Blood Is Thicker Than Water. Paul Gitsham

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “It’s a combination of a few small things, sir.” Harrison had photographed the body in situ before covering the hands in plastic bags to preserve evidence, then sending it away.

      “First, I’m not happy with the positioning of the body.” He pointed at the upturned rug. “If he’d tripped and gone straight down, I’d have expected the body to have landed a bit further back. He’d have still hit his head on the stone hearth, but probably missed the mantelpiece.”

      “He could have stumbled, caught himself, then gone down,” suggested Warren, playing devil’s advocate.

      Harrison shrugged. “It’s circumstantial, I agree. But I’m not happy about him tripping in the first place.” He pointed to the far end of the room. “He’s supposedly unsteady on his feet and needs assistance walking. So why didn’t he use his Zimmer frame?”

      Warren gauged the distance between the chair and the wheeled frame. “It looks as if it was beyond arm’s reach. Did he knock it out of the way in his sleep?”

      Harrison shook his head. “No chance. Look at the design: two wheels at the front, rubber stoppers at the back. That’s not going anywhere unless it’s moved deliberately.”

      “OK, so somehow the frame is out of his reach. He was a stubborn bugger from all accounts. Maybe he chose to walk unaided, to prove to himself that he could do it?”

      “But why not use his walking stick?”

      Warren thought for a moment, before seeing what Harrison had already spotted. “It was hanging off the left-hand side of the chair.”

      “Exactly. СКАЧАТЬ