Five ways to kill a man lab-7 Read online

  The Jacksons had been in bed when the fire had broken out in the kitchen below, the location of what was being considered as the primary seat of the fire. Last night’s TV pundit had suggested that a burning chip pan had been the likeliest cause, but that was only partial speculation until an exact source of the fire had been officially confirmed. Parts of the first floor of the house had crashed through into the kitchen and other downstairs areas, taking with it the couple’s bed and other furnishings, now swallowed up in the flames. The television voice claimed that only the metal headboard and base from the king-size bed had remained intact, the twin corpses eventually found, curled towards one another, beneath masses of other fallen debris.

  Rosie blinked, concentrating on each single fingertip. A tragic accident, the newscaster had called it. And yet a small voice inside the pathologist’s head persisted in asking: why on earth would anyone start to make chips then wander off to bed? And though the public might think of this as a terrible accident, she knew perfectly well that Strathclyde police were treating it as a possible case of wilful fire-raising.

  ‘Sir Ian was one of Scotland’s most generous benefactors,’ Chief Constable David Isherwood declared, the crystal glass in his hand tipped slightly to one side, its amber contents threatening to spill on to the thick carpet in his spacious office. ‘Don’t forget that Jackson Tannock Technology Systems is one of Scotland’s great successes,’ he added. The man he was addressing simply nodded. Everyone knew these names nowadays, he thought, listening to the story of two men whose ideas had burgeoned into a multi-million pound firm. Originally set up by Hugh Tannock’s expertise and backed by Ian Jackson’s money, the business had provided welcome employment for hundreds of technical and support staff. This, coupled with Ian Jackson’s penchant for supporting local causes, had earned the financier his knighthood.

  The man opposite the Chief Constable stood, legs apart, considering his senior officer’s words. Once upon a time Jackson had been referred to as an entrepreneur if one was being kind, and a wheeler-dealer if envy coloured one’s vision of the man. DCI Colin Ray listened as the most senior officer in the Force continued to list the late financier’s public merits.

  Another ten minutes and he was out of here. Ray had even primed one of his DIs to call his mobile just to get him away. Every second spent here was a second more ticking away on what little time Grace had left. And he was not going to let even David Isherwood, the Chief Constable of Strathclyde Police, waste these precious minutes.

  At last the Chief Constable was laying down his glass and giving Ray a pat on the shoulder. Then the DCI was out of Pitt Street and into a police BMW, speeding down towards the Kingston Bridge, his driver ready to put on blues and twos if he was asked. But the motorway was relatively clear and it would only take fifteen minutes to drive up to Johnstone and the hospice.

  Colin Ray’s head was full of the Chief Constable’s admonitions. Look among the lowlife of Port Glasgow and Greenock, he’d been told. See if there have been any other fire incidents. But above all, Ray thought to himself, don’t look among Sir Ian’s crowd for a possible enemy because, according to the Chief Constable, he simply didn’t have any. He was being warned off, Ray thought. In any other circumstances he’d be the first to dig into the victim’s background for a possible motive. But it suited him to play this one to the Chief Constable’s tune.

  A vision of Grace’s wasted face smiling came to him then: some things were far more important.

  ‘Sir Ian and Lady Jackson’s children are here to talk to you,’ Emma whispered to Rosie as she emerged from the shower.

  ‘Ask them to wait in the lounge, will you? And see if they want tea. Thanks, Em.’ Rosie nodded. She sighed heavily. This was one of the most horrible bits of her job. Performing post-mortems was a doddle compared to having to deal with the bereaved. Still, it had to be done and she’d have to find something to tell these kids.

  Two faces looked up at the consultant pathologist as she entered the room reserved for relatives of the deceased. Rosie was surprised; the man and woman who sat there regarding her solemnly were not as young as she had expected them to be. The chap might be in his late twenties, the sister a little younger, though it was hard to tell through the huge dark glasses the woman was wearing.

