by Alex Gray
`Hiya. I’m home.’ Solly rose from his chair, all thoughts of dreams and dreamers banished in that moment as he caught sight of his pregnant wife. There was something that caught at his heart as he came forward to fold her in his embrace: a new vulnerability that made her seem fragile despite her robust shape. She was sheltering their child, keeping it snug and warm, protected by her body. Flesh of my flesh, Solly thought, the phrase coming to him suddenly. ‘Here, sit down. I’ll make you something nice. Lemon and ginger tea?’ Rosie slumped down in her favourite rocking chair, settling a couple of cushions at her back. `Ah, that’s better. Yes, some of that nice tea would be wonderful. And maybe a wee ginger biscuit as
well.I’ve been having horrible heartburn again. Wee rascal’s probably lying up against my tummy. Oh,’ she added in a sigh. ‘All those poor bits of me squashed up. Can’t think what a relief it’ll be to be back to normal again.’
The pathologist closed her eyes, feeling the warmth from the early evening sunshine through the glass. Their bay windows faced west and it was a treat to bask in the last rays of the setting sun. Theirs would be an autumn baby, due to be born on the twentieth of October, Rosie mused. A Libran, Emma in the mortuary had informed her. They had chosen not to know whether it would be a boy or a girl. So long as it’s like the world, her old aunty had said. And she was right, of course; a normal, healthy baby was what mattered. Solly’s mum and dad didn’t seem to care either way, or so they had said. Rosie sighed. It was such a shame her own folks were no longer here to see the next generation of wee Fergussons.
‘Here you are,’ Solly handed his wife a mug of tea and hunkered down beside her. ‘Good day? Or shouldn’t I want to know?’ ‘Thanks, love, not bad,’ she replied, taking a sip from the china mug. ‘I’ll spare you the details,’ she grinned. Solly smiled back. Theirs was a strange union in many ways; a man who was squeamish about all things to do with blood and gore and a woman whose profession it was to delve into the innards of a human cadaver. Early on in their relationship Rosie had learned to be sensitive to the psychologist’s weakness and was always careful not to dwell on too many particulars of her day to day work.
‘Interesting case this one that Lorimer’s got on just now. Probably some gangland falling out, if you ask me, but ballistics are having some fun with it.’ She turned away from the sunlight to
look at her husband, sitting by her side. “I vo men gunned down in the flat of a known drug dealer. The flat belongs to the man whose former brother-in-law was killed by the same weapon. Or so they believe.’
Not very mysterious, then,’ Solly shrugged.
‘Shouldn’t think so. The dealer is ex-army so as it stands things seem to point at him. Lorimer’s team will likely turn him up then that’ll be another case for the records.’
‘Will you be required to give evidence in court?’
Rosie bent her head from side to side trying to ease the neck muscles that had stiffened up. “Spect so. But they have to catch him first and it’ll only come to trial if he pleads not guilty.’
‘Is that likely?’
Rosie snorted. `Och, they all seem to plead not guilty these days. Hope that they’ll have one of our famous celebrity defence lawyers who’ll get them off.’
‘Well, at least you won’t be performing any more postmortems now,’ Solly said, a hint of warning in his voice.
‘No, ‘spect not,’ she replied casually. But as she drained the mug of tea, Rosie wondered if the recent postmortems she had performed on the two drug dealers would be her last before going on maternity leave. It was becoming more and more difficult to lean over the operating table and sometimes she had experienced tingles in her fingers, not the best thing when wielding a scalpel. Solly was probably quite right, even though it felt as if he were being a tad over-protective. Somehow this case had intrigued her. The memory of that nice looking chap with a single hole to his forehead had lingered with her. Especially when Lorimer had expressed his surprise that Kenneth Scott had been targeted by a hit man.
Ah, well, it wasn’t her business.
‘Look!’ SoIly laid a gentle hand across her belly as a ripple appeared, moving from one side to the other. And as both of them gazed at the tiny miracle that was their unborn child, all thoughts of dead bodies and gunmen were forgotten.
‘Lorimer always tells us to look at the victim’s home,’ DS Cameron said, as he strolled down the corridor with Detective Constable Fathy. ‘We didn’t have too much chance of doing that with Scott so he wants me to take you back there today to have a look around.’
