Cold Relations

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘That’s quick,’ McFadden said.

  ‘The local pathologist’s abroad, skiing,’ she explained. ‘There’s only a newly graduated assistant there, holding the fort. In view of the problems of working on a body that’s been under water for several weeks, they’ve brought Professor Mannatoy through from Edinburgh. He can only spare the one day. What I want you to do is to gather up what photographs we have of everybody so far known to be connected with the case. If there’s anybody we don’t have photographs of, go and get sneak shots of them. Then show them to Sam Wylie. You won’t be able to get through all that before this afternoon’s meeting, but do the best you can. I want to know who knew that the loch is there. It may not lead anywhere, but we’re very short of leads.’

  ‘I don’t fish,’ McFadden said, ‘but I knew there was a loch here.’

  ‘Do it anyway,’ Honey said through gritted teeth.

  *

  If there were to be a delay in solving the mystery of the body in the loch, the team would inevitably build up to the point of requiring a substantially larger incident room; but the recreation room in Newton Lauder nick that was usually taken over for the purpose was in use by a team from Edinburgh looking into a spate of indecent (though admittedly witty) emails deriving from somewhere in the area. The small team was therefore packed into Ian Fellowes’s inadequate office. The last straw was the arrival, just as Honey’s mobile phone warbled its tune, of DS Blackhouse. The superintendent, anticipating that the case was about to become one of murder, intended to take over but in attempting to enter he was frustrated for the moment by the fact that Honey was anxious to leave the room in order to take her call in peace and without disturbing the meeting. It would have been against his principles to retreat to allow passage to one of his subordinates, even a female and one as favoured as DI Laird. The team and the super were thus obliged to listen in frustration to one side of the call.

  This was from Stella Weems, back at HQ and still following up, between other commitments, the responses to enquiries about the missing spaniels. What the listeners did not hear was Stella explaining that the two young spaniels had been identified, by their implanted microchips, at a boarding kennels in Fife. The proprietors had remained unaware of their identity until reminded by a client of the appeals for information. The listeners heard Honey say, on a rising scale of exultation, ‘That’s great . . . But who? . . . False name? . . . No description . . . Colour blind? . . . All right, leave it to me.’ After a few more words, unintelligible to the listeners, she disconnected, smiling.

  At this point she awoke suddenly to the fact that she was obstructing her superior’s path and holding up the meeting. With a quick apology, she switched off her mobile, took a seat and gave the rest of the meeting only intermittent attention. Several vague ideas that had been tormenting her began to crystallise.

  Mr Blackhouse usurped Ian’s chair as of right.

  Honey had encountered Professor Mannatoy in the past. The professor was a rotund, bustling little man, usually cheerful but given to bouts of irascibility. He was placed on the left of Mr Blackhouse with the assistant, a fresh-faced ex-student with the unlikely name of Blatt, beyond him. The other team members had fitted in as best they could.

  DS Blackhouse introduced the professor, who had already consulted his watch more than once. The professor in turn introduced his assistant. It was immediately clear that no love was lost between the two.

  ‘You’ll want to know the result of the autopsy, as far as it’s gone,’ the professor said. ‘I shall have to leave the remaining work to Mr Blatt, but it should consist of no more than routine and the writing of a formal report. The important facts are these. The deceased has been identified from dental evidence as Mr Henry Colebrook.’ The assembled team acknowledged the confirmation of their beliefs in their own ways, by a nod or a grunt.

  ‘The body was better preserved than is often the case, thanks to the rapid formation of adipocere due to the coldness of the water. He is said to be fifty-seven years of age and I saw nothing to contradict that. He was in good health except for the usual minor ailments to which we are all prone as we age. They will be listed in Mr Blatt’s report – if you’re lucky,’ the professor added with a ferocious glance at the assistant, who flinched.

  ‘The man had been dead and in the water for at least two weeks, perhaps longer, possibly much longer – I would hesitate to put an upper limit to it. He had not drowned – the amount of water in the lungs and air passages was negligible. From the petechiae discernible in the face and eyes – although Mr Blatt failed to remark them —’

  ‘They’re very faint,’ the assistant protested just as faintly.

