He leaned back, feeling suddenly irritable, and uncomfortable in yesterday’s shirt. ‘In fact,’ he said heavily, ‘it’s pointless going on here.’ He pointed at the Foreign Office man. ‘You,’ he pointed at Rennie, ‘and you. Go away and speak to your respective ministers and get this sorted out. I want a final decision on the VIP list, and I want it by close of play today.’
He reached across Willie Haggerty and picked a document off the top of a pile that lay in front of McIlhenney. ‘We’ve spent valuable time preparing this,’ he exclaimed, waving it in the air. ‘If any of it’s going to be knocked on the head, I need to know.’ He felt a final burst of exasperation. ‘And I need to know now!’
6
The high screens that had been erected were, for that moment, mostly unnecessary. Nobody could have seen the thing they were hiding, unless they were less than twenty yards away, and the police had cordoned off an area one hundred yards in diameter to keep the casually curious public and the professionally curious media at a safe distance.
Police Constable Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock was not a happy young man. He had been on patrol duties for no more than a few months and all of them had been purgatory. For all that older officers assured him that everyone had unlucky runs, it seemed to him that whenever the brown stuff. . Sauce’s grandfather had been a policeman, and a Free Presbyterian, and he had been forcibly discouraged from swearing. . hit the fan, it always seemed to splatter on him.
Two days into his time on the panda cars there had been a rail incident, a jumper on to the line from the small footbridge behind the castle: technically it had been one for the transport police, but Sauce and Charlie Johnston, his mate, had picked up the call. Barely a week after that, he had been called to a house in Dalry where a man had been found dead. The unusual difficulty had arisen from the fact that he had been dead for a fortnight. Not long after that there had been a drunk who’d fallen out of a window during a party and impaled himself on railings below. Then there had been those two kids. . but he didn’t like to think about that.
When they had taken the call, five minutes into the start of their shift, he had known that whatever it was, it would not be the high point of his day. All that the control room had told them was that there had been a call from an agitated but anonymous member of the public asking for police to come to Meadow Walk. The caller had been asked to wait at the scene, but even Sauce was experienced enough to know that there was little chance of that.
For a while, they thought that the call might have been a hoax. They had been edging along George IV Bridge when the shout had come in: it had taken Sauce ten minutes to drive the short distance to George Square, adjacent to Meadow Walk and relatively safe to park in the darkness. They had checked the stretch up to Lauriston Place, but found nothing; they had retraced their steps, going carefully, one on either side of the cycle path and walkway, torches lit as they searched, yard by yard, all the way down to the Meadows.
‘A comedian,’ Charlie had exclaimed at the foot of the walk. ‘Just what we did not fucking need on a morning like this.’ PC Johnston’s grandfather had been a miner and a Communist, given to intemperance in all things, including language. He had been on his way back up to the car when Sauce had called him back, his voice hoarse, not from the fog but from fright.
It had almost been out of his vision, the heavy fruit of the tree: almost but not quite. They approached it inch by inch, almost comically, as if there was a chance of the dark shape leaping down on them. Their torches were useless until they were up against it, or rather him. When he had shone his beam directly into the purple face, with its bulging eyes and its swollen, protruding tongue, he had realised in that same instant that he was adding one more image to his private catalogue of things never to be forgotten as long as he lived.
The body was still hanging from the thick bough as Chief Superintendent Manny English and Detective Inspector Stevie Steele looked up at it, but two constables on ladders were supporting it, one on either side, while a third used a screwdriver as a lever to untie the thick belt that suspended it. The senior officers were close enough to see what was happening, but not directly under the tree, keeping disturbance of the immediate area to a minimum.
They watched as the PCs took the weight, and carefully lowered the burden to the ground, beside the pathway. As soon as they were finished, the on-call medical examiner stepped forward, and knelt beside the stiff, still form. He shone a light into each eyeball, loosened the leather noose and drew it over the head, then tested each of the limbs. Within a minute he jumped to his feet, nodding emphatically to himself.
‘He’s been up there since last night,’ he announced. ‘Rigor mortis is fully established; that indicates that he’s been dead for around twelve hours. . or more, of course.’
‘It’s feasible,’ said Steele. ‘In the darkness of last night you could have walked past within a couple of yards of him and never have known he was there.’
‘Aye,’ muttered English, ‘but who was he, and why didn’t anyone come looking for him?’
‘Maybe they did, sir. Have you checked missing persons information?’
The divisional commander bristled in his uniform, and Steele knew that he had made a mistake. Manny English was a notorious book operator: his question was one that could, and should, have gone without the asking.
‘There haven’t been any,’ he replied tersely. ‘Not in the past week at any rate, and you’ve just heard what the MO has to say. Do you want him photographed again?’ he asked.
‘No sir. There’s no point.’
‘Very well. Let’s get him into a plastic coffin and off to the mortuary where they can thaw the poor bugger out.’ He waved through the slightly thinned fog to two uniformed men, who were waiting beside a blue van with a ventilator on top.
‘One thing first,’ said Steele. He bent over the body and felt around the chest area, then opened the dark grey suit, and from an inside pocket produced a wallet. He opened it and, from a compartment within, drew out a business card. ‘Ivor Whetstone, MCIBS,’ he read. ‘Director of Business. .’ He glanced up at English. ‘He’s a banker, sir.’
The chief superintendent nodded sagely. ‘I could tell by his suit that he was some sort of a business type; banker, lawyer, accountant, something like that.’
Steele could tell in his turn why his senior officer had not prospered in CID. ‘I once arrested a bank robber who wore the same brand of suit as this,’ he said.
‘I wonder what drove him to do it?’ English murmured.
‘Drove whom to do what?’
The uniformed commander looked at the detective in exasperation. ‘Him.’ He pointed at Whetstone’s body. ‘That.’ He pointed at the tree.
Steele sighed. ‘At the very best, sir,’ he said, ‘this has to be a suspicious death; maybe even a homicide.’
‘Ohh, really?’ English exclaimed. ‘Honest to God, that’s CID all over, rushing to judgement.’