at the relevant page as if to display the entry to the court.

  The Procurator Fiscal looked hard at his photocopied notes and then in an agitated tone asked the Macer to take the principal records from the witness and pass them to him. After an interval of about a minute, during which the remaining colour drained from his cheeks, he found the entry and said slowly, ‘Right enough, I see that.’

  Once the witness had the records in front of him again, the Procurator Fiscal continued his examination-in-chief, but he sounded less fluent, less confident than before. It was as if he was now feeling his way, aware that the ground beneath his feet was no longer solid.

  ‘What about advice – did you advise her to return if she experienced any of the classic head injury symptoms? There seems to be no reference to that in your notes . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid there is,’ the doctor said, looking almost disappointed for the lawyer. ‘It just didn’t appear in the photocopies. I think someone must have cut it off in some way in your notes. In the principal records it says, “Usual advice, to return tomorrow”.’

  ‘You asked her to return the next day?’ the Procurator Fiscal said, his tone one of undisguised dismay and amazement. He glanced quickly across at the Sheriff. In return, she flashed him a slightly annoyed, quizzical look and said, ‘You’ll appreciate, Mr Brand, that none of these entries are in my copies either. It looks as if whoever copied them did not do a very thorough job.’

  ‘I’m sorry, M’lady. I’ll ensure that full copies are supplied to you for tomorrow.’

  Swallowing hard, the Procurator Fiscal turned his attention back to the witness.

  ‘You were saying, Dr Alton?’

  ‘I did tell her to return. I told you, because of the pile-up the place was in pandemonium, and I wanted to be one hundred per cent sure of the woman. After all, I hadn’t been able to have her X-rayed, scanned or whatever, and she was drunk. I couldn’t rely on her reading the head injury advice card I gave her.’

  ‘Where do we see that?’

  ‘The notes say “HIAG” . . . see, near the bottom of the page. “Head Injury Advice Given”.’

  ‘Go on,’ the Procurator Fiscal said.

  ‘That’s it, really. The examination at that time showed nothing to suggest any kind of focal or diffuse head injury, but I wanted to be sure. There could have been, for example, a slow bleed, and if so the clinical signs would only appear later. That’s why I will have wanted to see her the next day.’

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ the Sheriff asked Professor McConnachie. She had noticed the elderly witness starting to tilt forwards slightly as he gave his evidence, a hand resting on the base of his spine. He had declined her earlier invitation to take a seat, but she risked asking him once more. It was obvious that an hour of non-stop standing had taken its toll on the old pathologist.

  ‘Thank you, M’lady,’ he replied, grateful for the Sheriff’s keen eye and no longer too proud to accept. Resting his bony buttocks on the chair, he tried not to grimace as another twinge of sciatic pain shot down his left leg.

  ‘To continue. In your view, did the fall that Moira Fyfe suffered on the thirteenth of January 2010 cause the subdural bleed?’ Mr Brand asked.

  ‘Yes, I think that was the most likely cause. It appears that when she fell she struck her left temple on the edge of the wing chair, the padded chair, and the left temple was the location of the bleed.’

  ‘The bleed – the collection of blood between the dura mater and the arachnoid mater that you mentioned – could that have been responsible for Ms Fyfe’s death?’ the Procurator Fiscal continued.

  ‘There was sufficient blood, certainly. However, I can’t say for sure, because, as I explained earlier, I have little doubt that Moira Fyfe also suffered from hypothermia. At post mortem I found multiple erosions of the gastric mucosa, Wischnewsky ulcers, plus lipid accumulations in the epithelial cells of the proximal renal tubules in her kidneys, and frostbite lesions.’

  ‘Professor, there is one thing I am having difficulty with,’ the Sheriff interrupted. ‘If the woman was cold, was suffering from frostbite, then what were her clothes doing all over the place? Why on earth would she take them off? You’d think it would be the last thing she’d do!’

  The Professor nodded his head before answering her. ‘It’s a well-known phenomenon, M’lady, known as “Paradoxical Undressing”. In the moderate to severe stages of hypothermia, the victim usually becomes disorientated, confused. Sometimes they become fearful; they can even suffer from hallucinations or become combative. In her case, the alcohol she had already consumed will have, obviously, accelerated the effects of the hypothermia, including the confusion. In such circumstances, the victim discards their own clothing – usually that covering their lower body first, as in this case . . .’

  ‘But why,’ the Sheriff asked, brow furrowed in puzzlement, ‘if they are feeling the cold, do they undress? Surely they’d be desperate to keep their clothes on?’

  ‘Indeed. It does seem rather contradictory – or paradoxical – doesn’t it?’ the Professor agreed politely. ‘But the probable explanation is that, initially, in order to conserve heat the patient’s peripheral blood vessels contract, so as to ensure that his vital organs remain warm, but the muscles contracting the peripheral blood vessels eventually become exhausted. Once that happens they relax, and that leads to a sudden surge of blood, and therefore heat, into the patient’s extremities, which fools the person into thinking that they are now overheating. They feel too hot. Consequently, they try to cool themselves, they remove their clothing . . .’

