Ray Wilding had been in many crime scenes in his burgeoning CID career; he knew instinctively that he was standing in another. The only thing lacking was actual evidence of any crime.
He found it in the en-suite bathroom. It was as chaotic as the bedroom. Cabinets lay open, Mackenzie’s Gillette razor lying by the basin, a bottle of Kouros men’s eau de toilette tipped over on its side, a smear of cosmetic on the mirror. A peach-coloured bath wrap lay in the shower. He bent and touched it; still damp.
As he did so, another towel caught his eye, same colour but smaller, one of a set probably. It lay on the floor in a corner between the shower cabinet and a clothes basket, as if it had been thrown there, discarded.
He would have left it there but for the mark on one exposed corner, a mark that meant he had to pick it up. He did so carefully, with thumb and index finger, holding it aloft, letting it unfold itself, letting it reveal the stains of the blood that it had absorbed.
His pulse was thumping in his ears as he replaced it, as close to its original position as he could manage.
This was not a great idea, Mary, he thought. Discretion or no fucking discretion, I should not be here. Dorward will go ape-shit.
He backed out of the small shower room, and headed for the bedroom door. He was almost there when he stopped in his tracks, his attention grabbed once more, not by an object, but by the lack of one.
He looked at the bed, at the dented pillows and at the crumpled, stained, undersheet and he asked himself, ‘What’s wrong with this picture, Raymondo?’ then replied with barely a pause, ‘You know what’s wrong. Where’s the fucking duvet?’
Twenty-Two
‘Can we keep this quiet?’ Mary Chambers asked, looking through the Mackenzie living-room window into the street outside, where the unmarked police vehicle that had brought them was parked next to Wilding’s car. The similarly anonymous blue van that had brought the CSI team was parked in the driveway.
‘Should we keep it quiet?’ Mario McGuire countered. ‘We’re dealing with a scene that indicates violence and suggests that at the very least a man has abducted his wife. At the very least, mind. As far as I’m concerned, if the blood on that towel doesn’t belong to Cheryl Mackenzie, and a comparison with her mother will resolve that, then you are looking at the next Archbishop of Canterbury. What do we normally do in cases like this?’
She smiled at the mental image of McGuire in vestments. ‘This isn’t a normal case, though.’
‘Tell me why not. Is national security involved? Is there any legal reason why we should hush it up? Is there any practical reason?’
‘What if it isn’t as simple as it seems, and they’ve both been abducted?’ the DCS ventured.
‘Why?’
His abruptness made her frown slightly but she stood her ground. ‘The man’s ex drugs squad,’ she pointed out. ‘He must have made enemies in that job; it stands to reason.’
‘He hasn’t been on that squad for years,’ he countered. ‘But even if you’re right, would a mortal enemy just ring his doorbell, tie him and his wife up then drive them away in their own car? Even if there were two or three of them and that was physically possible, surely the house would be a mess. It isn’t; everything’s neat and tidy and normal, apart from their bedroom and bathroom, and the iron having been left on.’
He shook his head, slowly. ‘Sorry. I know you’re only doing your job, and being devil’s advocate, but as yet I don’t buy any third party involvement here. I can only see this as a domestic incident, albeit a potentially serious one. The car’s gone, there’s blood on a towel, every other bed in the house has a duvet but theirs, and Ray found a ferry company home page on the computer.’
‘The missing duvet? What’s that about?’ Chambers asked.
The ACC looked back at her. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Mary, so don’t be shy, tell me.’
‘It’s a kingsize bed,’ she responded, ‘so it must have been well big enough to wrap a body in.’
‘Exactly. So,’ he said, ‘do you still imagine we can play this low-key forever?’
‘No,’ the head of CID conceded at once. ‘But we can’t assume it’s a murder either. Cheryl Mackenzie may still be alive. But if she is, for how much longer? We’ve got to trace him as quickly as we can.’
‘Absolutely,’ McGuire agreed. ‘Step one, get his car details. Can you remember what he drives?’
‘Yes, it’s a Honda four-by-four, but I don’t have a Scooby about the number; it should be on record at Fettes, though.’
‘That’ll take time.’ He stepped out into the hallway and called out, ‘Arthur!’
A few seconds later a figure in a sterile tunic appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What?’ he barked.
‘Have your people cleared the study yet?’
‘No, it’s not a priority.’
‘Well, can I go in there?’
‘You’re an ACC,’ Dorward retorted. ‘You can go where you bloody well like. But if you do,’ he added, ‘please wear gloves and overshoes, just in case there are forensics in there. You’ll find some just outside the door. Best if you don’t touch the keyboard. I don’t need to spell out why, do I?’
McGuire glared at him. ‘If you were still on the force rather than a central service. .’ But he knew what the provocative scientist had meant; if Mackenzie had killed his wife, then looked for ferry ports as an escape route, he might have left blood traces on the keys.
He went to the door and found the coverings that Dorward’s team had left there, and slipped them on, feet first, hands second.
‘What are you looking for?’ Chambers asked from the living room.
‘Car registration documents. I saw a filing cabinet in the office when I had a look in there.’
He stepped into the study; the wooden cabinet matched the desk and stood alongside it. It had two drawers; he opened the top one first. Mackenzie, or his wife, had been neat. Each sliding section had a subject, written on a card within a plastic clip, and they were alphabetical. ‘Car’ came first.
McGuire lifted the V-shaped folder from the slider, and found what he was looking for at once. There were two documents; one was for a Renault Clio. Its number matched the car parked outside, and it was registered to Cheryl Mackenzie. The other was for a Honda.
He took it out, replaced the folder, closed the drawer and rejoined the head of CID. ‘The number is Sierra Lima Six Zero Delta Hotel Juliet. We need to. .’ he stopped, flashing her a small sheepish smile. ‘You know what we need to do.’
‘Yes, and I will.’
‘Who’s going to be SIO on this?’ Ray Wilding asked. He had been standing quietly to one side, letting his senior officers assess the situation.
Chambers looked across at him. ‘We’re in Joppa,’ she said, ‘and that’s in Sammy Pye’s area. But he’s got his hands full with the Watson homicide, so, my boy, that puts you in the frame. You found this, Ray, you run with it.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ the DI replied, with the wry smile of a man who had just been handed a brimming chalice and knew for certain that it was poisoned. Then it vanished. ‘I might have a problem, though, with my wing man, my DS.’
‘Mavis McDougall? Why?’
‘Because she worked with Superintendent Mackenzie for a lot longer than I did, and she got very friendly with his wife. She’s going to be way too emotionally involved.’
‘Ray’s got a point,’ McGuire chipped in. ‘You might need to swap people over for this one.’
‘I can see that,’ the DCS agreed. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Just the one, off the top of my head, unless you pull in a DS from the Borders or West Lothian. It needs to be someone who didn’t, doesn’t, know Cheryl, and doesn’t have too many preconceptions about David. That suggests Karen Neville.’
‘It does, but Karen likes to have a couple of weekdays free.’