‘Well, yes, but…’
‘Probably picks his victims from the place. It would make perfect sense wouldn’t it? I’d bet money that Gavin Brodie also attended that day centre.’
Seeing Professor McConnachie standing waiting in her doorway, she glanced at her watch and quickly terminated the conversation, waving the pathologist in. He sat down opposite her, his battered old leather briefcase perched on the edge of his fleshless knees.
‘And how are you this cold afternoon?’ he began, fumbling inside it and taking a couple of sheets of paper from its ink-stained interior.
‘I am fine, just fine,’ she replied, feeling well-disposed towards him, content with the way the investigation seemed to be going.
‘Well, we’ve got the toxicology report back, and I thought I’d bring it myself. I was due to see one of your people anyway.’
‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, picking it up and beginning to read the first paragraph.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’ she repeated interrogatively, her head on one side, waiting for him to explain.
‘That Brodie man seems to have been very unpopular. He was poisoned as well as having his throat cut.’
‘Bloody Hell!’
‘It was, I agree, a rather unexpected finding…’
‘Are you telling me,’ she interrupted him, ‘that the cut to the throat wasn’t the cause of death? Because if so, we may have wasted the first few, crucial days of this investigation…’
And, glowering at him, she added with real anger in her voice, ‘If only these reports weren’t always so bloody late!’
‘What I’m telling you, actually, Elaine, is that this is a complex, difficult picture,’ Professor McConnachie replied emolliently, trying to calm her down and ensure that she took in his news, digested its import properly.
‘Then he did die in consequence of the cut?’ she chipped in, unwilling to proceed at his sedate pace.
‘Yes, yes. Brodie was undoubtedly alive when his throat was cut and he did die in consequence of it. He exsanguinated, bled to death, if you like. We know that, you saw the evidence of it splattered all over th e place, running down his bedroom wall. But the toxicology here’s… well, anything but straightforward. At the P.M. I had difficulty getting blood, so as you know I submitted liver and heart samples too. They’ve been analysed, and the tissues contain significant concentrations of two drugs – morphine and nortriptyline – at a toxic or near-toxic level. A level, possibly, probably, suggestive of an overdose.’
‘What do you mean “possibly, probably”? We need beyond reasonable doubt, remember,’ she said sharply. ‘And which is it? “Possibly” or “probably”? And neither’s good enough, as you’ll appreciate.’
‘Yes,’ the Professor said, trying to remain unriled despite her combative tone. ‘I do appreciate that, but we can’t give you a more categorical result because of post-mortem redistribution. It’s likely there’s been some degree of post-mortem diffusion from the gastro-intestinal tract into the liver lobes lying closest to the stomach and into the cardiac tissues.’
‘So?’
‘So that makes it difficult to estimate ante-mortem drug concentrations, and the ingested dose, from the post-mortem measurements.’
‘So what is it, exactly, that are you telling me? I told you, I need, as a minimum, to understand.’
The Professor sighed, ‘From the toxicological results it looks possible…’ He corrected himself, ‘Probable, that at some interval, perhaps a couple of hours before his throat was cut, Mr Brodie ingested a toxic or near-toxic dose of morphine, in some form, plus an anti-depressant, one of the tricyclics called nortriptyline – both medications he took for his condition.’
‘So we’ll need to check it all out, won’t we? Find out if he could have taken the stuff himself… or if it had to be fed to him – if it could even be fed to him – and then he’s bloody killed by something else anyway. I wonder where that leaves us?’
‘I really don’t know,’ the Professor said, his head bent as he fished in the interior of his bag once more.
‘Could he have taken it himself, accidentally or otherwise?’
‘As I said, I don’t know. I had a look at his medical records this morning, but you can’t tell from them.’
He rose to go, handing her another sheet of paper. ‘One other thing – and I’m just the messenger, remember – here’s the lab report.’
As soon as she lowered her head to read it, he took his opportunity to escape, casually ambling out of the open doorway, humming under his breath as if without a care in the world, but feeling the need for a good strong cup of coffee.
