by Tana Collins
‘This was what I was after,’ said Dr Mackie, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. ‘Aha.’
He extracted a piece of white material from the open mouth of the corpse and examined it closely before dropping it into a stainless steel dish.
‘What is it?’ asked Carruthers, craning to take a look.
‘Looks like some sort of cloth. Pushed to the very back of his mouth. Almost down his throat.’
‘To keep him quiet, perhaps? Could he have choked? That caused his death?’
‘Hmm. Let’s find out shall we?’
Carruthers took a deep breath as Mackie made a Y-incision from the sternum down to the pubic bone. Never a favourite pastime of his, going to post mortems. Carruthers was starting to feel sick. Of course, it could be due to the final nip of Talisker the night before. When he overdid the whisky it always gave him a queasy stomach.
Mackie moved the skin and underlying tissues aside and removed the front of the rib cage to expose the organs. Carruthers tried to ignore the sawing sound Mackie’s work made, concentrating instead on the technical aspects in order to control the nausea. No more drinking on a school night, he told himself, but knew that was going to be a tough call at the moment. He was still smarting from his demotion from DCI back to DI after the punch up he’d had at the station with Alistair McGhee. He was lucky that he was still in his old office until they found a replacement for him. The stench of death was overpowering and Carruthers found himself craving a cigarette, normally a rare thing for him.
Mackie was leaning over the stab wound. ‘Pierced him a good six inches. In terms of weapon, as I said at the locus, you’re looking for a sharp object with a serrated edge. Possibly a kitchen knife.’
Mackie took off the clear protective shield he’d been wearing, cleaned it with a cloth he fished out from his pocket and replaced it.
‘Ah. I can see again. Always helps. Occupational hazard, getting splattered with blood and guts I’m afraid.’
Carruthers felt the bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it back down. Opened his mouth. Took a deep breath. Best not do it through his nose. He’d much rather be at a safe distance behind the observation window but it wasn’t his style. He was a hands-on man. Always would be. In his book the moment he stopped wanting to be hands-on would be the day he quit the police.
‘I wonder what the significance is of the gag to the back of the throat?’ said Carruthers.
‘Well, it’s certainly interesting. I’m surprised I missed it at the scene,’ said Mackie.
The deep husky tones of Jodie Pettigrew, the assistant ME, interrupted his reverie. ‘I would say it was symbolic, wouldn’t you? I think you’re probably looking for someone who knew the victim. Where did you say you found the body?’
‘Up at Braidwood,’ responded Carruthers, happy that Jodie was back talking to him, even if her comment did show her to be a little naïve.
‘The Old Mental Institution,’ said Dr Mackie.
‘Was it?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Amongst other things,’ Mackie continued. I believe it was originally built in the early 1800s, apart from the Pink Building that dates back to the mid-1500s. Architecture is a hobby of mine, Jim. As you know it’s now part of the University of East of Scotland. Well, if you’re going to die somewhere I can think of worse places.’
‘Time of death?’ asked Carruthers, watching Mackie as he cradled the heart in his hand.
‘I wouldn’t say he’s been dead any more than twenty-four hours. If pushed I would put his time of death at between 6pm and 9pm last night. This is probably what killed him though. See?’
Carruthers did indeed see. He angled his neck so he got a closer view. The heart had a puncture wound to it.
‘Knife went straight in to the heart. That stab wound was almost certainly the cause of death, barring something like a fatal administering of poison.’
‘There are no defensive wounds,’ said Carruthers, picking up the hands and examining the palms. ‘I know no weapon’s been found. But humour me for a moment. Theoretically, could it have been suicide?’
‘He only has the one stab wound. Murder victims often incur multiple defensive wounds and a single, deliberate wound may be self-inflicted – but no, he couldn’t have done this to himself, not even theoretically.’
‘Anything else I should be aware of?’
