A middle-aged woman lay on her back with a wound in her chest that appeared to have punctured her heart. With her blue eyes wide open, she looked surprised at what had happened to her. A slightly older man lay within two feet of her, a scarlet line across his neck that resembled a narrow cravat. The majority of the blood must have come from him as his carotid artery had pumped it into the air and across the room before draining what remained on to the floor as he suffered a lingering death. There was no surprise on his face, just a sad realisation that his life was over. The young man that Henderson presumed was Benjamin, formed the point of the triangle, equidistant from his parents. He had been eviscerated; his intestines lay in a tangled greyish-blue pile in front of where he had slumped on to his side. Close to his right hand was a large flat-bladed knife that was covered in the crimson evidence of the crime it had committed.
“Is everything… oh my Go…” Mrs O’Doyle had followed the police officers into the house and when she saw the scene of carnage she fainted, collapsing behind McNish.
“Get her out of here,” the senior P.C. bawled at his partner.
The young man succeeded in getting his hands under the elderly woman’s arms and dragged her unceremoniously into the hall. A shocked Henderson walked to a bedroom and perched himself on the end of the bed while he used his radio to initiate the murder investigation.
***
Detective Inspector Harry Newman turned to Detective Constable Tom Russell and said, “What do you think?”
They were sitting in the senior detective’s brand new Ford Mondeo. The new car had only been on sale a matter of months but Newman had been among the first in the city to buy one.
“Aye, it’s nice enough.” Russell knew little and cared less about cars. As far as he was concerned they were a means to get from A to B; as long as they did that he was happy. His boss was a different proposition. He was a man who saw the car as one part of his identity, a reflection of his status in society.
He was obsessed by material things and liked to show off his latest toys at every opportunity.
“Look at this, electric windows, an airbag and ABS. Top of the line, boy.”
“We should maybe get going to the crime scene, sir,” Russell suggested.
“Aye, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Newman started the engine. “Lovely tone isn’t it? Two litre, 136 brake horsepower.”
“Yes, sir,” Russell replied politely but with little enthusiasm. He muttered similar positive sounds as they took the short trip to Hyndland.
***
When he walked into the Blake’s living room, Tom Russell gasped. In his three years as a detective he had attended many crime scenes but this was by far the worst. The blood spatter that decorated the walls had dried to a rusty brown but the large pool in the middle of floor still shone a livid red. The three bodies lay like a dreadful sculpture created in hell.
“Holy fuckin’ Christ,” was Newman’s reaction as he took in the devastation.
Professor Lionel Marriot, the senior pathologist for Glasgow, was bent over Benjamin’s corpse, peering intently at the young man’s intestines. He looked up, “I know I might be a God in your eyes, Newman, but it’s OK, you can call me professor,” he said, smiling broadly. Marriot thought of himself as a bit of a wit and tended to black humour, even at the grimmest of crime scenes. It was something that made the young detective uncomfortable despite the fact that it was quite common for his colleagues to join in the jokes: for many it was their way of coping but Russell always felt that it was disrespectful to the dead.
“Prof, you’re more a demon than a God in my eyes. What the hell happened here?”
“My guess would be murder and suicide but I’ll need to get to the guts of it to be sure, “ he said indicating the inert coils on the floor.
“Don’t professor, you’ll make me belly laugh,’ Newman cracked back as Russell squirmed.
“Nice one,” Marriot said as he nodded.
“What do we know about the victims?”
“According to their neighbour, this is Abraham, Agnes and Benjamin Blake. From what I can gather from the blood patterns, the mother was killed first with a stab to the heart, followed by the father and then the killer took his own life in Japanese-style seppuku ritual suicide.”
“At least it’s all nicely contained. Tidy up the paperwork and we’ll be done.”
“Who called it in?” Russell asked.
“What does it matter? We know who did it. Case closed,” Newman asserted.
“I’d like to know a little more, that’s all,” Russell replied defensively.
“It was Mrs O’Doyle, she heard shouting and was concerned,” Marriot said.
“I’d like to speak to her, find out what she heard,” Russell said.
“Don’t waste too much time on it, Russell,” Newman warned, keen to be back at the station to wrap things up.
“Yes, sir.”
Russell walked away from the gruesome scene and across the landing to Mrs O’Doyle’s flat. He knocked gently on the door, Alan Henderson opened it. Russell introduced himself and flashed his credentials to the constable.
“Come in, she’s through here.”
The shocked woman was sitting in a plush floral armchair holding a handkerchief in her right hand. P.C. McNish sat opposite her with a cup and saucer that he put down hurriedly when he saw the detective in the doorway.
“Mrs O’Doyle, this is D.C. Russell. He’d like to ask you a few questions,” Henderson informed her.
“Oh, is it really necessary?” the distraught woman asked.
“I’m afraid it is, Mrs O’Doyle.” Russell then dismissed the uniformed officers as politely as possible. “That’s fine guys, I’ll give you a shout if I need you.”
When they had gone, Mrs O’Doyle looked nervously at the detective as if she was expecting an inquisition.
