The Courier & Advertiser (Angus and Dundee)
As his old mentor had always told him, it was usually the least obvious things that were the key
He found his notebook where he had last left it, sitting under the evidence bag containing the dead girl’s floral dress, on his desk.
Mclean slipped it into his pocket, reminding himself to take the dress back down to the incident room. The scrap of paper with Carstairs’ number on it was still lying beside the phone.
He rang through, rearranging their meeting for later in the afternoon, then switched on his computer and pulled the pile of papers towards him.
He understood the need for full accounting and proper procedure; he just wished someone else could do it for him.
It was mind-numbing work, requiring just too much concentration for him to mull things over in his mind whilst he was doing it.
And all the while, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the dress.
Finally when he had reached a point optimistically halfway down the pile, he took out his notebook, pushed his chair back from the desk and flicked through the pages.
He came almost immediately to the strange swirling patterns he had seen in the basement room, or at least had thought he had seen.
Obvious
They had suggested that the murder was some form of ritual sacrifice, but the hidden alcoves had revealed far more obvious and tempting clues.
So he had concentrated on the names, the preserved organs and the personal items.
But as his old mentor had always told him, it was usually the least obvious things that were the key.
Mclean glanced at his watch; it was half-past nine. He logged off the computer, grabbed the dress and headed back down to the tiny incident room.
Grumpy Bob was there, reading the paper again. Constable Macbride concentrated on the screen of his laptop, tapping furiously at the keys.
“Morning, sir,” Grumpy Bob folded his paper and stuck it in a box under the table.
“Morning, Bob. You got the photos from the murder scene?”
Grumpy Bob looked over at Macbride but got no response and so had to fetch the box from the corner himself.
He sat it down on the table and pulled out a handful of glossy prints.
“What were you looking for, sir?”
“There should be a series of pictures of the floor about a foot or so in from the wall.” “Aye, I wondered why the photographer took those.”
Grumpy Bob guddled around some more, coming out with a handful of sheets.
He started to lay them out on the table, occasionally referring to numbers printed on the backs.
“I asked him to.” Mclean studied the first of the photos, then the next and the next.
They all looked the same; washed-out with the flash, the floor was smooth, featureless wood with absolutely no markings on it at all.
He pulled out his notebook and looked at the shapes he had drawn. The shapes he was certain he had seen.
“Is this all of them?” he asked Bob when he had studied every picture and come up with nothing. “Far as I know.”
“Well get onto the SOC team and double-check will you, Bob?
“I’m looking for pictures of the floor that show markings like this.” He showed the images in his notebook to the sergeant.
“Can’t Constable Macbride do it?” Bob complained. “You know he’s much better at all this technical stuff than me.”
Stalking
“Sorry, Bob. He’s coming with me.” He turned to the constable. “You finished there?”
“Just about, sir. One moment.” Macbride tapped a couple of keys, then folded the notebook flat. “I’ll run past the printer and pick that up on our way out.
“Unless you’d prefer Sergeant Laird to go with you to the post-mortem, sir?” There was hope in his voice.
Mclean smiled. “I suspect Bob’s only just had his breakfast, constable. And I for one have no desire to know what it was.”
“That’s three times in 48 hours, inspector. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were stalking me.”
Dr Sharp was waiting for them as they walked into the mortuary. “Who’s your handsome sidekick?”
“This is Detective Constable Macbride. Go easy on him, it’s his first time.” Mclean ignored Macbride’s reddening face. “Is the doctor in?” he asked.
“Just getting prepped,” Tracy said. “Go right ahead.”
The examination room was not much changed from the day before. Only the body laid out on the slab was different. The pathologist greeted them as they walked in.
“Ah, Tony. I can see you’ve not got the hang of delegation yet.
“Normally when you send a junior officer to do something for you, it’s because you’re not intending to come along yourself.
“Why d’you think Dagwood sent you in the first place.”
“Because this place reminds him too much of home?” “Well, quite.” Cadwallader smirked. “Shall we get down to business?”
As if she had been waiting for the cue, Tracy appeared from the little room that served as their office. She had donned a set of scrubs and long rubber gloves and wheeled a steel trolley on which had been laid out various instruments of torture.
Mclean could feel Constable Macbride tense beside him, rocking slightly on his heels.
“Subject is male, African, six foot two. At a guess I’d say late fifties.”
“Forty-four.” Macbride’s voice was slightly higher than usual, and there’d been no cutting yet.
“I’m sorry?” Cadwallader put his hand over the microphone hanging above the table.
Recent scars
“He was 44, sir. It says so in his file.” Macbride held up the sheaf of papers he had retrieved from the printer on their way out.
“Well, he doesn’t look it. Tracy, have we got the right body?”
The assistant checked her paperwork, looked at the tag on the dead man’s foot, then went over to the racks of cold cabinets, opening a couple and peering inside before coming back.
“Yup,” she said. “Jonathan Okolo. Brought in late last night. Identified by fingerprints from his immigration file.”
“Well, that is odd.” Cadwallader turned back to his patient. “If he’s only forty-four, I hate to think what kind of life he’s had.
“OK, let’s continue.” He went on, examining the body minutely.
“His hands are rough, fingernails chipped and short. He has a couple of recent scars consistent with splinters in his palms and fingers.
“Manual labourer of some kind, though I can’t imagine he’d be much good at it, given his health. Ah, here we go.”
The pathologist turned his attention to the dead man’s head, reaching into his thinning, tight-curled, grey hair with a pair of forceps.
“Specimen jar, please, Tracy. If I’m not mistaken, that’s plaster. His hair’s full of it.”
More on Monday.