  ‘Of course they’re faint after this time in water,’ the professor snapped. ‘But they are nevertheless there. A pathologist has to make do with what is there, faint or not. Taken in conjunction with the presence of a scrap of feather in one of the air passages, they indicate that the deceased was smothered with a pillow. There were no other signs of violence and the hyoid bone was unbroken, so any possibility of strangulation can be discounted. And now,’ he said, looking again at his watch, ‘I am guest speaker at a dinner in Edinburgh this evening, so I must leave you. Mr Blatt can answer any questions. If his answers dissatisfy you, I shall be available by phone from tomorrow morning. I can come through again if problems arise. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  Ignoring any attempts at questions, the professor squeezed between the chairs and made his escape. Mr Blatt could be seen to relax.

  ‘This,’ Ian said, ‘is a whole new ballgame. There’s no way, or none that I can think of, that he could be smothered with a pillow at the waterside. Either he made his way home after all or he entered another bed with somebody, presumably a sex partner, and was smothered there.’

  Mr Blackhouse was not going to let a mere detective inspector steal whatever thunder might be going. ‘Feather pillows aren’t as common as they used to be. Forensics may be able to tell us more about it. Will you pass the feather to them?’ he asked Blatt.

  ‘Right away,’ Blatt said. ‘It isn’t a whole feather, however. Just a tiny scrap.’

  ‘Next,’ the superintendent said, ‘we need to know which houses use feather pillows. Fellowes, you can put that enquiry in hand. His own house and those of his sons, to start with. I suggest that we meet tomorrow morning to review the case.’

  ‘A moment,’ Honey said. She paused for a second to pass the facts in review across her mind. ‘Let’s not go off half-cocked. If we start visiting houses to ask that sort of question, the guilty party will be warned. And I’m not saying that the premise is wrong, but do bear in mind that the family business is now concerned with meat products, pheasants in particular, so the presence of a scrap of feather in the airways could have another explanation. Mr Colebrook had just left the shoot. Also, though he very rarely went near the factory, one of his sons could easily have carried a pheasant feather into his father’s car. Either way, Mr Colebrook could have breathed in the scrap of feather. I suggest that we wait for a report on the feather. Anyway, I have a lead but it’s too tentative to discuss yet. Give me until morning to make some enquiries.’

  If anyone else had dared to interrupt DS Blackhouse in that manner, the superintendent would undoubtedly have blown his top. Expressions chased each other over his face while the team waited, breathless, but his high opinion of her prevailed. ‘Very well,’ he said. He turned to the assistant pathologist. ‘I suppose the symptoms of suffocation couldn’t arise because he inhaled a piece of feather?’

  ‘Not in my experience,’ Blatt said.

  ‘Right. Eight-thirty tomorrow morning here.’

  Ian Fellowes felt a similar need to re-assert himself and he was still offended by Honey’s reticence. ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘Before deferring action, I want to know what this other lead may be.’

  That was enough to stir DS Blackhouse’s resentment on behalf of his protégée. ‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘The girl knows what she�
��s doing. It can wait until morning.’

  The team scattered, some to clear their paperwork, others no doubt to enjoy an early evening for a change. Honey, who had sat in on more autopsies than she cared to remember, intercepted Mr Blatt on his way to the car park. ‘Are you going back to work?’ she asked.

  ‘The professor would expect it. So will your Mr Blackhouse.’

  ‘So will I,’ she said firmly. ‘I suggest that you take some muscle tissue and put it under your microscope.’

  ‘If you expect water to show up in the interstices —’ he began.

  ‘I don’t. I’m thinking back to a case I was on in the Met as a junior detective constable.’ She explained. His eyes widened.

  On her way to Ian’s house, she called in at the gun and fishing tackle emporium in the Square. Deborah’s father, Keith Calder, was in sole charge. He knew Honey of old and gave her a nod before going back to talking technicalities with the owner of an expensive over-under twelve-bore. It gave her time to look at him. He was wearing better than most of his contemporaries. He had even kept most of his hair although it was definitely more grey than black.

