Photographing the prints from a regulation 90-degree angle, using a macro lens and with a 45-degree flash to avoid washing out the detail, he was still able to pick out a few good tracks. He’d photographed Deans’ shoes before leaving the hospital so he would be able to separate those from the others at the scene and it would hopefully give them something to work with. For all that though, he knew it was more in hope than expectation. Who knew how many people had walked over the area either before or after Deans was pushed.
Winter made his way to the top of the steps, seeing just how steep and narrow they were, seemingly tumbling forever into the darkness below. The winter foliage pushed in from left and right, making the descent seem even sharper. He made his way down a couple of steps at a time, stopping only to photograph likely looking prints until he reached the first landing and spied a flattened area where it seemed likely Deans had fallen. The snow was compressed but not trampled and there were a few drops of blood to the right-hand side of the landing and then again a few steps further down. It looked as if Deans had hit the level area, then continued to tumble, probably out cold by that stage and unable to stop his momentum.
The biggest pool of blood was at the bottom, just a few feet from the pub’s side door and the place where Deans had come to rest. Blood had soaked into the snow and become frozen there, capturing Winter’s attention the way blood always did. He photographed the blood spatter from every angle with his macro lens, marking out the contours of the snow compression to show where Deans had landed.
So why had the attacker not finished Deans off? Maybe he’d thought the fall would have done the trick. You could see the reasoning in that: the guy’s head was going to bounce off successive sets of concrete steps. While the blow may been cushioned by a layer of snow, there was hard ice underneath. Also, Winter thought, Deans would have made the trip to the bottom a whole lot quicker than his assailant and there was every chance that the crash of the fall would have alerted someone and brought them out from the pub. Then again, maybe Rachel was right and the push had only been a warning to Deans. Either way, Winter knew there was little he was going to be able to offer forensically to the debate — too many pairs of feet had seen to that.
He turned and looked back up the stairs to see where the attacker would have stood. It was doubtful if they could have seen from there whether Deans was alive or not. He had still been unconscious when he was discovered by customers and staff so presumably he hadn’t moved after he hit the bottom. There was every chance he’d simply been left for dead.
The voice that came from behind him seemed, not for the first time, to read his thoughts.
‘You seeing dead people again?’
‘You shouldn’t creep up on people like that, Rach.’
‘Course I should,’ she laughed drily, glancing up and down the stairway before planting a kiss on his lips. ‘It’s my job. So what have you got?’
‘Not much,’ Winter admitted. ‘Half of Glasgow seems to have been walking over the area at the top of the stairs. The blood trail suggests he hit that first landing up there and kept rolling till he ended up right here. I’ve got pics of what I can but I doubt it will do us much good.’
‘Pretty much what we expected,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Still, I do have some good news.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Things are looking up at last. I’ve just had a call from Marty Croy in Stirling. The Procurator Fiscal has given them the go ahead to exhume Barbie’s body. We’re going to dig her up in two days.’
CHAPTER 40
‘Dad? Dad, are you still there?’
She hated the phone calls. Hated them for how impractical they were and how she couldn’t tell if he’d fallen asleep, switched his mobile off or forgotten how to work it. Above all, though, she hated the impersonal nature of it and the fact that it was so blindingly obvious she hadn’t taken the time to go and see him face to face.
‘Dad, just say something and let me know you can hear me.’
She always resisted the urge to be impatient with him or to raise her voice. Whatever the reason for the lack of response, it wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. It was that horrible, hateful disease. She spent what little free time she now had reading up on it and none of it made her any more optimistic about what was to come.
How did they treat a disease when they didn’t know how it was contracted in the first place? Nearly half a million people in the UK were affected by Alzheimer’s and yet no son or daughter or grandchild could be told for sure how they’d got it. A combination of factors was the best answer that could be offered: lifestyle; unknown environmental factors; and, most scarily, genetic inheritance. The greatest risk of all was growing old and she became irrationally angry at reading that. How the hell was her dad expected to avoid that?
She now knew about ‘plaques’ and ‘tangles’ that developed in the structure of the brain, killing off brain cells and leading to the broken pathways and muddled thinking she’d seen manifested so clearly in her dad. She knew of all the medical treatments, both established and in testing. She knew there was no cure. She knew her father might have had the disease for years, with it developing silently all the while. She knew everything except what to do next.
Above all, one word kept reappearing in everything that she read. A word that she had grown to despise: progressive.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi Dad. It’s Rachel.’
The silence again. Was he trying to remember who she was? Was he upset at hearing her voice, even though he’d clearly forgotten speaking to her just a minute before? Or had he gone?
She filled the interminable quiet with guilty thoughts of her absence and dark fears of how bad it might get and how quickly. Once this case was over, she kept telling herself, she would make things right. She would take him out of the home whether he liked it or not and get him to come live with her. It would mean moving and it might mean the end of her and Tony but what was more important than looking after her dad?
‘Hello, Rachel.’
It never failed. Words of recognition melted her heart and cheered her no matter how dark and cold the day had been. It was the one advantage of speaking to him by telephone: she had the luxury of letting a happy tear streak down her face without worrying it would upset him.
‘Hi Dad. How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m fine, love, just fine. How are you, more to the point?’
‘I’m all right, Dad. Just a wee bit worried about you.’
‘Me? No need to worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m a bit lost just now without your mum but she’ll be back soon. Don’t you worry, love.’
‘Okay, Dad, I won’t.’
‘Good girl. Now tell me, have you done your homework? You know what your mum’s like. She’s going to give you a hard time unless it’s all up to date.’
It was her turn to be quiet. Not just because she was upset about him not knowing how old she was or that her mum was gone; but because it struck her how much better and simpler it was when all she had to worry about was getting her homework done on time.
‘It’s done, Dad. I promise.’
‘Good. You’re a good girl, Rachel. I love you, you know.’
‘I know. And I love you too, Dad.’
She wondered if he really did know how much she loved him. She didn’t say it enough and never had. Was it now too late for her to say it and be able to hope he’d remember?