Alex Gray - Pitch Black

Thoughts of relaxed summer evenings disappeared the moment Rosie Fergusson stepped out of the car. The path leading to the semi-detached house was cordoned off with police tape, several vehicles were parked nearby and the pathologist identified the scene-of-crime officers’ official van and Lorimer’s ancient, dark blue Lexus. A uniformed officer stood on the pavement as if shielding the scene from prying eyes. But there was no need for that; the victim was still in his car but protected from view by a white scene-of-crime tent. Rosie turned around. Yes, there were several people staring from their open windows, she could see one at least trying to get a closer view, the sunshine glinting off a pair of binoculars. At least the police cordon had kept other passers-by at bay.

Rosie slipped on her white boiler suit and regulation overshoes, donned a mask and gloves, then, grabbing her medical bag, stepped carefully on to the metal treads that made a path towards the white tent. So many precautions were taken to avoid disturbing the scene and Rosie was as grimly vigilant as the rest of the team.

‘Good evening, Dr Fergusson.’ A familiar voice made Rosie look up. Lorimer nodded to her, his eyes shifting immediately to the man in the car.

‘Here he is,’ Lorimer murmured, pulling the flap aside, revealing the dust-covered Volkswagen and the body of Norman Cartwright. With gloved hands she opened the passenger door, careful not to touch anything on the upholstery, and looked at the victim. His head was turned slightly away from her but she could see the entry mark quite clearly, a large reddened hole a few centimetres from his left ear. Rosie would take exact measurements of the wound in time, but just looking at its size showed it had been made by a shotgun. Right now she wanted an overview of the whole scene. Carefully she stood up and edged around the vehicle, exclaiming as she bumped her upper thighs against the radiator grille. Reaching the driver’s side, she saw that the door had been left open and the pathologist examined the body within the car, not yet touching it but taking note of every detail. The victim was still upright, held by the seat belt that now cut a groove into his neck.

‘See that? I’ll need to check for any post-mortem abrasion,’ Rosie said, indicating the webbing that now supported the weight of the dead man’s head. ‘No exit wound so we will expect the pellets to have lodged within the cranial area. No excessive bleeding. Some powder residue scatters across the face. What are we looking at, I wonder?’ she asked quietly. ‘Something discharged from between two and three metres?’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows and gave a slight nod. ‘The gunman must have been within shouting distance of his victim, don’t you think?’ he replied. Rosie nodded, concentrating on the size of the gaping hole in Cartwright’s head. It was about two inches wide, surrounded by a periphery of scattered pellet holes. ‘Unburnt propellant by the looks of this,’ she murmured. ‘Think we’re looking at a sawn-off shotgun here,’ she added, nodding almost to herself. They’d know more after the post-mortem and have a ballistics report on hand to aid the police investigation. But one thing was certain from this scene-of-crime examination: whoever had fired the shot that killed Norman Cartwright had done so in broad daylight, only yards from the man’s own front door.

‘Any idea of time of death?’

‘Well, he’s been dead less than six hours. Probably less than three, actually. No rigor and before you ask, I haven’t taken his temperature yet.’

‘Okay, let me know when you have. We know he left Kelvin Park around five-forty this afternoon.’

‘At the game, was he?’ Rosie asked. ‘Wearing the wrong colours, maybe?’

‘Worse than that,’ Lorimer told her darkly. ‘Norman Cartwright was the referee. He made some controversial decisions during the game. Okay, folk were crying for his blood, but that’s just fans letting off steam. Didn’t merit something like this.’ Lorimer jerked a thumb at the scene inside the tent.

‘Why? What happened?’ Rosie asked suddenly and Lorimer gave her a quick precis of the match.

‘So,’ she said, straightening up and looking from the body to the DCI, ‘your problem is several thousand disaffected Kelvin fans might have wanted to kill the ref. But how many of them would have had access to a sawn-off shotgun?’

Sunday mornings on call were not Rosie’s favourite days. Yet she had parked her car beside her colleague Dan’s in the mortuary car park aware of a quickening sense of interest in today’s post-mortem. Two doctors were required by Scottish law so Dan would record all of the findings they made while Rosie conducted the more physical part of the business. It wasn’t every day that they had to extract shotgun pellets from a murder victim, despite all that the press reports and the TV police dramas might lead the public to believe. Much of her work dealt with suspicious deaths, often due to the knife culture in the city, though she had had an interesting spell overseas in Rwanda. That was a time she remembered with sadness as well as satisfaction for a job well done. People who didn’t know Rosie too well had been heard commenting on the pathologist’s slim, slight figure, even wondering aloud what such a pretty young woman was doing in a job like hers. But looks, however fragile, were only skin deep and Rosie Fergusson was made from tougher stuff than most.

Norman Cartwright’s body was waiting for them in the refrigerated wall adjoining the post-mortem room. Two of the mortuary technicians slid it out, placing it carefully on to a stainless-steel table. First they would examine the victim fully clothed, noting anything that might be required later. Giving evidence as an expert witness was never far from their minds as the pathologists performed their surgical work: everything would be noted and recorded with some degree of caution. Most probably, most likely , usually preceding any attempt to say exactly what had happened to a person whose death might be the subject of speculation.

Some time later, though, Rosie and Dan were pretty convinced by their findings. Their report would go straight to the Procurator Fiscal, of course, along with detailed ballistics analysis, but DCI Lorimer had a right to know just what sort of weapon had made an end of the football referee.

WHO SHOT THE MAN IN BLACK?

A man shot dead in his car has been confirmed as football referee Norman Cartwright. Witnesses heard a single shot being fired, though none of them admit to having seen the gunman. ‘It was like a car backfiring, but really loud,’ Joseph Tierney, a neighbour of the victim, stated. Mr Cartwright, who had been refereeing the match between Kelvin FC and Queen of the South on the afternoon of his death, was in his own driveway when the shooting took place. Police have already conducted a house-to-house inquiry following the incident and a report has been sent to the Procurator Fiscal. In a recent BBC documentary,the plight of football referees was highlighted when it was shown that death threats against referees and damage to property had frequently occurred at every level of the sport. There had been ugly scenes at Kelvin Park that afternoon following a controversial decision by Mr Cartwright during the game. Whether this has any bearing on his subsequent killing is something the police must surely take into account.

Lorimer read the byline with a sigh. Jimmy Greer! There was nothing malicious about the piece, nor anything to suggest that Greer was hinting at police incompetence. But it was early days and the DCI knew only too well that the journalist from the Gazette would muck-rake as soon as he had the opportunity. The friction that existed between Greer and the DCI had its origin in a previous case when the man from the press had stepped out of line during a murder inquiry. Lorimer hadn’t missed him and hit the wall, as his mother-in-law was fond of saying. Now Greer sought to make life difficult for the DCI whenever he could. It was a hassle he could well do without.