Grievous Angel bs-21

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘That’s an excellent idea.’ But it would be tough on her; sitting in on two autopsies, back to back, so to speak. ‘Do you want me to come up?’ I asked. I had an ulterior motive; if wee Joe Hutchinson’s workplace didn’t stop me thinking about peeling Mia Sparkles like a grape, nothing would.

  ‘That would be good,’ she admitted. ‘We still don’t have absolute confirmation that they were both killed by the same man, and I’d welcome your input.’

  ‘Plus you’d like me to hold your hand.’

  ‘No!’ she snapped, then hesitated. ‘Well…’

  ‘Hey,’ I told her, ‘if I’d been through the first one, I’d be calling you for company. Besides, depending on what Joe finds, it might be useful for both of us to be there.’

  I picked up my phone and my car keys and stepped into the outer office. I told Fred Leggat where I was bound, and confirmed with Jeff Adam that the Geordies had yet to turn up any trace of Glenn Milburn and his mate, then headed for the door.

  I was fitting my seat belt when my mobile sounded. I fished it out awkwardly from my jacket pocket. ‘Hi,’ Mia said, quietly, as I connected.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ I replied. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready to entertain my daughter and her peer group?’

  ‘I am. I’m in my studio now, getting my playlist and ads sorted, but before I go on air I wanted to talk to you again. That dinner we discussed… can we skip it?’

  What? In that first instant, I managed to feel both disappointed and relieved at the same time. ‘Sure,’ I murmured, slowly. ‘If that’s what you want, no harm done, and maybe I’ll see you around.’

  She chuckled, huskily. ‘I’d never have taken you for someone with low self-esteem where women are concerned. I didn’t mean that I didn’t want to see you again. The opposite, in fact. Can you make it back to my place tonight, once my show’s finished?’

  I felt a trembling in the pit of my stomach. Nerves? Jesus Christ! ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure. Thing is, I’ve got a work commitment that could go on for a while. Plus, it’s a bit late to spring a sleepover on Daisy.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I sighed, audibly, and wondered what she’d read into that. ‘Mia, don’t you want to take time to think about this?’

  ‘I have done. I’ve been thinking about nothing else since you left. Tomorrow?’

  Low self-esteem, no willpower. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Seven thirty?’

  ‘Seven thirty.’

  ‘Lovely. By the way, I’m not on the pill.’

  Eleven

  ‘A re you on the pill?’

  ‘Fuck me, Bob,’ Alison exclaimed; appropriately. ‘It’s a bit late to ask me. What brought that on?’

  I shrugged. ‘A moment of panic?’

  ‘Of course I am. Do you think I’d have let you go bareback otherwise?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She laughed. ‘Bloody hell! You suppose?’

  Fortunately there was nobody close to us in the autopsy room, and our exchange was muffled by our surgical masks. Nevertheless Professor Hutchinson frowned at us from the other side of the examination table. ‘Pay attention in class, you two,’ he said. He tapped the microphone above his head; it was there to pick up his commentary as he worked. ‘And remember, this thing is extremely sensitive.’

  I hoped we wouldn’t have to ask him to edit the tape.

  ‘Since you’ve just joined us, Detective Superintendent Skinner,’ he continued… a little archly, I thought, ‘I’ll recap what I told DI Higgins following the examination of the body of Albert McCann. The young man was in excellent physical health, although somewhat intoxicated at the time of his demise; he had recently consumed at least four pints of beer, India Pale Ale from its colour and odour, none of which ever made the journey to Seafield. My assistant and I found that death was due to a single upward stab wound that skewered the heart, piercing both chambers. The indication is that the attacker was either male, or an exceptionally strong woman, and right-handed.’

  ‘We know that,’ Alison volunteered, ‘from a statement by a surviving witness. And he says it was a man.’

