A Rush of Blood

Sixty-two

‘I can’t believe they painted it magnolia,’ Paula Viareggio exclaimed as she gazed at the Great Hall of Stirling Castle from the western ramparts.

‘It’s not magnolia,’ Mario laughed. ‘It’s. . it’s. .’ He gave up the search for an alternative. ‘Although I’ll grant you it’s pretty close.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s garish.’

‘Maybe so, but if you take a look at the guidebook, you’ll see that they reckon that’s how it looked when it was built.’

‘When was that?’

‘About five hundred years ago.’

‘They had magnolia paint five hundred years ago? Did they have builders’ merchants as well?’

‘I suppose they must have, of a sort. I’ll tell you what they did have, for sure, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries: pretty much constant wars. This place wasn’t built for show. It was a citadel, even more so than Edinburgh Castle. It was besieged so often they probably had greasy spoon carts down below, flogging bacon rolls to the enemy while the Stuart kings went hungry inside.’

‘You know, for a detective, you’ve got a vivid imagination.’

‘Only off duty.’

She took hold of the lapels of his car coat, pulled his face down towards her and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Mario, love of my life,’ she murmured, ‘you are never that.’

‘I try, honest.’

‘I know you do. Don’t worry, it’s what knew I’d be in for, the day I decided that what the rest of the world thought didn’t matter, set against you and me. Anyway, I’m not exactly a lady of leisure either.’ She took his arm and led him towards the hall. ‘Did you spot anything interesting in that car you looked at?’

‘Nothing that caught my eye.’

‘Was it all bloody?’ she asked, with a mock shudder.

‘Surprisingly not; considering that the guy was crushed in it, there wasn’t a hell of a lot of blood. There wasn’t a hell of a lot of anything.’

‘What were you hoping to find?’

‘Hoping? Nothing specific. Expecting? Maybe some indication that there was somebody else involved; the accelerator wedged down, Green’s foot tied to it. But there was nothing like that, nothing to suggest that it was anything but an accident.’

‘Wife?’

‘No, he was divorced; for the second time. Our Ken had a reputation with the ladies.’

‘I wonder how many will turn up at his funeral?’

‘Not as many as there’ll be polis reading the name on the coffin plate to make sure he really is dead.’

‘Not one of your favourites, then.’

‘No. There was always a whiff about Green. Most of us couldn’t see much difference between him and his clients.’

They stepped inside the Great Magnolia Hall, and as they did, McGuire’s mobile sounded. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said, taking it out under the disapproving stare of a castle custodian. ‘Yes, Joe,’ he answered.

‘God, Mario,’ the pathologist exclaimed, ‘you’re good.’

‘Top notch,’ he agreed, ‘but caller ID helps. How are you doing?’

‘I’m doing fine. However, the Humpty Dumpty on my table is not. I had him X-rayed. His skeleton’s like a jigsaw puzzle, consistent with the photographs that were taken at the scene. All his major organs are crushed, and his heart and lungs are torn by rib fragments. If you’re looking for a specific cause of death, one that couldn’t be challenged under cross-examination, I don’t think I’m going to be able to help.’

‘That’s in line with what out lab people are saying too. The car wasn’t tampered with in any way.’

‘So I hear. You asked me to tell you that this wasn’t an accidental death, chum. I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘Fair enough. Thanks for making the effort, Joe.’

‘My financial pleasure,’ the professor replied. ‘That said. .’

The pause grabbed McGuire’s attention. ‘What?’

‘There is one head injury that seems slightly different, in that there was a little more bleeding there than in other injury sites. It might have been caused by Mr Green’s head hitting the window frame on impact, but then again, it might not.’

‘So you are saying. .’ the head of CID began.

‘No, I’m not. For me to make an absolute determination, I’d actually need to take his head off and fit it into that section of the vehicle. Unfortunately, I can’t do that. I had images emailed to me by your people, and they show that in getting him out of there, the crucial area was cut through when they took the roof off, and twisted beyond recovery. Anyway, it was only an outside chance, unlikely to be definitive.’ He sighed, frustrated. ‘So, the verdict has to be that our Green died in the act of proving that Jaguars can’t fly.’