  ‘I’ll add a little weight to the butt for you,’ he said at last. ‘After that, you won’t feel the recoil and it’ll balance better.’

  The customer thanked him and made his departure. Keith bagged the gun and put it away carefully behind the counter. ‘Now, Officer,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Honey begged him not to be an ass. They had known each other for years; indeed, at one time she had rented the flat over the shop. She asked after his wife before going on to ask the question that had brought her to the shop.

  ‘That loch belongs to the Bracken Estate,’ Keith said. ‘It’s let to an angling club. I’ll give you the address of the secretary, if you like. I expect you’ve realised that any member could take a friend along as a guest, so you’ll have a long row to hoe.’

  *

  That evening she was especially nice to Ian. With Deborah’s help she coaxed him back into a good mood without exposing her uncertain theories to the light of day. Over a light dinner she said, ‘Mr Blackhouse has made up his mind that he’s going to be a godfather to my baby. Who put that daft idea into his head?’

  ‘If I find out I’ll tell you.’

  Honey smiled grimly. ‘Don’t even bother telling me. Just kill him for me. Or her.’

  ‘Why don’t you just tell him you don’t require his service?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell him for me?’

  ‘Good God no!’ Ian said.

  Before retiring, she sent an email to her friend Poppy. I was delighted to hear from you that you thought that Jackie and Andrew were responding to your TLC. But now – whoopee! – I’m happy to tell you that Spot and Honey have been located in a boarding kennels. I am leaving them there for the moment rather than upset them by taking them into another interim home. Break the news gently in case Andrew goes off pop. Let me know when the couple can be expected home and I’ll arrange to have the dogs collected.

  She took both Labradors for a last walk under a clouded moon, cheerfully conscious that she had filled Andrew and Jackie with happiness and with a little luck she would have stuck a pin into Professor Mannatoy’s self-satisfaction. She would have to drag all her theories out into the light of day shortly. Just what would be the repercussions if her theories were proved wrong she tried not to think, but she had kept her figure. She could probably go back to modelling.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By morning she had begun to doubt her own logic. In setting out for her early dog-walk she drove round by the mortuary. Two attendants were already at work but Mr Blatt was not present. He had worked late, she was told, and had then left to snatch a few hours of sleep. She would cheerfully have shaken him awake if she had known where he lived. She drove up to Moorfoot Loch but Pippa had to make do with a walk so rapid that she had barely time to empty herself. Returning, she failed to intercept Mr Blatt on her way to the meeting.

  DS Blackhouse had stayed the night in the hotel and was taking up more than his fair share of Ian Fellowes’s office as the team assembled. Blatt was the last arrival, squeezing in just as the meeting was about to begin. He apologised to the meeting and then, before his bottom had even settled into the chair, he asked Honey, ‘How did you know?’

  She breathed easily again. She opened her mouth to reply but Mr Blackhouse got in first. ‘Know what?’

  ‘Inspector Laird suggested that I took a look at some muscle fibres under the microscope.’

  ‘And you found?’

  ‘Voids between the muscle blocks.’

  The detective superintendent blinked at him. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning,’ Blatt said, ‘that he had been frozen.’

  There was silence as those present tried to digest the news. Mr Blackhouse broke it. ‘We’ve had some frosty weather . . .’ he began.

  ‘Nothing like deep enough and long enough to freeze a body,’ Ian said. ‘I think that Mr Blatt means that he had been preserved in a deep freeze.’ He looked searchingly at Honey. ‘That was a good question. How did you know?’

  ‘If you mean how did I know about muscle fibres, the answer is that while I was with the Met I had to attend an autopsy on a woman. She had died of natural causes but her very wealthy father was also failing from the same degenerative disease. We discovered that it was well known in the family that he had willed his money to be divided between his surviving offspring. Her husband realised that if her apparent death was postponed until after her father had popped his clogs, he would be very much better off. So he bought a chest freezer and postponed her apparent death until his father-in-law had fallen off the perch, by which time her share of her father’s money had been gratefully received on her behalf by her husband. That’s when I learned a little about the effects of freezing on the human body.

