Gallery Whispers

58

Detective Superintendent Pringle was surprised when Brian Mackie stepped through the front door behind the Head ofCID. It was unusual for divisional commanders to venture on to each other's territory.

DCS Martin saw the raised eyebrows. 'I asked Brian to come along with me, Clan. There's something about the way you described this situation that's familiar to us both.

'Remember the Weston investigation a few weeks back, out in East Lothian?'

Pringle nodded. 'I remember you mentioning it at a commanders' briefing, and I remember reading about it in the papers. But that's all really; I don't know any of the detail. It sounded like no one was very clear what it was.'

Mackie shook his head. 'No, Clan, we all knew exactly what it was from the off. Someone injected the woman, then tried to make it look as if she had suffocated herself. It was a real amateur job, though.

Whoever did it took the black tape and the scissors away with them.'

'Yes,' said Martin. 'When you described this scene to me I felt like I was back out at Oldbams again, and I began to wonder. Could the same person be involved here, and could they have learned from the experience?'

'One thing you might not know, Clan,' Mackie added, 'or might not have remembered from that briefing. Gaynor Weston had a terminal illness.'

'So it was a mercy killing?'

'Use any term you like.' Andy Martin sounded grim. 'But I know what it was, and so do you. Let's have a look at him.' Pringle nodded and led them along the narrow hall of the Victorian terraced villa towards a sitting room at the rear. 'Dorward here yet?' asked the Head ofCID.

'Not yet, Andy. But as you ordered, I haven't let anyone near the body since I called out his team.'

'Has anyone touched the syringe, the tape, or the scissors?'

'I think I saw the doctor pick up the syringe, then lay it back down.'

'Silly bugger. Make sure he's fingerprinted, then. We'll have to eliminate everyone who might have touched it.'

Pringle stood to one side to allow his colleagues to step into the small sitting room.

But for the plastic bag, the man in the chair would have looked as if he was enjoying a peaceful, dreamless sleep. He was sitting back in the big soft armchair, his head resting against the high back cushion.

His eyes were closed. Martin stepped across to him, leaned down and looked into his face. At once he noted, contrasting with its overall waxy, yellowish colour, the small red blotches of the burst capillaries around his nose, and his mouth, which hung open slightly. The man was very thin. There seemed hardly anything of him in his cotton pyjamas and silk dressing gown.

He looked closely at the polythene bag. Black insulating tape had been wound several times round the dead man's neck, effecting an airtight seal, then cut off at the back, towards the left side.

'What's his name?' the Head ofCID asked, quietly, almost as if he was afraid the sleeper might awake. He straightened up and stepped back from the chair, careful not to step on the scissors which still lay on the floor.

'Anthony Murray, according to the cleaning lady,' Pringle replied.

'He used to be a bank manager, but he took early retirement over a year ago. He was a widower; lost his wife, about five years back.'

'Has the cleaner worked for him for long?'

'Aye, since before the wife died.'

'Is she still here?'

'Naw, Andy. Poor woman was in a right state. I sent her home in a Panda car.'

'Fair enough, Clan. This is a very similar set-up, although it isn't as clear-cut as the Weston case. Just looking at him, you have to say it's possible that he did all this himself. Nevertheless… I want you to keep the body here until after Dorward's people have photographed it and the surrounding area. Then I want him sent to the mortuary up at the Royal. Leave the bag in place, though. Leave everything in place; send him just as he is.

'Dr Sarah Skinner did the postmortem on Gaynor Weston; I want her to take care of this one as well, and I want her to see the victim just as you found him.

'Was there a letter?'

Pringle nodded, and pointed to a small side-board beside the door.

A single sheet of paper lay on it. Martin stepped across and looked at it. The suicide note was short and to the point. 'Three words, "Better this way",' the DCS read aloud. 'It's signed "Anthony Murray".'

He glanced back towards the chair, and the body in it. 'Maybe it was better for you, Mr Murray: I hope so. It's left a right mess for us, though, and no mistake.'