by Derek Fee
CHAPTER 15
Moira McElvaney and Harry Graham were standing in front of the door of the house that had been the home of David Grant. The front door had been given a temporary patch job that didn’t look overly secure. The lock had been replaced, and Moira had managed to collect a copy of the key from the firm that was employed to carry out the repair. The door hung uneasily on its hinges as soon as Moira pushed it in. She stood for a moment in the opening and stared into the hallway reminding herself of the photo that Reid had taken from this position. In her mind’s eye, she could see the body of David Grant hanging from the rope tied to the bannister of the stairs. The ambulance crew had cut the rope in order to retrieve the body but the knot that had been tied at the top of the stairs was still intact. She moved carefully into the hallway. She knew that the scene had already been compromised by the attending officers, Reid and the ambulance men, and she would have been naïve to think that the workmen who had done the door job hadn’t entered the house. Still she tried to leave as little trace as possible. Although it was a long shot, there was always the possibility that the forensics team might be able to find some useful evidence.
‘Spooky,’ Graham said moving beside her. ‘I’ve been in dozens of houses where people have died violently, and I always get this cold feeling, like the deceased is still about somewhere.’
Moira looked at him. ‘You’ll be telling me you’re psychic next. Living room to the right, give it a good search. We’re looking for something that’ll confirm that Grant was into any kind of kinky sex. Look for DVDs, sex toys, outfits, that kind of thing.’
Graham smiled. ‘You’re well up on the kinky stuff. Speaking from experience, I suppose.’
‘Get on with it,’ Moira said and moved further down the hall. She walked to where the body had been hanging and looked at the ground. There were a variety of footprints on the carpet. Forensics would have a field day with them. Then she noticed the smell. It was a combination of the ammoniacal smell of urine and the acrid smell of shit. She could see, just beneath the hanging rope, a series of fresh stains. Again, a job for Forensics but she could imagine that they would prove to be a combination of semen, urine and faeces. The upturned chair had been left where it was when the body was discovered. She moved back and tried to picture Grant standing on the chair, connected to the rope. The chair was of the solid wood variety. It would have been difficult to overturn, but she supposed it would have been possible. She was beginning to see what Brendan had said about the position of the chair. It had tumbled sideways rather than backward or forward. She thought that odd, so she made a note in her daybook. She left the hallway and moved into the small kitchen at the rear. It contained the bare essentials. The fridge and cooker had seen better days, and she fancied she had seen a table similar to the one at the back wall in an IKEA catalogue. There was one chair at the table, and a space where the other chair had stood. She moved to the fridge and opened the door. It was what she expected. David Grant led a busy life as a lawyer and a councillor. Food was a secondary consideration, something he grabbed on the go. There were a couple of foil containers with some kind of brown goo still visible in the bottom. From the smell, it was the remnants of a half-eaten Indian meal. Grant wasn’t one for the high life. She went through the various cupboards and found nothing out of the ordinary. She was just finished when Graham poked his head around the door.
‘Not a sausage,’ he said. ‘Lots of books, papers, journals. No skin mags and certainly no sex toys.’
‘Let’s do upstairs but go easy, just in case there’s some forensic evidence.’
They left the kitchen and made for the stairs. Moira climbed the steps first, taking care to stay away from the middle of the steps. She stopped at the top and examined the knot in the rope.
‘It’s a bowline,’ Graham said from behind her.
‘A what?’
‘Bowline. One of the best knots you can tie. My dad took me sailing on Lough Neagh when I was a kid and taught me a couple of knots. I had so much trouble with that one I still remember it. There’s a rhyme about a rabbit and a hole to help people remember how to tie it.’
‘We need to find out if Grant did any sailing. That’s a pretty sophisticated knot for someone who isn’t in the know.’
The first floor was laid out in a traditional fashion. There were two bedrooms and a small bathroom. The house had been built before en-suites had become standard. Moira entered the main bedroom. The furniture was sparse and functional. The bed was queen size and was covered with a multi-coloured duvet. The duvet was a departure from the drabness of the rest of the house. The bed was the dominant feature in the room and left scarcely enough space for a small chest of drawers standing under a window that looked out on the street below. An old closet stood facing the bottom of the bed. She opened the closet door and saw three dark business suits, a series of similar white shirts and five ties. David Grant was obviously not into flash clothes. The drawers of the chest contained underwear, socks and sweaters. No sex toys, Moira noted. A book on Africa sat on a nightstand along with a reading lamp. Moira had been resisting looking under the bed, but she got down on her knees and peered underneath. Nothing. They moved to the second bedroom and found it filled with miscellaneous junk.
‘Check this out,’ Moira said. ‘I’ll do the bathroom.’
Graham shook his head. ‘I always get to deal with the junk,’ he said entering the room. It looked like Grant stored a lifetime of trash there. Magazines and books formed mountains supported by sporting goods and work-out machines.