  ‘Doctor Fergusson.’ Rosie extended her hand, bending down only a little towards the girl. The man was on his feet at once, good manners overriding any semblance of grief.

  ‘Daniel Jackson,’ he replied, taking Rosie’s hand in a firm grip, then letting it go. ‘My sister, Serena,’ he added, glancing to the woman who sat very still on the couch, her head averted from them as if she was trying to hide her emotions.

  Rosie breathed in hard. Daniel Jackson should have been introduced to her under some other circumstances, just so she could feast her eyes on this specimen of perfect manhood. A little under six feet, she thought, and standing so straight that he might have been an off-duty guardsman. Her first impression was of brown: soft reddish-brown hair, eyes the colour of caramels; and that expensive looking alpaca coat and these narrow brogues (handmade?) shining like polished conkers. Soft, brown, understated, but class, Rosie thought, searching for an adequate word to describe Daniel Jackson. Handsome didn’t do justice to that oval face, its lightly tanned complexion suggesting he’d come straight off the ski slopes. Tom Cruise without the twinkle in his eyes, Rosie decided. Taller and less rugged than the American actor; this one was smooth and calm, even under the present circumstances.

  ‘My parents… our parents…’ Daniel immediately corrected himself as his sister looked up sharply at him. ‘May we see them?’

  Rosie hesitated. It was such a normal reaction for the bereaved to want to see the last mortal remains of their loved ones, but surely they both knew what was in store for them? And did the girl really want to go through with this? Again her head was bowed, the long blonde hair covering a pale profile. So, Rosie thought, not out with your brother skiing in Klosters?

  ‘The bodies aren’t a very happy sight, Mr Jackson,’ Rosie told him. ‘The fire damage was considerable and there are only skeletal remains.’

  A thin wail from the girl confirmed to Rosie that this was one occasion when relatives should leave well alone.

  ‘I’d strongly advise you not to view your parents,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Remember them as they were in life. Seeing what I have seen today is not how I think you would choose to bring them to mind.’

  Daniel Jackson seemed to consider Rosie’s words, then, hunkering down to his sister’s side he asked, ‘What do you think? Shall we leave them be?’

  Serena Jackson was shaking her head and Rosie felt a moment of relief. It would be okay. The girl was saying she didn’t want to go through with this after all.

  But Rosie was wrong.

  ‘I want to see them,’ the girl told her in a voice that was surprisingly strong for one who only moments ago had shown signs of losing control. ‘I have to…’

  Rosie nodded and shrugged. It was a relative’s prerogative after all and Solly had told her often enough how the bereaved could find closure by actually seeing the dead. And the family liaison officer from the police would have given them the standard information pack that did suggest viewing a body as a way of beginning to cope with grief.

  ‘The viewing room is through here,’ Rosie said and at once Serena Jackson was on her feet. Rosie took a step back, letting the pair out of the room. The girl was not much shorter than her brother, five-foot-ten, maybe, in those flat-heeled leather boots. A model girl’s height, Rosie thought, watching the pair walk by her side along the corridor of the mortuary. And she had the same sort of graceful gait as a model… that was the word she’d been looking for. Daniel Jackson had a natural sort of grace about him.

  The viewing room was small with subdued shades of musky pink and green, deliberately chosen for their calming qualities. Beyond the glass window the Jacksons would be able to see these twin skeletons; all that remained of the
ir mother and father, once Rosie had pulled aside the drapes.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked again, trying to sound brisk and authoritative. ‘It could be anyone, you know. They are so badly burned that there are no obvious identifying marks.’

  Serena Jackson turned towards the consultant pathologist and drew off the dark glasses. A pair of amber-coloured eyes stared steadily at her and Rosie felt an uncomfortable sense of being weighed up under the woman’s intense scrutiny. The gaze was so unblinking that for a moment Rosie wondered if this girl had some sort of learning difficulty. More likely the poor soul’s spaced out on medication, she decided. Then Serena Jackson gave a small nod.

