He turned.
It was a young man: mid-twenties with a hipster haircut, Skeleton Bob T-shirt, flesh-tunnel earlobes, skinny jeans, and a Kermit the Frog tattoo on his arm — so new it was still swollen and covered in clingfilm. Kermit the Hipster pointed at the house. ‘He’s not in. Brian, Mr Chalmers, he’s not in. Went to stay with friends, I think. Cos of what happened.’ Kermit licked his lips, eyes shining. ‘My mum’s got a key, you know: for watering the plants and things when they’re on holiday. I can let you in, if you like?’
Logan gave the weird little man a nod. ‘Thanks. But I’d better check first.’
Creepy Kermit stood on the pavement, watching him like a hungry puppy watches a sausage.
Logan shifted his phone from one ear to the other, keeping it between him and Kermit. ‘Mr Chalmers? You still there?’
What sounded like singing, somewhere in the background. Not proper professional singing, shower warbling. And was that hissing noise running water?
Brian Chalmers cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just... the shock.’
‘Your wife was on antidepressants, Mr Chalmers. I need to know which ones.’
‘It... Yes. She... Ever since her father died. It... the job.’
‘Will you be returning home soon?’
The song warbled to an end, the running water fell silent.
Still nothing from Brian Chalmers.
‘Are you—’
‘I’m... I’m not staying there. I’m staying with... a friend. I can’t stand... I can’t be in the house. Not after... I’m sorry.’
Logan did another circuit of the driveway. Well, rectangle of tarmac in front of the too-small garage. ‘We need access to the property, Mr Chalmers.’
‘Fine. Break in. Kick the door down. I don’t care. I can’t be there.’
A voice in the background. Female, warm. ‘Brian? Brian, have you seen my hairbrush?’ She paused for a beat. ‘Who are you talking to?’
The response was hard and sharp. ‘I’m on the phone!’ Then muffled scrunching came from the earpiece. Probably Chalmers covering the phone to talk to what was her name, Stephanie? The account manager? ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s... I’ll only be a minute. I promise.’ Brian returned at full volume. ‘Search the place, burn it down, do what you want. I — don’t — care.’ And then he hung up.
Hmph... Hadn’t taken Brian Chalmers long to get over his wife’s suicide, had it? Body wasn’t even post-mortemed yet.
Logan put his phone away. Turned to Creepy Kermit. ‘About that key?’
‘Yes. Right!’ He hurried up the path, produced a pink fuzzy keyring with a single rectangular key dangling from it, and unlocked the front door. Stood aside and made a flourishing gesture. ‘After you.’
Logan stepped inside. Stopped. Slipped the key from the lock and pocketed it. Turned to Creepy Kermit and gave him a smile. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Then closed the door in his surprised and disappointed face.
Weirdo.
And just in case: Logan engaged the snib on the Yale lock. That’d keep the little sod out.
Right: bathroom.
He tramped up the stairs, down the landing and into the small tiled space. Opened the medicine cabinet and called the mortuary. ‘Isobel? I’ve got the antidepressants here.’ Logan picked one of the pill packets from Chalmers’ collection and peered inside. Almost empty. ‘Right first up is... Mo... Moclo...’ Oh for goodness’ sake, why did they have to make medication completely unpronounceable?
Isobel put on her patient voice, as if she was talking to a four-year-old. ‘Try sounding it out. Slowly.’
Yeah, that wasn’t emasculating in any way.
He worked his way through them, checking inside each one as he went. ‘Mo-clo-bem-ide. Tran-yl-cypro-mine sulphate. Ven-la-faxine hydrochloride. Nor-trip-ty-line. And Aripiprazole. All the boxes are pretty much empty.’
No reply.
Logan put the last packet back in the cabinet. ‘Oh come on, my pronunciation wasn’t that bad.’
‘Are these all from the same doctor’s surgery?’
‘Hold on.’ He did a quick comparison on the pharmacists’ labels. ‘Yes, but different doctors each time. Why?’
‘I need to check something.’ She raised her voice, as if shouting across the room. ‘Sheila? Look up Venlafaxine hydrochloride, please: I need contraindications.’
Then what might have been the staccato click of fingers on a keyboard, but it was too faint to be sure.
He sat on the edge of the bath.
Look at all those shampoos and conditioners. How did one human being need so many bottles of the stuff? And body lotions! All they did was make you greasy and slithery. What was the point of—
Sheila Dalrymple’s voice, barely audible in the background: ‘Possible fatal drug interactions with monoamine-oxidase inhibitors.’
‘What about Tranylcypromine?’
Another pause. Then, ‘Contraindicated with MAO inhibitors and dibenzazepine-related entities, Professor.’
‘And unless I’m very much mistaken: Moclobemide is an MAO inhibitor and Nortriptyline is a dibenzazepine-related entity. Aripiprazole?’
That was definitely someone typing.
‘Moderate contraindicators with MAO inhibitors and dibenzazepine-related entities.’
Complete gobbledygook.
He picked up a bottle of shampoo — strawberry and pomegranate. Wouldn’t know whether to wash with it or eat it. ‘Is all this supposed to make any sort of sense to normal people?’
Isobel put on her talking-to-small-children voice again. ‘Mix any of her pills together and you risk a one-way trip to the mortuary. Add alcohol into the mix and you can virtually guarantee it. And as I said, DS Chalmers had consumed a lot of alcohol.’
Pfff...
Logan put the shampoo down. ‘She wasn’t taking any chances, then.’
A sigh. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m amazed she managed to make it as far as the garage.’
Fiery oranges and pinks glowed on the underside of the coal-coloured clouds, as if the whole sky was made of smouldering embers. Rain hissed against the pool car’s windscreen, thickening as they headed across Northfield.
The radio was on again, but at least this time Rennie had the decency to hum along instead of singing. ‘You want me to get a lookout request on the go for Freddy Marshall? Maybe try Manchester, Liverpool, and Birmingham? Ooh, and Brighton too.’
‘Hmmm...’ According to Cold Blood and Dark Granite Aiden’s photo and description had been circulated by the FBI, Interpol, and most of the world’s press.
‘Honestly, it’s like talking to myself.’
‘Hmmm...’ All that coverage for about four weeks and then the media moved on to the next terrorist atrocity and celebrity sex scandal. The twenty-four-hour news cycle devouring everything fed to it, then—
Logan’s phone dinged. Dinged. Then dinged again. When he pulled it from his pocket, ‘BRUCIE (3)’ sat in the middle of the screen. ‘Here we go.’ He brought up the first message and read it out loud. ‘“Raymond Hacker, CEO of AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Used to be a detective sergeant, back when we were still Grampian Police.”’ Next message... ‘Ha! So much for leaving to set up his own business — says here Professional Standards kicked him out for taking bribes.’