by Helen Fields
‘Sorry, we need to clear the room,’ a doctor said.
‘What’s happening?’ his sister asked.
‘We’re preparing your mother to perform a lumbar puncture to get a better idea of what’s attacking her system. At the moment we don’t know if it’s a bacterial infection, a virus or something else. I can’t be sure we’re treating it effectively until we’ve narrowed down the possibilities.’ He turned away, handing several vials of blood to a waiting nurse. ‘Walk these down to the lab for immediate testing. Do we have a urine sample?’ he asked another nurse. She nodded. ‘Right, priorities, get Mrs Muir’s temperature down and work on a diagnosis. Keep up rehydration. Antibiotics via drip.’
‘Randall,’ his sister said, finally noticing him. ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’
‘You told me to come,’ he said, watching the saline dripping into his mother’s arm and wondering how that helped.
‘I told you to phone me when you got to the hospital. Come on,’ she walked over and slid an arm around his shoulders. They left the cubicle together. ‘Are you okay, Rand?’
He tried to answer, croaked, gave up and pushed his face into his sister’s shoulder. They stood like that, hugging one another, until a nurse offered to walk them to a private area.
‘Why is she unconscious?’ Randall asked. ‘She wasn’t that ill when I went out.’ He hadn’t meant to make his guilt quite so plain, but it was there, branded on him.
‘She’s badly dehydrated. The doctor says her body is trying to cope with whatever is attacking it, so it’s shutting down the systems it doesn’t need at the moment. They’re doing all they can,’ the sister said, clutching his hand.
A porter wheeled his mother out as a man appeared, thrusting papers and a pen towards his sister. Randall abandoned the waiting room and consent forms, to follow his mother along the corridor, wondering at how her beautiful black skin could suddenly shrivel into a dull, lifeless shell as if every cell was deflated. She looked, he thought, as if she had already given up. The hospital gown was almost completely flat over the top of her body. How had he failed to notice how much weight she had suddenly lost? Even her hair, perhaps the only source of vanity in his mother’s life, looked thinner and dried out. And there had been a strange smell when he’d first entered the cubicle. Sweat, only not like you’d find in a changing room. That smell was of exertion and vigour. This was something acidic and chemical.
A door closed in front of him, forbidding access to all but hospital staff. He touched the glass, peeking through to where his mother was being wheeled into another room and he caught a brief glimpse of gowned, gloved figures. His mother was tough, Randall told himself. He had never seen her give in to anything. There was no reason to believe she would start now. She would survive. She had to.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Being in uniform wasn’t an aspect of the job Ava enjoyed, but it was necessary at formal occasions. The Chief’s funeral was one such event and even though it was to be a small affair, traditions had to be upheld. Superintendent Overbeck would be there, as would other senior brass and a few retired officers. The ceremony would be simple and quick. No one wanted to linger at the side of a hole in the earth.
Ava had recovered enough yesterday to make it into the station mid-morning. Glynis Begbie had accepted Ailsa’s invitation to stay with her after a brief update from Ava about the unwanted guests at her home. The only frustrating part of the day had been finding out that Louis Jones’ car had been destroyed before it could be examined to relate Jones’ injuries to the crash. Ava proofread Callanach’s statement about Jones’ death as she did up her tunic buttons with one hand and held a cup of coffee in the other. The statement was about as bland as it could have been in the circumstances, the language kept formal.
‘Having obtained DCI Turner’s permission to meet with Mr Jones, I used my own vehicle to approach the scene, parking on the roadside within a short walk of the western side of the golf course. I approached cautiously. No other persons were within my line of sight. No disturbance was audible as I approached the shed. No …’ Ava’s phoned buzzed. She jerked her hand, spilling coffee over the statement.
‘Bloody typical,’ she muttered, grabbing a handful of tissues and mopping the sleeve of her uniform. Paying her respects reeking of coffee and looking like she’d been doing the washing up in her uniform wasn’t what she’d planned, and she needed to get a copy of Callanach’s statement over to Dimitri before she set off. She sprayed a few puffs of Chanel No. 5 over the sleeve and went back to reading.
