people I mean, there are plenty of them in their late seventies or into their
eighties, playing every day and looking ten, sometimes fifteen years younger
jthan they really are. Imagine if one of them suddenly withdrew from the
world for no obvious reason, and degenerated physically over a period of
weeks to the point of pouring himself a scalding bath by mistake and dying
in it.
'You can't, can you?'
'Only with difficulty,' Bob admitted.
'Well, from what you've told me and from what I've read, that seems to
be what happened here. Dr McCallum reports some degeneration of vital
organs, but she was able to record that they were all in excellent condition.
Analysis of the liver showed that Mr McConnell had never been an excessive
drinker, his kidneys were almost donor class, the alimentary system was
clear.
'The muscles, particularly those of the arms and legs, appeared to be
wasted, but there was sufficient bulk to indicate that this process had begun
recently.
'There was clear evidence of cardiac seizure, but this is consistent with
my supposition that the old man might have been immersed in a scalding
bath. It might have rendered him unconscious, but it didn't kill him. He
drowned all right.'
'So are you saying that Mackenzie should scale down his investigation,
even though the whole thing screams "Suspicious death" at both of us?'
She smiled at him. One of those specials which, as he knew so well,
always preceded a metaphorical rabbit appearing from an imaginary top
hat.
'I would, save for one thing. Analysis showed bloodstream traces of
temazepam - significant traces, I'd say, given the man's age and rapidly
deteriorating physical condition. You told me earlier that Mr McConnell
hadn't been under any form of medical supervision or treatment.'
'That's Mackenzie's information.'
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'Okay. He'd better check with his GP and with the local pharmacies, to
find out who prescribed or dispensed such a strong sedative, and why. And
here's something the clever lad's missed. He should also ask Dr McCallum
to repeat her analysis of the stomach contents, because she reports no
temazepam residue there.
'However, she has a reputation for being very efficient, so I'm sure a
second check will come up with the same result.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning that the drug was injected. You can forget examining the body
for puncture marks; they'll be long gone. But there can be no other
conclusion. I take it that no hypodermic syringe was found in the house.'
He took her meaning at once, and gave a soft whistle. 'There's no mention
of that in the papers I've read. It wouldn't have been left out either; it
would have hit Mackenzie right between the eyes.'
'In that case, even though it'll still be damn near impossible to prove
homicide at the end of the day, the inspector's investigation is still up and
running.
'However, what he should be looking at first and foremost is the
possibility that this old man was a temazepam junkie, and that someone. . .
maybe Ruth's lookalike ... was feeding his habit.'
Skinner's scowl was thunderous. 'And stripping his assets in the process.
In which case it's a good bet that when they'd bled him dry of cash, they
simply killed the poor old sod.'
'Honest to God,' Sammy Pye murmured. 'Women are unpredictable
creatures; and you more so than any other I've ever met. Yesterday this
Mackenzie had horns and a tail. Today he's not such a bad bloke.'
She laughed softly; it sounded in his ear like the tinkling of a small bell.
'That's the power of Bob Skinner. I don't know what the boss said to him,
but it had a dramatic effect. He couldn't have been more considerate, really.'
'What about that torn-faced witch of a sergeant of his? Was she there?'
'No. He said she was out pounding pavements. You're being too hard on
her; she might have looked severe, but she was taking her lead from
Mackenzie. All she did in the interview room, more or less, was nod her
head when he expected it.'
'So what did you find in your uncle's house?'
'Nothing. Somehow or other, he's managed to dispose of all of his assets,
save the house itself. On what, God alone knows.'
'Is Mackenzie still convinced that he was murdered?'
'Yes. And so is Mr Skinner. He's taking a personal interest in the
investigation; on my behalf, I suppose.'
That's nice of him.'
'Ah, but I think it's professional too. He's fascinated by it, I think. His
nose has started twitching. When he starts to follow it, anything can happen.'
'Wait till he gets a whiff of Dan Pringle's first big case down in the
Borders. That should stir his imagination.'
'Why? What does that involve?'
'A couple of ton of farmed trout; missing, presumed dead.'
