‘He’s dead,’ Bell replied, winking as he took a sip from his mug.
‘We sensed that when we saw him yesterday,’ she sighed. ‘It’s nice to know we haven’t lost our touch.’
‘The subject died from a single gunshot wound to the head,’ the pathologist announced. ‘It was fired at close range, from the side and slightly downward. I’ve recovered a nice clean bullet lodged in the zygomatic ridge just in front of the right ear. That’s the only way I’ve been able to give you a cause of death; the body’s too decomposed for a straightforward autopsy.’ He hesitated. ‘How long has he been dead? That’s difficult to say for sure, but six weeks, minimum.’
‘No worries,’ Lottie replied, drily. ‘The mail we found behind his front door suggests that he died at the beginning of December.’
‘That’s probably right. The rate of decomposition isn’t an exact science. When I visited the scene I noticed that it was cold.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, it was. The central heating was oil-fired, but the tank was empty. We’re guessing it ran out after he was killed.’
‘I see. Lucky, in one way; in a warmer environment there would have been even more flies.’
‘Were there many pre-mortem injuries?’ I asked.
Bell nodded. ‘The plastic strips that secured his wrists and his left ankle to the chair were pulled so tight that they cut into the flesh. Painful, but by comparison to the other thing, insignificant.’ He paused. ‘If you were at the scene, you might remember that Mr Hodgson was barefoot. His shoes and socks had been removed.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there’s just about enough flesh left for me to be sure that he was tortured by burning. Something like a blowlamp was used on his right foot, extensively. It’s for you to determine, Inspector Mann, but I’d say that either this man had seriously upset someone, or whoever went to work on him wanted information, and wanted it very badly indeed.’
Forty-One
‘Do you want to come back to Pitt Street for a chat and a bite of lunch?’ Lottie Mann asked.
‘To the first, definitely not,’ I said. I’d seen enough of the former Strathclyde Police headquarters building to last me a couple of lifetimes. ‘Lunch is on the agenda, though.’
We settled on the public cafeteria in the massive new general hospital for our post-mortem of the post-mortem, and found a table there. I’d skimped on breakfast with the morning’s business in mind, and found my appetite catching up with me. I loaded a plate with corned beef hash from the self-service buffet, trying to contain my amazement as my companion put together the biggest fry-up I’d ever seen.
She caught my glance and read it right. ‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘it’s a classic, lethal Weegie all-day breakfast, and I do my best to resist. Usually I succeed, but after this morning, what the hell.’
‘How’s your wee lad?’ I asked her, as we tucked in.
Lottie Mann is a single parent with a son around the same age as my James Andrew. Her marriage collapsed when her ex-cop husband went to jail, along with his still-serving woman on the side, for their peripheral involvement in a high-profile crime.
‘Jake’s great, thanks,’ she replied. ‘We’ve moved house. I bought a three-bed mid-terrace in what was the Commonwealth Games Village. It’s not huge but it’s big enough for the two of us, and for my mother when she stays over.’
‘But not for Scott, when he gets out?’ I ventured.
‘Not a chance,’ she replied. ‘The only way I want to see that man again is standing over his open coffin with a wooden stake in one hand and a hammer in the other. There are times when I have an insight into the mentality of a murderer. Thinking of him brings it on. It’s not so much what he did to me; it’s how it affected Jakey.’
‘I’ve been through two divorces,’ I told her. ‘The first one was a huge mistake, which I’ve been lucky enough to have the chance to rectify. The other was very bitter and very public, as you and the whole world know; but I’m over it.’ I smiled. ‘I even watched a Joey Morrocco movie the other night.’
Joey was the actor with whom the third Mrs Skinner was caught on camera; a household name but not in mine.
‘Is he still in Hollywood?’ Lottie asked.
I winked at her. ‘If he knows what’s good for him.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure you didn’t meet Jock Hodgson before yesterday?’
My laugh was loud enough to draw a sharp look from the next table, reminding me that we were surrounded by people who were under the stress of visiting friends and family in hospital.
‘Detective Inspector,’ I replied, more quietly, ‘I built a career on getting information out of people, without ever laying as much as a finger on them. If I’d wanted Hodgson to tell me something, I’d just have asked him and he’d have told me.’
‘Is that what you think? That he was tortured for information, rather than being killed brutally by a sadist?’
‘He wasn’t killed brutally,’ I pointed out. ‘Remember what Dr Bell found; he died from a single shot to the head. Death would have been instantaneous, and he’d have been out of his misery in that split second. Of course the killer was after something, and it’s a safe assumption that it was information: but information on what? You and Dan, and your team, have to do a complete background check on Hodgson before you can hazard a guess.’
‘We will do,’ she promised. ‘But how does that justify your interest, and your presence here? You must suspect that his death’s linked to the job you’re doing.’
‘I don’t suspect anything,’ I countered. ‘I’m an interested party, that’s all. One step at a time, Lottie: we know that the man was murdered, but really, we know eff all else about him, other than what I was told by one of his several employers. You fill in the gaps, and we’ll take it from there.’
I left her to add sticky toffee pudding to her cardiac cocktail, and drove back east. I was passing the Harthill motorway service area, driving cautiously through a light snow shower that had sprung up from nowhere, when I decided to call Carrie McDaniels for a progress report.
‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Your meter is still running. I can see why you gave me this job rather than doing it yourself. It’s bloody tedious.’
‘I know that,’ I chuckled, ‘but have you got anything positive from it?’
‘Not so far,’ she admitted. ‘Actually you saved me a phone call,’ she continued. ‘I’d like you to loosen the strings you put on me yesterday.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘There’s a hint of something I’ve picked up in a newspaper report on one of the companies on your list. I’d like to look into it in more detail, but to do that I’ll need to speak to someone. It’s a guy I know, but the problem is he’s a business journalist, and you said no press.’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘Very well; we were at school together. I used to give him information when I was with the insurance company.’
‘Can you talk to him without bringing me or our client into it, and without giving him any clue of what this is about?’
‘Mr Skinner, you’re forgetting; I don’t know what this is about. I’m just running down a list of people and companies you gave me.’
‘Maybe so, but can you talk to him without making him too curious?’
‘Yes, I can. If he did get difficult,’ she added, ‘I know who his newest lady friend is, and he knows I know.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘She’s a television presenter, and she’s married.’
‘Tread carefully,’ I warned her, ‘but go ahead.’
The snow disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and I was able to pick up pace. Since I ceased to be a cop I’ve always been careful to stick to the speed limits, or at least to stay within the unofficial tolerance zone. Too many tabloids would love to report on a Bob Skinner court appearance. Even at that gentle pace, I had time on my hands so I made a detour to the Mercedes dealership on the edge of Edinburgh to pick up a detailed estimate for the repair of my damaged car.