  ‘On the other hand,’ she said, ‘if you mean how did I come to suspect that he might have been frozen, that’s an even longer story.’

  ‘That is what I meant,’ Ian said. ‘And you knew it. Tell us anyway, long or short.’

  ‘It isn’t a coherent story,’ she said. ‘More a succession of facts and hints that somehow added up to the outline of a story.’ She paused. During her dog-walks she had gone over and over the facts and they seemed to have arranged themselves in sequence. ‘As you know, I met, or thought I met, Mr Colebrook about three weeks ago. At the time, I thought that he carried his years quite well and somebody remarked later that he seemed to forget about the stiffness of age when something took his mind off it. Photographs of Mr Colebrook Senior taken at the time of his retirement show that his face had not changed its shape with age, not to the extent of a broken jaw-line, for instance. Instead of a few deep folds and wrinkles he had a network of small, shallow wrinkles. That would be very easy to fake, given a son who bore a strong family resemblance.

  ‘My Mr Colebrook also made a special effort to be friendly to dogs. Mr Colebrook Senior was known to be a dog lover whereas each of his sons is nervous of them and avoids them if possible. I did some telephoning after the meeting yesterday. Until he retired, Mr Colebrook was often seen walking his two terriers but soon after that it seemed that his dogs were left to the care of his housekeeper.

  ‘When I began to enquire into his disappearance I was told that Mr Colebrook had sold his own businesses about seven years ago and made large settlements on his sons who used them to establish their own business in partnership. That period of seven years struck me as being hugely significant. If he had lived until now, those gifts would have been tax free, but if he had died shortly after making the gifts they would have been subject to a heavy tax burden, probably more than the sons’ newly established business could have stood at the time.

  ‘I don’t think that I ever met the real Henry Colebrook, but I’m told that of his three sons, Vernon, the eldest, in particular, bore the most striking resemblance to him. I was reminded by another case that it ta
kes very little cleverly applied make-up to change the apparent shape of a face. The tiny wrinkles would have been fine lines drawn on the skin. In hindsight, I think that he had also added brown spots to the backs of his hands. He had added grey to his hair and changed the timbre of his voice. But, travelling in the Land Rover, I had found myself looking at the back of his neck, not concentrating but just seeing it because it was there. There was a pattern of three little red spots on the back of his neck, which I didn’t see on the corpse but which I’d seen without quite recognising on Vernon Colebrook.

  ‘I remembered another thing. The use Mr Colebrook Senior made of his cellphone ceased, according to his invoices, seven years ago. The only cellphone that we have been able to trace to him was not the pay-as-you-speak type. We assumed then that he had no need of a mobile phone after he retired, but there may be another reason why he stopped using it.

  ‘Another coincidence. The two dogs that my Mr Colebrook seemed particularly taken with were the two young spaniels belonging to Andrew Gray and his partner Jackie Fulson. In retrospect, I think that he was not quite at ease with them and was forcing himself to befriend them, but that may be no more than hindsight. He was treating them to peppermints, to which both dogs are addicted. Just before he drove off from Tinnisbeck Castle, somebody mentioned that Andrew, Jackie and the spaniels lived just over the hill from his father’s house. The house was bequeathed to Vernon Colebrook and he had let everybody know of his intention to occupy it when the time came. If he did so, he would be bound to encounter the two spaniels sooner or later. But he was well known to be nervous of dogs. Like the dogs, he is addicted to peppermints, in his case as an aid to not smoking. Dogs are not easily fooled by superficial disguises such as grey in the hair, make-up and an elderly posture. They depend more on sound and scent and the one thing they never forget is a source of edible treats. They would certainly recognise their friend with the peppermints. If they made friendly overtures, as they undoubtedly would, it might set somebody thinking. The imposture was safe just as long as nobody began to question it.