Wrong Time, Wrong Place

13

‘Messy business this one,’ said DCI Duncan Jarrett of Strathclyde CID, stepping out of the lodge and shutting the door behind him. He was keen to escape the stench of death and decay before it became obvious to his colleagues that it was making him feel sick. He took a deep breath, savouring the fresh forest air, and turned to DS Jimmy Gray, who’d been in charge of securing the scene. ‘Those bodies must have been in there for days.’

‘Four of them, according to the coroner,’ said Gray, scratching at his belly through his shirt.

‘And no one reported them missing? What is it with these English?’

Gray shrugged. ‘One of the couples was from Singapore, and were here on their holidays, so no one noticed they’d gone. The other couple was from London, and you know what they’re like down there. They all ignore each other. It was only the woman’s school that finally raised the alarm after she hadn’t turned up at work for three days.’

‘Anyone got any idea what happened?’

‘Looks like they had some sort of argument, and the woman, Ashleigh Murray, attacked the others. Her fingerprints are all over the murder weapon.’ He stopped itching his belly, leaving his shirt partly untucked. A small roll of flabby white flesh stuck out. ‘There was a lot of booze in her system, so it looks like she sobered up, had a fit of remorse over what she’d done, and hanged herself.’

‘Has she got a record of mental illness?’

Gray shook his head and lit a cigarette. ‘Not that we know of.’

The whole thing didn’t look right to Jarrett. It wasn’t just the fact that a young female teacher of previous good character had knifed her husband and two friends to death. It was the fact that the bodies had been discovered in different parts of the house. Would she really have been able to chase them round with a knife and kill them one by one without being overpowered? If so, why wasn’t there blood all over the walls?

These were all questions that were worth asking, but Jarrett knew not to push it too far. Thirty years of working in Glasgow had taught him that even the most ordinary-looking people are capable of the most brutal things. And that the obvious solution to a crime is usually the right one.

He turned to the big uniformed PC standing a few feet away. ‘Bet you’ve never had one like this on your beat before, have you?’

‘Can’t say I have, sir,’ said PC Rory McLean. ‘It scares me, to tell you the truth. My ma lives on her own a couple of miles from here and she’s in her seventies. Frightening to think this could happen on her doorstep.’

‘Anybody else live round here?’

PC McLean shook his head. He was a big man. His thick, pale arms were covered in highly detailed tattoos. Jarrett thought he’d have made a good rugby player, except for the fact that, with his boyish, pudgy features, he looked soft. ‘No. This whole stretch of country’s empty. It’s what attracts the English. The fact that they’re not going to see anyone when they’re up here.’ He looked towards the lodge. ‘So, do you think you’re going to be looking for anyone? Do I need to tell Ma to be on her guard?’

McLean looked genuinely concerned. Jarrett thought it was nice to see a man being so protective of his mother.

The DCI sighed. ‘No,’ he said, thinking about the pretty young woman hanging from the beam in the living room, and wondering what on earth could have been going through her head, ‘I don’t think we’re looking for anyone else.’

McLean smiled. ‘You don’t know how much better that makes me feel.’