right then that of all the people I'd dealt with, the people who were the most terrified — they all were at the end, but I mean the most of all, crying, begging, pissing themselves, all that stuff — were the ones who'd actually killed people themselves. They'd seen the brains coming out too, and when you've seen that the last thing you want is that it should be your brains flying all over the place. No, you don't want that.
'Big Alec knew that; so he did what he did to me, and in a strange way I respected him for that. But it was way over the top. I hurt his pride, but he terrified me, almost to death, and he humiliated me in the worst possible way. Being left sat in your own shite miles from nowhere is worse than being dead. You might say that you have no sympathy for me, but you couldn't have done what he did, could you? Load the gun, spin the chamber, pull the trigger. Then do it again.'
He frowned at Martin. 'No, you couldn't have done that, not you.' Then he laughed.
'I saw your guy in the papers, saying that you were looking for a seriously disturbed individual over Alec Smith's death.
Fucking hell, that's ironic; big Alec was a seriously disturbed individual himself.
'I looked into his eyes, behind that big gun that he pointed at me, just like this one…' He waved the big pistol in the air, '… and I could see something in there that was plain fucking crazy. That scared me as much as the thought of my brains flying out the back of my head.
'I will tell you one thing… just one thing. I could not think of anything worse in the world than being that man's enemy.'
'I can.'
'What's that?'
Martin gazed straight at the other man. 'Being mine,' he said quietly, '… as you will find out.'
'Big talk,' Scotland sneered. 'But no more talk now, no more till morning. We sit the Death Watch in silence; you with your thoughts, me just watching you. There's something incredible about studying a man who knows he's going to die in a few hours.
'I haven't done it for a long time.'
36
'Sure,' said Sarah. 'I keep copies of all my autopsy reports here, on my lap-top computer and in hard copy.' She looked at her husband and at Neil Mcllhenney standing in the conservatory, where she had been reading when they arrived. 'What's the panic anyway?'
'No panic,' said Bob. 'It's a thousand-to-one chance, but it's something we have to check. Will you get us a copy of the report on the second post-mortem you did at the weekend?'
He turned to Mcllhenney. 'Neil, you'd better get home for your baby-sitter.'
'No, it's Karen. I'll call her; she'll understand.'
'Okay, but first let's try to knock this thing on the head. Let's just phone the Diddler just in case he's been at home all the time, let's not look any dafter than we have to.' He picked up the local telephone directory, a commercially-produced listing of village numbers, found the entry for 'Shearer, H', and dialled it.
The phone rang four times, before the Diddler answered. 'Hello,' he said. 'Howard and Edith are away from home right now, but if you'd like to leave us a message, or even send us a fax, we'll get back to you.'
'Bugger,' Skinner swore. 'Come on, Neil,'he said. 'He lives just up the hill; let's check out his house for signs of recent occupation.'
Sarah met them in the hall; she had a document pouch in her hand, and looked in surprise at the torch Bob held in his. 'We'll be back in a minute, love,' he told her. 'We're just going up to the Shearers' place.'
He led Mcllhenney out into the bright night, down his long driveway and into Hill Road. Halfway up the steeply-rising street he stopped at a gateway; it led to a big bungalow, modern, like his own, in contrast to the great stone houses which climbed the hillside and which were silhouetted all around against the shining blue sky… until the glare of a security light obliterated everything else.
Diddler's outer door was locked, and the house was in darkness. The door was solid, with no glass panels. Skinner pushed the letter-box open and shone his torch through it. 'Fuck,' he swore quietly. 'There are newspapers all over the place; and one of them's the Sunday Times. Nobody's been here since the weekend.
'I don't like this. The Diddler might be a fucking wee sweetie-wife at times, but he's a good bloke and I am worried about him.'
'Where else could he be?' his assistant asked.
'He and Edith have a place in the south of France; conceivably they could be there. But what isn't conceivable is that none of us knew about it. The Diddler has never missed a Thursday night without letting Benny Crossley, or Davie McPhail, or me know in advance… and I mean never.
'We'd better have a look at that report.'
They ran back down the hill to Skinner's house. This time, Sarah was waiting in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee, simply to have something to do. The Floater file was lying on the work surface; Bob picked it up and took out the report. 'Does this mention old scars and other distinguishing marks?' he asked.
'Yes. Right there on the first page. The body had an appendectomy scar, and that's it, apart from a fairly unusual blood type.'
'Any sign of a healed fracture of the right big toe, about seven years old?'
'The right big toe was missing. Severed. Look, you two, what is this? You've just been to Shearer's place. You don't think that man could be the Diddler, do you?'
Mcllhenney took a folded newspaper from his back pocket and handed it to her. She stared at the image on the front page; slowly her eyes seemed to widen. 'My God,' she whispered. 'I see what you mean. And I helped prepare this picture, too. Yet it never occurred to me.'
'Where's the body now?' Bob asked.
'It'll still be in the mortuary at the Royal Infirmary, I imagine. But Bob, you will not be able to identify it; take a look at the photographs in there if you don't believe me.'
He did as she suggested, taking the big colour prints from the pouch, and wincing as he looked through them. 'I believe you,' he muttered, at last. 'We'll need DNA testing, Neil. The trouble is we'll need something from the Diddler to make the comparison. That means we'll need to get into the house, to look for hairs off pillows and the like.'
'And Edith's in St. Tropez with Victoria, their daughter,' said Sarah. 'I met her in the village last week and she told me they were going, now that the Highers are over.'
'Shit. We'll need her approval to get into the house: last thing I want is to scare the woman before we're certain that the wee bugger isn't shacked up somewhere, up to his old tricks.'
He took the coffee which Sarah handed him. 'Look, we're not going to catch any killers tonight. You get back to the kids, Neil, I'll phone Dan Pringle and tell him to meet me in his office at eight sharp tomorrow.'
Mcllhenney grinned. 'That should be an interesting phone call. Where we have the football on a Thursday night, Superintendent Pringle has the Masons: and Superintendent Pringle likes a drink.'
37
Karen Neville drove quietly along the narrow street. She took a deep breath as she saw the red MGF parked in the driveway. It was after midnight; she had thought it over several times, indeed she was still thinking it over, but she was there.
To hell with what he might have to tell her, or ask her. There were things that she needed to say to him, and she couldn't hold them inside over another long, lonely weekend.
Things like the way he had misread her, and how it wasn't his fault since she had misread herself. Things about stability and the need to stop being a human mayfly, before June came along and there were few options left, and even less future. Things about this bloody office situation and how untenable it was becoming for her, calling
