by M. J. Trow
‘Funny you should say that,’ Donald said, with his usual mordant humour. ‘She was hit by a car. Or rather, she hit it.’
Astley blew out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘I’m going to change now, Donald. When I come back, do you think you could have marshalled your thoughts sufficiently to be able to tell me what happened without any puns or similar jocundities?’
Oh, oh. He’d started using words which Donald doubted actually existed. That was never a good sign. The big pathology assistant lined up the instruments yet again and stood back from the table in an attitude of muted attention.
When Astley returned, he was in full kit, from his wellies to the natty little hat holding back his few remaining hairs. He flexed his latexed fingers and looked at Donald again, an eyebrow cocked in query.
‘Denise MacBride,’ Donald intoned. ‘Date of birth to be confirmed when her records come up but believed to be forty two years old. Wife of Geoffrey MacBride, mother of two girls. Found last night – perhaps I should say seen last night, as she was inside the building and the passer-by was outside – at around midnight, by a man walking his dog.’
‘Bit of a cliché,’ Astley remarked, half to himself.
‘Where would we be without them, though?’ Donald said and Astley smiled his agreement. Donald relaxed a little. The old man was starting to enjoy himself, as far as their job could ever be said to be enjoyable.
‘Where was she?’ Astley asked. ‘How could the dog walker see her if she was inside? Is he a peeping tom as well as dog lover?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Donald said. ‘She was in the car showroom; she’d fallen from the gallery, like a kind of mezzanine extension they use as an office, and bounced off a Megane and landed up against the window. I’ve seen the pictures – it was a hell of a fall.’
‘So ... since we seem to be doing clichés this morning; did she fall or was she pushed?’
Donald looked across at the brief notes at his elbow, but before he could answer, a buzzer sounded. Someone was in the office and needed a word.
‘Nip and see who that is, Donald,’ Astley said. ‘I’ll just do the preliminary external description.’
Donald had already done that, but forebore to say. He pulled off his gloves and went through the swing doors out to the office. He wasn’t gone long before he shouldered his way back in, reading a fat file as he did so. He stood in the middle of the floor, humming to himself under his breath and nodding.
After a minute or two, Astley could stand it no longer. ‘Donald, can you share, do you think? I’m on tenterhooks, here.’
‘Mm?’ The big man looked up and refocused his eyes. ‘Sorry, got a bit engrossed there. This,’ and he hefted the fat file, ‘is Mrs MacBride’s notes.’
‘Anything helpful?’
‘Not sure,’ said Donald, wrinkling his brow. ‘The first thought of the police was suicide, then a paramedic noticed torn nails, hence the bagged hands. So, murder, they thought. Now ... well, I dunno.’
Astley tutted. He was working on making Donald a proper professional, but every now and again he lapsed. ‘Why don’t you know?’ he asked, the implied criticism laid on with a trowel.
‘Well, this file is almost all from Psych. She has a few other bits; the kids, you know, and a broken arm at some point. But mostly Psych.’
Astley knew what was coming.
‘She’s red flagged here. Suicidal ideation, on more than one occasion. Bit of a bugger, isn’t it? Makes the whole thing a bit more complicated.’
‘Or simpler,’ Astley said. ‘Perhaps she chucked herself over then changed her mind, grabbed at something, you know?’
‘The crime scene pics are quite clear,’ Donald said. ‘Just a smooth, low rail to grab at. The most that might happen is a cleanly broken nail, not the ragged look we have here. It looks to me as though it was staged to look like a suicide. Most people would assume it would be a sho’in with her record.’
Astley winced. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Some things just weren’t worth arguing over. Instead, he reached over to the tray Donald had already prepared for him and chose a reamer and a petri dish.
‘Let’s see what she has under these nails, then, shall we?’ he said and bent to his task. After a moment or two, he looked up at Donald. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Donald,’ he said, peevishly.
‘What?’ Donald had been toying with a small and hopefully undetected passing of wind, but hadn’t yet quite followed through on his intention. Could the old bugger predict the future these days?
Astley gestured to the petri dish. ‘Clean the nails, that kind of thing. You’ve been watching too much CSI, my lad, that’s your problem.’
