But Cash shook his head. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Paul Carter was laid out on the metal table. Water was still seeping from him, being diverted to the table’s drainage channels and from there into pails beneath. Fox could see that Carter’s face was swollen. There was a brackish smell in the small, already claustrophobic room. Maybe he’d misjudged this: Fox hadn’t been present at many autopsies; he was hoping he wouldn’t keel over. Nor was Brendan Young looking too comfortable. The pathologist spoke into a microphone as the examination got under way. He pushed down on the chest, expelling a gurgling stream of water from the corpse’s mouth. Fox’s own mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his ears. The body had probably been in the water eight to ten hours, putting time of death at somewhere between eleven p.m. and one a.m. Core temperature was tested, and the eyeballs checked. Once the Y-incision had been made and the ribcage prised open, the pathologist was able to examine the contents of the lungs.
‘No doubt in my mind that he drowned,’ he said. ‘Whether he fell in or jumped…’ He made a gesture that could have been a shrug.
As the examination continued, organs removed and weighed, Brendan Young shuffled back until he was resting against the wall, eyes all but closed. Fox stood his ground, though he was concentrating with his ears rather than his eyes.
‘Nose is broken,’ the pathologist said, almost to himself, as he peered closely at the face.
‘Maybe the body took a pounding against the sea wall,’ Cash offered.
‘Not much wind last night… doubtful there was enough of a swell to cause an injury like that.’ The pathologist moved to Carter’s hands and arms. ‘Tissue on the knuckles is scraped… Same goes for the tips of the fingers.’
‘He was in a fight?’ Fox speculated.
‘Or fell to the ground. Put his hands down instinctively and grazed them.’ Eventually, the stomach was opened.
‘Smell that?’ the pathologist asked, turning his attention to his audience.
‘Booze,’ Cash said.
‘Lager, I think. And spirits of some kind.’ The man bent down over the body and sniffed. ‘Whisky.’
‘So he’s drunk and he goes walking down by the harbour.’
‘It’s one scenario. Another would be a tussle of some kind.’
‘But he was alive when he went in the water?’ Fox asked.
‘Almost definitely,’ the pathologist stated.
Quarter of an hour later, they had taken off the protective clothing, splashed water on their hands and faces and were back in the corridor, leaving the pathologist and his assistant to finish up.
‘Spit it out,’ Cash told Fox. An unfortunate choice of words, since DS Young had just spent several minutes bent over the sink, attempting to hack some residual taste from the back of his throat. He looked pale and was still perspiring. When Naysmith offered him a stick of gum, he snatched at it.
‘Carter had a meeting in a local bar last night,’ Fox said. ‘But before I tell you who with, I want a promise that me and my team won’t be kept out in the cold.’
‘No promises,’ Cash said.
Fox took his time considering this. He even turned his head to make eye contact with Kaye.
‘I need to know what you know first,’ Cash went on, his tone softening a little.
‘The meeting was with Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson,’ Fox conceded.
Cash slid his hands into his pockets again. The habit was beginning to annoy Fox. It was as if the detective inspector had learned most of his moves from old gangster films.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked.
‘We sent Naysmith in to eavesdrop.’
‘And how did you know about the meeting in the first place?’
‘Does it matter? The thing is, the four of them were out together last night. You’re going to want to talk to them, and I want to hear what they’ve got to say.’
Cash was looking at Naysmith. ‘What sort of time?’
‘It was just before eight when they sat down with their drinks,’ Naysmith obliged.
‘And when did they leave?’
Naysmith looked towards Tony Kaye for help.
‘They clocked him,’ Kaye told Cash. ‘By ten past the hour, we were on our way.’
Cash didn’t say anything for a few moments, happy to bask in the Complaints’ inefficiency.
‘So your undercover surveillance lasted a maximum of fifteen minutes?’ He turned his attention to Fox and offered a gloating smile.
‘All right, you’ve had your fun,’ Fox said coldly. ‘The thing is, they’ll know what sort of state Paul Carter was in, and what time the session broke up.’
‘That they will,’ Cash acknowledged with a nod.
‘So we need to talk to them.’
Cash stared at him. ‘No promises, remember?’
Fox had had enough. He got right into Cash’s face. ‘One thing you’re forgetting – my report goes straight to your Chief Constable. That report’s already going to make pretty interesting reading. The whole reason we’re here is so your boss can show everyone how spick and span everything is. Last thing he wants is the media getting wind that obstacles were put in our way. Names will be named, Detective Inspector Cash.’ Fox paused. ‘I never did catch your first name. Better spell it out for me, just to be on the safe side.’
Cash made Fox wait – which was fine by Fox. He knew the man would climb down eventually. Eventually he held his hands up in a show of surrender.
‘Cooperation has always been my byword,’ he said with a humourless half-smile. ‘We’re all on the same side after all, aren’t we?’
Fox maintained eye contact, their faces only inches apart.
‘Duly noted,’ he told the CID man.
There was further news waiting for them at the station – news that changed everything. Cash mulled it over and decided he wanted all three of Paul Carter’s colleagues in the same room at the same time. The interview room was too cramped, so he cleared the CID office. DS Young had been sent to fetch Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson.
‘We’ve got recording equipment,’ Fox told Cash. The DI nodded his agreement and Joe Naysmith started setting everything up: video as well as audio. The three others – Cash, Fox and Kaye – started moving desks, making a decent-sized space. Eight chairs were needed: five facing three. Phones rang but went unanswered. Cash wiped sweat from his forehead with a voluminous white handkerchief.
‘You three,’ he explained to Fox, ‘are here to listen.’
‘Until advised otherwise,’ Fox agreed.
The door opened and four figures trooped in. Haldane and Michaelson looked dazed, Scholes wary. DS Young pointed towards the three chairs.
‘What is this?’ Scholes asked.
‘Got a few questions for you,’ Cash stated.
Scholes took in the three Complaints officers and nodded his understanding. ‘Next time you try a stunt like that,’ he said, eyes on Fox but gesturing towards Naysmith, ‘use someone old enough not to be asked for proof of age by the landlord.’
The colour rose to Joe Naysmith’s cheeks as he checked the gear. Scholes had turned to his colleagues.
‘It’s because we were out with him last night,’ he told them. Then he sat down. There was silence in the room, until Naysmith said, ‘Okay.’ Cash took a deep breath and folded his arms.
‘It’s pretty grim, all of this,’ he said. ‘Sorry you’ve lost a friend…’
Scholes grunted a response.
‘As you say, you were out with him last night…’
‘Few jars at the Wheatsheaf,’ Michaelson stated.
‘What time was that?’
‘We left the back of nine, maybe half past.’
