Blue Vengenance: A Logan Thorne DCI Scottish Detective Thriller Page 4

  A bird screeched above us, and I felt myself shiver. I shoved my hands into my pockets as my fingertips were painfully cold and eyed Harding’s leather gloves.

  “What are you sorry for?” I asked a moment later.

  “That he's dead,” Harding replied.

  “That’s not your fault,” I pointed out.

  “I know,” she said as she looked at her feet. “But it seems to be what people expect you to say.”

  “It’s okay.” I stared at Brown, as though if I looked intently enough, I might see through him and find the answers I wanted. “It was a long time ago now. A lot has changed.”

  Harding exhaled a whisper of cold mist, and the sun ducked behind the clouds again. I could hear the sirens drawing closer, and I offered Brown a quiet ‘I’m sorry’.

  “It must be terrible to feel you have no way out,” she said.

  “You think he did this to himself?” I asked with feigned indifference.

  An idea had started to form in my head, but I couldn’t quite see it clearly. All I knew was that the diazepam was critically important. Right then, I wished for Brown’s enviable deduction skills. Back in the day, there had been no one better.

  “What else could it be?” my DS asked as she looked at me. “Look at where he is. At what the date is. It’s what you thought we would find, isn’t it?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but the first cars had arrived, and my own ideas were still only half-formed. I watched the troops for a moment and then decided to keep my thoughts to myself for the moment.

  “Diazepam, right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Harding agreed. “It makes sense, I suppose. His wife was probably prescribed it for her seizures.”

  “You’re right.” I stared at a ladybug crawling on the stone, and moved a piece of hair from my eye. “She was prescribed it.”

  “Well, then?” Harding pressed. “What’s the issue?”

  “The issue is that he’s allergic,” I said in a low voice.

  I watched her eyebrows shoot up.

  “To diazepam?” she asked in surprise. “That’s very specific.”

  “Not just to diazepam. He was allergic to all benzodiazepines.” I glanced back to Brown, glad to have worked this part out.

  Only Maddy Harding did not look pleased. She bit her lip anxiously, as though not wanting to speak her mind.

  “Exactly my point, sir,” she finally said. “What does that matter?”

  “What does it matter if he’s allergic?” I clarified.

  Harding nodded, and I moved closer to my boss’ body and examined his face. I finally knew what I was looking for, and it wasn’t there.

  “Maybe that’s why he took these pills,” Harding suggested. “Because he was allergic. Maybe he figured they’d kill him quickly.”

  “There’s an easy way to find out for sure, and we wouldn’t even have to wait for the autopsy.” My words trailed off at autopsy. I’d almost forgotten that Brown would be taken to Forensics and laid out on their cold, metal table.

  I glanced towards the car lot again and saw that several officers were rushing up the slope in our direction. An ambulance had arrived and was working its way across the uneven ground, though I had no idea how the driver planned on reaching us without taking out a few markers along the way. It was now or never, so I gently untucked Brown’s shirt from his trousers.

  I held my breath as I lifted the shirt.

  His skin was entirely clear of rash.

  I looked at Harding, and I saw her eyes light up as she finally understood.

  “Tell Dispatch it’s not suicide,” I said. “It’s murder.”

  Chapter 3

  The paramedics leapt from the ambulance and brandished their medic bags as if they were charging into battle. We moved out of their way as they ran towards us and watched as they knelt to confirm that Brown was dead. I then heard the wheeze of police officers as they appeared on the scene, too, and when I whirled around, I was confronted by the shock on their faces.

  They had all worked for Brown for years. They had complained about their boss over pints in the pub and mocked his out-of-date suits, bought by his wife long ago. Some of the younger officers had dismissed Brown as a mere pencil pusher with no knowledge of investigative work. I had heard them disparage Brown, often while queued in the canteen or in the lift, and I hadn’t said a word, nor had I corrected their false opinions. I’d taken the easy way out, and I would have to live with that regret.