Donald looked aggrieved. ‘I haven’t done any such thing,’ he said, his voice a petulant whine. ‘All I did was measure, examine, you know the drill. I wouldn’t ...’
Astley cut him short. ‘Well, that’s odd, then,’ he said. ‘Because someone has cleaned these nails, and since she died. It’s a rough job and yet there is no bleeding or bruising.’
Donald tried to stop his eyes from lighting up. A woman was dead after all. But still ... ‘Murder,’ he breathed.
Long before Astley and Donald had met over his wife’s body, Geoff MacBride had been told she was dead. In fact, it had not been as simple as that. He had been phoned by the police to tell him that there had been an incident at MacBride Motors. Then they had added the fact that it was a fatality. Only then had they added the fact that it was his wife. It was almost an afterthought on their part when they asked where he might be, please? They had phoned his home and found his daughters there alone and, whilst not against the law, they were surprised that he was not present. Unless, of course, he was out of town ...?
He had taken the first sentence of the call lying in bed, his still sweaty arm across Fiona Braymarr’s body. The second sentence had him on his feet and the rest on his knees, bent over as if in pain. Fiona looked over her shoulder at him and she languidly swung her legs over her side of the bed and came round to him, patting him absently on the shoulder. Even in the circumstances he was in, the sight and smell of her naked body had its usual effect but for once he kept it to himself. Somehow, it struck even him that it wasn’t quite seemly to be told of the death of your wife when in the throes of an erection.
‘No,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m here in Leighford. I ... I had a meeting and had a little too much to drink. I ... well, obviously in my position, I can't drink and drive ...’
‘That applies to everyone, sir,’ the dry, cold police voice informed him.
‘Yes, yes, of course. Well, I decided to stay here, until the morning, you know. Until I could drive.’
‘If you could give me your location, sir,’ the police voice said, ‘we can send a car for you?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he said, not thinking, but noticing that Fiona had walked away on silent feet and gone into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her.
‘Well, surely not, sir,’ the voice went on. ‘You will still be over the limit, unless you finished drinking very early in the evening. Our squad car has just dropped a social worker off with your girls; obviously, they were concerned when you weren’t at home and we felt it would be best if someone was there. In the ...’ and the voice paused for the first time, ‘circumstances.’
And shortly after that, Jacquie Maxwell had slid into bed beside her husband. In some ways, it hardly seemed worth it; in about an hour it would be time to be up and about, but there was something about the chance to warm her cold feet on his warm bum, to feel the solidity of him, that couldn’t be passed up. He gave a little scream as her icy soles connected, then he turned over and enveloped her in his arms. She lay there for a moment, enjoying the warmth and comfort then said, not knowing whether he was awake enough to hear, ‘Have you ever felt like killing me, Max?’
‘Only when you put your cold feet on my nice warm bum,’ he said.
She chuckled into his chest. ‘So
, that would be yes, then?’
‘Mm.’
She lay there for a few more minutes, then said, in a different voice, ‘Will Nolan ever want to kill me?’
There was no answer to that, except a kiss on top of her head. As usual, she had managed to tap into his thoughts. Tommy Morley had been in Maxwell’s head, waking and sleeping, since he had left the police station. The little boy peering out from the pale face, the need to know that his father was safe, that his one solid mooring in his life would still be there for him. Tommy thought he knew the score. He had watched hours of Law and Order, both UK and otherwise and he knew that the DA would cut him a deal. He knew that he would be sent to a juvenile facility and then come out the other end unscathed. And if his dad was out there, waiting, it would all be fine.
Except, it wouldn’t be fine. There were two likelihoods. They wouldn’t find his dad and Tommy would be sent somewhere horrendous from which he would emerge broken and damaged. Or, they would find his dad and then he would be sent somewhere horrendous. Etcetera. Etcetera.
Maxwell had never knowingly met Mrs Morley. But he had a feeling that, had he had the dubious pleasure, he would have happily knifed her himself.
‘No,’ he muttered finally into his sleeping wife’s hair. ‘No, he won’t ever want to kill you.’ And he lay, awake, keeping her safe, until the dawn.