  He glowered at her. Joe didn’t like to be interrupted while in full flow. ‘There were twelve other wounds in total,’ he continued, ‘but we believe that these were all inflicted post mortem, and that the massive wound I have described was the first, and almost instantly fatal. The attack on this man was of the sort that usually attracts the adjective “frenzied” in the popular press. At the very least anyone who continued to attack what would have been a fairly obviously dead body with such force can be described as “determined”. Regrettably, I have seen in my career many victims with injuries similar to those of Mr McCann. Similar…’ he repeated, and his eyes twinkled, telling me that he’d been leading up to a major moment

  … ‘but not identical. There is a shape, a pattern, to these wounds that I haven’t seen too often before. The weapon that inflicted them was razor-sharp in its tip and on both sides of the blade, but what makes it different is its shape. It’s broader than the norm, although to be honest the range of objects that people stick into other people seems to be expanding all the time these days.’

  He stopped and looked at me. ‘Alison tells me that you believe that McCann and Mr Weir here are both victims of the same man. A little patience on your part, and I may be able to advance that theory, or knock it down.’

  ‘We await your findings, Joe,’ I told him, ‘enthralled.’

  He went to work, and I thought about something other than what I was going to have for dinner.

  ‘How are you getting on with Marlon?’ Alison asked, sotto voce, as we looked on.

  ‘We’ve got a suspect, probably two,’ I murmured.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘It will be when Northumbria CID manage to find them.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re your men?’

  ‘If we’re lucky we might have a witness to place them with Watson.’ Before I’d left, I’d told Mario McGuire to take the photos of Milburn and Shackleton that had been faxed from Newcastle and show them to his pub manager pal. An identification under those circumstances might not stand up to heavy cross-examination by a defence brief, but it would be enough to let us charge them and hold them on remand.

  ‘Good luck.’ She looked at me. ‘Bob, is something bothering you? Something you’re keeping from me?’

  I found it difficult to return her gaze. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly, but last night, when I arrived at your place, I thought you were preoccupied.’

  If it hadn’t been for the mask, my sigh of relief might have been audible. ‘I was,’ I told her. ‘I didn’t want to ruin your night with it, that was all. It was my father-in-law’s visit.’ I led her across to the furthest corner of the room and told her why Thornton had come to see us.

  When I was finished, she took my arm, and hugged it. ‘Oh Bob,’ she sighed, ‘that’s awful. The poor chap.’

  ‘There’s more,’ I said. ‘I’m in a real dilemma.’ I explained Thornie’s view about keeping it from Alex until it was all over. ‘I agreed,’ I added, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Nor should you be,’ she said, firmly. ‘You don’t have the right to do that. Neither does her grandfather.’

  ‘But Ali, love, she’s so young,’ I protested.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Bob,’ she spluttered behind her mask. ‘Emotionally, she’s older than you are. Do you think she isn’t ready to deal with death? Is that it? The girl lost her mother when she was barely school age. Yet now she’s one of the best adjusted, most mature thirteen-year-olds that I’ve ever met. She’s faced her tragedy and she’s come to terms with it… which, perhaps, is more than you have.’ Her forehead was wrinkled with concern as she spoke. She really was a good woman, better than I’d appreciated, and better than I deserved; suddenly a randy night with Mia Sparkles seemed less of an imperative. ‘You’re very close to him, aren’t you?’ s
he said.

  ‘Truthfully? Closer than I was to my own dad.’

  ‘Then this is going to affect you just as much as it does Alex, and probably more. You helped her to deal with her mother’s death. Now it’s her turn to help you.’

  I smiled at her, but she probably didn’t realise because of the damn mask. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Any time.’ She paused. ‘Have you got next weekend planned?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I replied. ‘I don’t have tonight’s dinner planned. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering; would you like to go crewing?’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘Crewing, Bob, crewing.’ She shook her head. ‘Bloody men! Have you ever done any sailing?’ she went on.

  ‘Cross-Channel ferries; that’s all. Boats are not my thing.’

  ‘In that case… the thing is, my brother Eden has a yacht. He keeps it at Inverkip Marina. It’s quite a big boat and sometimes I help him with it. He’s asked me if I’ll go out with him next weekend. Would you and Alex like to come?’

  I wasn’t sure. My weekends usually involved golf unless the weather was too rough, and for a real golfer there is no such thing. Then there was the potential embarrassment of being seasick. The ferry to France had never bothered me, but there had been an occasion when I’d gone on a fairground waltzer with Alex, and come very close to chucking my cookies. Then there was the prospect of Gleneagles, with Mia.