`To see what isn’t there,’ murmured Fathy. ‘Right,’ Cameron replied. ‘We seem to have reached a bit of an impasse with Mr Scott. Far too little known about him. Lorimer reckons we might turn up something back at his house.’ Fathy nodded, increasing his speed to match the other man’s stride. ‘And he’s happy for me to tag along?’ ‘Of course,’ Cameron said. ‘Especially as your pal, DC Irvine, is off with DS Wilson to see Sandiman and Galbraith’s families,’ he added. ‘Think we’ve got the better of the actions today, don’t you?’ he grinned.
Omar Fathy gave a smile in return. It would be good to have an opportunity to see the detective sergeant in action this morning. He had warmed to the tall Lewisman who had gone out of his way to make him feel welcome. They had spent time playing pool one evening and he’d noticed that the other man had kept to soft drinks, never making a big issue about it. ‘Don’t drink,’ Cameron had shrugged when offered something alcoholic, as if it was no big deal. Fathy had been impressed. Up in Grampian that might have been remarked upon and he knew some officers there who would have taken the mickey out of Cameron. But the detective sergeant seemed wholly unfazed about being a teetotaller.
It was a short ride across town to Scott’s house, a small terraced property in the suburbs that was remarkable only because of the manner in which its owner had died.
The crime scene tape was still tied across the pathway, supposedly keeping anybody from nosing around. It hadn’t, of course. Images of the house had been circulated around all the tabloids, though now it was old news and there was no sign of any reporters hovering in the vicinity.
‘Okay, here we are. Gloves on. Keys at the ready,’ Cameron grinned. It was important not to contaminate the scene in case further forensics were required so both men put on a pair of latex gloves before leaving the pool car.
As it was a week day the neighbourhood was virtually deserted, a British Telecom van being the only other vehicle parked in the street. Omar Fathy looked around him as Cameron fiddled with the keys to the front door. It was such an ordinary looking place, every garden neat with well-trimmed hedges or low stone walls. The hanging baskets at the neighbouring doorway were full now, their colours a blaze of crimson geraniums and bright blue lobelia in contrast to the victim’s home. There was a patch of lawn, fairly recently mown, but no baskets or tubs full of flowers and only a few shrubs placed next to the garden path. Filling a garden with annual plants was often a woman’s pleasure, Fathy thought. It had certainly fallen to his mother to choose what flowers their gardener was to plant each year in their extensive grounds. Something missing, Lorimer had said. Well, a woman’s touch out here was missing at any rate, but they already knew that, didn’t they? he thought as he followed DS Cameron into the darkened hallway.
Cameron stopped suddenly then flicked on the light switch. ‘That’s where he was killed,’ he said, pointing to a patch on the carpet just feet from the front door.
‘He opened the door and was shot right away?’ Fathy asked. Cameron frowned. ‘From where the body was it looks as though he had taken a couple of steps backwards before the gunman shot him. That’s what ballistics have told us, anyway.’ ‘Right,’ Fathy nodded, then stepped gingerly to one side as the other officer sidled past the spot where the man had died. He shuddered despite the warmth in the house. A man had died just there; one moment he’d been a living breathing person and the next all that remained was a piece of dead meat
for the pathologists to pick over. Fathy exhaled, his eyes fastened on that spot on the carpet, unaware that he had been holding his breath. ‘The main room is through here and the kitchen off to the back of the house. Two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs,’ Cameron said, waving a hand as he entered the living room. ‘You’d make a great estate agent, Sergeant,’ Fathy chuckled and was gratified to see the senior officer smile in reply. ‘Well, maybe we should look at the house with different eyes. As if it’s a place we would want to buy. What d’you think?’ Fathy shrugged. Whatever the DS wanted was fine with him.
The main living room had been split into two distinct areas, one with a two-seater settee and a matching easy chair facing a large screen television and the other housing a small square dining table with four chairs. The furnishings were fairly bland, to Fathy’s eye; mid-brown laminate flooring and a marled beige throw over the darker brown sofa. Everywhere he looked it was the same; plain tones of beige or brown except for the black television screen dominating one corner of the room. ‘And no plants. Nothing living here at all,’ Fathy remarked as he moved from the main room into a kitchen that was almost clinical, the cupboards a stark white against dark grey granite worktops.