‘From the angle of the wound, your murderer was a left-hander. There is one other thing.’ Mackie examined the heart more closely. ‘Heart was in an advanced state of disease. See these vegetations, or masses, that have formed? Endocarditis.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s an infection causing inflammation of the endocardium which in turn causes damage to the heart valves. In other words, he was a very sick man.’
Carruthers took in another sharp intake of breath as Mackie placed the heart in a metal container. It had been three weeks since his own brother had had a heart attack. The fit, non-smoking teetotaller. At the mention of another sick heart Carruthers felt his own chest tighten. He was two years younger than his brother, Alan. They weren’t close but Alan’s heart attack had hit him hard. Thankfully his brother had survived.
‘Going soft, Jim?’ asked Mackie.
Ignoring him Carruthers once more focused on the ritual of the post mortem, watching as each organ was weighed and measured. Once the contents of the stomach had been dealt with, Dr Mackie picked up a small saw walking towards the victim’s head. Carruthers excused himself, citing a weak bladder. It was more than he could manage.
Mackie chuckled. ‘Cigarettes are in the top pocket of my jacket, laddie,’ he said to Carruthers’ vanishing back. ‘After this we’re pretty much done. I’ll ring you if we discover anything else and as soon as we’ve got the toxicology test results back. I’ll leave Jodie to show you out.’ Carruthers lifted his hand in acknowledgement.
Carruthers stood, back to his car, cigarette between thumb and forefinger. He saw Jodie walking towards him. ‘Look, Jodie, about not calling you …’
Having taken great lungfuls of fresh air and now smoking the cigarette, he was feeling much better and rather foolish for leaving when he did. If truth be told, he was also a bit embarrassed to be seen smoking when he was usually so anti the habit. But since Alan’s heart attack he found himself craving all the things that were bad for him.
‘Och, it’s fine. It was just if you were at a loose end, that’s all. And obviously you weren’t.’
‘It’s not that. I wasn’t long out of my marriage.’ Deciding to keep the knowledge to himself that he’d been attracted to the girlfriend of a murder victim, he stubbed the cigarette out. He went towards the litter bin by the side of the building, placed the butt in it then looked at Jodie. Really looked at her, taking in her oval face, deep blue eyes, dark hair and sexy black eyebrows. He was starting to wish he had said ‘yes’ but the time hadn’t been right. He’d already had two women on his mind back then. There hadn’t been room for a third.
‘Oh, I didn’t realise. Mackie never said.’
Carruthers, who’d started walking back to his car, stopped abruptly in his tracks and turned round so he was now facing Jodie. ‘Is it too late for us to go out for that drink?’ he asked. Jodie looked taken aback. ‘I know it was six months ago,’ Carruthers continued. ‘What I mean is, are you seeing someone else?’
‘Not at the moment.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you over your wife?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
A half smile played on her lips. ‘Honest answer. Any chance you’ll get back together?’
‘None whatsoever. Let’s just say it wasn’t an amicable separation. We haven’t stayed in touch,’ he added.
She fell silent for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘OK, why not?’
‘Great. What are you doing tomorrow? Do you fancy a quick bite to eat?’
Jodie looked surprised. ‘Won’t you be caught up now you’ve got a murder on your hands?’
‘I still have to eat,’ h
e said, thinking of the endless nights he would be spending eating nothing more than pot noodle and sausage rolls and wanting to stave it off for as long as possible. ‘I can’t afford any more than an hour and I’ll most probably have to stay dry as I might need to get back to the station after. Do you want to come over to Anstruther? There’s a nice pub there called the Dreel Tavern. Serves good food. Or do you want to go somewhere else?’
‘Anstruther’s fine with me. See you at the Dreel at 7:30pm. Don’t be late.’ She smiled and turning walked back to the building. Carruthers watched her go.
After spending several more hours at the station Carruthers started to head home. The wind had picked up and as he walked to his car he was buffeted by the gusts coming straight off the North Sea. Once he left the police station on the outskirts of Castletown he drove home through the inky darkness. There had been no fresh snowfall but the plummeting temperatures were starting to turn the wet snow to ice and he took extra care, mindful that the smaller country roads may not have been gritted. Silhouettes of trees cast ghostly shadows and an owl flew across the path of the car startling him.