Although he was seated at his desk in the murder suite, Inspector Eric Manson’s mind was on his wife, rather than his work. Under his left hand lay a sheaf of papers that he was supposed to look at, fresh from the photocopier and still warm to the touch, but they remained unread. Tom Littlewood was scurrying about the room distributing the copies, the DCI’s barked orders ringing in his ears. The milk in Manson’s coffee had begun to form a skin, and he gave his cup an absent-minded stir, then removed the spoon from it but did not pick up his drink. Even his mid-afternoon snack, a white pudding, had been allowed to grow cold within its paper bag.
This could not be happening to him, he thought morosely. Not to him. To others, obviously, but to him? No. It was not that Margaret was plain – on the contrary, taking into account her age and so on, she had fared really quite well – but she had no interest in other men, surely? Years and years ago she must have ceased to look at them in that way. But maybe they continued to look at her in that way? Impossible! She had ‘happily married woman’ stamped all over her, every inch of her, she was positively matronly. She would never give anyone the glad eye, or make a spectacle of herself. Well, not that he had witnessed, anyway, although on reflection, she wouldn’t do it if he was watching her, now, would she? But it was ridiculous! Margaret must be… was, above suspicion.
On the other hand, perhaps that was part of the problem? Complacency. It could make the clearly visible, invisible, and prevent you from seeing what was right in front of your nose. And maybe he had taken her for granted. A bit. But not Margaret. Sweet Jesus!
He groaned, looked round to see if anyone had heard the sound, and then cleared his throat noisily to disguise it. The possibility, and that was all it was, must be faced, would have to be taken seriously. The evidence had to be considered and a conclusion reached. ‘Feeling’ or ‘intuition’ or other nonsense of that sort could not be relied upon. He would not be cuckood… cuckolded, or whatever the hell it was called.
His mobile rang and he snatched it up, annoyed at the intrusion into his thoughts.
‘Yes,’ he said sharply.
‘Eric, Eric, love, it’s me…’ the words were meant to be soothing, but the characteristic discordant squawk, instantly identifying the caller, had the opposite effect. The female journalist at the other end, unaware of the Inspector’s irritation, added in a rasping tone, ‘What’ve you got for me today, darling?’
Had Manson been standing beside her he would almost certainly have softened, as he usually did, on seeing her blonde good looks and inhaling her expensive scent. And he would have imparted information to her, whether confidential or not, before he had even realised what he was doing. But the ugliness of that disembodied voice still ringing in his ear had a very different effect, one unlikely to make him compliant. The assumption implicit in her question positively annoyed him.
‘Em… I’m in the office the now, Marie, and nothin’s doin’. I gave you your wee titbit about the Brodie murder yesterday, and it’s all I’ve got.’
‘Come on, Eric, sweetheart. You’re the man. You can do better than that.’
Again, if he had seen the words spoken by her full lips he would have found them flirtatious, heard some magical double-entendre, but when she was not there in the flesh they were open to a very different interpretation. To his preoccupied, trouble
d mind they had a nagging or goading sound. Did the woman imagine that he was her pet or something?
‘Em… I’ve got to go, Marie. Somethin’ urgent’s just… eh, breaking.’
So saying, he shoved his mobile back into his pocket, regretting instantly his use of the word ‘urgent’. It was bound to make her reporter’s ears prick up, and she would re-double her efforts. Never mind, she had been fobbed off for the present and reminded of her place.
Anyway, he thought, crossly, what had he ever got from her apart from a few come-ons ending in brush-offs? She was like some kind of mirage in the desert, shimmering and beautiful from afar, but turning out on closer inspection to be a mere illusion. No more than a puff of hot air. Not that, as a married man, he would have ever been led astray by her, obviously, even if he had had the chance, but to date she had not offered him the chance. The chance to refuse. Oh, no, she appeared to believe, he fumed, that he could be led by the nose endlessly like… like… a circus pony or a bull or something, never actually receiving a reward but still traipsing endlessly after her. A reward he would decline when, and if, she offered it. Even though it was long overdue.
