Paul Gitsham - Blood Is Thicker Than Water

“I believe you found your father?” Warren started, sympathetically.

She nodded and when she spoke it was as if she didn’t quite believe what she was saying. “I let myself in about eight o’clock—I have a set of keys—and went into the kitchen to get Dad’s breakfast ready.”

“You didn’t call out?”

She shook her head. “Dad’s not what you’d call a ‘morning person’. I figured he was awake, since I could hear the Today programme coming from upstairs, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“So you were expecting him to be up there?”

“Yes, we had a chairlift installed a couple of years ago. He insists on sleeping in his old bedroom.”

“Do you make his breakfast every morning?”

“Yes. He had a stroke about ten years ago. His left arm is pretty much useless. I drop the kids off at breakfast club and pop in on the way back.”

“So your father needed help with his day-to-day care?”

“Not twenty-four hours. He can walk with assistance but he was never much of a cook even before the stroke. I usually make him a spot of lunch at the same time then leave him to it until the early evening.”

“You say that your father was not a morning person. Do you have any idea why he was already downstairs in the living room when you arrived this morning?”

She shrugged slightly. “He sometimes falls asleep in his chair in front of the TV. I’ve found him there once or twice, although I think he normally wakes up and goes upstairs to his bed.” She paused for a moment. “I think those were the clothes he was wearing yesterday.”

So Mr Michaelson had probably fallen on the way to bed the previous night, rather than getting up early that morning. The time of death should clear that question up.

“How did you find your father?”

“As I said, I let myself in about eight after I dropped the kids off. The living room door was closed, so I didn’t look in there. After I made his breakfast, I went in to collect any dirty mugs and have a bit of a tidy-up. He spends all day in there and it gets a bit messy sometimes. And that’s when I found him.”

Her voice broke and Warren told her to take her time. The tissue in her hand was sodden and starting to shred, so Warren fished out a small packet from his inside jacket pocket. After a few deep breaths, she continued. “He was lying face down in the fireplace. I knew as soon as I saw him he was dead.” Her voice cracked, but she continued, “You just know, don’t you? He was too still. His eyes were open, staring at me.”

“Did you touch him at all, or move anything?”

She shook her head. “I felt for his pulse—” she touched her throat “—but there was nothing. I walked out and called an ambulance.”

She was looking tearful again and so Warren decided to move away slightly from the discovery of the body. The follow-up interview could answer any other questions. He cast about for the right choice of words. “Did your father require help with his more…intimate…personal care?”

“No fortunately. Dad was quite insistent about that. It took him a while, but he could pretty much dress himself and we had one of those sit-down showers fitted. He needs a bit of help with fiddly things, like his tie and button-up shirts if he’s going out to the British Legion for the day, and about once a week we’d give him a proper wet shave instead of using his electric razor.”

“You said ‘we’. Do you have any other help?”

“No, just my brother, Tommy, and my husband. We split the rest of the duties between us: cleaning, shopping, odd jobs. We took it in turns to make him dinner.” Her mouth twisted. “Dad had a good job and was always very careful with his money, so he doesn’t qualify for any state care. He was—reluctant—to pay for help whilst my brother and I live so close.” The speech was delivered in careful, neutral tones, but her eyes gave her away. Warren filed away her reaction for future analysis, if need be.

“Has Tommy been told about what’s happened?”

“I phoned him about half an hour ago. He’s on his way. He works in Stevenage.”

“What about your husband?”

“His phone’s off, but he’ll pick up his messages when he finishes work in an hour or so.”

“You said your father needed assistance walking?”

She nodded. “He could move around the house on his own and we got him one of those wheeled Zimmer frames with a tray fitted, but that’s about it. His left leg was affected by the stroke and he wasn’t very steady.”

“So he was mostly housebound?”

She nodded again. “He didn’t like going out. For some reason he was ashamed of his disability. He hated using a wheelchair.”

“But he used to go to the British Legion?”

“About once a week. Funnily enough, he didn’t mind that. I think it’s because several of the others need assistance as well. They have a minibus that picks them up. I guess they’re all in the same boat.”

Nothing she had said changed Warren’s mind about what had happened. Charles Michaelson had been unsteady on his feet; he’d either collapsed or tripped, possibly on the rug in front of the fireplace, and cracked his head against the stonework.

“When did you last see your father?”

“Last night. It was my turn to make him some dinner.”

“What time was that?”

She thought for a moment. “I put the kids to bed about eight, then came straight around. I live about five minutes away.”

“And how was your father?”

“A bit quiet. He’s been a bit tired and under the weather for the past few days. He didn’t say very much; he was watching some documentary on TV. He doesn’t eat much in the evening so I just made him some sandwiches and a cup of tea and gave him his pills. I did a spot of ironing, then left.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after nine, I guess.” She paused for a second. “Yes that’s about right. Whatever he was watching had ended and he’d changed channels to watch something else. Programmes usually start on the hour don’t they?”

“And you went straight home?”

“Yes, Ian, my husband, leaves for work about ten. He works nights. I have to get back to look after the kids.”

She suddenly looked exhausted. Warren wasn’t surprised. Young children—an eight o’clock bedtime suggested they were probably still at primary school—an infirm father and a husband working shifts. Kathy Mackay had a hard life. There was nothing overtly suspicious here he decided. He’d get DC Gary Hastings to conduct a follow-up interview after the post-mortem.

Expressing his condolences again, he headed for the car. If the traffic was kind he’d make the tail end of the meeting. If he timed it right he’d miss the death-by-PowerPoint that finance loved and still manage to nab a custard cream.

* * *

Charles Michaelson’s death remained a tragic accident until late that evening.

“Harrison here, sir. I’m out at the Michaelson death.” Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison’s Yorkshire tones were clipped, his voice slightly tense. “I’m not happy with the scene.”

* * *

The smell from the late Charles Michaelson hadn’t improved any since the morning, even though the body had been removed to the morgue, pending autopsy. CSM Harrison and his team had been working in the small room for nearly three hours. Warren assumed that their noses had become used to the smell. Hopefully his would soon become accustomed to it also.

Harrison had turned up at the scene with his current trainee, expecting a routine unexpected death. He’d been anticipating an opportunity for Shaniya to try out some basic techniques in a low-risk environment, where there’d be no danger of jeopardising a prosecution.