Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [57]
The garden gate screeched when he opened it. He looked in the front windows of the house and then studied the front door. There was no sign of a break-in.
He made his way around the side of the house to the kitchen door. There was a new door and new windows; the kitchen door was locked and padlocked.
He turned and surveyed the garden, glittering under a small cold moon. His eyes narrowed as he saw a black lump of something in the far corner.
He switched on his torch and walked over, his boots crunching in the frozen snow.
Percy lay there, his dead eyes staring up at the uncaring moon. Blood from slashes in his wrists stained the snow. An old-fashioned cutthroat razor lay half buried in the snow beside him.
Hamish cursed under his breath. Poor Percy. What a waste of a young life. And all over some manipulative bitch! He had attended Annie’s funeral but few people apart from the press had turned up. The locals, having learned of Annie’s reputation, had shunned the funeral, which had taken place two whole months after her murder. None of the town’s dignitaries who had smiled on her so fondly when she was the Lammas queen had bothered to put in an appearance. He retreated to his Land Rover, switched on the heater, took out his phone, and called Strathbane.
Then he waited. And as he waited, he began to wonder about Percy’s death. Surely if Percy had planned suicide, he would not have bothered to phone the station in Lochdubh.
After a while, he heard the sound of approaching sirens. He was suddenly weary of the whole business. Percy’s death had depressed him so much that his emotions felt as numb and as cold as the weather outside.
Jimmy Anderson was the first on the scene, followed by Andy MacNab. “Bad business,” he said. “God, it’s cold. Suicide?”
“Looks like it.”
“Well, get your suit on and show me.” They all struggled into their plastic suits. Hamish led the way to the garden. “We’ll just stand here at the edge,” said Jimmy. “Don’t want to muck up the crime scene. I’ve called in a local doctor. Dr. Forsythe’s retired and the nearest pathologist is in Aberdeen, would you believe it?”
Soon the garden was a hive of activity. A tent was erected over the body and halogen lights glared over the scene.
A local doctor, Dr. Friend, finished his examination. “Seems a clear case o’ suicide,” he said. “Poor young man.”
“When you examined the cuts on his wrists,” said Hamish, “did it look as if he’d really done it himself?”
“What are you getting at?” demanded Jimmy.
“Only that it seems odd to me,” said Hamish. “The laddie phoned me earlier and said he had information for me. Now he’s dead. Could someone have drugged him and then slashed his wrists for him?”
“I suppose it’s possible. The pathologist will do a better estimation than me.”
“There were no footprints near the body other than your own, Hamish,” said Jimmy.
“So it happened earlier in the day. The falling snow would cover up any other footprints. Maybe we could have scraped off the top snow and seen if there was anything underneath but now everyone’s trodden everything. Cutthroat razors aren’t that common. I wonder if it could be traced.”
“Hamish, you’ll find it was suicide, plain and simple. You can go home now. There’s nothing more we can do till we get a full postmortem. Do you want to tell his mother? Or shall I send a policewoman?”
“Send a policewoman,” said Hamish gloomily.
“Where’s McSween?”
“Ill in bed.”
“I’ll send Police Sergeant Sutherland. She’s good at that sort of thing.”
Hamish got home, feeling tired, cold, and miserable. Tomorrow the press who were waiting to see if they could interview Elspeth would be delighted to find they were all in the area of a murder. Press coverage meant pressure and pressure meant Blair.
Josie sat mutinously in Mrs. Wellington’s car the following morning. She had been appalled to learn that the minister’s wife was taking her to an AA meeting in Strathbane. Deaf to her protests, Mrs. Wellington had said that if Josie did