Paul Gitsham - Blood Is Thicker Than Water

“Anything suspicious at the scene?”

The policeman shook his head. “Nothing obvious. It looks as though he fell and cracked his head. Apparently he was unsteady on his feet after a stroke a few years ago.”

The daughter was sitting on the steps of the ambulance’s loading bay, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Warren decided to head into the house to see the scene for himself before speaking to her.

It was nine a.m. on a Tuesday and the morning rush hour was well underway. In Warren’s experience, the flashing lights of an ambulance elicited a curiousness that was usually tempered by respect. Nobody felt comfortable slowing down to stare as some poor soul was taken out of their home. However, the presence of a police car elevated the scene to an “incident” and all such restraint melted away. He turned back to the constable who had greeted him.

“Go and ask those kids why they aren’t in school yet and tell them to stop filming or I’ll confiscate their phones as evidence.”

Leaving his empty threat to be passed on to the gaggle of gawking teenagers, Warren walked up the short garden path, towards the door. The house was a neat, terraced affair. The faint scent of air freshener and furniture polish spoke of a well-cared-for property, although he noticed that the paintwork on the windowsills and the front door was slightly faded, suggesting that the occupant was more interested in the interior than the outside. A glance back at the front garden confirmed his impression; the grass on the tiny lawn was recently cut, but small weeds poked their heads between the untidy rosebushes.

Another constable stood guard inside the narrow, dark hallway with a copy of the scene log attached to a clipboard. Behind him, Warren could see through an open doorway into the living room beyond, the bottom of a right leg encased in grey corduroy trousers with a bright red slipper just visible. Warren signed his name, noting that aside from the two officers he’d already met and a couple of paramedics, he was the first on the scene.

“The daughter found him this morning when she let herself in to make him breakfast.”

“Did she disturb the body?”

“She says that she saw he wasn’t breathing and touched his neck, but she couldn’t find a pulse, so she called 999.”

“What about the paramedics?”

“They came in, but they could see he was dead, so they backed out and called us in.”

Warren nodded his thanks. The chances were that it was nothing more than natural causes, an old man collapsing of a heart attack or stumbling. Nevertheless an unexplained death was an unexplained death and Warren was the senior on-call officer this week. Reaching down, he slipped a pair of sterile booties over his work shoes and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

The living room was old-fashioned. Aside from the large flat screen TV at the far end of the room, the décor probably hadn’t been updated in the last forty years. The carpet, though clean, was faded, the three-piece suite slightly shiny from decades of use. Thick, dark curtains were still drawn, the electric light providing the only illumination.

The body of an elderly man lay face down in the fireplace. It had been a warm night and Warren was relieved to see that the fire hadn’t been lit. Past experience told him that the smell of burnt flesh and the sight of charred features would linger in his dreams for weeks afterwards. Unfortunately, the man had soiled himself and the odour was starting to fill the room.

First impressions were that the deceased had fallen, face first, into the fireplace, striking the mantelpiece on the way down. The wood was cracked and broken picture frames lay scattered about the body. Warren recognised a photograph of the woman outside. Slipping his hands into his pockets to avoid touching anything, Warren stood still and moved his gaze slowly around the room.

The most useful piece of technology that any investigating officer has in his possession is the original, mark one eyeball, his former mentor was fond of telling his junior officers and Warren had found himself passing Bob Windermere’s pearl of wisdom on to his own detectives. Until the technicians arrived with their cameras and briefcases crammed with equipment, it was all that he had at his disposal.

The cause of death was beyond Warren’s remit. That was a job for the pathologist, but still he found himself looking for clues. The biggest question was why had the man fallen? Had he collapsed, falling towards the fireplace, or had he stumbled, the fall itself killing him?

A few paces behind the man was a wing-backed armchair angled towards the TV. A small table to the right of it—festooned in magazines, empty mugs and a selection of remote controls—suggested that this was the favourite chair in the room and probably the seat that the deceased had spent most of his time in. A little over an arm’s length away from the chair was a wheeled Zimmer frame with a tray surface. On it the remains of a sandwich sat on a plain, white tea plate. Hanging off the left side of the chair was a curved, wooden walking stick.

Turning back to the body, Warren saw that the man was fully clothed, wearing a checked shirt with a sleeveless woollen pullover. The trousers were loose, but he wore no belt. The man’s left hand lay at his side, his right was outstretched, as if to break his fall.

The body was lying on a threadbare, shag-pile rug. The furthest edge from the fireplace was curled up slightly. Warren measured the angles by eye. Had the old man tripped on the fold and fallen, catching his head on the way down? Careful not to disturb the area immediately around the body, Warren squatted down. Sightless eyes stared back at him disconcertingly, below a massive darkened bruise. A fresh-looking slice across his eyebrows hinted at a huge impact. A dark puddle of shiny blood on the gleaming, black tiles of the hearth indicated that the deceased had continued to bleed for at least some time before death. Warren looked up and saw, just as he had expected, blood smears and what looked like grey hairs embedded in the split wood of the mantelpiece.

The smell was beginning to get to Warren and he stood up. It looked like an unfortunate accident. An old man, unsteady on his feet, catches his foot on an old rug and takes a dive into the fireplace, splitting his head open on the way down. Nothing to get excited about, Warren decided as he left the room.

He glanced at his watch. The monthly budget meeting was due to start in fifteen minutes. He should really delegate, he supposed. If he put his foot down he could be in Welwyn within thirty minutes, but the thought of two hours in a stuffy room poring over spreadsheets was deeply unappealing on such a pleasant morning. Besides which his next most senior officer, Detective Inspector Tony Sutton, was away on a course, Warren was the senior on-call officer and the meeting was always minuted…

He decided to compromise. He’d speak to the daughter now, assuming she was in a fit state, satisfy himself that there was nothing untoward and then pass her off to a detective constable for follow-up. Then, if he wasn’t too late, he’d make it for the last few minutes and pick up the highlights of the meeting. After removing his protective gear he pulled out his phone and dashed off an apologetic email to Detective Superintendent Grayson. His immediate superior generally did most of the talking in such meetings anyway.

Heading back outside, Warren made his way to the ambulance. It was always best to question witnesses as soon after an incident as possible, he told himself.

Kathy Mackay spoke with a local accent, as best Warren could tell, and she looked tired, the smudges underneath her red-rimmed eyes spoke of a long-term weariness that went beyond the stresses of the morning. Warren guessed her age to be late thirties.