TWENTY-ONE

Turned out Mr Mitchell hadn’t gone away on holiday. He was at home. Dead. Lying in his bath, Gaffa tape round his mouth, ankles and wrists.

McCoy looked down at him. He looked about thirty-five. Shirt, tie, suit trousers, grey socks. Just like any other guy who worked in an office. His hair was brown, just over his collar. Eyes were blue, staring up at the ceiling. He felt Murray behind him.

‘His office say he hasn’t been in for three days. Thought he had the flu. Tried calling a few times but they didn’t get an answer. By the look of it he lived alone. He’s the only name on the letters on the hall floor.’

He moved round McCoy and peered into the bath.

‘No messages written in his skin, no torture, none of the usual cuts and bruises before the main event. Are we even sure it was him?’ asked Murray.

McCoy nodded. ‘It’s him all right.’ He pointed. ‘Windows look right into Elaine’s flat.’ He sat down on the edge of the bath. ‘Don’t think this guy was of any real importance to Connolly. That’s why there’s none of the usual stuff. Wasn’t personal. Probably didn’t even know him. He just happened to be unlucky enough to own the flat that looked into Elaine’s bedroom.’

‘So he ended up murdered in his own bloody bathroom,’ said Murray.

McCoy nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

‘Poor bugger,’ said Murray. ‘Poor unlucky bugger.’

Half an hour later, they were sitting at Alan Mitchell’s dining-room table, trying to stay out the way of the SOC boys and the ambulance men and Andy the photographer. Wattie, as instructed by Murray, was ‘taking charge of the fucking scene for bloody once’.

Mitchell’s flat was bright, big windows looking over the snowy gardens, white painted walls. Big picture of Buster Keaton above the fireplace, big one of Geronimo on the opposite wall. The furniture looked like it had come straight out a magazine, modern and stylish. Smoked-glass coffee table with a pile of some old magazine called Town on it, long low purple sofa covered in a tigerskin throw and a colour TV in a cabinet. No evidence of anyone else staying there, hardly any evidence of Mitchell himself.

‘Quite a place,’ said McCoy.

Murray looked round, didn’t look impressed. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

Gilroy appeared, sat down at the table. Even with her boiler suit on, she still had an air of ladylike poise. She unhooked her face mask from her ears and peeled off her rubber gloves.

‘Sitting Bull?’ she asked, nodding at the fireplace.

‘Geronimo,’ said McCoy. ‘Says it at the bottom.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I should know better. Just started a fascinating book, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, the story of the American West told from the perspective of—’

‘Alan Mitchell?’ asked Murray pointedly.

‘Sorry . . . Back to the matter in hand. I think Mr Mitchell was unfortunate enough to inhale his own vomit. He threw up, and with all that duct tape on his mouth it didn’t really have anywhere else to go but into his lungs.’

‘Shouldn’t he have just swallowed it back over?’ asked McCoy.

‘In theory, yes,’ she said. ‘His gag reflex must have been diminished by something.’

‘Mandrax?’ said McCoy.

She nodded. ‘Could be, that or some other opiate-type drug would do it. Sort of thing that seems to happen to musicians quite a lot . . . Jimi Hendrix, for example . . .’

Suddenly noticed Murray was staring at her.

‘Sorry again, Mr Murray. Mea culpa. Seem to be easily distracted today for some reason. Yes, Mandrax seems very likely. Given it was present in the bloodstream of Mr Jackson and Mr Scobie, it seems more than likely that we’ll find it in the unfortunate Mr Mitchell too.’

She looked at McCoy. ‘Do you think this Connolly is going to kill someone else?’

McCoy nodded. ‘Don’t think he’s finished yet.’

‘Have you talked to a psychiatrist?’ she asked. ‘Might help.’

Murray snorted. ‘He’s no that bad. He’s getting better at the blood stuff for a start.’

Gilroy smiled. ‘About Connolly, I meant.’

‘Ah! Sorry,’ said Murray.

‘Matter of fact, we have,’ said McCoy. ‘His old cellmate was a shrink, funnily enough. Said Connolly was the closest he’d ever seen to a pure psychopath.’

‘George Abrahams, was it?’ asked Gilroy.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Murray.

‘Not many psychiatrists get sent to prison. I remember the case. What did he say?’

‘Said he thought Connolly was going to keep on killing or he was going to kill himself,’ said McCoy.

‘Let’s hope it’s the latter.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve a ten-year-old killed in a farm accident coming in. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’

‘Anything else we need to know?’ asked Murray.

‘One other thing. There seems to be some dried substance around his mouth and nose. Looks like it could be semen.’

‘Jesus,’ said Murray.

‘Semen?’ asked McCoy. ‘You think Connolly . . .’ He stumbled.

‘Ejaculated into his mouth?’ asked Gilroy. ‘Could be, I’ll know better in a couple of hours.’

‘I didn’t think Connolly was that way inclined,’ said Murray. ‘Thought it was Elaine he was after?’

