I managed to read it all the way through on the fourth attempt. On each of the first three readings I made it as far as the description of Jan touching the live, water-filled appliance, then broke up.
The report was concise and unequivocal in its judgement. It said that the machine had been halfway through a wash cycle when the accident had happened. It pointed out that Jan must have loaded the machine, selected and switched on the programme. Therefore it surmised that the powerful vibration of the machine must have shaken loose a live wire from the power supply to the motor. This, it argued, had come into contact with the casing of the machine, stopping its cycle and turning it instantly into a death-trap.
Since the investigating officers had found a partly sliced pepper on the chopping board it presumed that Jan, ‘the victim,’ had been in the kitchen when the mishap had occurred, that she had stopped what she was doing and had attempted to restart the washer. On touching the lethal appliance she had received a massive electric shock which had killed her instantly. She was barefoot and the tiled floor was wet, but even without that added conductivity, she had no chance of survival.
The report said that its finding must remain one of extreme probability rather than fact, since the faulty wiring had been melted and fused together by the extreme heat generated as the current had earthed itself through Jan’s body. However the police examiners had called in Trading Standards Officers to test their findings, and they had agreed whole-heartedly with their conclusions.
When I was finished, I phoned Greg. ‘It looks pretty damning for the manufacturer, doesn’t it?’ I said to him.
‘Aye,’ said my friend. ‘As I guessed, they’ve asked for permission to have the machine tested independently. But they sound pretty well convinced. They have Scottish solicitors acting for them now, and one of them called me this afternoon for a preliminary chat about the quantum of your claim.’
I looked up at him. ‘Give me that last bit in English,’ I asked.
‘It means how much they’re going to pay you,’ he said. ‘If their tests bear out the others, and it seems that they should, it could be big; six figures.’
‘I don’t really give a toss, Greg.’ As I spoke, I was visited by an unbidden memory of Jan in that makeshift mortuary chapel. ‘They can’t give me what I want,’ I added.
‘No, no, of course they can’t. I do have some good news for you, though. I had a talk with the Assistant Fiscal and I got him to agree that in the light of the report, there’s no need for a formal Fatal Accident Inquiry before Sheriff and jury. He accepts that it’s clear no criminal offence has been committed, and that since the matter could wind up in the civil courts, it’s better that his office doesn’t muddy the waters.
‘So the file will be marked “Accidental Death”, and closed. That’ll be a weight off your mind, Oz.’
‘Sure,’ I said, with more bitterness than I intended. After all, Greg really did think he had done me a favour. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.’
Chapter 37
I had been dreading dinner with Susie and Mike, and I’m quite sure they had been too.
However it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. Sure, I felt a bit like a spare part, and I was painfully aware of the extra chair all through the evening, but Susie managed the really difficult bit perfectly.
As Mike handed round the drinks — I had come by train and was going home by taxi — she sat down opposite me, and said, ‘Oz, tonight we can talk about Jan if that’s what you want. But if it’s too painful for you, we can talk about other things.’
I looked at her, feeling enormously grateful. I knew that somewhere in me there was a need to talk about my wife, our life and her death, with friends from outside my family circle. But I hadn’t known Susie for long, and Mike for not much longer; kind and solicitous as they were, they simply weren’t close enough. As I thought about it, I realised that there was only one person in the world who was.
So I told her. ‘I need to come out into the world again, Susie. Let’s talk about life.’
And that was what we did. We talked about Dylan’s career shift and his prospects in Strathclyde, a much bigger force than Lothian and Borders, with more ladders and career opportunities. We talked about Susie’s plans for the St Vincent Street development and her new apartment.
Over dinner, I told them about my exciting alternative career as a ring announcer. I mentioned Jerry’s mishap in Barcelona, but stuck to the official story that it had been caused by an equipment failure. ‘They want to watch that,’ said Dylan. I looked at him, inwardly concerned that his copper’s nose might be twitching. I needn’t have worried; it would have taken a good-sized pinch of pepper to make Mike’s hooter twitch. ‘That’s two accidents recently,’ he went on. ‘They’ll have the Health and Safety people after them if they’re not careful.’
Of course, since we were in Glasgow, we talked about football as well. It was true that in Edinburgh, Dylan had been essentially a rugby man, but that is politically incorrect in Glasgow, where the round ball rules almost unchallenged and where, no matter how hard the clubs try to change the pattern, allegiances are determined still by religion and ancestral prejudices.
‘Your father must be invited to every big game in Glasgow, Susie,’ I said. ‘But does he hold a season ticket anywhere?’
She grinned. ‘You’re right about the invitations. He could be at Ibrox or Parkhead every Saturday during the season if he wanted. He’s much too cute to hold a season ticket, though. The other side’s supporters would notice, and they’re voters after all. The group did make a donation to the Save the Jags campaign, and we bought some Partick Thistle shares as well. But that was politically okay, you understand.’ She smiled again.
‘He doesn’t go to a match every Saturday, of course, or anything like it, although he does make sure that he visits Rangers and Celtic alternately. He makes a point of being at all the European matches, but that’s because the visiting sides usually bring their Mayor in the party, so he feels he has to.’
She looked at me. ‘The truth is that my father hates football, for the image it’s given this city over the years. Privately, he gets terribly angry that for all that Glasgow has invested in the Burrell, in the Royal Concert Hall, in the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and in all the other museums and show-places that we can boast of, Edinburgh is still internationally famous for its Festival while we’re best known for our football teams.
‘Give him a few drinks in private then sit back and listen. You’ll get a tirade about how we can bring the world’s most famous orchestra to Glasgow, yet the only cultural coverage we ever get is when some character pretends to play the flute at a football match.’ Susie chuckled. ‘Mind you Oz, all that’s a family secret.’
‘And safe with me. I can’t tell you how much our family appreciated your dad coming to Jan’s funeral.’ I smiled at her, and to keep the conversation light-hearted, added, ‘Especially since there are no Glasgow votes in Anstruther.’
‘If there were,’ said his daughter, ‘he’d know who they were and where they lived!’
‘How’s his old pal Mr Donn settling back in?’ I asked.
Susie made a face. ‘Smugly,’ she replied. ‘He’s even installed a new book-keeper; his nephew, would you believe. The boy’s efficient, I have to say, but that won’t save him though.’
‘You have plans for revenge, I take it.’
She nodded. ‘Oh yes. When my father steps down as Lord Provost, if he ever does, he’s promised himself that he will go on a long cruise. . with the other Lady Provost.’
‘Eh?’
‘His mistress, but we don’t talk about her at all. Shouldn’t have mentioned her: must be the drink. Christ, I don’t even know her name, he keeps her that tight. I only know for sure because he told me always to phone before calling at the house. Me! His daughter!’ She bristled with a mixture of Amarone and indignation.