Quintin Jardine: Gallery Whispers

'The cause of death will turn out to be asphyxiation, I assume,' said Martin, as Mackie ushered them from out of the kitchen, to await the arrival of Detective Inspector Arthur Dorward and his squad of crime scene technicians.

'Don't assume,' Sarah replied. 'I could see no marks on the plastic bag. If she'd suffocated, I'd expect to find lipstick smears, from where she'd tried to suck in air.'

'Maybe she didn't try,' the Head of CID suggested.

'She didn't: but not because she had willed herself to stop breathing.

You can't do that; it's a reflex. There's something else here. I'd say that this woman died, or at least became deeply unconscious, before she had a chance to suffocate.

'I'll tell you the whole story after the autopsy. D'you want me to do it, or do you want Joe Hutchison in on this one?'

'You do it, Sarah,' said Martin. 'If you feel you need a second opinion, call him in, but you handle it in the first instance. You've picked up the ball, so run with it as far as you can.' He turned to Mackie. 'Who was she, Brian?'

'The owner of the cottage is a Mrs Gaynor Weston. I'm assuming that's her in there. But that's all I have for now. Maggie Rose should be here soon, with some CID reinforcements. She'll direct the interviews with the neighbours and so on. Once Arthur's people have dusted the place fully, I'll look for personal papers, and see what they tell me.

'The first thing we'll need to do is locate a next of kin.'

'Too right; the Head of CID agreed. 'When we do we'll need to be careful how much information we give. From the way this looks, the next of kin, or another close relative, could be the prime suspect.

'This woman was killed by someone close to her; someone she trusted.'

'And…' said Sarah, quietly, 'she was a willing victim.'

'So that means…'

She cut Mackie short. 'Yes, it means that this looks like an assisted suicide.'

'I agree.' Andy Martin frowned. 'But that's not what the Procurator Fiscal will call it. There's no such thing in the eyes of the law. The charge here will be murder, and the penalty will be life imprisonment.'

'How did it look out at Oldbams, Andy?' Skinner asked, as his Head of CID settled into a low chair around the coffee table in the Chief Constable's office, just after midday.

'Very neat and orderly, boss,' Martin replied. 'The victim is a fortythree year old woman, Gaynor Weston. She was a training consultant, self-employed. Lived alone; divorced from her husband, Professor Nolan Weston, seven years ago. Next of kin is Raymond Weston, her only son, aged eighteen, just started his first term at Aberdeen University.

'Mrs Weston was seated at her kitchen table with a bag over her head, secured tightly by black tape.

'There was no sign of forced entry to the house, and nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Dorward's people found two plates, cups, saucers and cutlery in the dishwasher. It had been run, though; every damn thing in it was fingerprint-free. There were two longstemmed wine glasses on the draining board, and an empty bottle of Mouton Cadet on the table. Each of the glasses still had traces of wine in them, and one had lipstick on the rim, the same shade as Mrs Weston's. The team tried to lift prints from them, but they were too badly smeared.'

'What about the bag?' Skinner grunted.

'It was strong, clear polythene, unmarked. No brand name on it, no store name; nothing at all. There were no others like it in the house or in the garden shed, nor was there any sign of the black tape. We've looked everywhere now; someone took it away, for sure.'

'Probably brought it too. The ex: what do we know about him?

What does he Profess? Do we know yet?'

Martin nodded. 'Brian Mackie had all that before ten o'clock this morning. He's a surgeon. He has a chair at Edinburgh University, and works mostly at the Western General Hospital.'

'Mmm. Divorced for seven years, you say. Did Mrs Weston have any man friends?'

'Apparently so. Maggie found a neighbour, a Ms Joan Ball, another single woman, who claims to have been a close pal. According to her, Mrs Weston was having a relationship with one of her clients, a guy called Terry Futcher. He runs an advertising agency, and he's married.

'The husband was still around, as well. They stayed friends after the split…'

'Do we know why they were divorced?' the DCC asked.

'It seems to have been her idea. She told Joan Ball that she just wanted her own space. She wanted the freedom to be herself, she said.

After they parted, the boy stayed with his father during the school term and with her during the holidays. The Prof has a cottage up in the Highlands and occasionally the three of them went up there together.

'He'd visit her at the steading on occasion too. Joan Ball knew not to call on her when she saw his car there… or Futcher's for that matter.'

'And did these cars stay all night?'

'Of course.'

'Did she see any cars there last night?'

'No, she didn't,' Martin replied. 'She was out herself, and got home well after midnight. She said that Gaynor's lights were on, but other than her own, there was no car at the door. She'd have noticed if either of the blokes were there.'

'Did the Prof know about Futcher?'

'Yes. But Ms Ball didn't think that the boyfriend knew about him.'

Skinner shook his steel-grey head. 'Shit. Two-timing the married boyfriend with the single ex-husband. That's a nice twist.'

Martin smiled, suddenly and wickedly. 'Who said the ex is single?' he asked. 'Professor Weston married his secretary five years ago.'

'Jesus!' The acting Chief Constable laughed out loud. 'Two cheated wives, a cuckolded lover, and an ex-husband with a guilty secret.

There seems to have been a whole queue of people with a reason to top this woman.'

'Except,' countered the Head of CID, 'that Sarah's thinking, and mine, is that Gaynor Weston topped herself, with assistance. Now why would she want to do that? According to Joan Ball's account, she was living the life of Reilly.'

'Could you and Sarah be wrong?'

The DCS frowned at his friend. 'The postmortem may show that, but I don't think so.'

'Then I hate the sound of this one,' Skinner said. 'Unless we get a clear DNA link to the helper… suppose they made love before they did it… it could be a bastard to prove. Christ, I almost wish this person had been just a wee bit cleverer; hadn't left the second glass, and most of all that the bugger had left that roll of black tape … stuck, preferably, to Mrs Weston's fingers.

'If he… or she… had done that simple thing, we'd be reporting this one as a suicide, and saving ourselves a lot of work; and probably grief.'

He frowned. 'Did she leave a note?'

'No. We turned the place inside out; even looked in her computer.

Nothing at all.'

'Apart from her gentlemen callers, did Mrs Weston have a big circle of friends?'

Yes. Her diary was chockfull.'

'In that event, all those people will have to be checked out… as indeed will the very helpful Ms Ball, if she's as close a pal as she told Brian. At the moment she's our only witness. I wonder if she has a roll of black tape in her toolbox?'

'Let's wait for good Doctor Sarah's postmortem report, said Martin.

'Once we have that we'll have a better idea of the basis of our investigation. If we do find ourselves with a lot of interviewing to do, I'll give Brian extra resources to handle it, if he needs them.'

The Head of CID looked across to the far end of the big room, as Gerry Crossley, the Chief Constable's secretary, came in carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits. 'Apart from all that, though, sir,' he said, as the young man placed the tray on the coffee table, 'why did you want to see me?'