Gallery Whispers

'Just a clear poly bag. Nothing fancy.'

'How was it secured?'

'Round the neck, of course, wi' black tape.'

'And the roll that the tape came from. Was it there?'

'Aye. On the arm of the chair.'

'And the scissors?'

'There was a pair on the floor.'

Andy Martin's expression was growing more troubled by the second. 'Have you called Arthur Dorward?' he asked.

'What?' said Pringle. 'The scene of crime team? No I haven't, because I don't see a crime here.'

'Well, you get them out there, Clan. Wait there for me, and don't let anyone touch a bloody thing. Are the press on to it?'

'Not as far as I know.'

'That's good. I want it kept that way. Be as discreet about this as you can.'

58

Detective Superintendent Pringle was surprised when Brian Mackie stepped through the front door behind the Head ofCID. It was unusual for divisional commanders to venture on to each other's territory.

DCS Martin saw the raised eyebrows. 'I asked Brian to come along with me, Clan. There's something about the way you described this situation that's familiar to us both.

'Remember the Weston investigation a few weeks back, out in East Lothian?'

Pringle nodded. 'I remember you mentioning it at a commanders' briefing, and I remember reading about it in the papers. But that's all really; I don't know any of the detail. It sounded like no one was very clear what it was.'

Mackie shook his head. 'No, Clan, we all knew exactly what it was from the off. Someone injected the woman, then tried to make it look as if she had suffocated herself. It was a real amateur job, though.

Whoever did it took the black tape and the scissors away with them.'

'Yes,' said Martin. 'When you described this scene to me I felt like I was back out at Oldbams again, and I began to wonder. Could the same person be involved here, and could they have learned from the experience?'

'One thing you might not know, Clan,' Mackie added, 'or might not have remembered from that briefing. Gaynor Weston had a terminal illness.'

'So it was a mercy killing?'

'Use any term you like.' Andy Martin sounded grim. 'But I know what it was, and so do you. Let's have a look at him.' Pringle nodded and led them along the narrow hall of the Victorian terraced villa towards a sitting room at the rear. 'Dorward here yet?' asked the Head ofCID.

'Not yet, Andy. But as you ordered, I haven't let anyone near the body since I called out his team.'

'Has anyone touched the syringe, the tape, or the scissors?'

'I think I saw the doctor pick up the syringe, then lay it back down.'

'Silly bugger. Make sure he's fingerprinted, then. We'll have to eliminate everyone who might have touched it.'

Pringle stood to one side to allow his colleagues to step into the small sitting room.

But for the plastic bag, the man in the chair would have looked as if he was enjoying a peaceful, dreamless sleep. He was sitting back in the big soft armchair, his head resting against the high back cushion.

His eyes were closed. Martin stepped across to him, leaned down and looked into his face. At once he noted, contrasting with its overall waxy, yellowish colour, the small red blotches of the burst capillaries around his nose, and his mouth, which hung open slightly. The man was very thin. There seemed hardly anything of him in his cotton pyjamas and silk dressing gown.

He looked closely at the polythene bag. Black insulating tape had been wound several times round the dead man's neck, effecting an airtight seal, then cut off at the back, towards the left side.

'What's his name?' the Head ofCID asked, quietly, almost as if he was afraid the sleeper might awake. He straightened up and stepped back from the chair, careful not to step on the scissors which still lay on the floor.

'Anthony Murray, according to the cleaning lady,' Pringle replied.

'He used to be a bank manager, but he took early retirement over a year ago. He was a widower; lost his wife, about five years back.'

'Has the cleaner worked for him for long?'

'Aye, since before the wife died.'

'Is she still here?'

'Naw, Andy. Poor woman was in a right state. I sent her home in a Panda car.'

'Fair enough, Clan. This is a very similar set-up, although it isn't as clear-cut as the Weston case. Just looking at him, you have to say it's possible that he did all this himself. Nevertheless… I want you to keep the body here until after Dorward's people have photographed it and the surrounding area. Then I want him sent to the mortuary up at the Royal. Leave the bag in place, though. Leave everything in place; send him just as he is.

'Dr Sarah Skinner did the postmortem on Gaynor Weston; I want her to take care of this one as well, and I want her to see the victim just as you found him.

'Was there a letter?'

Pringle nodded, and pointed to a small side-board beside the door.

A single sheet of paper lay on it. Martin stepped across and looked at it. The suicide note was short and to the point. 'Three words, "Better this way",' the DCS read aloud. 'It's signed "Anthony Murray".'

He glanced back towards the chair, and the body in it. 'Maybe it was better for you, Mr Murray: I hope so. It's left a right mess for us, though, and no mistake.'

59

'I'm sorry I had to insist on your coming to see me. Superintendent,' said the Assistant General Manager. Clan Pringle heard the words but picked up no hint of apology in his voice. 'I'm afraid it's our policy never to discuss the business of bank personnel over the telephone.'

'Even when they're dead?' The detective's thick moustache twitched slightly in a faint attempt at a smile.

'Even then, I'm afraid. Now, which employee do you wish to discuss? My secretary should really have asked you when you made the appointment.' Pringle looked at the neat, dark-suited, humourless little man and tried to imagine asking him for an overdraft. He shuddered at the thought, and resisted the temptation to tell Mr William Drysdale, in his own special way, that detective superintendents did not necessarily need appointments.

'A man named Murray: Anthony Murray.'

'Ah yes. Mr Murray; Tony. Yes, I remember him. He was a manager in our Queen Street branch, until he ran out of steam around the middle of last year. It happens more and more these days, as banks transform themselves into properly run businesses instead of gentlemen's clubs.'

Drysdale leaned back in his chair and puffed out his chest.

'There was a time, not so long ago either, when a chap would join a bank straight from school in the confident expectation that he had a job for life, with status in the community and a comfortable pension at the end of it. Not any more; in the current banking environment, if you don't perform consistently well and hit your targets, you're out.

People pay the ultimate price these days for poor lending decisions.'

'What?' muttered Pringle, not quite under his breath. 'You mean you shoot them?'

'Pardon?'

'Nothing, sir, nothing; just thinking aloud. And Mr Murray, what about him? Was he drummed out of the Cubs?'

'What? Ah yes, I see, Hah, very funny, yes. I wouldn't say that exactly. Tony had thirty-eight years' service, so when he asked to retire early, the area general manager was pleased to accommodate him.'

'And if he hadn't asked?'

'Then yes, he probably would have been told to go.'

'Why was that?'

Drysdale shrugged. 'He just wasn't cutting the mustard any more; he knew it, too. The Chief Executive had asked a couple of questions about his performance review.'

'And that's all it takes to end a career these days, is it?'

Pringle's voice was loaded with irony, but the banker gave no sign of noticing. Instead he hooked his thumb into his waistcoat pocket and looked blandly across the desk. 'There is a time,' he pronounced, 'in every man's life, when he should just go and play golf.'