Five Ways to Kill a Man Page 3

  ‘You okay?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Look, it’s Rosie . . . oh, you missed her,’ Lorimer said as the news reporter came into the full frame of the TV screen.

  ‘Rosie? Oh!’ Maggie seemed deflated as she realised that she had failed to see their friend.

  They listened as the TV presenter turned to a woman at his side. Lorimer made a face: what had he said? Was she a neighbour? A friend? The clipped English accent made him wonder. Kilmacolm was so like a small English village that it attracted lots of affluent incomers from South of the Border, but the victims had certainly been Scottish. Sir Ian, the woman was saying, in the hushed deferential tones reserved for the newly dead. But it was rather more than that, Lorimer thought: she was speaking about him now as if he had been someone rather special. And certainly Sir Ian Jackson had made a considerable name for himself during his lifetime. The financier was numbered among Scotland’s top ten in the Rich List after many successful years as a merchant banker. The woman’s voice tailed off as the newscaster addressed the viewers once more, one hand waving behind him at the scene of the tragedy.

  Lorimer gave a little shudder as the camera panned across the ruins of the once stately house, the outlines of twin turrets still visible above the skeleton of roof beams, smoke still issuing from somewhere inside. What a hellish way to die! Then Lorimer found himself echoing Maggie’s opinion.

  ‘You’re right, I don’t fancy this one. It’ll probably be Colin Ray who’ll be SIO.’

  ‘Is he still in charge at Greenock?’ Maggie enquired. ‘I thought his wife was in a hospice now?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Someone told me she’d been admitted to St Vincent’s. Must be only a matter of time, poor woman.’ He thought of Colin Ray, a man more than ten years his senior who had a reputation as one of the old school of hard-nosed cops. Juggling time with his terminally ill wife and being in charge of serious crimes: what kind of a strain must that put on a man? Lorimer found himself hoping that the arsonist would be caught quickly.

  But in the meantime he might have a word with Rosie Fergusson, just to see how the pathologist was coping. Lorimer grinned. That was what his excuse would be, anyway, though he recognised his policeman’s natural inquisitiveness asserting itself in this high profile case.

  Rosie hummed to herself as she flicked through the glossy brochures. She’d driven BMWs for years now but maybe it was time for a change and after the accident perhaps a different car was a good idea. Audis had always appealed to her and this model with its soft top looked just the ticket. She could imagine herself driving Solly out into the countryside for a picnic in one of these. The pathologist smiled at her whimsy as she heard the rain battering down against the mortuary windows; it would be a good few weeks before they could think about picnics never mind open-topped cars. Her husband had never learned to drive and was quite oblivious to the allure of classic marques, but Dr Rosie Fergusson delighted in cars, despite the horrendous accident that had almost proved fatal. She was a huge fan of TV’s Top Gear but Solly simply couldn’t understand the pleasure it gave her to watch all these beautiful, sleek motor cars being road tested. Her own BMW had been a total write-off; now it was time to stop taking black cabs all over the city and find something she really wanted to drive.

  With a sigh that was not wholly unsatisfied, Rosie put the brochures to one side of her desk and picked up her mug of coffee, draining what was left of it.

  ‘Time to get on with the job,’ she muttered to herself, pushing back her chair and giving one final wistful glance at the picture of a low-slung Jaguar that she knew was way above her budget. There were cases waiting for her examination, two corpses blackened by fire. A short while ago these had been living, breathing human beings, a middle-aged man and his wife; any evidence she could find that helped the Crown Office to find how and why they had died would also render some kind of service to the deceased.

  The woman had been alive during the fire, most probably conscious and aware of the full horror of her fate. Her arms had been raised in a familiar pugilistic stance, now fixed rigidly in death, and it seemed to Rosie that she had been trying to ward off the poisonous smoke and flames. Some people thought of death as an instantaneous event, like a light being extinguished; but death wasn’t really like that. It was a process: more like the sun slipping behind the horizon than the flick of a switch. But this hadn’t been a pleasant death at all. Rosie looked at the remains of the woman’s face, now a charred skull whose gaping mouth told of one final desperate scream. It would have given the scene of crime photographer an easier shot for the forensic odontologist, Rosie told herself, trying shake off an unfamiliar feeling of queasiness that had grabbed her stomach.

  ‘Too long away from the job,’ she muttered into her mask. But it wasn’t that: Rosie had never enjoyed the post-mortem examinations of fire victims. Often there was so little left by a giant conflagration that one person’s remains could fit into a shoebox. Other times the yellow, leathery skin gave such an unnatural appearance to a cadaver that it was like examining some alien species.

  Pauline Jackson’s corpse was better than some she had seen but it was still just a skeleton when all was said and done. What identifying marks she might have had in life such as hair, eyes and skin were reduced to the formation of her bones; especially the teeth, still comparatively white in that soot-stained jaw. Rosie was taking pains to scrape out all the deposits from the tips of the finger bones, just in case anything other than carbon was there. The spine had been shattered in two places and much care had been required to set the entire skeleton carefully into place on the examination table. There was still masses of forensic detail to come in but the scene of crime manager’s preliminary report had given her enough to go on for now.

  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 their 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 voi
ce 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.