  The last of those swung me. ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘That would be good.’ Accepting Alison’s invitation was a means of chickening out of something that for some reason was making me far more nervous than an inshore yacht on the Firth of Clyde, but she wasn’t to know that. Besides, I might actually enjoy it, and I knew that Alex would. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Ideally,’ she said, ‘we’ll drive across on Friday evening and stay the night on board with Eden and Rory… my nephew… so that we’re ready to cast off early. It’ll be a two-day voyage, then back on Sunday.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I agreed, ‘subject to…’

  ‘I know: the demands of the job. Try not thinking about things that might get in the way and maybe they won’t.’

  ‘What age is Rory?’ I asked, casually.

  She laughed. ‘Back off, Dad. He’s only ten.’

  ‘Officers!’ The call was imperious. ‘If I might have your renewed attention,’ the wee professor continued.

  We moved towards the table, where a once-functional human being lay, turned more or less inside out. For anyone present during an autopsy, it’s essential to remain completely detached. The worst thing you can do is allow your mind to personalise the situation, to imagine, for one second, a loved one of your own in the place of the thing under examination. As I’ve said before, I had mastered that by that stage of my career, but Alison had put in less mortuary time than I had. As we approached the body I felt her shudder, and put my arm around her waist to steady her.

  Joe saw and understood. ‘Do you want to take a break before we carry on?’ he asked. ‘The atmosphere in this place can be rather overpowering.’

  By that time she was over her lapse. ‘No,’ she said, brusquely. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am,’ she snapped. I let my supporting arm fall to my side.

  ‘Very good.’ The pathologist looked up at me. Behind him his assistant was… doing something else with a piece of Archie Weir, and I didn’t need to know which piece or what he was up to. ‘This is a similarly forceful attack to that on Mr McCann. Seven wounds this time; attacker also right-handed. None of them was instantly fatal, as you know, but the overall effect was massive organ damage, liver, lung and kidney, and blood loss, sufficient to cause brain damage. While the wounds were not as deeply penetrative as those on the earlier victim, this may have been due to Mr Weir putting up more of a struggle, initially at least. In any event they are deep enough, and wide enough, for us to have established a pattern identical to those inflicted upon Mr McCann, and to say with authority that they were caused by the same weapon or by its identical twin. Therefore, Bob, Alison, you may proceed with your investigation on the basis that you are looking for a single assailant. No doubt the tabloids will say, “Police seek frenzied knife killer,” or some such; in this case they won’t be exaggerating. I must tell you that I hope you catch him soon. This is an extremely dangerous person.’

  ‘That was quite a statement for Joe to make,’ Alison mused as we left the morgue. ‘What’s our next step?’

  ‘I’ll have Inspector Hesitant issue a press release tomorrow confirming that we’re looking for the same man in each case. I don’t know if we can go much further than that. We don’t have a description worth a light beyond youngish, tall, slim, and it’s pointless putting that out; it covers thousands of men. As for issuing a general warning

  …’ I stopped and thought that over. ‘Christ, all we can say is that both victims were in their twenties, as are most of the guys that are out and about at the weekend.’ I looked at her. ‘Have you got a name for McCann’s pal yet?’

  ‘He didn’t say who he was meeting. His father gave Steele a few possibles; he’s working his way through them.’

  ‘Let’s hope he finds him quickly then. If not I’ll use the media to ask him to come forward. Meantime, there’s our other close-up witness, Weir’s mate, Wyllie. You haven’t interviewed him yourself, have you?’

  ‘Not personally. That was done before I joined the division.’

  ‘Okay, why don’t you have a talk to him?’ I suggested. ‘Go see him. From what I’ve been told, he’s been a bit evasive about the circumstances leading up to the attack. Maybe press him a bit on that, get as much detail as you can.’

  ‘Will do.’ We’d reached our cars. ‘Let me see your hands,’ she ordered, suddenly. ‘I should know them well enough by now, I suppose, but let’s have a close look.’

