In Place of Death (5 page)

They had to be chemists and biologists, detectives and administrators, more than jacks of all trades. They had to keep up with scientific developments that were changing daily as more and more
tools became available to them. Tools that they had to master immediately before those tools were out of date and replaced by something better. They had to do all that while he had the luxury of
concentrating on one thing and doing it right.

His self-congratulations were interrupted by the door opening behind him and Baxter storming through it. Two Soups was a man who did not get his name by dining on soup. He weighed in at a very
round twenty-stone-plus on a frame that didn't seem engineered for it. He was only five foot seven with incongruously slim legs. Winter always thought of him as a dancing hippo, albeit one
with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and a permanently crotchety nature.

Baxter fell heavily into the chair behind his desk, throwing a folder onto the wooden surface as he did so. Winter wasn't overly happy to see that it contained prints from the Molendinar
crime scene.

Two Soups sat there and stared at him, clearly enjoying the moment. Men of little joy take what pleasure they can in being a pain in the arse to others. Power is of no use to them if it
can't be abused.

‘Well?'

‘Well what?'

Baxter bristled and reddened, the fury of the righteously indignant rising within him. ‘These.' He dismissively waved a hand at the folder. ‘What have you got to say about
these?'

Taking a breath to stop himself from biting back, Winter reached for the folder, took the prints out and let them fan onto the desk. The half-eaten victim of the burn looked back up at them and
the blistered, festering cut to his throat smiled blackly. Winter again got a flash of familiarity.

He counted to ten. Then did so again. ‘The photographs. What about them?'

Baxter shook his head slowly, a schoolteacher having to admonish a particularly stupid child. ‘These . . . these are the work of a
specialist,
are they?' He spat out the word
as if it were poisoning him.

When Winter did nothing except set his face harder, Baxter smirked and carried on. ‘They are not exactly good, are they? Badly lit. Poorly structured. Oddly angled. Am I really expected to
serve these up to the Procurator Fiscal and have him present them as evidence in court?'

‘Badly lit?

‘They are dark.'

‘It was in a tunnel. Without daylight.'

Two Soups sneered and waved his hand at another print. ‘And that. What is that supposed to be?'

It was a head-on shot of the victim, catching the man's full thousand-yard stare into the void. A stare that went all the further for the lack of eyes. The composition was less than
square, a slight tilt from left to right as it framed the man's face. Baxter twisted his head as he looked down at it, exaggerating the effect. ‘You think that is . . .
adequate?'

Winter made a tight smile. He wasn't going to give Two Soups the satisfaction of getting angry. Inside though . . . inside he was ripping Baxter's head off and shoving it up his
arse.

‘That is not only adequate, it is a minor masterpiece of composition. There was no way to get to the other side of the victim to face him and take a frontal shot. There was no room to do
so. If you'd been down there yourself . . .' Winter paused and made a show of looking at Baxter's girth. ‘If you
could
have gone down there yourself, you'd have
seen that.'

A muscle twitched and tightened on the jowls beneath Baxter's beard. Winter continued.

‘I had to reach through and over the dead guy's arms and position my camera in front of him to get a face-on shot in situ. It was like trying to take a selfie on a
smartphone.'

‘A what?'

‘A smartphone. It's like a step up from a digital watch but you can talk to people on it.'

Two Soups looked a heartbeat away from combustion, his face flushing furiously. ‘I know what a
smartphone
is. What is a
selfie?
There's no such word. Never mind. It
doesn't matter. I'm talking about these poor excuses for photographs. They are not fit for purpose.'

Winter slowly pushed the prints apart with the tips of his fingers, saying nothing but spreading them across the desk so that each was visible.

‘Do you see that? That is where the initial incision was made. We can see that not only by the angle of entry but by the clarity of the photograph. By the fact that it is entirely central
to the frame. You can blow that up a hundred times and you will still have quality. You will still have
adequacy.
And see here? How these two photographs in conjunction show the precise body
position in relation to the tunnel and how
these
use what light there is to show the gap round the body and how
this
clearly shows the decomposition in situ yet avoids the inherent
danger of the flash over-illuminating the face?
That
is why I'm employed as a specialist. The scene examiners are very, very good at what they do. But this is what
I
do.'

Baxter squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and his face flushed but none of that translated into any words that might have conceded the merit of what Winter had said. Instead he pulled himself
upright and scowled.

‘That is indeed the case at
present,
Mr Winter.'

A thin smile danced across Baxter's fat lips. He was not a man who readily displayed any kind of good humour and Winter couldn't fail to notice or be bothered by it.

