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.’
20
Logan poked his head into the master bedroom. A couple of cardboard boxes sat on the unmade bed, half-full of clothes. More boxes on the floor, stuffed with CDs and books and DVDs.
Looked as if Brian Chalmers was moving out.
The second bedroom was just the same as it’d been that morning. No packing going on in here.
Might as well have a rummage. After all, you never knew...
He hauled the bottom drawer out of the bedside cabinet and dumped it on the carpet, next to the other two. Reaching into the hollow left behind with one hand, the other holding his phone. ‘How are you getting on?’
A groan from Rennie. ‘Give me a chance! Do you have any idea how much sodding about you have to do to get phone companies to release tracking data on someone’s mobile? On a Saturday? After the office is closed? Because it’s loads. Loads and loads and loads!’
Nothing in the hollow but a pair of black pop socks.
‘When they brought Chalmers in, did she have her notebook on her?’
‘And look at the time: it’s gone seven! Emma’s already been on, giving me grief about not going home when—’
‘Notebook, DS Rennie, notebook.’ Logan slotted the bottom drawer back into place. ‘Maybe she kept a record of what she was up to.’
‘Gah... All right, all right, I’ll have a rummage.’
‘And see if you can dig out her mobile phone too.’
His voice went all quiet and muttering. ‘Ordering me about like I’m an idiot or something. Supposed to be the SIO...’
Logan hung up and finished reassembling the bedside cabinet.
Wardrobe next.
Nothing in any of the jackets, trousers, or shirt pockets. Nothing in the pile of boots and shoes either.
Delving under the bed produced a handful of shoe boxes full of old school photographs and some fluff-covered bits-and-bobs.