The bathroom was small and contained the usual soaps and shampoos. Nothing fancy. It was a bachelor’s bathroom that had never had the touch of a female hand. It appeared with David Grant that what you saw was what you got. She stood at the door of the second bedroom and watched Harry Graham rifle through the various items and bags of rubbish.
‘Not a sex toy or a studded bikini in sight,’ he said tossing a plastic bag back into the place it had previously occupied.
‘One last look at the living room and we’re out of here.’ Moira started down the stairs trying as best she could to step on the same area as when she ascended.
She took a quick look in the living room. ‘Computer,’ she said turning to Graham.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Where is it?’
‘Didn’t see one,’ he replied.
‘See that thing in the corner.’ She nodded to the area beneath a small desk. ‘That’s what they call a router. There was an Internet connection in the house, and that means he had a computer. So, where is it?’
‘Maybe he left it in his office.’
Moira took out her notebook and made a note. ‘Okay, we’re done here,’ she said.
It had started to rain, and they both got a soaking as they struggled to put the door back in its original position. As soon as they succeeded, they sprinted for the car. Neither of them took any notice of the man sheltering in the doorway across the road.
Jock McDevitt watched the young woman and the older man exiting the house, struggling with the door and making a mad rush for the car. He didn’t recognise the woman. She must have been added to the roster since he’d left. But the man he’d seen before at Tennant Street and around the Shankill. The name rambled around in his head and then tumbled out – Harry Graham, Detective Constable Harry Graham. The rain had extinguished the cigarette in McDevitt’s mouth, but he hadn’t dumped it. His mind was too busy concentrating on the visit of the two plods to David Grant’s house. For a second, he contemplated pushing the door in and taking a look around. Maybe he could get a photo of the hallway, and some genius at the Chronicle could Photoshop a picture of Grant hanging from the bannister. A plan like that could land him in jail, and someone like Ian Wilson would be happy to put him there. He hunched his coat around his shoulders and neck. Sex and murder sold a hell of a lot of newspapers, all of them with McDevitt’s name on the front page. He needed to know what was going on.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER 16
Stephanie Reid had spent the previous hour reviewing the Malone autopsy. She was convinced that she had done a professional job, but she was troubled that she had been unable to discover the cause of death. On the table before her were two blown-up photographs. The first showed the mark on Malone’s temple and the second the mark on Grant’s temple. They were remarkably similar. So remarkably similar that they must have been made by the same implement or hand. She was not an expert on martial arts, but it looked like some kind of Karate blow. She picked up the telephone handset and put it down again. She sat staring at the photographs then made her mind up. She picked up the phone and dialled Wilson’s mobile number.
‘It’s your favourite pathologist,’ she said when he answered. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the office.’
‘Busy?’
‘I’ve just dumped a couple of hundred emails instead of reading or answering them.’
‘An act of rebellion?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t see myself as an outlaw, just someone who’s trying to run away from a technology that can follow me anywhere. What can I do for you?’
‘Now let me think.’ She laughed. ‘What’s happening with the David Grant business?’
‘I just got in this morning. Moira and Harry Graham have gone to Grant’s house, and Peter Davidson is out and about. I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs until everyone gets back and reports.’
‘Fancy a visit to the Royal?’
‘Don’t tell me that you screwed up and I’ve been wasting police time on the Grant death.’
‘No, I’m pretty sure on that one.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that I autopsied a body last night and there’s a similarity with Grant.’
‘What kind of similarity? Another asphyxiation?’
‘No, I have no idea of the cause of death. The man’s name was Brian Malone, twenty-six years old and in perfect condition. It appears that his heart just stopped. But he has a mark on his temple remarkably similar to the mark on Grant’s temple.’
Wilson sighed. ‘Look Stephanie, that’s just too much of a stretch. I’m willing to buy your conclusion on Grant, but you’re beginning to get murder-prone. Not everyone who dies in Belfast is a murder victim, although there have been some periods when I’ve believed that myself.’
‘I knew this was going to sound like murder paranoia, but I can’t shake the feeling that these two men received similar blows to the head.’
‘You’re the scientist. You don’t have hunches. That’s my area. You look for facts and draw conclusions from them. I’m the one who looks at facts and hypothesises.’
‘But what if I’m right?’
‘We’re investigating Grant’s death. If some connection to this Malone character comes up during the investigation, we’ll take a look at it.’
Reid knew that he was right. It was far-fetched, yet she still felt uncomfortable. ‘Okay. I take your point. I’ll be in touch.’ She shut off the communication and looked at the photos again. It was too much of a coincidence. She picked up the phone and dialled the extension of her assistant. ‘Bring Malone back in,’ she said. She was too tired last night. She’d missed something, but she was going to go over that body with a fine toothcomb. Malone didn’t just drop dead. Something killed him, and she was going to find out what.
