residence of yours.' He dropped a shotgun pellet into the DI's palm. 'I haven't recovered them all,' he went on, 'but I'd say it was one barrel from a twelve-bore, at a range of one metre to four feet.'
'Side by side, over and under, or single-barrelled?'
'Almost certainly. Ruptured his aorta, amongst other things. Must have pumped all his blood over the floor before he died. Bit like when the pipe comes off the washing machine.'
'Do you have to be so bloody graphic?' protested the DI.
'Sorry. Interesting case, though. His arteries were in a shocking state. Somebody wasted a shotgun cartridge on him; he was heading for a massive heart attack in the next few months.'
'Fascinating. Time of death?'
'Oh, between six and seven last night.'
'Thank you, Alan. Is there anything else you can tell me, or will it all be on my desk in your report by ten a.m.?'
'No chance,' replied the Professor. 'There was one odd thing though.
Don't go away.'
He left the DI and went over to the trolley that stood alongside the operating table. He returned holding a small piece of paper.
'What's this?' asked Peterson, taking it.
'Found it when we went through his clothing. It was just stuffed into the breast pocket of his jacket. Does it mean anything?'
The DI held it by the corner between two fingers, as if holding a cigarette. 'It's just a picture of a mushroom,' he stated.
'Not necessarily,' replied Tuke. 'It could be a death cap, they're very similar. Odd thing to cut out and put in your pocket, though, don't you think?'
Peterson shrugged. 'Don't make it complicated, Alan, this is reality.
Maybe he was a fungi… something-or-other.'
'Fortunately, that's your problem. Come on. I'll treat you to a bacon sandwich in the canteen.'
Peterson got to his feet and they walked out of the lab. He was as near to being shocked as he'd been for many years.
'A bacon sandwich!' he protested. 'After that!' He gestured with a nod of his head back to where the violated body lay.
'Got to look after the inner man, Oscar.'
'I'd have thought you'd seen enough of the inner man for an hour or two. And what about his stuffed-up arteries?' Peterson worried about arteries.
'I'm hungry. PMs are hard work. All that sawing and pulling gives you an appetite.'
They were approaching the big glass doors that led out on to the street.
'I'm worried about you, Alan. You're turning into a bloody ghoul,'
Peterson said. He went on: 'What moves you? When was the last time you had tears in your eyes? Watching a Lassie video on Christmas Day, I expect.'
'They're dead when I get them, Oscar. You have to deal with the living. I'd find that hard.'
They'd reached the doors. The Professor paused with his hand on the handle. 'Trent Bridge,' he said. 'About five years ago.'
'What was?'
'Last time I wept. You asked me, remember?'
'Cricket?' queried the DI.
'That's right. I'll never forget it.' A faraway look came over his face and his eyes fixed on a spot high on the wall. 'David Gower was batting. He'd been pinned down on ninety-eight for about fifteen minutes. It was the last over and they brought on Curtly Ambrose to try to shift him. He was bowling out of the sun, and he unleashed one that went down like a ballistic missile. Gower stepped forward and drove it into the crowd for six. You could have heard the cheers at Headingley.'
When he was certain the Professor had stopped, Peterson said: 'So what did it? Gower's elegance? His courage? Or was it just his boyish good looks?'
'No, none of those,' replied the Professor, pulling the door open. 'It hit me on the kneecap. I was walking with a stick for a week. Ciao, Oscar.'
'S'long, pillock,' Peterson chuckled, and walked out into the night.
Chapter 8
Denise Davison wife of Reg, eager-beaver sales manager of Wimbles Agri was watering the plants in the front bay window when the police car pulled into the street. She was filling the saucers under the cyclamen, being very careful not to wet the corms. As she watched the car go by she overflowed on to the windowsill, and as it turned round at the end of the cul-de-sac and began to creep back towards her she irrigated a Capo di Monte figurine of a shepherdess that Reg's parents had given them as a wedding present eighteen years earlier.
The police officer climbed out of the car, looked the front of the house up and down, and opened the gate. Mrs. Davison wiped her hands on the front of her dress and waited for his knock. She opened the door instantly.
'Yes?' she quavered.
'Sorry to trouble you, ma'am. Are you Mrs. Davison?'
'Yes.'
'Ah, good.' He introduced himself. 'Could you tell me if Mr. Davison is at home?'
Her eyes opened wide in her pale face. 'No. I mean… you mean …'
'Mean what, Mrs. Davison?'
'I thought… I thought you'd come to tell me… Perhaps you had better come in.'
She led the young PC into the obsessively tidy sitting room and gestured towards the settee. He sank into it while she sat on an upright chair opposite him.
'Now, Mrs. Davison,' he intoned, 'what is it you want to tell me?'
'Nothing,' she whimpered. 'I thought you'd come to tell me about Reg … Mr. Davison.'
'Tell you what about him?'
'I don't know… That you'd found him…'
'No, Mrs. Davison. I'm just making routine enquiries of all owners of blue Volvos. You may have read about it in the papers. We're trying to trace one that was involved in a hit-and-run accident several weeks ago. I think you'd better start at the beginning. Why should we have found Mr. Davison?'
She looked confused. 'He… he didn't come home last night,' she stammered.
'I see. Has this ever happened before?'
'No. He often works away, he's a sales manager and has to stay overnight sometimes, but he always lets me know.'
'Have you reported him missing?'
Mrs. Davison shook her head. 'No. I thought he was doing it to hurt me. Things have been… strained between us these last few weeks.'
'Strained? In what way?'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'It's hard to say. He's seemed so touchy lately. It's his job; he has a lot of responsibility.'
'I see.' The PC was enjoying this. He was amazed how compassionate and responsible his own voice sounded, and Mrs. Davison did have rather shapely legs. 'When did you last see your husband?' he continued.
'Yesterday morning. Tuesdays I have an evening class in word processing I have a part-time secretarial job but I'd like to try for something a bit more permanent. I left Reg a meal ready to warm in the microwave, like I usually do, but he never came home for it.'
'What frame of mind was he in when you saw him last?'