Once back in Anstruther he parked outside the famous Anstruther Fish Bar and joined the inevitable queue that had spilled outside the restaurant. The salt air mingled with the smell of batter and vinegar. The queue moved quickly and it wasn’t long before he was back in his cosy cottage enjoying the crispy batter and tender flakes of white fish washed down with a cold beer. As he licked the grease off his fingers and picked up a chip that was almost too hot to handle, he started thinking about the brutal end of an old man in a nature reserve. He glanced at his watch. Too late to phone his mother to ask how his brother was doing. Taking a finger of whisky up to bed with him, leaving the remains of his chips to get cold on the table, his final thoughts that night, as the wind buffeted against the windows of his bedroom rattling the panes, were of a woman with sexy dark eyebrows leaning over a corpse.
2
Carruthers arrived at work early the next morning to find Fletcher was already at her desk. He stopped in his tracks. ‘You well enough to be here?’ he said.
She looked up from her paperwork. ‘Feeling much better now, thanks. How’s your brother?’
Carruthers shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I was too late to phone last night. And I forgot to do it first thing this morning.’
‘Oh Jim. Forgot? Really?’
He waved her away. ‘I’ll do it later.’ He drew in a deep breath. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. The simple fact was that he didn’t know what to say. What do you say to a fit forty-one year old brother who’s just had a heart attack?
‘How did the post mortem go?’ she asked.
‘Looks like he was killed with a single stab wound which pierced the heart,’ Carruthers said, taking his jacket off and shaking off the rain. ‘Toxicology isn’t back yet, of course. One interesting thing though: looks like whoever did it shoved some sort of cloth to the back of the throat.’
‘To stop him crying out for help, perhaps?’
‘That’s what I wondered but Mackie thinks it was done after he was killed.’
‘After he was killed? Now that is interesting.’
Carruthers placed the jacket over his arm. ‘How did the door-to-door go with Watson?’
‘Found out Ruiridh Fraser lived alone. Couldn’t gain access. I called out a team to search his house. Nothing obvious to report. We’ve got some files – telephone bills etcetera to sift through. But nothing out the ordinary. I spoke to a neighbour, a Mrs Walker at number four. Right nosy cow. Apparently, Fraser got broken into last Friday.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t remember hearing about that.’
‘You wouldn’t. He didn’t report it. I’ve already checked. Did it first thing. She didn’t know what, if anything, got taken. There were brand new locks on the doors and windows though. There is one thing,’ she continued. ‘Like I said, I’ve been through the incident book…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, here’s something. Fraser reported his next-door neighbour’s teenage son for harassment back in September. In fact, looks like there’s been at least three incidents, ranging from shouting obscenities at him in the street to putting dog dirt through his letterbox. I’m just double-checking the incidents now.’
‘Which neighbours?’
‘The Hunters. They’re at number one. I tried them last night but they weren’t at home.’
‘Who investigated the original complaints?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Dougie. He’s not back from leave until tomorrow.’
‘Well, we’ve got a suspicious death. Get him back in today.’
‘He’s abroad, Jim.’
‘Shit, I’d forgotten.’ Carruthers then thought about the lazy, overweight DS and wondered if his absence was such a loss. He picked up some of the paperwork on Fletcher’s desk and examined it. It was a bunch of Ruiridh Fraser’s telephone bills.
‘So, what do we know of Ruiridh Fraser?’ Carruthers said.
Fletcher shrugged. ‘To be honest, not much. The man obviously kept himself to himself. According to Mrs Walker, didn’t have many visitors. Didn’t go out much.’
‘A man of mystery.’
‘Seems that way.’
‘And who’s this, I wonder?’ said Carruthers, picking up the photograph of the little boy found in the old man’s wallet.
‘That photo must be forty years old,’ said Fletcher. ‘My guess is a son?’