  Despite their dislike for the man, the fact was Brown was a fellow police officer, and now as they looked upon Brown’s body, I saw only sadness in their faces. Their grief soon gave way to anger, and the stooped shoulders became straight backs.. I felt the energy change as well, and I felt them buzzing like a gang about to fight.

  I watched the paramedics move the body onto a stretcher and then mumble into their radios. Their motions were less frantic now, and the smaller man even paused for a moment to whisper something over the body. The larger man paused for breath, adjusted his jacket, and licked his lips, as if wracked with sudden thirst. He glanced at me and there was compassion in his face.

  I felt Harding gently tug my elbow. I looked up to see the clouds had cleared up entirely, and the sun shone down on us uninterrupted. I registered the irony with a deep sigh and batted away a fly buzzing beside my ear.

  “We should go,” Harding whispered. “We can head back to the station and start our investigation. There’s nothing else we can do here, and the forensics team will want to set up.”

  “I just need to talk to the medics,” I said.

  I strode over to the stretcher as the smaller man was pulling up the sheet. He spoke into his radio again and then nodded to his partner. The larger man had seen me coming, and though he nodded to the other medic, he waited for me to stop next to the sad scene.

  “Are you a friend?” the larger man asked.

  “I am,” I replied.

  The smaller man started to pull the sheet back, but I placed a hand over his and shook my head.

  “No, I’ve seen enough,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure that you had in your records that this man was allergic to benzos.”

  “Allergic to benzos,” the smaller man said as he glanced towards the plastic bag that was still on the ground. “Are you sure?”

  “Very,” I replied.

  The paramedics exchanged a glance, and I knew they hadn’t seen any reaction to the drugs, either. The larger man tapped out a quick note on his tablet, and then the pair started to move the stretcher to the ambulance.

  This time, I followed the path through the graveyard. As we walked, I kicked aside a rusty coke can and watched it flip over and over before rolling against a tree. I was angry thinking of a person dropping litter there, of all places, right between two elaborately decorated graves.

  The air seemed warmer as afternoon bled into evening. I tilted my face to the sky so the sun could heat my eyelids and my dry, cracked lips. The evening appeared later than it really was. It was getting dark so much earlier, the nights cracking wide open to reveal chaos. That would mean busier shifts for us all. The public often grew restless and bored in the darker months and were more likely to commit a crime.

  I stopped walking when I saw a mess of flowers which were old and dry, the leaves edged brown. The bottom of the stalks had turned to mush. The headstone they had been placed at was cracked and weathered, the letters faded slightly, although I could still read some of the words. A loving husband. I knelt down to pick it all up. It was easy to tear off the shredded stalks and the flowers immediately looked more alive. I gathered them in a bunch, placed them next to the headstone, and secured it all with a large rock.

  When I stood back up, I realised DS Harding was watching me with interest.

  “What?” I asked defensively.

  “Nothing.” She shook her head and then smiled so brightly it almost knocked me over. “Just don’t see this side of you often.”

  I grumble
d under my breath and started down the trail again. Harding kept pace beside me and hummed the whole way back to the car. The SOCOs arrived as we reached the lot, and I waved them towards the hill where the rest of the police force was still gathered. The driver peered at the markers, and then eased the SUV forward along the path laid out by the ambulance.

  We climbed back in the car before any of the new arrivals could ask us questions, and I started up the car. I pulled away from the graveyard without a backwards look, and we made the half hour drive to the station in silence.

  “Have they taken Brown’s car to the lab?” I asked as I pulled into a reserved spot behind the station.

  “Yes, sir,” Harding replied quickly. “Forensics has already started examining it.”

  “Good,” I said.

  I turned the engine off, and we both sat in the car for a moment longer. I sighed, but I suddenly felt too tired to move. I picked up the nearly empty coffee cup and then set it back in the holder.

  “Sir-- I have to know something,” Harding said as she studied me.

  “What?” I asked flatly.

  “Why were you so sure it wasn’t suicide?” Harding asked.

  “No rash, Harding, remember?” I said. “Surely you haven’t forgotten already.”