She beamed as she made a connection. 'So that's what Mackenzie meant
yesterday. At the start of the interview he made some crack about fish
rustling. At the time I thought he was loopy.'
'No, he'd know about it all right. Dan's got an All Points Bulletin out on
those trout.'
She laid a hand on his chest, smiling sadly as she leaned across and
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AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
kissed him. 'The lives we lead, Sammy, eh.'
He combed his fingers through her long hair, running their tips lightly
down her naked back, drawing a gasp from her.
'Well, Sergeant,' she whispered. 'You've got me into bed again. What
do we do now?'
'Let me show you.' He breathed the words in her ear as he eased her on
to her back. They kissed, long and slow. She felt for him, down beneath the
duvet, but he moved downwards out of her reach, licking her nipples lightly,
left, right, left again.
'Hello ladies,' he murmured, then slid further down her body. She cried
out, a soft scream, as she felt his tongue again. 'God, Sammy,' she moaned.
'If I ever tell you to stop that, ignore me, please.'
She thrust her pelvis upwards, opening herself to his touch, writhing
with it, until he slid back upwards and she could grasp him, big and rock
hard, and guide him towards her, towards where she wanted him. She called
out again, louder than before, as he entered her, bucking and heaving beneath
him, surprising him with her strength, exultant as he matched her.
They were still breathing hard, lying there entwined, glowing with sweat
and satisfaction, when the phone rang out, beside the bed. They looked at
each other and laughed in unison.
'Let it ring,' he said.
'No, better answer it.'
He reached across her and picked up the instrument. 'Yes?' he began,
still smiling, his tongue working to free a hair which had become trapped
between his front teeth.
'Sure, sir,' he continued at last, forcing himself to speak evenly. 'She's
right next to me.' Ruth's eyes widened as he passed her the telephone. 'It's
Mr Skinner. He's got some news for you.'
'Have we got any other crime on this patch apart from vanishing bloody
/> trout?' Dan Pringle asked Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk.
'A farmer down Hawick way shot a dog that was worrying his sheep,
sir,' his tall assistant replied. 'But other than that, that's it.'
'Shooting a dog's not a crime to a farmer.'
'I was talking about sheep-worrying, boss.'
The superintendent drew him a long look, and a half smile. 'You know,
son, there's times I wish I'd left you in Edinburgh.'
'We've only been here for a week and a half, sir, but there's times when
I wish you had too.'
'Listen,' said Pringle. 'When Big Bob and Andy Martin posted me down
here, they said I could take my ten favourite records, one book, and a familiar
object. The last one's you; end of story.' He laughed at the young sergeant's
mock outrage. 'Ach, don't worry, Jack. There'll be plenty to do down here.
Up in the city, it was as if crime came to you; busy all the time. It's different
here, with different styles of crime and maybe of criminal, but the basics
are the same.
'Our good colleagues laugh at the notion offish rustling, but it's theft of
property nonetheless. It's just as serious as a wages snatch, or a jewel
robbery, or a housebreaking.
'Anyway, if there's one thing I've learned in the two centuries in which
I've been a detective officer, it's never to complain when things are quiet,
because sooner or later, they won't be. Don't you forget that the thing which
drove John McGrigor to early retirement was the murder of his best friend
in an armed robbery, right in the middle of this patch.'
McGurk winced. 'I suppose you're right, boss,' he conceded. 'Anyway,
the fish are keeping us busy, up to a point, even if the chances are they're
long gone from our patch. All the out-stations have finished the rounds of
fish farms in their areas . . . and there's more of them than you'd imagine.
Some are just cottage industries, but there are a few as big as Mellerkirk.'
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'What sort of fish do they farm?'
'Trout, boss, all of them. They're the only sort you can farm around
here.'
'What about salmon?'
'No,' said the sergeant, with a shake of his head. 'Salmon are farmed in
salt water, in the West Coast sea lochs mostly, and in the fjords in Norway.
There are hatcheries on shore, but they're all close to the farm sites.'
'You seem to know a bit about this, Jack,' the superintendent remarked.