  ‘It’s good of you, but we’ll see them, if you don’t mind.’ She turned her head slightly as if to deflect any opposition from her brother, but Daniel Jackson stood impassively, staring straight ahead.

  It was over in a couple of minutes, that silent trio staring at the blackened skeletons laid out on the steel tables. But in that short time, Rosie couldn’t help but wonder how much grief was being bottled up inside the young man and woman who stood gazing at the couple who had given life to them both.

  ‘They were conscious when they died?’ One perfect bow of an eyebrow rose as the woman spoke, her voice quiet and calm now that they were back in the lounge reserved for relatives of the bereaved.

  ‘It’s possible,’ admitted Rosie. ‘The smoke inhalation may have rendered them unconscious, though.’

  ‘You can’t tell?’ Serena Jackson shook her head as if the consultant pathologist was somehow at fault.

  Rosie stiffened. She mustn’t let this young woman with the cut-glass accent get to her. ‘We don’t usually deal in definitive answers,’ she replied, choosing her words with care. ‘Whenever I’m asked to appear as an expert witness for the Crown I can only say to what extent I deem something possible.’

  Serena Jackson’s strange golden-yellow eyes were watching her intently as if she needed more from Rosie.

  ‘They probably lost consciousness,’ she said at last, hoping that was what the woman wanted to hear.

  ‘They wouldn’t have suffered at all, then?’ Daniel Jackson asked, half-turning towards Rosie. The expression of hope in his voice matched the plea in his soft, brown eyes.

  Rosie shook her head, a gesture that could have meant anything at all. But if Daniel Jackson wanted to think his parents hadn’t suffered during their horrendous deaths, then let him, she thought, opening the door and walking them out into the corridor.

  Her goodbyes to the brother and sister were murmured and then Rosie fled back into the sanctuary of her office. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ she whispered under her breath. She heard the main door creak shut then the footsteps outside her window told her they were gone at last. Suddenly the pathologist shivered. That poor man! She tried to conjure up his handsome face again, but all that came to mind were his sister’s amber eyes searching Rosie’s expression for something she couldn’t have. Closure? That word psychologists used so much. Maybe. Grief manifested itself in so many ways. Rosie shook her head as she turned her attention to the computer screen: forget it, she told herself. You’d go mad if you dwelt on every person who came in to see their dead loved ones. But even as she scolded herself, something told Rosie that these two people deserved her pity more than most.

  CHAPTER 7

  The pain shot through the top of his skull, making the DCI groan aloud. Opening his eyes, Colin Ray felt the daylight batter against his brain and he rolled over before the nausea took control.

  Minutes later Ray was leaning over, clutching the cistern for support, the contents of his stomach swirling away in the toilet pan. Muttering an oath under his fetid breath, the DCI staggered to the sink, cupping cold water over his face. He let the droplets course down his body, unheeding of the damp patch forming at his waistline.

  ‘God love us,’ he whispered to the reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing the haggard expression on his face. Then his thoughts turned to his wife: Grace would hate seeing him like this. For a moment he hesitated. Would he just call in sick, tell DI Rhoda Martin to take his calls? They all knew he wanted to spend time up at St Vincent’s. Ray bit his lip, torn between his duty as a policeman and a husband. Christ! Why was he even considering it? There was no way K Division would see him today. He’d take a long shower, slather on plenty of aftershave and find some fresh clothes to wear. Then it was back to the hospice.