He opened his desk drawer, intending to remove a couple of biscuits from the packet inside it, and noticed under his digestives a framed photograph of his wife. He picked it up, tipping off stale crumbs as he did so, and studied it. There she was, smiling at him, wearing a large navy boater and her favourite cream dress, the one with navy embroidery on the collars. Her ‘going away’ outfit. He had taken the picture on the first day of their honeymoon. Tucked into the frame was a more recent image, snapped less than a year ago. Staring at it, he became anxious once more. It reminded him that she had worn well for fifty-five, a little on the matronly side nowadays maybe, but she could still be described as ‘attractive’. And if he thought so, after over thirty years of marriage, then other men might well do so too. Christ Almighty!
But, he comforted himself, it was all right, everything was all right, because she would not be interested in the unscrupulous swine anyway. On the other hand, if that were true, then why had she taken to dressing so much more snappily of late? Her neckline had plunged lower than ever before, even he had noticed that, and her clothes were more clinging, more… He paused, trying to think of the appropriate word. ‘Sexy’. Christ, that was it. They were more sexy, she was looking sexier. And why, in heaven’s name, would she be doing that? Unless there was another man.
While he had been daydreaming, thinking about his wife, the DCI had come into the room to talk to him. And, now she was standing beside him, watching in disbelief as he frittered away valuable time, staring fixedly out of the window, his jaw loose, his mouth hanging open. She had already taken in the fact that the papers in front of him remained unread. A second earlier she had swept her hand across his line of vision, but, in his absorption, he had seen nothing.
‘Eric!’ she said, impatient to get his attention.
‘Ma’am,’ he answered automatically, coming to and becoming aware once more of his surroundings.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Mmm…’ Having no idea what she was talking about, he played for time, quickly deciding to try and bounce the question back to her.
‘I’m just not sure what to think, really. What do you think, Ma’am?’
‘You haven’t read it, have you?’
‘I’ve made a start, but not very thoroughly, no…’
‘Well, to speed things up a bit – the toxicology report suggests that Brodie may have been poisoned before he had his throat slit, doesn’t it?’
‘Shit! Poisoned… you’re joking.’
‘I knew you hadn’t read it. Perhaps you’d like me to read it to you?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Have you looked at the lab report?’
‘Not as such’
‘Well, if you had you would know that Clerk’s prints are on the handles of Brodie’s wheelchair in India Street. And there’s some other, so far unidentified, DNA in the house – which is, perhaps, not surprising really.’
Eric Manson cocked his head to one side, unsure quite what to think, but keen to look thoughtful.
‘Anyway, I’ve spoken to the fiscal and he agrees that with the prints and the book we’ve got more than enough now to charge Clerk with Gavin Brodie’s murder. We’ll interview him first thing tomorrow. But, in the meanwhile, I need to find out more about the poisoning, overdose or whatever. McConnachie’s quite clear that it wasn’t the cause of death, but we still need to know, in case his defence makes something out of it, as I’m sure they’ll try. And we don’t want him to get off, do we?’
‘So…’
‘So, I’m leaving it to you and Alice to find out what was going on, to dig about the place. I want an explanation, so just read the bloody reports, will you?’
He nodded, but said nothing.
‘Begin by seeing the man’s doctor, Colin Paxton. It may be Brodie took the stuff himself, that he was suicidal and there’s an innocent explanation for all of it. And if so, good, that’ll be an end of it. So, we need to find out if he could have done that, if there was enough in the bottles for the overdose – you get the picture. And Eric…’ she added unnecessarily, peeved that she still did not appear to have his full attention, ‘you’ll catch flies if you keep your maw open like that.’
Picking up the phone on her desk Alice immediately recognised Mrs Foscetti’s bird-like warble. ‘Alice, dear, Ian was supposed to collect Quill by six o’clock but he’s not been. And it’s nearly eight, and we’re supposed to be going out.’
But before Alice had said a word, begun to apologise, she heard a loud scuffling noise at the other end of the line, and then, in the background, Miss Spinnell’s irritated tones, followed by a brief, heated exchange between the sisters.