  ‘One other thing, Professor,’ the Sheriff said, glancing at the Procurator Fiscal to let him know that she was not hijacking his witness, ‘you described, earlier, the scratches, abrasions or whatever you found on the deceased’s hands, and, to a lesser extent, on her feet, and the mud under her nails. From the photos we’ve been shown, it looks as if she’d been scrabbling in the undergrowth, the earth even, as if trying to escape from something or someone. What’s your explanation for that?’

  Moving surreptitiously on his seat to try and prevent another lightning bolt of sciatic pain, the Professor said, ‘It’s another recognised, though odd, phenomenon. The Americans call it ‘Hide or Die’ syndrome. We tend to call it ‘Terminal Burrowing’. It seems to be the result of an autonomous process of the brain stem which is triggered in the final stages of hypothermia, and produces a primitive burrowing-like behaviour for protection. Something similar is found in hibernating animals. In deaths from hypothermia indoors, the deceased is sometimes discovered in a small enclosed space, for example, a wardrobe. Outdoors, the victim is often found in a crevice or culvert. Here, it looks as if Moira Fyfe was trying to burrow her way into that thicket of trees. Also, with the hypothermia, she had, or may have had, hallucinations, seen and heard things. Someone chasing her, for example.’

  Her own curiosity finally satisfied, Alice Rice left the courtroom and walked towards the central hall. As she passed an empty witness room, she noticed a man sitting inside, choking, tears in his eyes as he fought between bouts of coughing to take a breath. For a second she caught his eye and glanced at his face. Snaking across his hooked nose was a white scar. As she moved on the realisation slowly dawned upon her that it was a face she had seen before. But she could not remember quite where or when.

  ‘We
ll, that was a sodding fiasco!’ Sean Lyle said. He was the Assistant Fiscal and had, while she had been deep in thought, silently fallen into step beside her. Sweat had made his brow shiny and dark stains were visible under the arms of his light grey jacket.

  ‘I don’t disagree,’ she replied, sounding unconcerned, still puzzling over the identity of the coughing man.

  ‘You lot should have made proper photocopies! It was just bloody slack, missing bits like that. If they’d been complete there never would have been any inquiry. No public money wasted. Heads will roll for this!’ He wagged his finger at her as a teacher might at a small child.

  ‘Yours, I hope,’ Alice replied, turning to look him in the face, angered by his crass remarks. Seeing his wagging forefinger, she added, ‘You lot should have checked the principal records. None of us even saw them, including the Professor. You decided an inquiry was necessary. Before doing so you should have checked them, instead of relying on photocopies of photocopies. Don’t try and shift the blame onto us for your own incompetence.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, for what?’ he blustered, daring her to repeat her accusation.

  ‘I said FOR YOUR OWN INCOMPETENCE.’

  Still incensed, she turned back to take another look at the man in the witness room, but he had slipped out while she was arguing with Lyle. In her mind’s eye she saw his face again, but this time the image conjured up was in black and white, as if on film. And she heard him coughing as he had been in court, but this time she saw him somewhere else, bargaining at the counter in a shop, trying to flog the minister’s signet ring.

  15

  Alice pushed the courtroom door open, and as she did so its hinges creaked loudly, producing a sound like the braying of an ass, distracting the Sheriff and making her look up and glare in Alice’s direction. Apart from a lone, reedy voice, the room was silent, and the silence became complete when, realising that the Sheriff’s attention had moved elsewhere, the witness stopped speaking. Everyone looked towards the door.

  ‘On you go, Doctor Smith,’ the Sheriff said testily, returning her attention to the forensic scientist. Noticing that the witness looked like a frightened rabbit, she made an effort to replace her own intimidating expression with a more encouraging one.

  Embarrassed by the disturbance she had caused, Alice slid into a seat at the back and, after a moment, began surveying the room. A little further along the row sat the three figures she had noticed earlier. One of them had his chin resting on his chest, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and appeared to be sleeping. The cap, which had once been white, had decorative gold braid along its edges which had begun to fray and unravel. The two women with him were sitting bolt upright, gazing intently at the witness. When their neighbour suddenly snored loudly, one of them elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to start and release an involuntary, childlike whimper.

  Fifteen minutes later, and with no other interruptions, the witness’s ordeal came to an end.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Doctor Smith. You may go,’ the Sheriff said to the relieved scientist. Stepping as gingerly as if she was on ice, the woman got down from the witness box, her high heels clacking on the varnished wood. The Sheriff waited patiently until she had left the court before starting to address the Procurator Fiscal.

  ‘Well, Mr Brand, have you another witness?’

  ‘I have, M’lady. Next is . . .’

  His sentence was left hanging as he rifled through a blue notebook searching for his list of witnesses, inwardly cursing himself for not being more methodical. After over a minute’s delay and no apparent progress, the Sheriff decided to spare his blushes.

  ‘I think we’ll start his, or her, evidence, whoever they may be, after lunch. It’s seven minutes to one now, so we’ll adjourn and restart proceedings at exactly seven minutes to two. 1.53.’

  As the judge disappeared through her private exit, the three figures seated along from Alice began to rouse themselves, murmuring to each other in low voices and shuffling in a line towards the door.

