Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

Janet Reynolds lay still and listened as her husband drove his car down the drive, listened as it climbed through the gears as it was driven away from her villa in Glasgow’s leafy and prestigious Pollokshields and towards the city centre. She had, despite her husband’s determined sensitivity and thoughtfulness, woken the instant the phone rang. She suffered from insomnia, and knew that she now wouldn’t sleep. For many years she had been distressed by her condition and had tried to knock herself out with drink and drugs for eight hours each twenty-four. Eventually it had occurred to her that her insomnia was a blessing, a privilege, a gift from God. She reasoned that if her body didn’t need it, simple as that, it meant that she had six extra hours to herself that others didn’t have. She had used the extra time to study, in the first instance; had reached university where she had met her husband, her wonderful, wonderful husband. Now she used it to consume endless novels, study foreign languages, or just have a few hours of uninterrupted peace, space for herself before her children began clamouring for attention. As soon as she knew that her husband was safely round the first corner, she switched on the bedside light and slipped into a housecoat and went downstairs. She percolated a pot of coffee and carried it into the living room where she curled up with an historical romance. Heaven.

Reynolds drew the circular saw downwards over the breastbone, exposing the chest cavity, exposing the heart. He turned and nodded to King. “Yes, Mr. King, it is as I thought, it’s a case of fatal knife wounding. Two, three deep, penetrating wounds to the chest angling upwards, and a fourth, fatal wound which penetrated the aorta. Death would have been instantaneous, but not before the deceased knew terror, caused by the first three wounds. Now, I confess I find the angling of the blade to be interesting. The wounds drive upwards at an angle of forty-five degrees under the rib cage; it is as if the murderer knew what he was doing, aiming up, under the rib cage, seeking out the heart with his blade. That’s how it’s done — with an amateur, or a frenzied partner, it’s usually an attack directly against the rib cage.”

“But this attacker knew what he was doing?”

“Yes.” Reynolds studied the corpse on the stainless-steel table. “Yes. One single knife wound to the aorta might be luck or ill luck, depending on your point of view, but four, all at a similar angle, grouped in the same location... no, this is the work of a man who, as you say, knew what he was doing. The man who did this has been trained in the grim art of taking human life.” Reynolds paused. “I think that I can detect a slight tendency for the wounds to run from bottom right to top left, as seen from the anterior aspect. It might, but only might, indicate a right-handed perpetrator.”

“Every little bit helps, sir.” King watched as Reynolds turned his attention to the fingernails of the deceased.

“Ah...” he said. “Here.” He took a scraping from under the nail of the middle finger of the right hand. “Here the deceased has left you a present, Mr. King.”

“He has?”

“He has. In the form of a hair, red. The perpetrator had red hair. I’ll let you know if this hair is from a human scalp or a beard. If it is from a beard, you’ll know the perpetrator is a male. If so, that’ll fit neatly with the knowledge displayed by the use of the knife. What I mean is that that sort of knowledge is more likely to be held by a man rather than by a woman, but again I emphasise only more likely — but that’s more your department than mine.” He placed the small fragment of hair in a test tube and sealed the top. “I notice grazing on the head and hands, indicating a scuffle, possibly in soil, or the street, rather than in the home. There appear to be vegetation stains to the head and soil deposits in the hair.”

“He was found at the side of the road, sir.”

“Really?... He could have been pushed from a car. That would be consistent with these grazings. Now the perpetrator would have blood about his clothing. If the deceased was pushed from a car, then there would be blood in the car as well.”

“I see, sir.”

“Young man,” mused Reynolds, considering the body. “Not at all bad-looking, appears healthy, he was clean-living, no indication of alcohol or tobacco overusage, good teeth, neat hair, sedentary occupation, office worker — doesn’t have the grime about him that a manual worker would have... He appears to have had much to live for.”

“Everything,” King said. “He was engaged to be married.”

“Really?” Reynolds sighed. “Well, some poor lassie will be crying herself raw in a few hours’ time. I’ll have my report typed up and faxed to you ASAP. It’ll be midmorning. Noreen starts her working day at nine A.M., but she invariably spends the first half of the morning pouring hot black stuff down her neck to compensate for all the colourless stuff she pours down her neck each evening. So you may expect my report by about eleven A.M.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sally Aushenbaucher woke as the sun crept into her bedroom and she lay there basking as the sunlight flooded her room, so that by 7:30 A.M. her bedroom was fully and brilliantly illuminated by natural light. She rose slowly, sensually, because she liked her body. She stood in front of the angled mirrors soaking in the beauty of her being from every angle, from the front, the sides, and the rear. She liked her long legs, she liked her pert bottom, she liked her trim waist, she liked her breasts, she liked her face, she liked her long golden hair. All the parts of her body were perfect, and all the parts were in proportion to each other. Life was good. She glided across the carpet and sat at her dressing table. On one side of the dressing table was a framed photograph of Jack Cunningham on which was written “To Sally with all my love, Jack.” On the other side of the dressing table was a photograph of Shane Short on which was written “To Sally with all my love, Shane.” Sometimes she adjusted the photographs so that Jack and Shane looked at each other as she sat between them applying her makeup, which she knew she didn’t really need. But most of the time they were angled towards her, like her mirrors, so that she was gazed upon from different directions.

Fabian Donoghue sat in his chair and reached for his pipe. “So what happened in the night, Montgomerie?” He began to fill his pipe, holding it and scooping the tobacco using one hand, in a practised manner.

“Well, sir.” Montgomerie shifted his position in his chair. He was twenty-seven years old, chiselled features, downturned moustache. “Richard King didn’t hand much over at six A.M., a burglary, aggravated...”

“Aggravated?” Donoghue flicked his gold-plated cigarette lighter and played the flame over the bowl of his pipe.

“Aye, sir. Three youths, waded into an elderly couple’s house with an imitation pistol. It looked real to the victims, who are now in a state of shock. We’ve got good witness statements, no prints, though, they wore gloves...”

“Television teaches them something then?”

“Indeed, sir, but Richard thinks the operation has all the hallmarks of a ned that’s known to him, so we’ll be pulling him for a quizzing.”

“All right, you’ll be getting on with that, I take it?”

“Yes, sir, but I really want to draw your attention to this.” Montgomerie handed Donoghue a file. “It’s a code forty-one.”

“Oh. Murder most foul.”

“Indeed, sir. The victim is a young man by the name of Cunningham...”

“Tell me about it.”

So Montgomerie told him about it.

“I see.” Donoghue pulled lovingly on his pipe. “That does take precedence over the aggravated burglary. What are you going to do, do you think?”