Murmuring the Judges

61

Until that moment, Detective Superintendent Dan Pringle had been remarkably cheerful for the time of day. With the onset of middle age, the detective had experienced difficulty in sleeping. Stress was something which, he believed, happened to other people, but eventually, Mrs Pringle, suffering from what she described as ‘secondary insomnia’, had compelled him to visit their GP.

After only two nights on the mild sedatives which the doctor had prescribed, he had enjoyed more sleep than in the whole of the previous week, and had rediscovered the pleasure of feeling fresh in the morning.

But when he leaned over the body in the copse, encased in his white crime-scene tunic, he felt all the old familiar weariness flow back, covering him like a blanket.

‘Not another,’ he moaned, quietly, to himself.

He looked across at Detective Chief Inspector Joseph Gibson, his second-in-command. ‘What stupid fucker described this as a “suspicious death”?’ he barked.

The man’s curly hair was caked dark red with blood. It had flowed copiously, forming a round puddle, in the centre of which the victim lay, face-down. His wrists were bound behind his back with a strip of ratcheted black plastic, so tightly that the flesh bulged on either side of the ligature.

The dead man was wearing a light brown leather jacket, jeans and heavy boots. Gibson leaned over and pointed at the jacket, towards a mark in the middle of the back. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘It’s torn, and there’s blood caked around it.’

‘Stab wound,’ grunted Pringle. ‘What was the point of doing that if you’re going to blow the guy’s fucking brains out?’

‘The same as the other one,’ Kwame Ankrah interjected quietly. ‘To bring up the head for the killing shot.’

The Detective Superintendent and his deputy stared simultaneously at the African. ‘The other one?’ asked Pringle, incredulously.

‘Superintendent McGrigor is investigating a shooting in a place called West Linton. From what I have heard, the method was identical to this killing. These are executions, gentlemen.’

‘We’d better touch base with Big John, quick,’ said Gibson.

‘With more than him, I think,’ his Divisional Commander retorted. ‘Let’s get finished here though. Are the photographers finished for now?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Doctor too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, let’s turn him over and see what he looks like. . that’s if he’s got any face left.’

‘He will have,’ said Ankrah, bending down beside Gibson and turning the stiffened corpse over on to its back.

The man stared up at them with sightless, terrified eyes. The face was red with blood, from the pool in which it had lain, but it appeared to be unmarked. The hair which was not soaked and matted, looked thick and luxuriant, and light brown in colour.

‘Who found him?’ asked Pringle.

‘A dog-walker, sir,’ the DCI replied. ‘Eight-thirty this morning.’

‘Why would this guy be here?’

‘Depending on where he lived, he could have been taking a shortcut home, from the squash club, possibly. Or he could have been brought here.’

‘Do we know who he is?’

‘Not yet, sir. There’s no missing person listing to fit the bill.’

‘Let’s have a look, then.’ Pringle leaned over the body and, carefully, opened the blood-sodden jacket. He reached inside its inside pocket and took out a black leather wallet. Stepping away from the body, he opened it and looked inside. ‘Thirty-five quid in readies,’ he announced. ‘Let’s have a look at his plastic. Bank of Scotland Keycard, sort code 80-41-21; customer’s name C. Collins. Sunday Times Visa Card, holder’s name C. Collins. Colinton Castle Squash Club membership card. . looks like you were right, Joseph. . in the name of Charles Collins.’ He paused. ‘Territorial Army Mess membership card,’ he continued, more slowly, ‘in the name of Sergeant Charles Collins, Lowland Inf. Div.’

‘That’s who he is, then.’

He frowned slightly as an idle thought struck him. ‘Here, Stevie Steele’s away checking up on some TA guys for Andy Martin. Maybe we’ve found one for him.’