  The bathroom still smelled of fresh vomit despite his attempts to mask it. He closed the door behind him, hoping the window left slightly ajar would be enough to take away the stink before he returned. Passing the lounge on his way back to the bedroom, Colin Ray hesitated. The place was a shambles: beer bottles were standing on the side table and the foil containers from last night’s curry were poking out of the white polythene bag next to his armchair. But it wasn’t just that: the whole room looked as if it hadn’t been touched for weeks. Well, it bloody well hadn’t been. Without Grace to do the needful, things had been completely neglected, but that was hardly his fault, was it? a little voice whined in his head. He’d either been up at the bloody hospital (and now the hospice) or trying to do his job as a senior police officer. Who could blame him if the place had become a tip? But despite this attempt at justification, Colin Ray felt a sense of guilt. He was letting Grace down. Bugger it! He’d take more time off and tidy the place up properly, or get in a cleaner. Just till…

  The man stepped into the lounge then, his hand on the back of Grace’s favourite armchair. There was no until, was there? She wasn’t going to be coming back. Ever. This was how things were going to be from now on, just him on his own trying to cope with a job that threatened to overwhelm him and the day-to-day caring for a home that had always been Grace’s part of the ship.

  Colin Ray felt his lip tremble as the tears filled his eyes. And he let them fall, clasping the back of that chair, sobbing for the woman who would never sit there again.

  St Vincent’s Hospice was an unassuming single-storey building overlooking farmland, the hills of West Renfrewshire a hazy outline beyond. Ray parked the car in his usual spot, facing the drive so he could make a hasty exit. He was always in a hurry, he thought, cursing himself for the time he’d failed to spend up here. Drawing in a deep breath, Ray smelled something fresh and earthy: the air was soft with the threat of rain to come above the empty flowerbeds waiting for a spring that the patients would never see. Spring was Grace’s favourite season; she loved lambing time and always waxed lyrical about the hedges greening and how pretty all these cherry blossoms were, lining their street. He could almost hear her voice, her old voice, not that hoarse croak he hated so much. People had told him that was something that lingered afterwards — the sound of their voices in your brain. Ray hesitated outside the main entrance. He could slip away now, drive back down the road. He had plenty on his plate with this new case and nobody would blame him for doing his job, would they?

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and pasted a smile on his face for Linda, the nice girl at reception. She smiled back, eyes full of a sort of understanding that he hated. That unspoken pity always made him cringe, but once past Linda’s desk he was fine. There were always patients in the dayroom or the corridor leading to Grace’s own room, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in his grief. Seeing those others calmly waiting their turn for death to take them made things seem much more normal somehow, so that by the time he slipped into his wife’s room the bitter lines around Colin Ray’s mouth had vanished.

  Grace was asleep, head to one side. He skirted carefully around the oxygen cylinder by her bedside, squeezing himself into his customary place by the window. Sitting back in the comfortable chair, he relaxed for the first time that day. Waiting for her to wake up was one of the best things Ray could do right now; his would be the face she saw when her tired eyes opened at last. It gave him time to rehearse all the things he wanted to tell her, leaving out everything to do with work. It was
the little everyday stuff she liked to hear: what the neighbours were doing, how the garden was looking, what he’d eaten for his dinner last night… Ray pictured the untidy tip at home and began to fashion a different place altogether in his imagination, one that was neat and clean with home-cooked meals that he could describe with pretend relish. His lies maybe fooled her, he didn’t know, but she would smile at him anyway, that look of fondness in her eyes telling him that it didn’t really matter. He was there, holding her hand and that was all she needed.

  Tales of malice and burned bodies could be forgotten for a while at least.

  CHAPTER 8

  Maggie’s face lit up as she looked out of the kitchen window. The first of her miniature daffodils! Now she could almost believe that winter was over and begin to anticipate the warming days to come. A couple of weeks and the garden would be a riot of colour: grape hyacinths spreading their blue amongst the wilderness that was supposed to be her rose bed, primulas and daffies springing up all over the place. As yet the trees were leafless but other signs that the long winter months were drawing to a close could be seen in the activity of the small birds that came into their garden. Maggie watched as a greenfinch chased a smaller, brightly coloured bird from their thistle seed-feeder. It had been a particularly good year for goldfinches, she knew, remembering the results of the RSPB’s annual birdwatch. Despite their cat, Chancer, pacing his territory, the birds seemed to thrive here. Maybe it was the wildness of their overgrown place; there was never enough time to cut stuff back, though she was always resolving to tackle all the jobs out there that needed doing.