‘No disturbance was audible as I approached the shed …’ The next word was splattered. All she could read of the word she remembered as ‘No’ was the N and half of the o, rendering the remainder unreadable.
‘N, c,’ she said. Ava looked at her watch. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ She snatched up her mobile and dialled the emergency line for the forensic pathologist, knowing Ailsa wouldn’t be answering her private mobile this morning with Glynis Begbie at her house. ‘Pick up. Damn it, Ailsa, pick up the … oh thank God, listen, I need you to meet me at the funeral parlour where the Chief’s body is.’
‘Ava,’ Ailsa whispered. Feet echoed rapidly along a corridor and a door banged shut. ‘I was with Glynis. What on earth can we possibly do there now?’
‘No time,’ Ava said. ‘I need you with a … I don’t know … a magnifying glass or whatever you use to pick up minute disturbances on the skin. Right now, Ailsa. I’ll see you there and whatever you do, don’t let anyone move his body.’
Fifteen minutes later the pathologist was mid-discussion with a funeral director when Ava walked in. He glared at Ava as he unsealed the coffin lid and left them alone, gritting his teeth as he closed the door, shouting orders at his team regarding the delay.
‘If my department gets a complaint, I’m blaming Police Scotland. This is extremely close to the line as far as proper procedure goes. The body’s been released for burial. Technically speaking a court order’s required without the family’s written consent to reopen the coffin. What can possibly need investigating at this stage?’ Ailsa asked.
‘The scratched letters N and c,’ Ava said. ‘I don’t think they stand for anything. I believe it was a message to us, only the Chief didn’t finish. If you can get a closer look at his left wrist, I’ll show you what I mean.’
Ailsa took a bottle of luminous yellow dye from her bag and swabbed Begbie’s skin with it, gently washing off the residue and drying the area. Shining a bright light on the wrist, she positioned a high-powered lens over the area. Ava looked down at it and traced the arc of a curve, the mirror image of the c, which would have completed the circle.
‘You can only just see it,’ Ava said, ‘but the dye has collected on another scratch. He was trying to make the letter o, Ailsa. He just didn’t have time to complete it.’ She stood back to let Ailsa get a better look.
It took thirty seconds before Ailsa picked up a camera and began to snap the image. ‘It’s difficult to discern, but I’ll concede you may be right.’
‘He couldn’t have made the letter o on his wrist in a single move. The nail he was using to scratch with would have turned the wrong direction. It was the last shape he needed to make, and I’m guessing he lost consciousness or realised he was being watched and had to stop.’
‘Why would anyone be watching and fail to stop him committing suicide?’ Ailsa asked. ‘What you’re suggesting doesn’t make sense.’
‘That’s because it wasn’t really suicide. I think it was sit and breathe in carbon monoxide or take a bullet in the head, possibly something nastier and more prolonged. I’m guessing he wanted to spare Glynis that. Given the choice, Louis Jones might have chosen this way out as well,’ Ava said bending back over the lens for a last look. ‘The Chief wanted us to find it. I think the thought of everyone believing he’d committed suicide was appalling to him.’ She looked up. Ailsa was staring at her, arms crossed, an expression of thunder on her face. Ava took a breath. In all th
e years she’d known Ailsa, she’d never seen her so angry.
‘Louis Jones? The man who was executed with the use of a nail gun, shortly before you attended my house needing medical attention? Ava Turner, I care about you enough to go above your head. You’ve already proved to me that you’re in danger. You asked for my discretion and I gave it, but if there’s some link between George Begbie’s death, Jones’ facial mutilation and the injury to your hand then all bets are off. Do you hear me?’
‘Go over my head and you’ll destroy the Chief’s reputation and obliterate Glynis Begbie financially. You have to stay out of it, Ailsa. For your own sake more than mine,’ Ava said.
