Quintin Jardine - Fallen Gods

He walked round to the other side of the trolley and looked at the broken skin on the side of the head. "Where are you when I need you,

Doctor Sarah?" he whispered. "What would you be telling me now?" He laughed. "Not to touch him for a start, but what would you be looking for?"

He pulled the sheet back completely and examined the body carefully.

There were several bruises on the arms, legs and chest. He had learned enough about pathology from his wife to know what, normally, that would mean. He checked for lividity patches, but found none. Finally, he took another long look at the dead man's face. It had changed, in the many years since last he had seen it, but not beyond recognition, not even in death.

"So long," he whispered, and covered the body once more. Then he turned, pushed the button on the wall and walked out of the viewing room, to rejoin his friend.

"Well?" Andy asked.

"There are no signs of blood settlement," Skinner replied; he kept moving, leading the way out of the mortuary wing and into the hospital itself. "He wasn't left lying anywhere for any significant time after death. That probably means that he died just before he was put in the water, or was hit over the head, chucked in and left to drown. You'll need to wait for the pathologist to tell you that.

"Did you look at the other wrist, when you found him?"

"No."

Skinner shook his head and made a tut ting sound. "You'd kick a DC for missing the obvious, Mr. Martin," he said. "There was no mark on the right wrist; the one on the left goes all the way round. So?"

His friend looked at him, sheepishly. "Wristwatch," he murmured. "The man was wearing a watch with a leather strap. Immersion in water made the body swell, until eventually, it burst."

"Exactly. If you go back and have another look in the old lady's basement…" he said, then stopped and moved on.

"As for the rest, there appear to be superficial marks to the face and hands, sustained after death, in the water, I'd say, and there's significant bruising all over the body. All the damage may have been done after death, but it's also possible that someone gave him a good going over with some sort of a club: a claw hammer maybe."

He strode on, briskly, until finally they emerged from the infirmary building into the late mid-summer evening, and stopped in the car park.

"That's all very useful, Bob," said Andy. "I'll pass it on to Rod Greatorix. If you've got any idea where the hammer was bought that would be good too."

Skinner grinned. "Command rank has changed you, pal; clearly you've taken the senior officers' sarcasm course."

"Maybe so, but I'm still waiting for the thing that no one else can tell me. Who is, or who was that back there?"

"In time," his friend replied. "I'm still digesting it, and I really don't want to go into it here. Now if you're going to keep your promise and introduce me to your new daughter, we'd better get going or Karen'll have put her down to sleep for the night." He opened the door of his

BMW and nodded towards Martin's car. "Lead on, I'll follow."

While Perth likes to think of itself as a city, even in Scottish terms it is no more than a medium-sized town. They arrived at the Martins' house on the hill in a little under ten minutes. Karen looked Skinner up and down as he stepped into the hall. The last of the detective sergeant's deference had gone from her; now she was every inch the deputy chief's wife. "You're supposed to be ill," she exclaimed; 'unfit for duty. You look like you're in training for the Olympics."

"I am, in a way," Bob replied, with a grin. "I go for my gold medal next week."

"I hope you make it."

"I will, don't you worry."

"Be sure you do. More people than you can imagine are missing you."

"Not for much longer. Come on, where's this wee lass of yours?"

She led him into the living room, where Danielle lay in the modern equivalent of a carry-cot. She was awake and restless, aware somewhere that her last feed of the day was due. "Hey, you little beauty," said

Skinner, 'may you have your mother's looks and your mother's brains, as someone once said." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small package, which he handed to Karen. "Teething ring and a dummy," he muttered. "Don't fall for that crap about dummies being bad for them. They're not, and they're great for parents; essential, we've found."

Then he reached into another pocket and produced an envelope. "That's for her too, from us." He passed it to Andy, then dropped into an armchair.

"What is it?" his friend asked.

"It's a bond, for three grand. It'll mature in eighteen years, when

Danielle's university age, and there should be enough there by then to keep her out of too much debt."

Bob! "Karen exclaimed.

"Shush. I've done as much and more for my kids and I'll do it for yours; it's all the more appropriate that I do now." He grinned. "Just don't have too many, that's all!"

"Thanks, Bob," Andy said, 'from all of us. But what did you mean by appropriate?"

Skinner sighed. "Sit down and I'll tell you."

"This sounds serious," Karen murmured, picking up the carry-basket. "So while you do, I'm going to feed the baby and put her down for the night. Then I'll feed us. Bob, are you staying?"

"If I'm invited. I've brought some kit."

"Good." She left the room, carrying her daughter.

"Well?" asked Andy, sitting in the spare armchair.

Skinner looked his friend in the eye, holding his gaze steady.

"Remember, when once I said to you that you were like the brother I never had?"

Martin nodded.

"Well, that wasn't quite true." He paused, opened his mouth to speak again, only to let out another deeper sigh. He sat there staring straight ahead for countless seconds. A CD had been playing in the background, unnoticed; now Eddi Reader's crystal voice, singing of perfection, seemed to fill the room. Finally, he blinked and went on.

"That man," he said. "That man you met in Miss Bonney's basement today: he was my brother too."

And then something happened: something that at first amazed Andy, then filled him with a sudden, scary panic; something that he had never seen before, nor ever imagined he would see.

Bob Skinner, his mighty, impregnable friend, buried his face in his hands and began to cry, his chest and shoulders heaving in great, wracking, uncontrollable sobs.

"You sure about this?" The upstairs room was light and airy; the window was open and sunshine poured in. They had made good time on the flight back from the lakeside cabin; it was still afternoon in Buffalo,

New York.

Sarah lifted the light duvet and looked down at him. "At this moment, you are asking me that? It's pretty obvious that you're sure."

"Ah, but he's got a mind of his own, and no conscience; I have both."

She moved her hands down and took hold of him, gently. "If we're clear that, for now, all I'm doing is renewing an acquaintance with an old friend, then yes, I'm certain. And believe me, if you look closely enough in the right places, you'll find visible evidence of that too.

So shut up; don't try and find the way you never had with words, not now."

"Nuh," he grinned, then rolled over, covering her and letting her guide him, in a single movement. She cried out as she felt all of his great length slide slowly and rock hard into her, then thrust herself upward, forcefully, as if she wanted even more. He felt her squeeze him inside and almost came, but he hung on as she did so, keeping perfectly still against the clenching and unclenching of her buttocks as she drove at him, feeling her fingers digging into his back as her frenzy grew.

Finally, her frantic movement slowed, and she began to relax; she felt the moistness, but realised that it was hers. He began his own thrusts then, short and slow, taking his time, keeping his weight off her, keeping most of himself out of her, concentrating on her pleasure point, until she began to come again. When she did, he was ready for her; she swung up her strong legs, gripping him as he rode all the way back intc her, as they climaxed together, heaving, gasping, crying, until at last, they were both spent.