Henry was lying on the bed, flat on his back, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Grey hair made a rumpled tonsure around a bald crown speckled with liver spots. His face was slack, like a sock-puppet without a hand, his features too big for that little head. A bottle of Bells lay beside one thin hand, only a third of it left.
A small plastic bottle of pills sat on the bedside cabinet.
The silly old git He d finally done it.
Chapter 17
I stared at the ceiling for a minute, then settled down on the stool in front of the vanity unit.
So much for getting Henry s help catching the Birthday Boy: looked as if Dr McDonald was on her own
Which wasn t exactly fair. The poor old sod deserved better than this, rotting away in a cold and lonely house, until the booze, an aneurism, or hypothermia finished the job.
Let s be honest, the end probably came as a bit of a relief.
Henry, could you not have waited till
A dry squeak came from the corpse, followed by the smell of death. Or rotten eggs. Or a mouldering otter Not dead, just farting.
Agh, not you too! What was it with psychologists?
I stuck a hand over my mouth, marched over to the curtains and threw them open, then did the same with the window, letting the cold air in and the smell of whatever was festering in Henry s bum out.
Henry!
Mmmmmph Nrm slppn Pale gums in a slack mouth.
Henry, you manky-arsed bugger: up! You ve got visitors.
He cracked an eye open and blinked at the ceiling. Sodding hell His voice sounded like a handful of walnuts being slowly crushed, the Aberdeen accent twisting the vowels out of shape. Fit time is it?
Nearly eight.
Tuesday?
Wednesday.
Near enough. He looked as if he was trying to sit up, then flopped back on top of the duvet. Am I dead?
You smell like it.
Oh In that case, give us a hand?
I hauled him out of bed, and propped him up against the wardrobe, trying not to breathe through my nose. God almighty, when did you last have a bath?
You look like a punch bag. A long, rattling cough. Where did I leave my teeth?
The little plastic bottle of pills rattled when I shook it. A printed label on the side: FLUVOXAMINE 50MG. TWO PILLS TWICE A DAY TO BE TAKEN WITH FOOD. AVOID ALCOHOL.
You shouldn t be drinking with these.
Ah, there they are. Henry picked a tumbler off the windowsill a set of dentures were floating in what looked like old urine. He fished his teeth out and popped them in, then drank the rest of the liquid, and sighed. The unmistakable reek of whisky.
Ash, much though I ve missed you like an amputated limb, I m guessing you want something His eyes narrowed. Then closed completely. His shoulders slumped. Of course, I m sorry. Rebecca s birthday was Monday, wasn t it? I meant to call, but
It s OK.
No, it s not. He clicked his false teeth together a couple of times. I used to be a psychologist, not an idiot. He snatched the bottle of Bells from the bed and slouched through to the kitchen. Put the kettle on, I need to wrestle my prostate into a decent morning piss for a change
By the time he came back from the toilet, I had four mugs of coffee sitting on the dusty kitchen worktop, the big ring on the gas stove turned up full to take the chill out of the air.
Henry froze in the doorway, frowning at Dr McDonald. Who s this? I thought you A sniff. And what s that bloody racket?
The strains of Bohemian Rhapsody came through the kitchen wall
Royce, whistling away to himself in the lounge. I didn t have the heart to tell him to knock it off.
Dr Forrester, this is Dr McDonald, she has a tendency to babble and her hangover farts smell even worse than yours.
Pink bloomed on her cheeks. He s not exactly it s this isn t really the first impression I wanted to make, I mean we ve come all the way up here and now you think I m some sort of drunkard, when really I was trying to dis-inhibit my normal thinking patterns so I could examine the case from the offender s perspective.
Henry raised an eyebrow. Well, aren t you delightfully quirky. He settled onto one of the breakfast-bar stools. What makes you think I m hungover?
I clunked a mug of black coffee down in front of him. You ve no milk.
His hands shook as he picked it up and slurped. Then topped it off with Bells, the neck of the bottle clattering around the mug s rim. Before you say anything: it s the Fluvoxamine stops your body breaking down caffeine properly, gives you the tremors. And you re not my mother. I m seventy-two, I can drink what I want, when I want.
Another slurp, then more whisky.
What happened to your windows?
Henry peered over the rim of his mug. Tell me, Dr McDonald, do you always binge drink when you re working on a profile?
She pulled out a stool and sat opposite him. Actually, we call it behavioural evidence analysis now, everyone was watching all those television shows where the FBI come in and give a profile and it s bang on and they catch the serial killer every time, and
Do you drink, or don t you?
She swallowed. Sometimes it helps loosen things up.
He nodded, then tipped half the remaining Bells into her mug.
This isn t a social visit: you re here about a case. And as you re here with DI Henderson, I m going to assume it s the Birthday Boy. We worked a couple of rapes together, but I think they both died in prison?
Heat leached through my mug into my aching fingers. Crouch got shanked in Barlinnie, Chambers drank a whole thing of bleach.
So it s the Birthday Boy. Another slurp, and this time when the whisky bottle went back on the breakfast bar it was empty. Can t help you.
A knock at the door and Royce stuck his head in from the hall.
I ve photoed and fingerprinted everything, so you can clean up if you like. Watch yourself though, there s glass and dog shit all over the place He grinned at me. Any chance of a coffee? I m freezing.
Henry s mouth turned down at the edges. Lucky me. He clapped his hands against his legs. Sheba? Sheeeeeee-ba?
I handed the last mug to Royce. Frowned. You said:
Burges has been at it again. Not, Arnold Burges?
Yeah, that s him: tall, fat, bald, big beard like he s eating a badger? Works one of the fish farms out by Calders Lea, he s been
Constable Clark, Henry pointed at a door in the corner of the room, if you want to make yourself useful there s a dustpan and brush in the cupboard. Some bin-bags too. And no more bloody whistling!
A wobbly dog shuffled into the kitchen, moving one leg at a time, its claws clicking and clacking on the floor. It bumped its head against Henry s leg and he reached down to rub a greying ear. The dog groaned.
Sheba, what did I tell you about crapping in the house?
More groans; one back leg twitched.
Crap in the kitchen, it s easier to clean up He stopped rubbing and looked at me. Well, she s old, what do you expect?
