Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

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.

The pain shot through the top of his skull, making the DCI groan aloud. Opening his eyes, Colin Ray felt the daylight batter against his brain and he rolled over before the nausea took control.

Minutes later Ray was leaning over, clutching the cistern for support, the contents of his stomach swirling away in the toilet pan. Muttering an oath under his fetid breath, the DCI staggered to the sink, cupping cold water over his face. He let the droplets course down his body, unheeding of the damp patch forming at his waistline.

‘God love us,’ he whispered to the reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing the haggard expression on his face. Then his thoughts turned to his wife: Grace would hate seeing him like this. For a moment he hesitated. Would he just call in sick, tell DI Rhoda Martin to take his calls? They all knew he wanted to spend time up at St Vincent’s. Ray bit his lip, torn between his duty as a policeman and a husband. Christ! Why was he even considering it? There was no way K Division would see him today. He’d take a long shower, slather on plenty of aftershave and find some fresh clothes to wear. Then it was back to the hospice.

The bathroom still smelled of fresh vomit despite his attempts to mask it. He closed the door behind him, hoping the window left slightly ajar would be enough to take away the stink before he returned. Passing the lounge on his way back to the bedroom, Colin Ray hesitated. The place was a shambles: beer bottles were standing on the side table and the foil containers from last night’s curry were poking out of the white polythene bag next to his armchair. But it wasn’t just that: the whole room looked as if it hadn’t been touched for weeks. Well, it bloody well hadn’t been. Without Grace to do the needful, things had been completely neglected, but that was hardly his fault, was it? a little voice whined in his head. He’d either been up at the bloody hospital (and now the hospice) or trying to do his job as a senior police officer. Who could blame him if the place had become a tip? But despite this attempt at justification, Colin Ray felt a sense of guilt. He was letting Grace down. Bugger it! He’d take more time off and tidy the place up properly, or get in a cleaner. Just till…

The man stepped into the lounge then, his hand on the back of Grace’s favourite armchair. There was no until, was there? She wasn’t going to be coming back. Ever. This was how things were going to be from now on, just him on his own trying to cope with a job that threatened to overwhelm him and the day-to-day caring for a home that had always been Grace’s part of the ship.

Colin Ray felt his lip tremble as the tears filled his eyes. And he let them fall, clasping the back of that chair, sobbing for the woman who would never sit there again.

St Vincent’s Hospice was an unassuming single-storey building overlooking farmland, the hills of West Renfrewshire a hazy outline beyond. Ray parked the car in his usual spot, facing the drive so he could make a hasty exit. He was always in a hurry, he thought, cursing himself for the time he’d failed to spend up here. Drawing in a deep breath, Ray smelled something fresh and earthy: the air was soft with the threat of rain to come above the empty flowerbeds waiting for a spring that the patients would never see. Spring was Grace’s favourite season; she loved lambing time and always waxed lyrical about the hedges greening and how pretty all these cherry blossoms were, lining their street. He could almost hear her voice, her old voice, not that hoarse croak he hated so much. People had told him that was something that lingered afterwards — the sound of their voices in your brain. Ray hesitated outside the main entrance. He could slip away now, drive back down the road. He had plenty on his plate with this new case and nobody would blame him for doing his job, would they?

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and pasted a smile on his face for Linda, the nice girl at reception. She smiled back, eyes full of a sort of understanding that he hated. That unspoken pity always made him cringe, but once past Linda’s desk he was fine. There were always patients in the dayroom or the corridor leading to Grace’s own room, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in his grief. Seeing those others calmly waiting their turn for death to take them made things seem much more normal somehow, so that by the time he slipped into his wife’s room the bitter lines around Colin Ray’s mouth had vanished.

Grace was asleep, head to one side. He skirted carefully around the oxygen cylinder by her bedside, squeezing himself into his customary place by the window. Sitting back in the comfortable chair, he relaxed for the first time that day. Waiting for her to wake up was one of the best things Ray could do right now; his would be the face she saw when her tired eyes opened at last. It gave him time to rehearse all the things he wanted to tell her, leaving out everything to do with work. It was the little everyday stuff she liked to hear: what the neighbours were doing, how the garden was looking, what he’d eaten for his dinner last night… Ray pictured the untidy tip at home and began to fashion a different place altogether in his imagination, one that was neat and clean with home-cooked meals that he could describe with pretend relish. His lies maybe fooled her, he didn’t know, but she would smile at him anyway, that look of fondness in her eyes telling him that it didn’t really matter. He was there, holding her hand and that was all she needed.

Tales of malice and burned bodies could be forgotten for a while at least.

Maggie’s face lit up as she looked out of the kitchen window. The first of her miniature daffodils! Now she could almost believe that winter was over and begin to anticipate the warming days to come. A couple of weeks and the garden would be a riot of colour: grape hyacinths spreading their blue amongst the wilderness that was supposed to be her rose bed, primulas and daffies springing up all over the place. As yet the trees were leafless but other signs that the long winter months were drawing to a close could be seen in the activity of the small birds that came into their garden. Maggie watched as a greenfinch chased a smaller, brightly coloured bird from their thistle seed-feeder. It had been a particularly good year for goldfinches, she knew, remembering the results of the RSPB’s annual birdwatch. Despite their cat, Chancer, pacing his territory, the birds seemed to thrive here. Maybe it was the wildness of their overgrown place; there was never enough time to cut stuff back, though she was always resolving to tackle all the jobs out there that needed doing.

Turning back into the kitchen, Maggie Lorimer looked at the bags of groceries lying on the work surface, ready to be unpacked. She might well be eating alone tonight, she thought ruefully, if her husband’s telephone call meant anything.