The next day held some difficult interviews for Maxwell, but none would be as difficult as the one Geoff MacBride would undergo. He had been collected from Fiona Braymarr’s hotel foyer in the wee small hours by a police driver with a face like a hatchet. The man had not exchanged a single word with MacBride on the way to the police station but that put him on a level playing field with Fiona; she had not emerged from the bathroom while he had dressed hurriedly and had not replied to his goodbyes through the door. He knew, as surely as if she had put it in writing, that his new status as widower had been somewhat of a game changer. He seemed to be carrying a stone in his chest, but whether it was grief for Denise or for Fiona he couldn’t tell. He had always prided himself on being king of the love ’em and leave ’em brigade, but now, he wasn’t so sure.
His arrival at the nick was low key, but not as low key as he had hoped. A photographer from the Leighford Advertiser, pyjama leg visibly poking out from under his jeans, had jumped out from the shadows as the car made the turn into the car park. MacBride knew that his startled face would not appear in print just yet – he had tangled with the editor often enough to make that gentleman a little wary – but this was not going well. In fact, he felt a little sick and as woozy as he would have had he had so much as a sip of alcohol. To his surprise, he realised it was probably shock.
He was escorted into the police station by his silent guardian, who punched a code into the pad by the door, which quietly opened inwards on a brief puff of warm, stale air. The desk sergeant looked up from his keyboard and nodded to the driver, who left his charge standing there as he went back out to his lonely vigil, tucked into the layby below the Dam, with a flask of coffee, a bag of Krispy Kreems and a well-thumbed copy of Fifty Shades of Grey he had found tucked under his wife’s pillow. He gave a little chuckle as he turned back to page four hundred and sixty, clearly, if the fingernail marks were any guide, his wife’s favourite bit. Boy, did she have a surprise coming when he got home! Kill his wife? Not just yet, at any rate.
The desk sergeant took his time checking Geoff MacBride’s credentials. He reached under the desk and foraged around for a minute or so, not taking his eyes off the man’s face. Finally, he came up with a breathalyser machine and took his own sweet time fitting a mouthpiece. He handed it over.
‘Take two deep breaths, please, sir, then blow steadily into this until you hear the beep.’
MacBride didn’t take it from him. ‘Why? I haven’t been driving.’
‘No, sir,’ the desk sergeant didn’t waver. ‘It’s just routine. We don’t want anyone to say we took advantage of you when you were under the influence. Ha.’ It may have been a laugh, but it was hard to tell.
MacBride decided to mount his high horse. ‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked. ‘I am in some distress, you know. My wife ...’ he paused as it suddenly hit him full force, ‘... my wife is dead.’
‘Yes, sir. I am sorry for your loss.’ The sergeant might as well have been reading from a cue card, such was the lack of empathy in his voice. ‘But we have to follow procedure, even so. Please take two deep breaths and ...’
‘Blow steadily, yes, I know the score.’ MacBride blew until the beep went and handed the gizmo back across the counter.
The desk sergeant looked at the meter quizzically.
‘Well?’ MacBride was starting to get testy now.
‘Well, sir,’ the policeman said, levelly. ‘It would appear that your alcohol level is ...’ he gave the meter another glance, ‘... zero.’ He shared a wintry smile. ‘Perhaps you would like a repeat? That is your right, of course.’
‘Why would I want a repeat?’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, MacBride saw his error.
‘I really don’t know, sir. Except that perhaps you would expect it to be higher, as you had to check in to a hotel because you were not fit to drive.’ Again, he smiled but it had no humour in it. ‘If you would just like to take a seat over there, someone will be with you shortly.’
‘Good.’ MacBride’s high horse, having briefly thrown him to the ground, had cantered back up and he was firmly in its saddle. ‘I do want to see my girls. They will be distraught.’
The desk sergeant made a brief note and nodded. ‘Naturally, sir. We will be as quick as we can. Meanwhile, your girls are being looked after in their home by social services, so please don’t worry on that score.’
