downturned line. ‘Stick him back in his cell.’
Logan got to his feet. ‘Mr Urquhart was just about to—’
‘I don’t care. Our wee art student friend with the counterfeit twenties: his mum and dad just got back from Corfu, found him in his bedroom. Gin and sleeping tablets.’
41
‘He was in here.’ The PC opened the door.
The familiar smells of turpentine, oil paint, and bitter vomit curled around Logan as he followed Steel into the room. The house was silent, just the
The constable flicked on the light, turning the window into a mirror.
Douglas Walker’s bedroom looked much the same as it had the last time Logan was there: the same half- sketched painting on the easel, the same unmade single bed, the same flat-pack wardrobe, the same little computer desk and cheap swivel chair.
The only difference was the puddle of sick on the floor, next to an empty litre bottle of Plymouth gin and a little white packet from a chemists. Logan snapped on a pair of gloves, squatted down, picked up the empty packet and read the label. ‘Temazepam.’
Steel wrinkled her nose. ‘Can we no’ open a window or something?’
Logan levered up the edge of the mattress, peering between it and the bed frame. Nothing.
The inspector’s voice came from over by the wardrobe. ‘If you’re looking for porn, I can bring some in tomorrow. You like Dutch gay hardcore, right?’
‘Looking for counterfeit money,
She glanced around the room. ‘He leave a note or anything?’
The constable shrugged. ‘Dunno, didn’t want to disturb anything.’
‘Bet he left a poem. Artistic types always leave bloody poetry.’
Logan went through the chest of drawers, wardrobe, computer desk, the toolbox full of oil paints and charcoals, but there was no sign of any notes – suicide or counterfeit. ‘Nothing.’
‘Wanted to keep it mysterious.’
Logan stared at her. ‘It’s not funny.’
She shrugged. ‘If he’d actually managed to do himself in,
The constable shifted his feet. ‘He’s in a coma.’
Logan knelt on the floor, taking care to avoid the puddle of sick. Nothing under the bed either.
‘Don’t see what the problem is.’ Steel leant back and had a scratch. ‘I mean, you want to kill yourself – up to you isn’t it? Long as you don’t do it driving the wrong way up the motorway, it’s nobody’s business but…’ She stopped fiddling with herself and scowled at Logan. ‘What?’
‘He was terrified they were going to put his name in the papers.’
‘Didn’t want mummy and daddy dearest to know.’
‘Or,’ Logan stood, taking another look around the room, ‘maybe he thought whoever he got the cash from would come after him? Might be some clue in the suicide note, if we can find it.’
‘He’s no’ bloody dead. Want to know why he did it? Get your arse up the hospital and ask him.’
Logan dragged a big, black leather portfolio out from between the wardrobe and the single bed, dumped it down on the mattress beside Steel, and unzipped it. It was basically a huge ring binder: large sheets of black paper in clear plastic sleeves, held together with six shiny steel clips. Some photos, some prints, some originals. All pretty good.
Steel flipped through the pages. ‘Got any nudes?’
There was a little pocket at the front, with some leaflets for local galleries stuffed into it, and a fancy-looking CV with abstract black-and-white photos mixed in. Very arty.
‘Course, you know why he did it, don’t you?’
Logan looked up. ‘What, Walker?’
‘No,
The PC’s cheeks went pink. ‘It’s not my fault. I just—’
‘Come on Laz.’ She levered herself off the bed. ‘I hereby declare this a waste of CID resources. Our plucky boys in uniform can save the day for a change. We’ve got a van driver to interview before they let the bugger go.’
The Airwave handset clipped to the constable’s shoulder started making bleepy noises. He fumbled it round to his mouth and squeezed the button. ‘One-Zero One-Twenty, over?’
A broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the little speaker.
‘Roger that Control. Over.’