‘A son who’s now in his forties,’ said Carruthers. ‘So where is he?’
‘Perhaps they’re estranged.’ Fletcher took the photo out of Carruthers’ hand. ‘Or the kid’s dead. Maybe the son died in childhood?’
‘OK, well you know the drill, Andie. Get the team to start putting together a picture of the man– hobbies, friends, last known movements– that type of thing. Brief me when you have something. I’ll be in my office.’
Fletcher nodded. Starting to walk away from her desk, Carruthers hesitated and turned round.
‘Oh, and Andie? We need results, and fast. You need to be top of your game. If you’re not up to it, I can give the lead to Gayle.’
‘Don’t even think about it. This is mine.’
‘OK, just don’t screw up. A lot’s riding on this one. For both of us.’
‘Jim?’
Carruthers looked up.
‘Ring your mum.’
‘Briefing session in five. Spread the word.’ Superintendent Bingham appeared at the office door, mobile in hand.
Carruthers looked across at Fletcher.
‘I’m on to it,’ she said. Standing up, she smoothed her navy skirt, grabbed her notepad and headed to the newly set up incident room. She put her pad down at a table in the front of the room and then rounded up the staff. As the room started to fill she glanced around her. With all the staff squeezed into the office the air was fugging up. Detective Constable Brown was perspiring, fiddling with his tie as if his collar was too tight. DS Gayle Watson, taking a seat to Fletcher’s left, joked about something with Carruthers. Jealousy shot through Fletcher, surprising her. Several DCs filed in. Superintendent Bingham was the last to enter. He cleared his throat as he shut the door. Silence descended.
‘Right, tell me what we know about Fraser,’ said Bingham.
‘Lived alone at two Bridge Street, Cellardyke. Retired,’ said Fletcher.
‘Do we know what he did for a living?’ asked Bingham.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘What do we know?’
Fletcher swallowed hard. Hands perspiring, she said, ‘I’ve spoken to the neighbours. He was quiet, kept himself to himself. Didn’t go out much. Not many visitors.’
Bingham cracked the knuckles on his left hand. The sound, like pulling chicken joints apart, made Fletcher wince. ‘Has the investigation team recovered much from his house?’
‘The usual phone bills, files, what looks like an appointment book,’ said Fletcher. ‘He didn’t have a computer.’
&
nbsp; ‘Pity.’ Bingham started to crack the knuckles on his right hand. ‘We need results on this one. I don’t need to tell you that. Apart from anything else I have the Chief Super breathing down my neck. I can do without it.’ It was no secret that the two of them didn’t get on. Addressing Carruthers he said, ‘What do we know about his death, Jim?’
Carruthers stood up and walked over to the incident board. On it was pinned a photograph of the body of Ruiridh Fraser.
‘Killed by a single stab wound to the chest. Pierced the heart. Done with a degree of force. Mackie says assailant was a left-hander. Oh, and he was definitely killed at Braidwood.’
‘No chance at all it could have been self-inflicted?’ asked Bingham.
‘Suicide, you mean?’ asked Carruthers.
‘What else would I mean, man?’ Superintendent Bingham hated suspicious deaths on his patch. Took it as a personal affront.
‘None whatsoever. No weapon’s been found,’ said Carruthers. ‘Anyway, with the force inflicted and the angle of the thrust there’s no way he could have done it himself.’
Bingham rubbed the side of his whiskery chin. ‘Pity. So far we’ve got precious little to go on, then. Bugger.’
‘There is something, sir,’ this from DS Gayle Watson. All eyes turned to her, Fetcher’s narrowed. ‘I’ve been looking at previous incident reports. There was some trouble a few months ago involving his neighbours,’ she continued. She read from her black notebook. ‘On 25th September Fraser made a complaint against the son of his next-door neighbours, the Hunters. Said the boy had used abusive language on him in the street. This after reporting his tyres slashed the week before. Apparently, according to Fraser, this teenager was waging a personal vendetta against him.’