‘It seems to me I’m already in it. You’ve upgraded a suicide to a murder while the body should be in transit to the graveyard. How are we going to explain that to the waiting family? Not to mention the fact that the upper echelons of Police Scotland are probably saving us seats right now, wondering where we are.’
‘We’re not stopping the funeral. This goes down as a tragic suicide. The Chief gets buried with as little controversy as possible. Any other course of action waves a big red flag. We’re only here now because of a spilt cup of coffee, anyway. It doesn’t really change anything,’ Ava said. She walked to the internal door and opened it, shouting through to the funeral director. ‘You can close the coffin. Thank you.’ Ailsa repacked her kit and put on her coat.
Together they walked to their cars. ‘So that’s the end of it?’ Ailsa asked. ‘Now you know George didn’t give in, that he wouldn’t have left us voluntarily, you can find peace?’
Ava leaned against her car and closed her eyes in the watery December sunlight. ‘You’ll know if I lie to you, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘I will,’ Ailsa said.
Ava reached out and gently squeezed Ailsa’s arm, not quite meeting her eyes, then climbed into her car and drove away.
Taking a seat in the second row at the graveside, Ava was aware of Ailsa a few chairs along, still fuming. The vicar was reciting some familiar lines. Glynis Begbie was dignified and quiet. Callanach was standing in the group of mourners beyond the scope of family and closest friends, next to DS Lively. It was perhaps the only time Ava had seen the two of them next to one another without any abuse breaking out. There were a few faces Ava didn’t know, but not many. The police had been George Begbie’s life. Hard, then, to imagine he had gone so far astray, but large amounts of money could tempt anyone, particularly when the pay was low at the start of a police career, with long hours and a family to support. Perhaps it had just been impossible to watch the bad guys reaping the rewards when everyone else was saving the pennies. Whatever the case, Ava had her answer. The Chief had, with his ebbing strength, made it clear that his staged suicide was something else, the marking on his arm the very opposite of a suicide note. What was she supposed to do now? The mourners stood as a prayer was read and the coffin was lowered into the grave. People were crying, men and women, at the loss of a friend, the end of an era but it was all Ava could do to keep the anger from bursting out of her. The Chief had not only been deprived of his life, he’d been deprived of justice, no doubt hoping his sacrifice would keep his wife safe, but Knuckles and his partner in crime had still come for the cash. What were the chances that they’d fallen for her ruse about the money being donated to charity? Not great, she thought. These were people who wore suspicion closer than their underwear.
A movement in the crowd distracted her. DC Tripp had stepped forward, shaking Callanach by the arm and motioning for him to move. Within seconds Callanach had disappeared altogether. Ava stayed in her place as the ceremony drew to a close. Glynis finally broke, sobbing on her daughter’s shoulder, her legs giving way as she tried to walk to the car, leaving a beloved husband in the mud. That was the second Ava admitted to herself what Ailsa already knew. That she couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave it. That whatever crimes the Chief had committed, he’d deserved better than to end his life in a car full of poisonous gas. The only caveat was that Ava had to ensure Glynis Begbie was no longer a target for the thugs looking for the Chief’s cash, and for that she needed a plausible explanation as to where it had all gone.
‘Ailsa,’ she said, catching up with her. ‘I think I have a way that I can get Glynis safely back into her house. You’re still on the board of that charity offering grief counselling, right?’
‘I am,’ Ailsa said.
‘Could you make an announcement, today if possible, that the charity has received a substantial anonymous donation in cash? Express your gratitude for it, say you understand why the donor might not want to be named, but that grief affects us all at some point. Something like that. I’ll find a way of making sure the story gets in the press.’ At least then, Ava thought, the thugs who broke into Glynis’ house might half-believe her story that the cash had been donated to charity. Callanach had a contact who could help her with the media coverage.
‘I can do that,’ Ailsa said.
‘Thank you,’ Ava said. ‘I know I’ve no right to ask so much of you.’