CHAPTER 17
Wilson put the phone down and leaned back in his chair. What was going on with Reid? To spot one suspicious death was acceptable, two in the one week really was bordering on the hyper-vigilant. Despite the constant sexual innuendos, she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. Davidson had returned a half hour earlier, but Wilson had delayed speaking to him in order to bring the whole team together. Just at that moment Moira and Harry walked into the squad room. Moira dumped her satchel at her desk and made for his office.
‘Like your new office?’ she said from the doorway.
‘I suppose the clean-up is down to you.’ He didn’t want to answer her question.
‘Things have been slack. ’
‘A temporary lull, I can assure you. Briefing in ten minutes. I want to see that whiteboard covered in information. I passed the message to Spence; as usual he’s already put on his worry hat. In six months he gets to raise roses in Portaferry or wherever he decides to retire. The McIver case is going to shine enough light on him and me. The Grant investigation, if it happens, will intensify the media interest in what we’re up to.’
‘You’re not usually too bothered about what people think,’ Moira said.
‘I’m fond of Donald, as you might have gathered. I’d like to see him out of here with the minimum of hassle. That’s it.’
‘I supposed it might have been a newer, gentler Wilson.’ She smiled.
‘Bog off.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ve now got ten minutes to get that whiteboard prepared.’
He took out his mobile phone and looked at his messages. He had texted Kate earlier and asked whether she might be free for lunch. His message box was empty. He was left to draw the obvious conclusion. He didn’t like the direction in which things were going. It appeared that he was now banished to the third bedroom. That was a major step. He would have to put a stop to the escalation, but he was at a loss as to how to do it.
Five minutes later, Wilson stood before the whiteboard to which a photo of David Grant had been affixed. Beneath was a short biography, including details on family and education as well as his political career. Moira had printed off two of the photographs taken by Reid at the scene. ‘Peter, any news from the BDSM circuit?’ Wilson asked.
‘I hit a few of my contacts yesterday. Nobody has ever seen him or heard a word about him on the circuit. That’s not to say that there isn’t some off-scene bordello where his fantasies could have been satisfied.’
‘So there’s no definitive answer?’
‘Sorry, Boss,’ Peter said. ‘The word is out. Someone might get back. I also checked with one of my old colleagues who’s still up to date with the BDSM scene, and he’s never heard Grant’s name.’
‘Eric, any next of kin?’ Wilson asked.
‘Parents dead,’ Eric Taylor said. ‘One brother works for some charity or other helping children in Burma. He’s been informed, and he’s on his way.’
‘Moira,’ Wilson said.
‘I interviewed the two attending officers yesterday. They were responding to a call made by one of Grant’s colleagues who was concerned he hadn’t turned up for a meeting.’
‘Anything of interest?’
Moira shook her head.
‘What about the house?’ Wilson asked.
‘Clean as a whistle on the surface,’ Moira said. ‘We gave it a once-over, but maybe you should ask Forensics to take a look. The place looks like a herd of elephants passed through. A couple of things: one, the knot on the bannister was, according to Harry, a bowline. Not everybody’s choice of knot and apparently a bit of a favourite with the sailing crowd. We should find out whether Grant was into sailing. If not, how did he know how to tie a bowline. Two, there was a router but no sign of a computer. Three, and maybe most significant of all, there’s no sign of any interest in unusual sexual practices. No magazines, no sex toys, no sex DVDs, nothing.’
‘She even looked under his bed,’ Graham said smiling. ‘There’s a lifetime of trash, books, papers, old sporting junk but nothing remotely kinky. If this was his first try at erotic asphyxia, he was one unlucky man. When we locate his computer, we should be able to find out if he Googled the methodology.’
‘We need to decide here and now whether this investigation is worth our while,’ Wilson said. ‘The big question is, was David Grant murdered?’
‘There are enough discrepancies to look into the case further,’ Moira said.
‘Agreed,’ Graham and Davidson said together.
‘Okay,’ Wilson said. ‘We need a timeline of his movements for the day in question. We also need to check the CCTV in the area for the time of the murder.
I’ll get Forensics and see whether something can be done at the scene. At the very least, we might be able to get something about the rope. Moira, I want you to interview this colleague who made the call. Everything we just discussed goes on the whiteboard. No photo goes outside this office. This investigation is to be kept as low-key as possible.’
‘Boss,’ Davidson said. ‘We might get a day’s start. But when we involve Forensics, CCTV, questions to establish the timeline, the cat is going to be out of the bag.’
Wilson frowned. Peter was right. ‘Okay, let’s just make sure the information we generate stays here. I don’t want to see anything in the Press that we don’t put there. Okay, Moira will divide the tasks.’