“Mrs O’Doyle, I wonder if you could tell me a little about the Blakes.”
She lifted the handkerchief to her nose and blew loudly as tears began to trickle from her eyes.
“Detective Russell, I’ve never seen anything like that,” she said.
“I know Mrs O’Doyle it’s very distressing. Can you tell me about the Blakes?” he prompted once more.
“Yes, I’m sorry. They were very nice people. Abraham worked as a tailor, Agnes stayed home. Benjamin wasn’t working yet and he was in the house most days.”
“What kind of man was Benjamin?”
“He wasn’t a man, Detective Russell; he was a child not ready for the big bad world. He was always very quiet but polite enough. Agnes worried about him because he was very shy and didn’t have many friends.”
“Was he a violent lad?”
“No, that’s why I can’t understand it. When I heard all the screaming and shouting this afternoon I thought someone was attacking him.”
“What was he shouting?”
“He was bawling at the top of his voice, telling someone to get back. He sounded so scared.”
“Did Benjamin ever take drugs?”
“No, well not as far as I know.”
“Was there a history of mental illness maybe?”
“I don’t think so son, he was always very shy but if he had mental problems, Agnes never told me.”
“Is there any reason that Benjamin would have killed his parents and then taken his own life? Was he ill maybe?”
“I don’t know for sure but he was a gentle lad who was always helpful to his mother around the house. He read his comics and played music. I think that was his whole life really, he didn’t seem to have many friends or other interests.”
“Thanks Mrs O’Doyle, we’ll get a constable over to take your official statement as soon as possible. Is there anybody you would like me to call?”
“No son, it’s fine. I’ll phone my
Padraig. He’ll come over and keep me company.”
Russell left the elderly woman drying her eyes with the handkerchief, as the shock from what she had seen set in once more.
***
When Russell returned to the Blake’s flat, Newman was impatient to return to the station. He saw no point in lingering at the crime scene and told the pathologist he would see him at the mortuary for the three post mortems the following morning. Russell was concerned that his boss was being hasty in taking the crime scene at face value, but there was little he could do to change Newman’s mind.
As they walked back to the car - which had been left parked on a double yellow line with a laminated card in the windscreen that read, ‘Police. Official Business’ - Russell voiced his concerns, “Sir, I think there is more to this than a simple murder suicide.”
“You know what your problem is, Russell? You think too much. This is real life, no’ the telly. Things are just what they seem.”
“The Blake’s neighbour said the son was a quiet lad who seemed to get on well with his parents.”
“The quiet one’s are the worst. Thank fuck he didn’t have a gun or we’d be looking at a massacre.”
Russell decided to silence his doubts for the time being. The detective inspector liked things to be straightforward, particularly if it meant it cut down the amount of work he had to do.
They drove back to Partick police station with Newman singing loudly to ‘The Bodyguard’ soundtrack CD that was playing to show Russell how great the stereo was in the new Mondeo. All it proved was the D.I. Newman was no Whitney Houston.
***
On their return, Russell and Newman found the C.I.D. room in Partick station deserted, apart from their civilian support worker, Allanah Usher.
“Where the hell is everybody, Allanah?”
“It’s been quite a day. D.I. McLelland and D.C. Stephens are in Byres Road at a suspected domestic that ended in the couple crashing through a windae and dropping four floors to their death. D.S. Burgess and D.C. Magowan are at a suspected suicide up at the university.
“Bloody hell, is it a full moon or something?” Newman asked rhetorically. “You get the report typed up and when the P.M.s are done tomorrow we can put it to bed,” he told Russell.
Tom Russell groaned as there was nothing he hated more than trying to use the computer. His typing was awful, he could never find where all the relevant files were and it took him forever to complete a report.
“Sir, shouldn’t we investigate a bit further?”
“No, get it done or you’ll be back out picking up drunks,” the D.I. replied curtly.
As Russell worked diligently and slowly on the report, the first of the other detectives began to drift back into the room.
At thirty-seven, D.I. Mark McLelland was young for his rank. He had made his name when he worked undercover in a drugs gang, where he helped to secure twenty-four convictions. He was ambitious and his sharp intellect was propelling him up the promotional ladder at a rapid pace.
He walked into the C.I.D. room with D.C. Ruth Stephens at his back. Ruth had been on the same course as Tom Russell at the Police College in Tulliallan but she was struggling with life as a detective. Although things had improved over the previous ten years, there was still an element of the service in Glasgow who believed that female officers should stay in uniform; tending to the victims of crime as if they were nurses rather than out investigating and catching criminals. Her confidence had taken a bit of a battering and she had told Russell that she was thinking of quitting.
“Well that was a weird one,” McLelland said.
“What was?” Newman asked.
“Two flatmates; Declan Murphy and Debbie Carlisle, good friends from what we gather and it looks like they either committed suicide together or she fell with him when she pushed him out the window. No history of depression and as far as anyone knew they weren’t even lovers. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Must be the day for the crazies,” Newman said as he shook his head.
“Why?” D.C. Stephens asked.
