“Not long dead,” intoned Lockridge dully. “Two to four hours, maybe. Cause of death, probably self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head…”
“Probably?”
“You won’t know for certain till the pathologist has taken a look, will you?” said Lockridge, sparking slightly.
“Won’t know what? That they killed him or that they were self-inflicted?”
“What? Both. Either. They look to be self-inflicted. He took his shoe and sock off…”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I presume so he could pull the shotgun trigger with his toe.”
“You’re a bugger for presumptions, Doc. Mebbe he were a freemason. Didn’t notice an apron, did you?”
This was a facetious callosity too far, thought Pascoe.
Lockridge evidently thought so too.
“Mr Dalziel,” he said very formally, “as a doctor, I know the therapeutic value of gallows humour, but I still find your tone offensive. I hope you will take pains to control it before you break the sad news to Mr Maciver’s relations.”
“Mr Maciver? That’s Mr Maciver, is it? How can you tell?”
They all stared towards the shattered head.
“I don’t know… I just assumed, with him going missing… Yes, I’m sure it’s Pal… I used to be his doctor, you see.”
“Is that right? So how about distinguishing marks? Something that ’ud spare us having to give his nearest and dearest a close-up of that?”
“He does… did… does have a distinct naevus at the base of his spine.”
“Naevus? Like in Ben Naevus, you mean?”
“Birthmark,” explained Pascoe, he knew unnecessarily.
“Oh aye. But you’ve not taken a look?”
“No. I assumed you’d want the body left as undisturbed as possible till your SOCO people had finished in there.”
“SOCO? You think there’s been a crime then, Doc?”
“I know there’s been a suspicious death. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. You’ll have my report as soon as possible.”
He started to peel off the protective overall but Dalziel said, “Hang about, Doc. Do us a favour. Just pop back in there and check out yon naevus thing, just so’s we can be sure.”
For a moment Lockridge looked as though he might refuse, then he turned, went back into the room, pulled the dead man’s shirt-tail out of his trousers, peered down for a moment, then returned.
“It’s him,” he said shortly. “Can I go now?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but removed his overall and hurried away down the stairs.
“Bit pale round the gills, weren’t he?” said Dalziel. “And he didn’t even tuck the poor sod’s shirt back in.”
“He knew the guy. Bound to be a bit of a shock, seeing him dead,” said Pascoe.
“Don’t be daft. He’s a doctor. Spends his life looking at dead folk that were alive on his last visit. Show me a quack who’s not used to it and I’ll pay hard cash to get on his panel.”
“Perhaps he was a friend as well as a patient.”
“Former patient. Aye, that might do it. Someone you think you know tops himself, it makes you wonder about all the other buggers you think you know.”
“Tops himself? Getting a bit ahead of the game, aren’t you, sir?” said Pascoe.
“That’s how you win matches, lad. Any road, door locked and bolted on the inside. Windows with the kind of shutters that ’ud keep a tax inspector out. Gun between his legs, shoe and sock off. Lots of little hints there, I’d say.”
“Nevertheless,” said Pascoe obstinately.
“Oh God, you been at the John Dickson Carr again? What more do you want?”
“A note would be nice, for a start.”
“A note, eh? Any sign of a note, Paddy?”
Inspector Ireland let out a long-suffering sigh. The fact that he was a teetotal Baptist born in Heckmondwyke and able to trace his ancestry back a hundred and fifty years without any sign of Irish blood hadn’t saved him from being nicknamed Paddy, and the more he protested, the more he found himself treated as a fount of knowledge on all matters Eireann.
“Name’s Cedric,” he said. “Couldn’t say. I followed procedure and kept out to minimize the risk of contamination.”
“But you’ve been inside, Sergeant, and I’ve no doubt Tweedledum and Tweedledee went clumping all over the place.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick. “Didn’t see a note though.”
“Pity,” said Dalziel. “There ought to be something…”
“To confirm it’s suicide, you mean?” said Pascoe triumphantly.
“No,” said the Fat Man irritably. “In fact, if you studied your statistics you’d know that seventy per cent of genuine suicides don’t leave a note, while ninety-seven per cent of fakes do… Hang about. Not a note. A book! Now I recall. There ought to be a book. Isn’t that a book on the desk, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bonnick, surprised. “There is a book.”
“Didn’t notice what it was, did you?”
“No, sir. Got a bit splattered with blood and stuff. You’d need to scrape it off first.”
“Not squeamish, are you? Doesn’t come well from a sergeant, squeaming.”
“Just following procedure, sir, touching as little as possible till the scene’s been examined.”
“Which will be when? You did give SOCO the right address, didn’t you, Paddy?”
“Of course I did,” Ireland assured him, looking offended.
Three things were troubling Pascoe. One was the suspicion that the Fat Man had just invented the suicide note statistics. The second was his apparent power of precognition. There ought to be a book. And lo! there was a book!
The third was the still unanswered question of why the hell he was here at all. Off duty, what had there been in a shout to a possible suicide to bring him hurrying from the comfort of his fireside? Even the fact that his inamorata, Cap Marvell, was away at present didn’t explain that.
His speculations were interrupted by noises below. Fearful that Cressida had led an assault, he peered over the balustrade and saw to his relief that the SOCO team had finally arrived. They paused to pull on their white coveralls and then came up the stairway.
“About bloody time,” said Dalziel. “Don’t be all night at it, will you? And try not to leave a mess.”
He set off down the stairs. Pascoe hurried to catch up with him.
“Sir,” he said. “Do I take it you’re assuming control of this case?”
“Me? Simple suicide? Nay, lad, you got here first, you’re the man in charge.”
“In that case, there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask you
…”
“Not now, lad, not when there’s a poor woman out there waiting to be told she’s a widow,” reproved the Fat Man.
So saying, he pulled open the front door, bounced Maycock aside with his belly and stepped out into the night.
11
Out here, the mist was in total control. It gave bulk while it removed substance. Somewhere in the wooded garden, an owl uttered a long wavering screech that made Pascoe’s nape hair prickle.
Helen and Jason had got back into the Volvo, Ellie was talking to Cressida alongside the Spider, and Kay Kafka was standing to one side with a mobile to her ear.
“Where’s the wife gone?” said Dalziel.
“I don’t know,” said Pascoe. “But as I’m in charge, I think I ought to be the one who breaks the news.”
Meaning, until he knew different, this was a suspicious death and everyone connected with the dead man was a suspect.
“You reckon? Sometimes these things are better coming from a more sensitive and mature figure,” said Dalziel. “Where the hell’s the daft tart got to anyway?”
Pascoe spotted a movement in the front seat of the Audi that had been parked outside the house when he first arrived. Its headlights came on and the engine started as he peered towards it. The front passenger door opened and Sue-Lynn got out. The car pulled away and he recognized Tom Lockridge’s profile as it went past.