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‘Kept the place really tidy, so maybe he didn’t have much time for plants and stuff cluttering it up,’ he murmured to himself. ‘What’s in the cupboards?’ he asked himself, opening one after the other. The detective constable raised his eyebrows as he caught sight of the contents; rows of jars neatly labelled, tins of food stacked in perfect symmetry. He wiped a latex-covered finger across the floor of one cupboard and was unsurprised to see it come away with not a trace of dirt or dust. Kenneth Scott had been a fairly young man, he reminded himself. Most of the young men Fathy knew were too busy enjoying themselves to become obsessed with having a perfectly neat and tidy home. The young officer felt a sudden sadness for the victim: what sort of life had he had? Too much time on his hands by the looks of it, if he’d always kept things in such meticulous order. He hadn’t had much of a life at all, it seemed. No wife to clutter the place up with knick-knacks, no sign of any bottle racks full of booze to entertain pals of a Friday night. ‘Come on upstairs,’ he heard Cameron calling. ‘See if you can make head or tail of this.’
Fathy left the kitchen and took the few steps through the living room back into the hall then climbed the steep staircase to the upper level. A single window at the top should have let the light in but the blind had been kept closed for some reason. Fathy stretched out one hand and pulled on the blind cord, letting in a stream of sunshine. Dust motes hovered in the air as though suddenly released and the young detective stopped for a moment, considering the man who had been killed. He’d been in his pyjamas, hadn’t he? He would have stood on the very step Fathy was standing on now, making his way downstairs to answer the front door. Was that how it had happened? Fathy gave himself a shake as he entered the victim’s bedroom.
‘Look at this,’ Cameron declared, standing beside a neatly made bed.
Fathy stared at his DS then looked around the room. What was it he was supposed to be looking at? The place was as tidy as the rooms downstairs. No clothes were lying on the back of the chair by the window, not even a dressing gown. That was hanging on a hook behind the door, he saw as he continued to turn around, examining the room. ‘Tidy beggar, wasn’t he?’ he offered.
‘You don’t see it, do you?’ Cameron said at last. ‘Think back to all the scene of crime photographs you’ve seen so far.’ The young detective constable frowned in concentration then shook his head.
‘The bed,’ Cameron said at last, an eager light in his eyes. ‘Look at it.’
Fathy looked, thinking about the night Scott had been killed. Then it dawned on him.
‘It’s made.’ He looked up, bewildered. ‘Someone’s made the bed!’ he exclaimed.
‘Aye, took your time to see it, though, didn’t you?’ Cameron smiled ruefully. ‘Entire crime scene’s supposed to be left exactly as it was found. Any copper knows that. So, who’s been in to do a wee bit of housekeeping?’
Fathy stared at the bed. Not only was the coverlet smooth, but there was a crease folded under the bump where the pillow lay. ‘You think someone has been in?’ ‘Certain of it. We’re going to have to get the fingerprint lads back here pronto. And see if we can find out from the neighbours who else had a key to this house.’ ‘Maybe he’s got a cleaner who comes in,’ Fathy suggested. ‘Could be. I’m reasonably tidy but I can’t say it’s anything like
my own place,’ Cameron said ruefully. ‘Never seem to have the time to keep it as orderly as this. Maybe you’re right. Maybe someone does come in. But why wouldn’t any of the neighbours have told us?’
‘And if he didn’t have a cleaner, if he kept the place as spick and span as this, maybe it tells us something about him.’
‘Aye,’ Cameron agreed. ‘If he was ex-navy or something you might understand it. Someone who was used to keeping things in a really meticulous fashion. But maybe it says something about his personality. I don’t know…’ he tailed off thoughtfully. ‘Point is, someone’s been in here without our authority and we’ll need to find out who that was.’
‘True, but let’s not abandon this till we’ve seen the rest of upstairs,’ Fathy answered, moving towards the doorway. ‘I’m willing to bet that the bathroom and the spare bedroom are equally shipshape, but maybe we should take a minute to see if there’s anything else unusual. Like Lorimer said, look for what should be there but isn’t.’
‘Already looked in the bathroom and guess what I didn’t find?’ Fathy looked blank.
‘No condoms. No spare toothbrush. Nothing. It’s as if the bloke had been a hermit.’
‘But he had a relationship with that woman, Frances Donnelly,’ Fathy said.
‘Aye, but it doesn’t look as if he ever brought her back home, does it?’
