A Fly Cup

The body lay, half in half out of the bed, one hand clutching at the counterpane. As if the woman had decided to get up. Changed her mind. Tried to climb back in again.

That’s women for you, was PC Ian Souter’s first reaction. His mind jumped to the last female corpse he’d attended: student Lucy Simmons spread-eagled on a cold, hard tombstone in a dank, dark kirk-yard. Briskly, he dismissed the thought.

The bedside light was on. He looked around. The room was large, big enough to fit in the entire first floor of his chalet bungalow in Bridge of Don, he thought covetously. And well-furnished, in a dated sort of a way: embossed wallpaper, velvet pile carpet, heavy brocade curtains over delicate voile blinds. The fitted oak wardrobes looked bespoke, even to his untrained eye. A pair of matching, solid wood cabinets framed the sumptuously dressed king-size bed. Like the downstairs – what little Souter had seen as he and Miller charged through the front door – it all screamed money.

The woman was small, slight, her short dark hair tousled from sleep. And of a certain age. Souter wasn’t great at judging, but he reckoned mid-forties. She was wearing a nightgown: pink satin edged with lace. One shoestring strap had slipped from her shoulder, the hem ridden up to her thighs. Probably cost a bomb, though the thing would hardly have covered her at the best of times. Not like the passion-killer his own wife had sported throughout the winter. Shirley felt the cold, and their house had been Baltic since they’d turned the heating down. This place, on the other hand, was toasty. He pictured the energy reminder sitting in his hall. Pulled a face.

He squatted by the woman’s side. Grasped hold of one limp wrist, searched for the radial pulse. No joy. He looked up. Atop the bedside cabinet, a bookmark peeped from a paperback book: Lie With Me. Souter wondered if it was steamy. A china cup and saucer held the remains of what looked like tea. He noted a box of tissues – one of those cube things, flowery – halfway down the bed. On the far side, the pillow held the shape of what might be a male head. The woman’s nightie looked damp. Souter speculated whether they still had sex. A crumpled tissue lay on the floor. He resisted the urge to pick it up, take a sniff.

They’d been attending an incident at Bridge of Dee when they got the shout. Shot out South Deeside Road on blues. Hit a snarl-up at Ardoe House – one of them posh weddings, most like. Murtle Den Road, when they finally got there, had been a bummer: muckle big houses surrounded by trees and nary a number in sight.

It was Miller spotted the cleaner screaming blue murder at the gate. They’d made her stay outside while they checked the locus. His partner was downstairs, now, trying to get a statement out of her. Souter hoped he’d make it good, otherwise the desk sergeant would have their guts for garters.

Souter let go of the woman’s wrist. Touched two fingertips to the soft groove beside her windpipe, reckoned he felt a fluttering there. Sod it! His youngest had a birthday that day and he’d promised to be home by lunchtime. Now he’d likely have to follow the ambulance to ARI, and God knows how long he’d get stuck there. He could always send Miller, but what help would that be? One or other of them was required to stay at the locus till they got the all clear.

He heard a vehicle screech to a halt. Doors slammed. A bell pealed. Running footsteps on the stairs. And the paramedics were by his side. Gratefully, Souter removed his fingers from the woman’s neck.

‘Absent pulse.’ He nodded to the lead. ‘Maybe you’ll have better luck.’

The man nodded. ‘Leave it to us.’

‘Okay.’

Souter got to his feet. He took another, cursory, look around the room. Half hidden under the quilt, he spied a pair of spectacles, legs askew. Woman must have been reading in bed when she…

There were no outward signs of a stroke. Most likely had a seizure, he concluded. He’d seen too many heart attacks strike down apparently healthy people. Young folk, even, like that student at St Machar. Poor bairn. Can’t have been long out of school. Souter grimaced. He knew how unpredictable the human heart could be.

He hurried out of the bedroom and headed down the stairs.

The cleaning woman was huddled in a cane chair, a wad of sodden tissues clutched in her fists. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes liquid from weeping, her nose red raw. Miller was crouched close on the floor at her feet. Too close, Souter reckoned. He’d caught a swift movement as he entered the room. Had his partner’s hand been on the woman’s knee? Souter couldn’t be sure. He estimated her age to be mid-twenties. Wondered if Miller had ideas in that direction. Wanker! He’d chase anything in a skirt.

Souter turned to appraise the sleek fitted kitchen with its stainless steel appliances. His eyes lit on a state-of-the-art kitchen tap: one of those ones that dispensed boiling water like he’d seen on the telly. He grinned. Good-oh! There might even be decent biscuits.