Rosie hummed to herself as she flicked through the glossy brochures. She’d driven BMWs for years now but maybe it was time for a change and after the accident perhaps a different car was a good idea. Audis had always appealed to her and this model with its soft top looked just the ticket. She could imagine herself driving Solly out into the countryside for a picnic in one of these. The pathologist smiled at her whimsy as she heard the rain battering down against the mortuary windows; it would be a good few weeks before they could think about picnics never mind open-topped cars. Her husband had never learned to drive and was quite oblivious to the allure of classic marques, but Dr Rosie Fergusson delighted in cars, despite the horrendous accident that had almost proved fatal. She was a huge fan of TV’s Top Gear but Solly simply couldn’t understand the pleasure it gave her to watch all these beautiful, sleek motor cars being road tested. Her own BMW had been a total write-off; now it was time to stop taking black cabs all over the city and find something she really wanted to drive.
With a sigh that was not wholly unsatisfied, Rosie put the brochures to one side of her desk and picked up her mug of coffee, draining what was left of it.
‘Time to get on with the job,’ she muttered to herself, pushing back her chair and giving one final wistful glance at the picture of a low-slung Jaguar that she knew was way above her budget. There were cases waiting for her examination, two corpses blackened by fire. A short while ago these had been living, breathing human beings, a middle-aged man and his wife; any evidence she could find that helped the Crown Office to find how and why they had died would also render some kind of service to the deceased.
The woman had been alive during the fire, most probably conscious and aware of the full horror of her fate. Her arms had been raised in a familiar pugilistic stance, now fixed rigidly in death, and it seemed to Rosie that she had been trying to ward off the poisonous smoke and flames. Some people thought of death as an instantaneous event, like a light being extinguished; but death wasn’t really like that. It was a process: more like the sun slipping behind the horizon than the flick of a switch. But this hadn’t been a pleasant death at all. Rosie looked at the remains of the woman’s face, now a charred skull whose gaping mouth told of one final desperate scream. It would have given the scene of crime photographer an easier shot for the forensic odontologist, Rosie told herself, trying shake off an unfamiliar feeling of queasiness that had grabbed her stomach.
‘Too long away from the job,’ she muttered into her mask. But it wasn’t that: Rosie had never enjoyed the post-mortem examinations of fire victims. Often there was so little left by a giant conflagration that one person’s remains could fit into a shoebox. Other times the yellow, leathery skin gave such an unnatural appearance to a cadaver that it was like examining some alien species.
Pauline Jackson’s corpse was better than some she had seen but it was still just a skeleton when all was said and done. What identifying marks she might have had in life such as hair, eyes and skin were reduced to the formation of her bones; especially the teeth, still comparatively white in that soot-stained jaw. Rosie was taking pains to scrape out all the deposits from the tips of the finger bones, just in case anything other than carbon was there. The spine had been shattered in two places and much care had been required to set the entire skeleton carefully into place on the examination table. There was still masses of forensic detail to come in but the scene of crime manager’s preliminary report had given her enough to go on for now.
The Jacksons had been in bed when the fire had broken out in the kitchen below, the location of what was being considered as the primary seat of the fire. Last night’s TV pundit had suggested that a burning chip pan had been the likeliest cause, but that was only partial speculation until an exact source of the fire had been officially confirmed. Parts of the first floor of the house had crashed through into the kitchen and other downstairs areas, taking with it the couple’s bed and other furnishings, now swallowed up in the flames. The television voice claimed that only the metal headboard and base from the king-size bed had remained intact, the twin corpses eventually found, curled towards one another, beneath masses of other fallen debris.
Rosie blinked, concentrating on each single fingertip. A tragic accident, the newscaster had called it. And yet a small voice inside the pathologist’s head persisted in asking: why on earth would anyone start to make chips then wander off to bed? And though the public might think of this as a terrible accident, she knew perfectly well that Strathclyde police were treating it as a possible case of wilful fire-raising.