‘What are you doing, Annabelle?’ Miss Spinnell hissed. ‘It’s only the spiritualists, a Blue Lodge meeting.’
‘But I thought you wanted to go to it! You used to go, before I came.’
‘Yes, but I’ve found you haven’t I? It is you, isn’t it? I only joined to speak to you, when I thought you were dead. I wasn’t looking for company, for any old soul you know. Goodness me, you’re not the only one to have friends, dear! Tell Ali… Alice… that we’ll keep the dog, all night, if necessary. He can sleep on my bed… someone seems to have taken his.’
Reaching the entrance to Broughton Place, Alice looked up at the windows of the flat to see if any lights were on, but it was in darkness. Rather than spend time at home alone she carried on to the bottom of Broughton Street, over the roundabout at Mansefield Place and down towards Canonmills and Inverleith Row. As she walked, she kept her eyes peeled in case Ian was scurrying home, coming in the opposite direction, eager to get into the warmth and call it a day.
As she passed the terrace in the Colonies, drops of rain began to fall, getting bigger every second, until what had started as a light shower became an icy downpour. Soon streams were cascading off the pavements and setting the gutters awash with mud-coloured water. Everyone but her seemed to have had some kind of early warning of the deluge and had taken shelter. Opposite Reid Terrace, the usually sluggish Water of Leith was being transformed, its mild babbling turning into the roar of a gathering torrent.
Crossing the low bridge by the turn-off to Arboretum Avenue, she put her head down and began to run, heading for St Bernard’s Row. Suddenly the sky was lit by a flash of lightning and in seconds the boom of thunder followed it. Turning into Henderson Row and wondering if she would be struck by the next bolt, she tried the handle of the studio door, rattling it to no effect until she noticed the large padlock on the high latch.
Now soaked to the skin, she turned to leave, but saw a young woman, whom she recognised as a studio-mate of Ian’s, standing in a doorway opposite the dilapidated building. Desperate to get out of the ceaseless rain, she ran across the road and stood beside her, shivering, cursing herself for losing every umbrella she had eve
r possessed.
‘Ian’s not still in there is he?’ she said through chattering teeth, hoping against hope.
The woman, taking a final draw from her cigarette, said, ‘No, the place’s deserted. Everyone went hours ago. There’s a power-cut, and it’ll not be put right until tomorrow morning.’ Then she snatched up the rucksack at her feet and plunged out on to the pavement, clattering along it with an uncoordinated pigeon-toed gait, her bag swinging from side to side with each heavy footstep like Quasimodo’s hump.
Watching her as she disappeared, Alice wondered if, for once, Ian had taken a different route home and was now sitting in the light, enjoying the warmth of their flat. That was it – he, too, must have gone home by the Henderson Row route for a change. But what a night to choose.
With her hair and clothes drenched, water streaming down her face, she trudged back eastwards, keeping herself going with the thought of the hot bath and drink that would be waiting for her at the other end. It was his turn to do make the supper, so there would be some food, too, with luck. But the stone stairs up to their flat were as dry as ever, the odd puff of dust rising under her feet as she climbed, and no light was visible in the glass panel above their front door. Neither Ian nor Quill were there to welcome her in her dripping state, and the flat was cold. Where on earth was he?
An hour later, and having found something to eat, she tried to read the paper but found that she could not concentrate, flitting from one world disaster to the next, unmoved by them all. When she phoned him again she got his messaging service once more. Why had he switched his phone off? What was he playing at? If he had been in an accident surely she would have heard by now?
Perhaps he had just gone to the pub, was there still and had lost all track of time, having a few jars too many. He could have bloody contacted her though, she thought crossly. Then, hearing the sound of his footsteps on the stair, she rose to greet him, running to the door to open it. But she got there only to hear a bout of consumptive coughing, and the footsteps carrying on up the stairs to the next landing. Nothing more than the signature noises of another of their neighbours, Jim the Vicar, on his way to bed.
No Sorrow To Die Page 9