‘Weird,’ Fathy said at last. ‘Unless she only came round to do a bit of housework?’ he added.
‘You think the girlfriend would come round and make up his bed after he’d been killed here?’ Cameron’s tone was sceptical. ‘No, suppose not. But it seems odd that anyone would do a
thing like that, doesn’t it? 1 mean, it doesn’t fit with what we know about him.’
‘And what’s that?’ Cameron asked, folding his arms and looking at the younger man with interest. ‘What sort of a person do you think he was?’
‘Frighteningly tidy, and I’m willing to bet he suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder. And he was a very private person,’ Fathy decided. ‘Doesn’t that make you wonder if there was something he wanted to hide from the outside world?’
Annie Irvine stood outside the high-rise flat, wondering how often she had been in this situation before. Send Irvine, she could hear the voice clearly. Any voice. It didn’t really matter who was in authority, they seemed to recognise that here was a woman who would be useful in keeping a veneer of calm whilst distraught relatives gave vent to their emotion. The front door that had once been some shade of red was scuffed from repeated kicks and knocks and there was a faint smell in the corridor that might have been cat pee. The whole place was redolent of despair and neglect, she thought. Lorimer had often ranted about the iniquity of the skyscraper flats, wondering why on earth these planners from the sixties had thought it a good idea to upend streets and leave them hanging in the air like this.
She looked up at DS Alistair Wilson, seeing more than the thinning dark hair and the worn leather jacket. He was a middle-aged cop, a family man whose years in the force had given him a hard bitten edge. But Annie had always known Wilson as a policeman whose humanity lay just under the surface of that outward gruffness. Too many cops became inured to the suffering of others, but, like Lorimer, Wilson wasn’t one of them.
`Whityewantini?’ A large woman had suddenly appeared in the doorway, eyeing them suspiciously. Her wild shock of grey hair looked as though several birds might have roosted in it overnight and
her pink T-shirt hung loosely over a pair of unsupported breasts. Annie stared for a moment then realised that the woman had probably just got out of bed even though it was early in the afternoon.
‘Mrs Galbraith?’ Wilson was proffering his warrant card for her to examine and, as the woman peered at it short-sightedly, he took a step towards her. ‘Detective Sergeant Wilson, Detective Constable Irvine. We’re here to see you about your son.’
Three quarters of an hour and two pots of tea later Annie found herself out in the fresh air once more.
‘Christ!’ Wilson swore as they walked across to the car park. ‘How does she do it? One fag after another!’ he exclaimed. `Betty’ll create tonight when I walk in smelling like this,’ he added.
‘Never mind how she does it, how can she afford to smoke like that?’ Irvine retorted. ‘No husband around and existing on benefits,’ she exclaimed. ‘Still, maybe it’s what’s keeping her going. That and tannin.’ She grimaced. ‘How many teabags d’you reckon were in each pot?’
Wilson took a deep breath, face towards the sky. ‘Whew, that’s better. My poor lungs were fit to burst in there. Anyway, young lady, what do you think? Reckon we’re any further forward after speaking to Gubby’s old mum?’
Irvine shook her head as they approached the car. ‘No. She obviously didn’t see him much. Still hell of a shock to find your boy’s been blown away by some mad gunman, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ Wilson replied. ‘I know some who would say: she’ll get over it, her type always do, but here’s a thing. She’s a mother and
mothers never get over losing their kids, no matter how estranged they might have been.’
The Detective Sergeant’s words stayed with Annie on the journey to Langside where Fraser Sandiman’s father lived. In contrast to the Galbraith home, his was positively middle class. The short terrace of town houses ended in a narrow cul-de-sac, forcing Wilson to manoeuvre the car with some difficulty so that it was facing back out towards Langside Avenue. The appearance of the houses was deceptive, however, and as they drew closer to the Sandiman house, they could see that many of the properties had been split into flats. Some had annual plants brightening up the patches on either side of the steep front steps but at number eleven it looked as though its residents had lost heart long ago. Here the tiny front gardens were choked with long grass and summer weeds, rose bay willow herb blowing its feathery seeds skywards. ‘Wonder what else they’re growing down there,’ Wilson joked, motioning towards the overgrown plots. ‘If it was cannabis they’d be taking a lot more care of it,’ Irvine muttered.