A Rush of Blood

Nine

As he looked down at the body, Valdas Gerulaitis started to shake, so violently that dandruff began to fall from his shoulders like tiny snowflakes. Jack McGurk took him by the elbow. ‘Steady, sir,’ he said. ‘Just concentrate on the arm, and the back of the right hand; that’s all we need you to look at. Ignore the rest of it.’ He knew that he was asking the impossible; a towel had been placed over the head, but it did little to conceal the truth, that most of it was missing.

It may have been the sergeant’s words, or it may have been embarrassment over his weakness, but the Lithuanian recovered his composure. ‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered, as he stooped slightly to peer at the small, but intricate, tattoo on the dead man’s right deltoid, but only for a few seconds before straightening again. ‘That’s Tomas. I don’t need to look at the other one to tell you. I was with him when he had it done. He dared me to have one as well. I hate needles but I couldn’t lose face, so I did.’ He turned his back on the trolley, his nostrils narrowing as if to fight off the antiseptic odour. ‘Can we get out of here?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ said McGurk. He nodded to the attendant, and led the way back into the anteroom, with its curtained window, through which the viewing would have been done in circumstances that did not require a closer inspection. A little old man was waiting there; he was so small that his students in Edinburgh University’s pathology division were known to call him ‘Master Yoda’ behind his back, and occasionally plain ‘Master’ to his face.

‘Your cousin?’ Professor Joe Hutchinson asked.

Gerulaitis grimaced. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He paused, awkwardly. ‘I know that sounds inadequate, but one thing I’ve learned in a long career is that there’s no consolation for family members in this place.’ He craned his neck to look up at the skyscraper-like McGurk. ‘What do you want me to tell you, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘Your findings will do, Professor.’

‘That’s not difficult. In shorthand, death was caused by the total destruction of the brain and cranium, the result of contact gunshot wounds. It was instantaneous.’ He glanced at Gerulaitis. ‘You couldn’t do it any quicker,’ he added, for his benefit.

‘And?’

‘You want me to spell it out, Jack? Man, this is as obvious and determined a suicide as I’ve ever seen. There are no marks on the body that offer even the faint possibility that Mr Zaliukas was restrained, or tied up, or anything else. I assume that the lab is doing residue testing on his clothing, as we’re doing on his hands.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you’ll find without doubt that he fired the gun. I know nothing about Mr Zaliukas, about his background, his business or anything else, but the fact that CID are handling this matter and asking these questions points me in a certain direction. Well, my boy, whatever madcap theory you are pursuing, you can nip it in the bud. This is suicide, and that is what I would say under oath, absolutely and unequivocally.’ He frowned. ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘You weren’t expecting me to say anything else, were you?’

Mindful of Gerulaitis’s presence, McGurk fought off the urge to smile. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but we have to be thorough. You, of all people, must realise that.’

‘Oh yes,’ the tiny pathologist conceded. ‘I know how the Force works. . as my students will tell you.’