‘It comes at a price. Check in with me, twice a day. Morning and evening, 8 o’clock. I want to know you’re safe. I owe your mother that much.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Ava said. ‘Although my mother was well aware that I couldn’t be stopped once I’d made my mind up about something.’
‘Eight o’clock,’ Ailsa reminded her. ‘Starting tonight.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Callanach walked into the Royal Infirmary and asked the receptionist to page the doctor whose name DC Tripp had given him. Tripp had disappeared off to interview the family members, and Lively was visiting the deceased’s house where a cleaner had been told to allow him access. The doctor appeared as Callanach was checking his watch for the ninth time.
‘Could I see your identification please?’ the doctor asked. Callanach handed it over. ‘Thank you. I don’t mean to be rude but you’d be amazed how many unstable individuals hospitals attract.’
‘That’s fine. What can you tell me?’
‘Walk with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you the body. I think the family has finished their goodbye visit now. I’m Selina Vega. I was the Accident and Emergency Senior Registrar who dealt with Mrs Muir when she was first brought in.’
‘When was that?’ Callanach asked.
‘Last night. Her daughter called an ambulance when she found her mother barely conscious on the bathroom floor. Extremely high temperature, stomach cramps, severe dehydration following a protracted period of sickness. That was the information provided by the paramedics. By the time she arrived here, she had lost consciousness and didn’t regain it before her death, which was at 11.09 this morning.’
‘All right,’ Callanach said, scribbling notes. ‘So why am I here?’
‘We ran tests to identify the cause of the illness. What we found in Mrs Muir’s bloodstream was very high levels of a chemical known as DNP. Dinitrophenol. It’s commonly used in unlicensed, non-prescription dieting tablets. You can buy them on the internet easily, but too high a dose can be lethal. She’s in here,’ Dr Vega said, opening a door.
Callanach checked the tag on the wrist of the corpse before him. Cordelia Muir. Her eyes were sunken, with what must have been eye-catching cheekbones prominent at each side of her face. Her skin was cold but her muscles still soft. She had no spare flesh on her.
‘So you want to report it as a criminal offence because of the unlicensed drug?’ Callanach asked the doctor. ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s no way of ascertaining where the drugs came from.’
‘Actually, it’s not that,’ Dr Vega said. ‘It was her daughter’s reaction when I told her what we’d found. Apparently Mrs Muir was a paragon of good health and responsible eating. Decaffeinated tea and coffee, obsessive about eating enough vegetables, clean proteins only. Sugar was a dirty word. She attended a gym regularly, and I can confirm that her overall muscle tone, although wasted after her illness, is impressive.’
&nb
sp; ‘So the diet tablets?’ Callanach said.
‘Don’t fit,’ Dr Vega finished for him. ‘Not at all. The daughter says she’s been feeling ill but not for more than three weeks. There was no reason for her to lose weight. If it was something more psychological, like bulimia or anorexia, then she has no other signs. Her teeth are fine, so the vomiting hasn’t eroded the enamel yet, confirming it’s not been a long-term situation.’
‘No other possible cause of the sudden weight loss?’ Callanach asked.
‘No indication of cancer in the blood-work, although it was the first thing that crossed my mind. The high temperature was the giveaway. I’ve worked in well-woman clinics, and illicit diet tablets are notorious for it. We had a fan on her when she first came in, as she was burning up. If she was taking those tablets voluntarily, then she was taking many more than she’d have been recommended and she doesn’t fit any of the usual types. Her age is wrong, her weight is wrong, I gather there’s no history of depression or self-harm.’
‘The body will need to be transferred to the Edinburgh City Morgue,’ Callanach said. ‘I’ll make sure the pathologist is aware of the circumstances. In the meantime, I’ll need you to give a statement to an officer. How did the family seem?’
‘Distressed, obviously,’ Dr Vega said. ‘Oh, I see what you’re asking. I’d say they were shocked. I think they were expecting Mrs Muir to pull through, and as for the revelation that she had high levels of DNP in her body, all of their reactions seemed genuine. Is that what you were after?’