Russell replied, “We got called to a double murder and suicide in Hyndland.” He then told the two other officers of the details of the grisly scene and the apparently out-of-character behaviour of Benjamin Blake.
“Russell here thinks there’s more to it, fancies himself as fuckin’ Inspector Morse,” Newman stated with a derisory laugh.
“Maybe there is more to it,” McLelland said. “You’ve got to admit that this is not a normal day and for two incidents of this nature to happen within a couple of hours of each other, less than a mile apart is a strange coincidence.”
“And Burgess and Magowan have been sent to a suspected suicide at the uni,” Russell said, pleased to have some support.
“Don’t be daft. What do you think there’s some big conspiracy in play? The KGB is bumping off Glaswegians or maybe it’s MI5 taking care of subversives or maybe they’re silencing UFO abductees. A load of shite.” Newman dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand.
“Sometimes I forget what a prick you are Newman, and then you open your mouth just to remind me,” McLelland replied.
There was real enmity between the two detectives. Newman thought that McLelland’s meteoric rise was based on his ability to cosy up to the senior management team, while McLelland thought Newman was a lazy copper who was working his time until he could claim his pension.
McLelland reached into his pocket for his cigarettes while he placed his feet on his desk. He lit one and blew the smoke into the air, His whole attitude showed how little he cared what McLelland thought.
Russell and Stephens kept their heads down, unwilling to become embroiled in the argument but Tom Russell was sure that there was more to the situation than was obvious by the cursory investigation they had so far performed.
The following day would reveal whether his gut was correct.
Chapter 3
The post mortems in the Blake case were the first of the day and Tom Russell was ordered to report directly to the city mortuary at eight o’clock. The roads were busy as rush hour began to ramp up, and it took him a bit longer than he had expected to travel from his flat in Shawlands to the building adjacent the High Court in Jocelyn Square.
Constructed from a combination of blonde sandstone and red brick, the mortuary was a relic from another era. Inside it was dark and cold due to ancient tiles on the walls and floor, lighting that always seemed inadequate and a heating system that was erratic. It all contributed to a general air of dilapidation. Russell hated the smell of the place that was a combination of disinfectant undercut with the slightest hint of decay.
Newman was waiting in the autopsy room with Professor Marriot and a female technician who was introduced as Lynda Ryan.
“We’re just waiting on Dr Dent and then we’ll get started. Special bargain today gents, three for the price of one,” the pathologist said cheerily.
When Dent arrived he didn’t even bother to acknowledge the other people in the room. Dent was a solemn, sullen individual and the only time he spoke to any police officer was when he was performing a post mortem or when he required some information from them. He was about five feet five inches tall, stick thin and going prematurely bald. Russell guessed he was in his early thirties but he carried himself like an older man. He was a stark contrast to his effusive boss.
The bodies of Mr and Mrs Blake were already laid out on two metal tables, while Benjamin’s remains were off to one side on a trolley.
Professor Marriot began the formalities by approaching the body of Agnes Blake and conducting a preliminary visual examination of the corpse before Lynda Ryan washed it carefully. When the Y-incision and the removal of the ribcage was complete the professor said, “Let’s get to the heart of the matter.”
He removed Mrs Blake’s heart and said, “As we tho
ught the knife punctured her left ventricle, which would have killed her instantly.” There were no surprises as the process of examining and weighing the organs was completed and everything looked like their assessment at the scene had been correct.
The first of the three examinations over, it was now the turn of the older of the two men. A new set of instruments were brought on a tray from a sterile cupboard.
The same procedure for Abraham Blake confirmed that he had bled out due to the severing of his carotid artery when the knife was drawn across his throat. The only other thing of note was that the man had a congenital heart problem, which according to his medical records had apparently gone undiagnosed.
While the professor worked on Abraham, Lynda Ryan had returned the body of Agnes Blake to a condition that would be suitable for burial. She wheeled the trolley that supported the body of Benjamin Blake over to the table that was occupied by his mother. The pathologists lifted Agnes Blake on to another trolley, the table was cleaned and then they slid Benjamin across to take his mother’s place.
The autopsy process began again while Newman looked bored. The professor reiterated what he believed had happened in the flat as he confirmed that Benjamin’s wounds were consistent with a knife being plunged into his stomach by his own hand and then drawn across his abdomen to complete the ritual suicide.
When it was over the professor said, “We’ll get the blood work done but I think you can take it as read that this is just as it appears. A case of Mat, Pat and Sue.”
“Eh?” Newman looked puzzled.
“Matricide, patricide and suicide,” the professor laughed as if he had found the perfect joke.
Newman said to Russell, “See, there ye go Miss Marple, nothing other than murder, suicide. Wrap up the paperwork and head for the pub I would say.”
Russell stood pensively, convinced by the gnawing feeling in his gut that there was more to this than was obvious but he could do nothing other than obey his superior officer.
When they got back to the station, Russell could hear Newman across the corridor in the drug squad office, full of his own self-importance as he slagged off Russell as a prima donna looking to earn a career by creating a case where there was none.
The Harlequin Page 2