  “No, of course, I haven’t, but…” Harding trailed off.

  “Go on,” I said in a tired voice. “Spit it out.”

  “How did you know he was allergic?” she asked quickly. “And how did you even know where to examine his body for a rash?”

  I glanced at her. Harding’s lovely face was creased with confusion and anxiety, and I could see the first signs of doubt as well.

  “I told you that we were friends,” I said and hoped that would be enough. I’d already dredged up enough old memories for the day.

  “Yes, but you didn’t say you were that close,” she replied. “I know my best friend is allergic to cats, but that’s only because mine nearly killed her.”

  “I had no idea you even had friends, Harding,” I joked, and she made a show of huffing at that and crossing her arms.

  I smirked at her pretend outrage, and the tension was broken for a moment.

  “We’ve been friends forever,” Harding sniffed.

  “You should probably get rid of your cat, then,” I said.

  “I think I’d rather get rid of my best friend,” Harding said with a smile. Then, she pressed the side of her face to the window and closed her eyes, as if bracing herself for an impact.“You still haven’t explained it, sir.”

  I drank a mouthful of coffee. It was cold, but it still hit the spot.

  “Did I tell you that I went to his and Denise’s house quite a lot?” I asked.

  “You know you did.” Harding replied. She rubbed the patch of skin between her eyebrows, a nervous affectation I’d registered long before.

  “Well, what you have to understand is that Brown never had any real health issues,” I replied. “Ever. He hadn’t even broken a bone. I’m not sure he ever took anything stronger than paracetamol.”

  “Lucky him,” Harding noted.

  “Brown took one of Denise’s pills once, because he thought it was Ibuprofen,” I continued. “I don’t know how he got the two mixed up, but he did. It's very rare to be allergic to benzos. But of course, Brown wouldn’t have known that. He might have lived his whole life not knowing.”

  Harding nodded, but she frowned after a moment’s thought.

  “Okay,” she said. “But that doesn't explain how you knew exactly what to look for.”

  “Let me finish,” I sighed. “I knew because I was with him when he swallowed that pill. I was at the house. And I was there when his throat began to close up.”

  Harding’s eyes opened wide with interest.

  "I drove him to the hospital,” I continued. “I’ll never forget how he looked, blown up like a puffer fish, and his mouth pleading silently for oxygen.”

  “Oh,” Harding murmured.

  “The doctors said he would have died if I hadn’t got him there so quickly,” I said. “I think I was handed two speeding tickets from that journey. And then Brown’s whole upper body was just covered in a terrible rash. It drove him mad with itchiness.”

  “On his stomach?” she guessed.

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “It looked just like when I had chickenpox as a kid. You don’t forget that sight in a hurry. A grown man writhing like he’s covered in bugs.”

  “Thank god you were there,” she said, though I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the day so long ago or that moment in the cemetery when I had realized what was wrong with the scene.

  “We would have found out the truth eventually,” I said. “Tomorrow, or the day after maybe. But knowing the truth now allows us to skip a few steps ahead.”

  “No, not just today,” she replied. “I mean back then. He would be dead if it wasn't for you.”

  “He is dead,” I said simply.

  Harding looked at me, and her mouth gaped open.

  “I didn’t mean-- I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

  I raised my hands. It had been a difficult day for her, too.

  “I know, don’t worry,” I assured her.

  I looked up at the police station. It was an old grey-brick building, built the same year Mikhail Gorbachev visited Edinburgh, though that was a coincidence. It loomed seven stories over us, tall for a local station, but too small for all of the cases we had to deal with. Harding often joked the top-floor offices weren’t big enough for the occupants’ egos, and I had warned her on more than one occasion not to repeat that in public. Even though she was right, their egos were extremely fragile, and she wouldn’t be the first to get the sack for offending their sensibilities.

  “We should go in,” I commented.

  “Yes, we should,” Harding agreed.

  I unbuckled my belt, opened the door, and stepped out into the gloom. I glanced towards the spot where Brown’s car would normally be parked and then started towards the station with Harding by my side.