‘Sir Ian was one of Scotland’s most generous benefactors,’ Chief Constable David Isherwood declared, the crystal glass in his hand tipped slightly to one side, its amber contents threatening to spill on to the thick carpet in his spacious office. ‘Don’t forget that Jackson Tannock Technology Systems is one of Scotland’s great successes,’ he added. The man he was addressing simply nodded. Everyone knew these names nowadays, he thought, listening to the story of two men whose ideas had burgeoned into a multi-million pound firm. Originally set up by Hugh Tannock’s expertise and backed by Ian Jackson’s money, the business had provided welcome employment for hundreds of technical and support staff. This, coupled with Ian Jackson’s penchant for supporting local causes, had earned the financier his knighthood.
The man opposite the Chief Constable stood, legs apart, considering his senior officer’s words. Once upon a time Jackson had been referred to as an entrepreneur if one was being kind, and a wheeler-dealer if envy coloured one’s vision of the man. DCI Colin Ray listened as the most senior officer in the Force continued to list the late financier’s public merits.
Another ten minutes and he was out of here. Ray had even primed one of his DIs to call his mobile just to get him away. Every second spent here was a second more ticking away on what little time Grace had left. And he was not going to let even David Isherwood, the Chief Constable of Strathclyde Police, waste these precious minutes.
At last the Chief Constable was laying down his glass and giving Ray a pat on the shoulder. Then the DCI was out of Pitt Street and into a police BMW, speeding down towards the Kingston Bridge, his driver ready to put on blues and twos if he was asked. But the motorway was relatively clear and it would only take fifteen minutes to drive up to Johnstone and the hospice.
Colin Ray’s head was full of the Chief Constable’s admonitions. Look among the lowlife of Port Glasgow and Greenock, he’d been told. See if there have been any other fire incidents. But above all, Ray thought to himself, don’t look among Sir Ian’s crowd for a possible enemy because, according to the Chief Constable, he simply didn’t have any. He was being warned off, Ray thought. In any other circumstances he’d be the first to dig into the victim’s background for a possible motive. But it suited him to play this one to the Chief Constable’s tune.
A vision of Grace’s wasted face smiling came to him then: some things were far more important.
‘Sir Ian and Lady Jackson’s children are here to talk to you,’ Emma whispered to Rosie as she emerged from the shower.
‘Ask them to wait in the lounge, will you? And see if they want tea. Thanks, Em.’ Rosie nodded. She sighed heavily. This was one of the most horrible bits of her job. Performing post-mortems was a doddle compared to having to deal with the bereaved. Still, it had to be done and she’d have to find something to tell these kids.
Two faces looked up at the consultant pathologist as she entered the room reserved for relatives of the deceased. Rosie was surprised; the man and woman who sat there regarding her solemnly were not as young as she had expected them to be. The chap might be in his late twenties, the sister a little younger, though it was hard to tell through the huge dark glasses the woman was wearing.
‘Doctor Fergusson.’ Rosie extended her hand, bending down only a little towards the girl. The man was on his feet at once, good manners overriding any semblance of grief.
‘Daniel Jackson,’ he replied, taking Rosie’s hand in a firm grip, then letting it go. ‘My sister, Serena,’ he added, glancing to the woman who sat very still on the couch, her head averted from them as if she was trying to hide her emotions.
Rosie breathed in hard. Daniel Jackson should have been introduced to her under some other circumstances, just so she could feast her eyes on this specimen of perfect manhood. A little under six feet, she thought, and standing so straight that he might have been an off-duty guardsman. Her first impression was of brown: soft reddish-brown hair, eyes the colour of caramels; and that expensive looking alpaca coat and these narrow brogues (handmade?) shining like polished conkers. Soft, brown, understated, but class, Rosie thought, searching for an adequate word to describe Daniel Jackson. Handsome didn’t do justice to that oval face, its lightly tanned complexion suggesting he’d come straight off the ski slopes. Tom Cruise without the twinkle in his eyes, Rosie decided. Taller and less rugged than the American actor; this one was smooth and calm, even under the
