McGuigan and Dawson had driven to Chatelherault Woods earlier that afternoon. Police had cordoned off the entrance at the car park. They were escorted to the scene by uniform. There was little conversation. A screen had been erected at the foot of a cherry-blossom tree, shielding the body from casual observers. Given the area, the chance of a casual observer was slim. Three policemen stood on watchful guard. Tape also cordoned off the immediate area – the perimeter of a clearing, roughly the shape of a circle. They changed into protective coveralls, and approached. The pathologist was already there, all suited up, hunched over the body.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said McGuigan.
Laura Singleton looked up at him quizzically.
“We should stop meeting like this,” he said. He gave a sardonic grin. “At least that’s what I would say, if I were you.”
She responded in a neutral tone. “You’re not me. But we really should stop meeting like this. Though the locations seem to be improving lately.”
Indeed, thought McGuigan. Only yesterday, the tranquil and stunning banks of Loch an Eilein. Today, beneath the boughs of a splendid cherry-blossom tree in the middle of an ancient wood. Where next, he wondered.
He looked down at the body, who was undoubtedly the same man they had met at the law practice of SJPS. Paul Hutchison. Hard to forget. Rude and restless. The accusing finger he had pointed at McGuigan in the austere meeting room not more than forty-eight hours ago, would never point again. The face, once set in an angry snarl, was still and white.
“He died probably yesterday evening,” said the pathologist. “You see there,” and she pointed at bruising on the neck, “the bone’s been broken. And there, a crack to the head.”
“He was struck?”
She gave an inconclusive shrug.
“Not sure.” She motioned to an exposed root, coated dull red. It resembled a coil of old rope. “Looks like he may have bashed his head, maybe fallen heavily and awkwardly, breaking his neck in the process. Not impossible. Or, he may have been struck. I’ll know more as soon as I carry out a full post-mortem. Until then, your guess, Detective Chief Inspector, is as good as mine.”
“Never as good as yours.” He pursed his lips. “He’s still wearing his suit. The same suit he had on when he met us. Looks like he came straight from the office.”
“Why here, of all places?” said Dawson.
“Perhaps he was a nature lover,” said the pathologist, as she packed away items of her trade in a robust metal carrier case – sealed swabs, dusting brushes, evidence bags, other items.
McGuigan ignored the sarcasm. “To meet someone? This to me would be a nice place to meet.”
“Not easy to find,” said Dawson.
“Perhaps that was exactly the point. A place far away from prying eyes. A secret place, where secret things happen.”
The pathologist had her little case packed up, and appraised the two men, in particular McGuigan.
“It’s Friday. It’s almost the end of the week. I implore you, no more dead bodies. Can you manage? At least until Monday. It would be pleasant to have the weekend to myself. Just for the novelty value.”
McGuigan responded with a formal nod of his head. “Of course. I’ll make arrangements.”
She replied in a dry voice. “That’s very accommodating.”
She left the scene. Other forensic officers had arrived. Also, paramedics were getting ready to zip the lifeless form of Paul Hutchison into a large, thick plastic bag. Then the process would begin – lifting him onto a stretcher, carrying him back along the country paths to a waiting ambulance. Then, to the mortuary, where his body would be opened, organs displayed, probed, dissected, analysed, then his flesh sewn back up again, nice and packaged. Paul Hutchison – once swaggering lawyer. Now a lump of dead meat. All in a flash. McGuigan thought of the song – “What a Diff’rence a Day Makes”.
He stood, surveying the area. He cocked his head, stepped towards the base of the tree-trunk, careful of his step. The ground was soft soil, presumably kept damp by the nearby river, even in the heart of summer.
“There,” he said.
“Looks like something’s dug a hole,” said Dawson. “An animal? Maybe a fox, or a mole?”
McGuigan squatted down.
“It’s shallow. It’s fresh. Maybe an animal. Maybe an animal of the two-legged variety. Looking for something. Something buried?” He gestured to one of the forensic officers, who took a photograph of the area.
They made their way back through the woods. McGuigan noted how tightly packed the trees were, how thick and quiet.
“A strange place to die,” he said. He ruminated. “Why would a city centre lawyer come out to this place? It’s not as if he was set for a hike in the country. Otherwise he would have changed – boots, jeans, old clothes. Yes? He came here, because he had to. There was urgency.” He pursed his lips. He was convinced if he had a cigarette in his mouth, his brain would work faster. Any excuse. “He was told to come here. I believe he didn’t have a choice. I think he came to meet someone. This was not a random visit.”
“Could be,” agreed Dawson. “A dog walker found the body. But the police already had a tip-off. Maybe the guy he was meeting called it in. Didn’t leave a name. He used a public phone. Untraceable.”
“Does he have family?”
“Wife. Two kids. She’s been informed. Also, we contacted SJPS. They confirmed he left work yesterday at around six…”
“…and came straight here. Whoever it was who phoned wanted the body to be found, but wished to remain anonymous. Which indicates a lack of culpability.”
Dawson frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning whatever happened to Hutchison wasn’t intended. That he suffered a genuine accident. God knows, Dawson. I’m making this up as I’m going along. But there’s a shift in the air, don’t you think?”
“A shift?”
“Suddenly, a lot’s happening. And I have a sense, whatever this is, it’s only the beginning.”