  The usual crowds of people moved in and out of the revolving doors. Clearly, Brown’s death hadn’t halted the station’s day-to-day business. Harding and I waited for an elderly couple to clear the doors before we pushed our way inside. Everything seemed the same, from the fresh coat of paint put on for the Mayor’s recent visit to the framed photo of Her Majesty that hung just behind the desk.

  Well, almost everything. The receptionist, a dark-skinned woman with large brown eyes and one long braid, had tears pouring down her cheeks and a clutch of tissues in her hand. I’d never seen the woman with anything but a smile on her face, and she made a point of greeting everyone who walked through the door. As I watched, she held a tissue to her nose and blew so hard that it sounded like a sick swan. The sound bounced around the foyer like an echo inside a cave, and I saw several of the civilians waiting nearby look at her with concern.

  Harding shook her head and then looked at me.

  “Think she ever even spoke to Brown?” she asked sceptically. “I mean, beyond hello?”

  I examined the receptionist’s teary eyes, shiny as a wet pebble, and how she glanced up to smile bravely at those who passed her desk. I also saw the fresh coat of lipstick on her mouth.

  “No,” I guessed. “She wants the attention.”

  It worked for her, too. An older, bald security guard edged around her desk. He knelt down next to her and winced with the effort. When he patted her shoulder, she cried a fresh set of tears into an old tissue, and the man darted off into the toilet, presumably to grab more.

  He returned a moment later with a fistful of tissues, which he pressed into her hands. She then cried gratefully into his chest and tucked her elbow on top of his rounded belly. I was surprised his uniform didn’t dampen from all of those tears. He eased a careful arm around her.

  “This is really quite painful to watch,” I said.

  Harding snorted in agreement, and so we padded down the thickly carpeted hallwa
y, away from the show. The new paint smell in the reception area soon gave way to the scents of curry and sweat as we moved into the back rooms of the station, where very few visitors or VIP’s were ever invited. We passed the pictures of all people that had held the title of Chief Constable’s since the station opened in 1984, and I hesitated when we reached the last one in the line, CC Brown. He looked so much younger in that photo, eager and proud.

  “Wonder whose picture will be there next?” Harding murmured.

  “I’m sure the maneuvering has already begun,” I snickered.

  We continued to the end of the hall and stopped in front of the lifts. Harding pressed the button, and a moment later, the doors slid soundlessly open and the annoying, tinkling music drifted out. We stepped into the elevator together, and I leaned against the back of the car as I tried to tune out the impossibly bad instrumental version of ‘Let it Be’. The doors started to close, but a woman suddenly darted through before they could slide shut.

  “Hello, Inspector, Maddy," the newcomer said with a tight smile.

  She was shorter than Harding, and rounder as well. Her straight black hair was pulled into a ponytail so tight it lifted her eyebrows a good inch or two, and her grey eyes were anything but friendly.

  “Candice,” I nodded.

  Candice turned to stare at the illuminated number pad with a fierce concentration it did not deserve. The edge of her ponytail caught my nose, and I held back a sneeze.

  I sighed and cursed whatever fates had stuck us in the elevator this day with Candice. She had applied for a promotion from Sergeant to DS a couple of months ago and had applied for the same job that Harding had. But I had wanted Harding to get it, and so recommended Candice stay in uniform for a while longer. She hadn’t forgiven either of us. Her stubbornness and lack of professionalism had proved I was completely correct in favouring Harding.

  I stared into the metal doors and gazed at my own distorted reflection. I felt movement at my side, looked to Harding, and saw she’d made a face at Candice’s back.

  “Coward,” I whispered.

  Harding smirked and dug her elbow into my ribs. Candice’s body stiffened, but she refused to turn around. I watched the numbers go by, while Harding twirled her hair, and Candice stared grimly at the certificate. At last, the lift doors opened up into the Serious Crimes unit. I squeezed past Candice, and was about to head towards my office when the angry woman spoke again.