'I've done a bit of research, sir. Bill Gates at Mellerkirk was a big help.'
'So is there money in this fish farming, then?'
'Oh yes boss, there's money in it all right. But it's high-risk too. If you're
a salmon farmer, once you've put your smolts into the cages...' He caught
Pringle's puzzlement. 'Smolts are young fish, raised in the hatcheries.
'Once you've put them to sea, you have to feed them, treat them, and
medicate them for two years before you can harvest them. It's high-cost,
long-term husbandry, and it calls for patience from everyone, not least the
industry's bankers. During that two-year rearing period there's lots of things
can go wrong. The stock can become infested with sea-lice, so they have to
be constantly treated. They're subject to disease, so they have to be given
antibiotics. They're prey to things like red algae bloom, that will kill all the
fish on a farm site if it flows through it. On top of that, there are the grey
seals, tens of thousands of the buggers, that can sometimes swim up to a
pen and take a bite out of a fish right through the net.
'When salmon farming started, there were lots of small operations, but
the costs and the risks resulted in it consolidating to the point where now
there are a few big producers and that's it.'
He paused. Trout farming's different; a much more attractive proposition
as a small business. Less risky all round. You can do it on land, in sheltered
sites. Other than a few otters, and man, of course, there are no natural
predators. You can harvest your stock much quicker, and sell it more easily.
Some small farmers sell at the roadside more or less; the punters walk in,
pick a fish and they just whip it out with a net and hit it on the head.
The bigger boys, like Mellerkirk, are more sophisticated. They go for
volume production and sell to specialist fish shops, supermarkets, or
processors.'
'And how many of the bigger boys have we got on our patch?'
Three,' replied the big sergeant. 'One in Berwickshire, one just outside
Jedburgh, and one in Langholm.'
'What's their security like?'
'The Langholm one's good, but the other two are crap. Like Sir Adrian
Watson, they had advice from Mr McGrigor, but they felt that, with a
manager on site, they didn't need to spend that amount of money. The truth
is, sir, in trout farming it's cheaper just to insure against stock loss.
'I must have a word with the insurers' association,' said Pringle, 'or ask
Big Bob if he'll do it. They need to change that situation.
'Meantime, you'd better talk to the managers. Don't scare them, but
warn them to sleep with the light on this weekend. D'you know anything
about them?'
'According to Gates, they're both young, single people like him; that
seems to be the type you find in that job. One's a woman.'
'Jeez,' the superintendent muttered. 'Security! I don't suppose they ever
go to the pub of an evening, or anything like that. . .
'You got the names and addresses of the owners of those two farms?
John McGrigor's rugby club network approach doesn't seem to have worked
with these people. Let's see if a touch of Pringle diplomacy does any better.'
90
25
Never having met Sarah Skinner, Bandit Mackenzie found Dr Helga
McCallum a break from the normal run of forensic pathologists. She was
tiny, no more than five feet tall, ash blonde, and with facial features that
made him think of a delicate china doll. She looked as if she was in her
early twenties, although the policeman knew from the job she did that she
was probably at least ten years older.
For a minute or so he felt himself falling in love, until he fought it off by
imagining her at work, standing on tip-toe and up to her elbows in innards.
Tm sorry to have brought you here, Inspector,' she said in a slow
Glasgow drawl, looking round the mortuary. 'You've taught me a
professional lesson. I thought it was bloody obvious that if there were no
stomach traces of a drug, then it was introduced by other means; either up
the bum, or by injection.
'Obviously, I have been guilty of not spelling everything out in my report.
It hasn't been necessary with the officers I've worked with up to now.
'Henceforth,' There was a cutting edge to her voice, 'every "t" will be
crossed, and every bloody "i" dotted.'
Mackenzie slipped immediately into mollifying mode. 'My fault, Doctor,
not yours. The report was quite clear; I just misread it.
'I'm sorry to have to ask you to repeat your analysis of the stomach
contents, but their absence has become a crucial factor in my chain of
evidence. And since you might wind up in the witness box, it's
in your
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