  Puzzled, I held them out. She turned them over and examined the palms, running her thumbs over the hard pads of skin left by thousands of golf shots: I’ve never worn a glove when I play. ‘Not too bad,’ she murmured. ‘You shouldn’t have too many blisters come next Monday.’

  ‘Blisters?’

  She grinned. ‘Didn’t I mention that? It’s not a motor yacht, Bob. It’s a schooner, Eden’s pride and joy; sail-powered all the way.’

  ‘Does that mean climbing masts and such?’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ she assured me, ‘I’ll do all the macho stuff; you’ll just have to pull on the odd rope.’

  ‘What about Alex?’ I asked. ‘What’ll she have to do?’

  ‘Sunbathe, if she’s lucky. Maybe cook, if she fancies it. What’s the matter? Cold feet?’

  Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I fancied the idea. I’d lived by the sea for over ten years, and my place in Spain was near a large marina, full of gin palaces, but as I’d confessed to Alison, messing about in boats wasn’t something I’d even thought about. ‘No,’ I told her. ‘My feet are well warm, don’t you worry. Will there be hammocks?’

  ‘No, dear, there are cabins.’

  It occurred to me as we spoke that I knew much less about Alison’s background than she knew about mine. ‘Your brother,’ I said. ‘Where did he get a name like Eden?’

  ‘It’s been in our family for two hundred years; he was stuck with it.’

  ‘What does he do for a living? No, let me guess; he runs a garden centre.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Everyone’s a comedian. He is in retail, but not that sector. Ever heard of a chain called Dene Furnishing?’

  Who hadn’t? It was the biggest in Scotland. ‘Sure, big warehouses, aren’t they? All over the place.’

  ‘Yup. That’s him. That’s my bro.’

  I whistled. ‘Jesus! No wonder he can afford a big boat on the Clyde.’

  She nodded. ‘And a spoiled Barbie doll wife who fancies herself as an interior designer. Rachel’s as much use as a chocolate teapot as far as I’m concerned, b
ut Eden thinks she’s pure fucking Dresden.’

  ‘Will she be there?’ I asked.

  ‘No chance. She only goes on the boat when it’s firmly moored. Honest to God, Bob, Eden’s a real player, a formidable guy, just like you are. Yet he was blinded by this inappropriate woman at first sight. There’s no telling, is there?’

  I chuckled quietly. ‘No, babe, there isn’t. Now, can I do something completely inappropriate?’

  She frowned. ‘Such as?’

  ‘This.’ And I kissed her, long and tender, right there in the car park of the house of the dead.

  ‘Wow!’ she murmured, when we were done. ‘There was nothing inappropriate about that, big boy. But what was it for?’

  ‘It was for reminding me of who I am.’

  I stayed that way for at least a minute. Then I climbed into the Discovery and headed on my steady way home. I hadn’t gone very far, though, before I was feeling completely, utterly confused. I really did not know what the fuck I was doing, woman-wise.

  I had a hot date, probably involving breakfast, with Mia the following night, yet it had been on the tip of my tongue a few minutes before to ask Alison to come home with me. Sensible and secure, redhot and risky, they couldn’t have been more dissimilar, and here was I, a serial widower with a fast-growing daughter who didn’t really want another woman in what she was coming to see as her kitchen, entangled with them both.

  Looking for a distraction, as I cleared the Jock’s Lodge lights, I reached out and switched on the clunky old radio; I’d no other entertainment option, since the cassette player had chewed up a tape and refused to spit it out. I’d had it on Radio One in the morning, to catch a news bulletin. Some rapper with a daft name was shouting at me, so I pressed the next of the preset buttons. The previous owner of the tank had been an orderly man and the six stations were tuned in numerical order, first four BBC, then Radio Forth, then Classic FM. I expected the Radio Two drive-time show, but it wasn’t what I got. Mia must have changed the settings when she’d been in the car on the previous Saturday, because instead of the usual Identikit late afternoon presenter, whoever it was then, whichever of the bland leading the bland, the ridiculous rapper was replaced by what I was coming to realise was one of the sexiest voices I had ever heard.