Private Investigations

Forty

I’d been in the old Glasgow City Mortuary, in the Saltmarket, once or twice but never in the new twenty-first-century model in Govan. As these things go, it was state of the art, everything stainless steel and spotless and, most important of all, the air purification system worked perfectly.

I’d been expecting Mario to call me the evening before to give me a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’ on whether I could attend, but he didn’t. Instead it was Andy Martin who called, the Chief Constable of Scotland himself.

‘Bob, how are you?’ he began, heartily, as soon as I picked up the phone in the office, having been advised by an operator that he was on the line. Even before the last of those four words were out, his tone had sent me a message of irrevocable change. But I was ready, for it cut both ways.

Those who’ve observed me over the years will have realised by now that I have very few close friends outside the police. Within the service I have half a dozen, and for many years Andy Martin was one of the closest. Back then he wouldn’t have needed to ask how I was; he’d have known, because we’d have spoken every other day. That call, that evening, was our first contact since I’d congratulated him on his appointment a few months before.

Since then he’d dumped my daughter, and, it was apparent from the distance in his greeting, that he’d dumped me too.

‘I’m fine, Andy,’ I assured him, ‘and if word hasn’t got to you yet, I wouldn’t touch the Scottish Police Authority chair with a bargepole.’

‘I didn’t think for a minute that you would,’ he lied. ‘Bob, about this suspicious death . . .’

‘Suspicious fucking death?’ I laughed. ‘The guy was tied up and left sitting in his own shit for some poor sod like me to find him. Don’t go all PC on me, Andy. The word is murder.’

‘Okay, it is,’ he conceded. ‘And that makes me hesitant about you being involved.’

‘Your hesitancy has fuck all to do with it, my friend,’ I pointed out. ‘Indeed, it isn’t relevant, for I am involved. I’ve undertaken an investigation for a client, and it led me to Jock Hodgson. I’m not backing off just because he happens to be dead. If you think I’ll impede the police inquiry, tell me, but if that’s what you do think, you’re insulting two of your best detective officers, and by the way, you’re insulting me.’

‘Still . . .’ he said.

I’d had enough. ‘Sir Andrew,’ I growled, ‘if you want to deny me access and you refuse to let Lottie Mann share information with me, remember that cuts both ways. And remember also that I’m a director of a bloody newspaper group!’

‘Don’t threaten me, Bob,’ he murmured.

‘My only threat to you is in your mind,’ I snapped. ‘Listen, boy, if I’d wanted your job I’d have had it. I didn’t; instead, having mentored you since you were a sprog detective and seen you rise through the ranks, I stepped aside and helped you into the chair you’re warming now.’

‘So you do regret not going for the post,’ he murmured.

‘Listen to what I’m saying, for fuck’s sake! I don’t. But frankly I’m beginning to regret not backing Maggie Steele or Mario rather than you.’

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is about Alex, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t bring my daughter into this,’ I warned him. ‘That’s different, because it’s personal. I should have seen you off when you worked your way back into her life after you left Karen. Hurting her once was hard to forgive. Doing it again means you’ll have an enemy for as long as I’m breathing.’

‘No middle ground then,’ he said, sarcastically.

I came close to slamming the phone down, but I didn’t. Instead, with an effort, I regained control of my temper.

‘Like I said,’ I went on, ‘that’s personal. The Hodgson investigation and my work for Eden Higgins, that’s professional. There may be a common interest or there may not. While we find out, do you want me inside the tent pissing out, or would you rather it was the other way round?’

‘Oh, go ahead,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll authorise DI Mann to cooperate with you. Mario says she’s a good operator.’

‘She is; very.’

I thought we were done, but he wanted the last word. ‘You’re not perfect yourself, you know, when it comes to women.’

‘I’m probably even more imperfect than you know, sunshine,’ I admitted, ‘but that cuts you no slack when it comes to my Alex.’

It crossed my mind that Andy might have shown up at the Hodgson post-mortem, but he didn’t. Neither did Mario, who was heading for Inverness to cast a beady eye over Northern Division CID. Lottie Mann was the senior officer present; indeed she was the only officer there, as Dan Provan had used me as an excuse to wriggle his way out of a singularly unpleasant duty.

The lead pathologist was a man I’d seen in court but never met. His name was Graeme Bell and he was the senior man in the Greater Glasgow area, although unlike Sarah he had no university responsibilities. He wasn’t the talkative type; he worked in silence while we looked on from a viewing gallery, happy to be screened from the action and the odour.

He worked away for two hours, cutting, measuring, extracting, probing his subject from head to foot. Once he had completed his initial examination and got down to detail, he paid particular attention to the head, and that interested me. Then he switched to the other end and that held my attention even more closely.

It was only when he was done that he acknowledged our presence, telling us that he’d see us in the briefing room once he’d cleaned up.

Sarah uses Chanel after a very messy one; Bell used the gentleman’s equivalent, liberally. As he joined us, and poured himself a coffee, suddenly he stared at me.

‘You’re Mr Skinner, aren’t you?’ he ventured, as he sat. I nodded. ‘I thought you were gone from all this.’

‘So did I,’ I acknowledged. ‘I’m here as a civilian observer, that’s all.’

‘Mmm. How’s Sarah?’ he asked.

I smiled. ‘Blooming.’ Clearly, word of our reunion had made its way through the pathology community.

‘What’s the verdict, doctor?’ Lottie Mann, not being one for small talk, asked abruptly.

‘He’s dead,’ Bell replied, winking as he took a sip from his mug.

‘We sensed that when we saw him yesterday,’ she sighed. ‘It’s nice to know we haven’t lost our touch.’

‘The subject died from a single gunshot wound to the head,’ the pathologist announced. ‘It was fired at close range, from the side and slightly downward. I’ve recovered a nice clean bullet lodged in the zygomatic ridge just in front of the right ear. That’s the only way I’ve been able to give you a cause of death; the body’s too decomposed for a straightforward autopsy.’ He hesitated. ‘How long has he been dead? That’s difficult to say for sure, but six weeks, minimum.’

‘No worries,’ Lottie replied, drily. ‘The mail we found behind his front door suggests that he died at the beginning of December.’

‘That’s probably right. The rate of decomposition isn’t an exact science. When I visited the scene I noticed that it was cold.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, it was. The central heating was oil-fired, but the tank was empty. We’re guessing it ran out after he was killed.’

‘I see. Lucky, in one way; in a warmer environment there would have been even more flies.’

‘Were there many pre-mortem injuries?’ I asked.

Bell nodded. ‘The plastic strips that secured his wrists and his left ankle to the chair were pulled so tight that they cut into the flesh. Painful, but by comparison to the other thing, insignificant.’ He paused. ‘If you were at the scene, you might remember that Mr Hodgson was barefoot. His shoes and socks had been removed.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there’s just about enough flesh left for me to be sure that he was tortured by burning. Something like a blowlamp was used on his right foot, extensively. It’s for you to determine, Inspector Mann, but I’d say that either this man had seriously upset someone, or whoever went to work on him wanted information, and wanted it very badly indeed.’