  ‘Could I speak to you for a minute?’ said Alice, trying to catch up with the whole trio and halt their progress. The nearest one was the tall woman who had harangued Linda Gates earlier in the proceedings. She turned round, her surprise at being waylaid palpable, and said, ‘Me? You want to talk to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Who are you?’ she asked, looking annoyed.

  ‘I’m from Lothian and Borders Police and I’d like to talk to you – all of you, if possible.’ Alice spoke loudly, catching the eyes of the other two as they hesitated at the end of the row, looking back at her. ‘I’m trying to find your friend,’ she added, ‘the one who was coughing, the one who left earlier, half an hour or so ago.’

  ‘She mean Taff?’ the man asked, directing his remarks to the woman next to him and ignoring Alice. He sounded puzzled.

  ‘Yeah, Taff. You mean Taff?’ the woman demanded. She was walking on the spot, her head going from side to side like a clockwork toy.

  ‘If that’s what his name is. The guy with the bad cough.’

  ‘Why do you want to speak to him?’ the man asked, twirling one of the loose strands of gold braid on his cap between his fingers.

  ‘It’s in relation to an investigation we’re carrying out. Do any of you know where he’s living at present?’

  ‘Aye,’ the marching woman replied, ‘I do. He’s back oot and aboot. Oan the streets again, like.’

  ‘No, he’s no’. He’s back in Ferry Road, is he no’?’ the man said. As he spoke he pushed up the peak of his cap. He seemed genuinely taken aback by her answer.

  ‘No. He’s had enough of all of them. Vinnie’s back. Enough said, eh?’

  ‘Do any of you know where I’d find him now?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Nae idea,’ the tall woman said, turning her back on Alice, ‘and I’m needing my lunch. We’ve not got long for it. And Stew and Frances here’ll have nae idea either.’

  Alice looked at both of them and was met, as had been predicted, with a blank expression on each of their faces.

  ‘Sorry not to be able to help you, pet,’ the man in the baseball cap said, holding the door open for Alice and gesturing with his hand for her to go through before him.

  Listening to Alice, and having carefully picked all the cress out of her egg sandwich, DCI Bell was just about to take a bite from it when she found that her appetite had quite disappeared.

  ‘Are you telling me that you never even looked at the principal records?’ she asked, putting her half-full teacup on her desk, intending to use her saucer as a plate for the sandwich. The question, although asked in a neutral tone, was filled with menace.

  ‘Yes,’ Alice replied, standing her ground, waiting for the storm that she had foreseen would break all around her. On her walk back to the station she had calculated that it would be better to be the breaker of the bad news rather than the one to receive it from her superior. Neither role was, of course, desirable but given her involvement in the Fatal Accident Inquiry, and the fact that it had now collapsed like an unsuccessful soufflé, the DCI’s reaction would have to be faced.

  As the messenger she would, at least, be in a position to explain or justify things, if things could be explained or justified. And she would have the advantage of preparation. All of her responses would be rehearsed, fully considered, and any rash comments rejected. Whereas the verbal assault about to be unleashed on her would be quite different. It would be instant, explosive and, hopefully, incoherent.

  ‘Why not?’ the DCI demanded, colour rising to her face.

  ‘We got the original photocopies through Fyfe’s GP practice. I passed them on to the Professor. None of us then had any reason to believe they would be incomplete. When we needed further copies we simply photocopied them.’

  ‘But you didn’t think, at any stage, to check the copies against the originals?’

  ‘No. Why would I have done? It’s all very well with the benefit of hindsight to see why now
, but at that time I had no reason to believe the copies weren’t accurate. The Crown Office must have recovered the principals. They lodged them for the hearing after all. They decided that an FAI was required. Surely, if anyone should have checked them before the hearing, in fact before any decision was made, then they should have been the ones to do so . . .’

  To her ears, at least, it sounded suitably plausible. Persuasive even, please God.

  ‘Let me get this straight. You didn’t think to check, yourself?’ the DCI repeated.

  ‘No,’ Alice said. ‘I’ve already said as much, haven’t I, Ma’am? Obviously, it would, in the light of what happened, be better to have done so, but I didn’t. I never even saw the principals. In contrast, the Crown Office will have had them in their possession and, as I say, if anyone should have checked them then they surely should have done so. They’re the decision-makers, not us.’

  ‘Their failure doesn’t absolve you. You took your eye off the ball, this time, Alice. This will go further,’ replied the DCI, looking past her subordinate and out of the window at Arthur’s Seat, almost speaking to herself.

  ‘I know,’ Alice responded. ‘Sean Lyle said as much. And I quote him – “Heads will roll”.’

  ‘That fat little runt!’ DCI Bell said dismissively, picturing the tight-suited, roly-poly figure in her mind and adding, as an afterthought, ‘his, I hope.’

  ‘That’s just what I said, Ma’am!’ Alice retorted, delighted, trying not to smile.

  ‘Is it? Well, here’s hoping that all our wishes come true,’ replied DCI Bell, before adding, in a slightly anxious tone, ‘Alice, I know life . . . well, things . . . are more difficult for you just now, what with . . . well, everything that’s happened.’