The Coldest Blood

Buster showed her the immersion heater and the gas boiler in a hall cupboard. She checked the windows, letting the cool air which slipped through the ill-fitting metal frames play on her lips.

Dryden wandered round, making an effort to collect the kind of detail that would bring the feature alive. The plastic Christmas tree with fairy lights unlit, the three cards on the mantelpiece, the puckered wallpaper in one corner of the ceiling where the damp had got through. A goldfish bowl stood on the bedside table, complete with underwater castle apparently without a resident. He flicked the bowl with his finger.

‘Belly up,’ said Buster from the doorway.

Dryden noted the slight sheen of ice on a family snapshot which stood framed on the window ledge.

Back in the front room Vee ran through the couple’s shopping list with Buster, trying to see if she could slip them on to the council’s meals-on-wheels service. That could save them enough cash to run the heating for longer, and stock up the cupboard with some soups, fresh vegetables and fruit. She did some sums on a pocket calculator, expertly summarizing their pension position and eligibility for winter fuel payments and the cold-weather bonus.

‘We might be able to get you a grant, Mr Timms – on top of the payments. It’s worth ?2,500 – you could get double-glazing. And you know the hospital does sessions as well?’ she asked. ‘They do some very light physiotherapy – hot drinks. Just going would be good for you.’

Buster looked stoically unimpressed. ‘Your man did that already,’ he said.

Vee paused, sipping tea, thinking she’d misheard.

‘The doc. Called the other day with your flier. Did miracles with her shoulders, checked her temperature, pulse, the lot.’

‘And you?’ asked Dryden, catching Vee’s good eye.

Buster tucked the tartan dressing gown more securely around his waist: ‘He scarpered when I got home, I’d been down the bowls club. He was off then. Didn’t believe she was seventy-one, she said. Said she could run a marathon.’ Buster nodded, looking at them both. ‘Bit of a tosser, really.’

‘Did he visit Declan too? Next door?’

Buster’s eyes were wary now, sensing that something was wrong but unable to guess what to hide. ‘After us. I heard him knock anyway and he didn’t walk back past the door for an hour – maybe more.’

‘This was the night he died, wasn’t it?’ said Dryden.

‘I didn’t tell the police,’ said Buster, one step ahead now. He raised a hand to his forehead. ‘I just didn’t think.’

‘Don’t worry. I can pass it on if you like…’ offered Dryden. Buster pushed his teeth forward in a smile. ‘What was he like – the doctor? Not your own GP then?’

‘I only saw him for a minute, like – he’d done with her, and he said he had to finish his appointments. Bit odd, really. No tie or anything. But smart. About fifty, perhaps not. My age, everyone looks young. She said he had very strong ’ands, when he massaged her neck and that. Medium height – pretty solid. Don’t expect that, do you? Our one’s a streak of piss.’

‘How about his face?’ asked Dryden, knowing the police would press for more, even if they had already filed Declan McIlroy’s death firmly under suicide.

Buster pursed his lips. ‘Sorry, she had the TV on by then – Countdown, we never miss. Mousy hair? Dunno. Short, I think; shortish, anyway.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘She said he had lovely blue eyes, silly cow. He had a black bag too, and a clipboard.’

‘And he just knocked, Mr Timms?’ asked Vee, aware that the purpose of their visit had shifted. ‘No preparatory call? We insist on that,’ she added, looking to Dryden.

‘Nah. She heard this noise from the landing, someone going past… Bastard was halfway to Declan’s flat so she got him back, said we were needy. He said he’d planned to do us next but she told him we didn’t answer the door after dark.’

‘So this was what? Five, six?’

‘Yeah. We watch the repeat of Countdown – so that’s got to be after 5.15 yup?’ Suddenly Buster looked less sure. ‘Or did we give it a miss that day?’

Dryden struggled to contain his frustration. Why was it that in the real world witnesses could hardly confirm their own names, let alone recall telling details about someone else?

‘Perhaps your wife would remember more about this doctor?’

Buster laughed. ‘Doubt it, mate. Eyes,’ he said, tapping his temples with both index fingers. ‘Can’t see a thing up close – she saw his when he had a look in hers with one of those light things.’

He slurped the rest of his tea. ‘There was one thing,’ he added, pushing his hands out to catch the feeble warmth from the fire. ‘He went to the loo just before he left so I peeked in the bag. Guess what?’

Vee and Dryden shook their heads, shocked by Buster’s casual dishonesty.

‘I only had a sec. There was pills and stuff, and the kit – like for blood pressure. But there was a bottle too. Whisky. Unopened.’

10

Buster made a second pot of tea when Vee left, and they refilled their mugs before going out on to the balcony. The cat made figures-of-eight around Buster’s ankles as he fished the keys out of his dressing-gown pocket and let himself into Declan’s flat. There were several tea-crates in the front room, one of them full of crockery and glasses shrouded in old newspapers, and the taint of rancid grease had been scoured from the kitchen.