‘Did your side win?’ he asked.
Elliot paused and seemed to give the question some consideration. The assistant started to say something, but he silenced her with a gesture.
‘We’re closer than ever to an independent Scotland,’ he told Fox. ‘Maybe that process started when the government in London had to acknowledge our existence.’
‘Sounds to me like you’ve still got a few political bones left in your body, Mr Elliot.’
‘I’m not allowed to take sides, Inspector.’
‘Bad for the public image?’
The assistant was actually tugging at Elliot’s arm. With a slight bow of the head in Fox’s direction, he allowed himself to be led away to the waiting van.
Fox’s phone rang. He was staring at the photograph as he answered.
‘Paul Carter’s dead,’ Tony Kaye’s voice informed him.
‘What?’
‘Happened some time last night. They pulled him from the harbour early this morning.’
‘Drowned?’
‘Body’s gone for autopsy.’
‘Christ on a bike, Tony…’
‘Quite so.’
‘Do we know anything else?’
‘Not much.’
Fox was remembering his last meeting with Carter. Remembering, too, that Joe Naysmith had seen him even more recently.
‘The Wheatsheaf,’ Fox commented.
‘Suppose I better let someone know we were there.’
‘When I saw him at the cottage, he seemed pretty wrung out.’
‘Suicidal, though? I wouldn’t have said he was the type.’
‘Me neither.’
‘You know, Malcolm, just for once I’d like a nice clear-cut death.’
‘Are you in Kirkcaldy?’
‘Station’s a bit subdued.’
‘Does the incident room know?’
‘Yep.’
‘What about Scholes?’
‘Haven’t seen any of that lot yet.’
‘You better talk to DI Cash. Let him know about last night.’
‘Okay.’
‘Will the autopsy be at the hospital?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘Then I’ll see you there.’
‘Cash might not like it.’
‘Mood I’m in, that’ll suit me fine.’
‘Just so long as I can have a seat ringside,’ Tony Kaye said.
‘Bring a pair of white gloves and I’ll make you referee.’ Fox ended the call and headed out to his car.
29
‘Always in the basement,’ Joe Naysmith commented as they walked along the windowless corridor. All three were rubbing antibacterial foam into their hands. ‘Path labs, autopsy suites…’
‘You want them in the car park?’ Tony Kaye shot back. ‘So everyone can see the cadavers?’
‘Time was,’ Fox stated, ‘the public liked a post-mortem exam.’
‘That’s because the public, as we all know, are sick and twisted.’ Kaye pushed open another set of doors and almost wished he hadn’t.
‘Well, well,’ DI Cash drawled. ‘The gang’s all here. Come to check out your handiwork?’ He turned towards DS Brendan Young. ‘Nothing the rubber heels like better than hounding a man to his death.’
‘While all you were doing was accusing him of murder,’ Fox countered. ‘How long did the questioning go on – nine, ten hours at a stretch?’
Cash stabbed a finger towards Fox. ‘I seem to remember sending you to the wilderness.’
‘And I was quite happy there, but we’ve got a bit of news we need to share.’
Cash slid his hands into his pockets and went up on his toes. ‘This’ll be good,’ he told Young.
‘First we need to hear what the autopsy says.’
‘Join the queue,’ Young muttered, checking the time on his phone.
On cue, the door marked ‘Examination Suite’ swung open. The pathologist was suited and booted and looked impatient.
‘How many of you want to watch? We only have three sets of scrubs.’
Naysmith looked relieved to hear it. Kaye stared dolefully at Fox, knowing rank was about to be pulled on him. Five minutes later, Fox, Cash and Young were inside, listening to the hum of the extractor fan and the pathologist chivvying his assistant.
‘We’re a man down, but it can’t be helped,’ he told Cash. Fox knew that Scots law required corroboration – meaning two pathologists should have been present. ‘We can always put him in the fridge until tomorrow…?’
But Cash shook his head. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Paul Carter was laid out on the metal table. Water was still seeping from him, being diverted to the table’s drainage channels and from there into pails beneath. Fox could see that Carter’s face was swollen. There was a brackish smell in the small, already claustrophobic room. Maybe he’d misjudged this: Fox hadn’t been present at many autopsies; he was hoping he wouldn’t keel over. Nor was Brendan Young looking too comfortable. The pathologist spoke into a microphone as the examination got under way. He pushed down on the chest, expelling a gurgling stream of water from the corpse’s mouth. Fox’s own mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his ears. The body had probably been in the water eight to ten hours, putting time of death at somewhere between eleven p.m. and one a.m. Core temperature was tested, and the eyeballs checked. Once the Y-incision had been made and the ribcage prised open, the pathologist was able to examine the contents of the lungs.
‘No doubt in my mind that he drowned,’ he said. ‘Whether he fell in or jumped…’ He made a gesture that could have been a shrug.
As the examination continued, organs removed and weighed, Brendan Young shuffled back until he was resting against the wall, eyes all but closed. Fox stood his ground, though he was concentrating with his ears rather than his eyes.
‘Nose is broken,’ the pathologist said, almost to himself, as he peered closely at the face.
‘Maybe the body took a pounding against the sea wall,’ Cash offered.
‘Not much wind last night… doubtful there was enough of a swell to cause an injury like that.’ The pathologist moved to Carter’s hands and arms. ‘Tissue on the knuckles is scraped… Same goes for the tips of the fingers.’
‘He was in a fight?’ Fox speculated.
‘Or fell to the ground. Put his hands down instinctively and grazed them.’ Eventually, the stomach was opened.
‘Smell that?’ the pathologist asked, turning his attention to his audience.
‘Booze,’ Cash said.
‘Lager, I think. And spirits of some kind.’ The man bent down over the body and sniffed. ‘Whisky.’
‘So he’s drunk and he goes walking down by the harbour.’
‘It’s one scenario. Another would be a tussle of some kind.’
‘But he was alive when he went in the water?’ Fox asked.
‘Almost definitely,’ the pathologist stated.
Quarter of an hour later, they had taken off the protective clothing, splashed water on their hands and faces and were back in the corridor, leaving the pathologist and his assistant to finish up.
‘Spit it out,’ Cash told Fox. An unfortunate choice of words, since DS Young had just spent several minutes bent over the sink, attempting to hack some residual taste from the back of his throat. He looked pale and was still perspiring. When Naysmith offered him a stick of gum, he snatched at it.
‘Carter had a meeting in a local bar last night,’ Fox said. ‘But before I tell you who with, I want a promise that me and my team won’t be kept out in the cold.’
‘No promises,’ Cash said.
Fox took his time considering this. He even turned his head to make eye contact with Kaye.
‘I need to know what you know first,’ Cash went on, his tone softening a little.
‘The meeting was with Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson,’ Fox conceded.
Cash slid his hands into his pockets again. The habit was beginning to annoy Fox. It was as if the detective inspector had learned most of his moves from old gangster films.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked.
‘We sent Naysmith in to eavesdrop.’
‘And how did you know about the meeting in the first place?’
‘Does it matter? The thing is, the four of them were out together last night. You’re going to want to talk to them, and I want to hear what they’ve got to say.’