‘Also seem to be traces of it in the sink,’ said Gilroy. ‘If you were to ask me I would suggest that it’s not really to do with the sex of the victim in this instance. More a case of any port in a storm as it were. Riled up by the sight of Elaine, well . . . who knows?’

She stood up. ‘I’m overstepping my role here so I will retire gracefully.’ She looked at McCoy. ‘Were I a detective I’d have a look at Hervey Cleckley’s list of psychopathy symptoms from 1941. Still stands up after all these years.’

She walked away, stopped, turned back to them. ‘By the way, the itinerant who killed himself in the church? Did anything come of it?’

McCoy shook his head. ‘Just another depressed alkie.’

She nodded, walked off, pulling the boiler suit from her shoulders as she went.

‘Doesn’t surprise me she never married,’ said Murray. ‘Too bloody clever for her own good.’

McCoy grinned. ‘I always thought you had a wee soft spot for Madam Gilroy.’

Murray looked at him. ‘Shut your trap, Detective McCoy. Not everything is about sex, as you would do well to learn.’

McCoy held up his hands in surrender. ‘I never said anything about sex. That was you.’

‘Very bloody smart, McCoy. She’s an intelligent, well-bred woman . . . she—’

‘Sir?’

They turned and Wattie was standing there. ‘Come and have a look at this.’

Alan Mitchell’s flair for interior decoration didn’t seem to have extended to the box room. It had a single bed, a wardrobe, a bookshelf full of art books and a wee armchair. The bed had been slept in, gave off a vinegary smell of old sweat. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky on the bedside table, balled-up fish-and-chip paper beside it, full ashtray. Cashmere coat lying over the armchair.

McCoy looked around. Had a feeling it would be somewhere. He opened the wardrobe, recoiled. ‘All his piss and shit is in here.’

Wattie screwed his face up.

‘Like the hotel room?’ asked Murray.

McCoy nodded. ‘Weight’s all marked, just the same.’

Murray turned to Wattie. ‘Away and get Andy, get him to take some photos.’

Wattie scurried off.

Murray looked defeated. ‘How were we ever supposed to find him here?’

‘We did.’

‘Aye, too bloody late. For all we know he’s just chapped someone else’s door, tied them up in the bath and made himself at home. Sitting pretty now, watching the racing on the telly. How the fuck do we find him now?’

‘Same way we found him here,’ said McCoy. ‘Doing what you always told us. Following things up, checking things. Police work. And a lucky break.’

‘It’s always a lucky break,’ said Murray. ‘I’ll call Lomax, tell him what’s happened. See if it makes any difference to her coming in. You need Wattie tonight?’

‘Don’t think so,’ said McCoy. ‘Why?’

‘Boxing’s on tonight. St Andrew’s Club in the Albany. He’s been pestering me for weeks to go. Thought he could do with a wee reward for that river stunt. And it might do him some good to meet some of the other high heid yins.’

‘Big do, is it? asked McCoy. ‘Why’d you no ask me?’

‘Boxing? Blood splattering everywhere? You’d be boaking your load and fainting in five minutes.’

McCoy grinned. ‘True.’

‘Besides, a night with all the top brass is probably your idea of hell.’ He put his hat on, headed for the door. ‘I’ll let you know what Lomax says.’

McCoy watched him walk out the door. Looked at his watch. Two p.m. More than enough time to find Cooper before tonight.

*

McCoy sat at his desk chewing the end of a yellow pencil he’d found in his drawer. Time to do what Murray always told him to do when he was stuck. First principles. He wrote

Staying where?

Connolly had to be somewhere. Wrote

Check opposite the Golden Dawn?

He shouted across the room, ‘Thomson?’

Thomson looked up, still seemed to be looking at the coats in the catalogue. ‘What?’

‘Are there any flats in Union Street? Opposite the Lite Bite, Golden Dawn, around there?’

He sat back. ‘Don’t think so, think it’s all offices. If there are, British Rail’ll probably be the landlord.’

‘Can you do me a favour? Do a check?’

He snorted. ‘What’s up with Wattie?’

‘I cannae find the bugger—’

‘Someone mention my name?’

The office turned, and the shouts and the wolf whistles started. Wattie was standing there in a dinner suit, shiny patent shoes, dark blue velvet bow tie. Blond hair wetted down in a neat side shed.

He bowed. Held his hands up. ‘What can I tell you? Some of us have just got it.’

‘The clap you mean!’ shouted Thomson.

More laughter.

Murray emerged from his office, piles of papers in his hand, pipe going. He looked Wattie up and down. Exploded. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Watson? We’re not going for another three hours! We get changed at the bloody hotel!’

Wattie stood there, going red.

‘Get that stupid bloody suit off now and do some bloody work!’ He put the papers down on Thomson’s desk, walked back into his office and slammed the door behind him.

‘I feel like a bit of an arse,’ said Wattie.

‘Penance. Help Thomson with British Rail.’ McCoy stood up, put his coat on.

‘Where you off to?’ asked Wattie, unclipping his bow tie.

‘Out,’ said McCoy.