The clock in the foyer had a very annoying tick. It did one very loud one, then two quiet ones followed by three counts of silence. Geoff MacBride became a little mesmerised by it after a while and, as happened to so many people sitting in the foyer of Leighford nick, waiting to learn their fate, he finally slept.
The desk sergeant, hearing his faint snores, ducked down behind his desk and quietly picked up the phone and jabbed some numbers.
‘Yes?’ Hall sounded tired, but who wouldn’t at this godforsaken hour on the cusp of dawn?
‘Guv? It’s Mason. On the desk.’
‘Mason. Can’t you speak up a bit? You’re very quiet.’
‘Not really,’ Mason mouthed. ‘I’ve got MacBride here. He’s asleep in a chair. Zero alcohol and doesn’t seem too cut up about the missus. Just thought I’d let you know.’
There was a silence. In any other person but Henry Hall, it would have been filled with a satisfied smile. ‘Thanks, Mason. Good to know. Let’s let him sleep. Nothing like a crick in the neck for making an interview go with a swing.’ And with a click, the phone went down.
Breakfast chez Maxwell happened as breakfasts will and it was testament to Nolan’s reliable sleep patterns that the dramas of the night had all passed him by. He ate his Coco Pops, recited his homework poem under his breath and was mildly surprised, though pleased, that Dads and Mums seemed more than usually happy to see him. A bit of parental adoration never came amiss, after all.
Jacquie got up and kissed him one last time. Maxwell raised a cheek to her and got a hug for his pains. She was the only one in the house who shared her family position with two dead women – wife and mother; it was more dangerous than you might think.
‘Ring me when you have a moment, about ... you know,’ Maxwell said as she went out of the door.
‘As soon as I know anything,’ she said and dashed headlong down the stairs, having just seen the time. There would be enough to do this morning, without being late.
Nolan watched her go. ‘Is everything all right, Dads?’ he asked.
Maxwell looked at him, startled. ‘Yes, mate,’ he said, ruffling his hair and then hastily stroking it flat. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, all the kissing and cuddling. I like it, I really do, but th
ere was a lot of it this morning.’
Maxwell forbore to add to the count of hugs and kisses. ‘It’s just work, Nole. You know how it can be.’
Nolan sighed and shovelled in some more brown goo. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know it’s important. But I do worry about you two sometimes.’
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Maxwell said. ‘We’re fine. It’s just ...’
‘Yes?’ Nolan’s huge brown eyes were on him and he knew it was useless to lie. That kid had been able to spot a prevarication almost since birth.
‘Mums had to go out last night, to see about a poor lady who had had an accident. And one of the children at school, well, his mum was killed.’
Nolan thought about it for a minute. ‘Same lady?’
‘No. Two different people.’
‘Well, that’s very sad,’ Nolan announced at last. ‘No wonder Mums was feeling a bit cuddly.’ He glanced up. ‘But you’re all right, though?’
‘Never better.’ So, Maxwell thought, here we are. The kid is worrying about us and we’re not even in a home yet. There was a toot from a car horn down in the street. ‘Oops.’ Saved by the toot. ‘Mrs Plocker. Come on, let’s get weaving.’
Nolan gave him a shove as he slid down from his chair. ‘No time for weaving, Dads. We’ve got to get to school.’
Pausing only to pick an errant Coco Pop from his son’s jumper, Maxwell jumped to it. No time for weaving, indeed. ‘Scarf? Gloves? Lunchbox? Do you know your poem?’
Four nods and his boy was off, down the stairs and out into the frosty morning. ‘February’s ice and sleet,’ warbled Maxwell as he dashed along behind him, ‘Freeze the toes right off your feet.’
Nolan was clambering into Mrs P’s 4x4 as he reached the door and he could tell that he and Plocker were already hard at it. How those boys still had stuff to say to each other day after day, he had no idea. But he thanked his lucky star they did – Nolan wasn’t an only child while Plocker was around. The two boys gave him a perfunctory wave and Mrs P held up her thumb, the morning shorthand which meant, more or less, ‘I will pick him up and take him back to mine tonight if that’s okay. Ring me if you want him to stay over.’ The woman was a saint – Saint Mrs Plocker; he could almost see the window in the chancel now.