‘At present? What's that supposed to mean?'

Baxter sneered. ‘Just what it says. Things change. Even you must be aware that various departments have seen adjustment since the unification to Police Scotland. The review of all services
is continuing.'

He let the reply sink in, staring into Winter's eyes with a glee that dared a response. Winter fought the urge to rise to the bait.

‘That sounds like a very general remark.'

‘Does it? You may take it any way you wish, Mr Winter. Although however you take it will not stop the process. The winds of change will be blowing. I have already heard the rustle in the
trees.'

Winter could feel his pulse racing as he tried to take it all in at the same time as he longed to punch Baxter in the face. He needed to know but he wouldn't give the fat bastard the
satisfaction of asking him.

‘Well whatever, Mr Baxter. You keep blowing Russell in the trees if that's what floats your boat. I've got photographs to take. Excuse me.'

‘For now, Winter,' he heard Baxter shout as he pushed through the door to get away. ‘You've got photographs to take
for now
!'

Saturday evening

The outside of Clober Nursing Home was possibly the most depressing sight Narey had ever seen. It wasn't the drab exterior walls, pebble-dashed in rainstorm grey, or the
anonymous uniformity of the curtained windows. It wasn't even the miserable little sign that apologetically declared its name to the world. It was the knowledge that her dad was inside.

He had Alzheimer's. The cruellest, meanest little bastard of a disease that she knew. It had robbed her of him, and him of a meaningful, dignified life. It had mercilessly attacked a man
who hadn't deserved it, picking away at his being like a raven at a corpse. It had condemned him to this soulless shithole of a care home.

It was the best soulless shithole that she could pay for but the sight of it still filled her with guilt and despair. It wouldn't matter if the staff were actual angels with wings and
haloes, serving him nectar, ambrosia and thirty-year-old single malt on a golden tray, she would still hate the place because he was seeing out his life in it. She shook her head slowly, breathed
deeply and got out of the car.

She walked through the home on auto-pilot, treading the well-worn path to his room. No matter how often she went, it would never be enough, not in her own head. She would always owe him more
than she could give. Did the walls of this place really have to be such a soul-destroying shade of bloody yellow?

Halfway along the last corridor, the narrowness of it squeezing the remaining drops of hope out of her, she had to stop when a young woman emerged from one of the rooms and stepped across her
path. She looked up to see Narey and her mouth twisted.

‘He's not had a good day.'

Maybe it was meant as an early warning, maybe it was supposed to be sympathetic or helpful. But she heard it as reproachful.

The carer's name was Jess and Narey had never liked her. She was in her late teens or early twenties, small and slim with dark hair pulled back tightly from her face. She would probably
have been very good-looking if not for the near-permanent scar of irritation that she wore on her face. It seemed something was always bothering Jess and it was always someone else's fault.
Narey frequently wanted to slap her.

‘He's broken a glass and the lampshade next to his bed. And he's had an
accident
.'

Narey bit her tongue and confined herself to a sharp nod to say that she'd heard. She eased past the girl and opened the door to her dad's room. He was sitting up on the bed, fully
dressed and staring sadly towards his lap. He didn't stir when she was fully in the room and she cleared her throat to say she was there.

He looked up as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't and for a second she saw him as a ten-year-old, tousled fair hair and boy's blue eyes. That moment passed when
his eyes clouded over in doubt, wondering who she was and why she was there. It was like a dagger to her heart every single time.

Three years he'd been in this home now. Three long years for her and well, who knows how long it seemed for him. Time was a slippery fish for her dad, a wriggler that writhed in his hands
and turned head over tail in the blink of an eye. Ask him the date he started with the police or the day he got promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and he'd trot the answers out. Ask him
the name of the song he'd sung to her mum the day they learned she was pregnant and he'd have no problem. Ask him about the broken glass or, God forbid, the little accident, then
chances were he'd have no recollection. Not this day anyway.

‘How are you, Dad?'

It was always a tough choice whether to call him Dad when he didn't recognize her. Sometimes it frightened him, confused him further. Sometimes though it ticked a box, joined a set of dots
and a smile would spread over his face. Not this time.

‘I don't know you. Do I know you?'

‘It's Rachel, Dad. Your daughter.'

His face scrunched up in deeper puzzlement. His mouth bobbed open and closed a couple of times but no words came out. After a bit, he let his gaze fall disconsolately to his lap again.

She sat gently on the edge of the bed, wary of going too close too soon. If at all.

‘It's cold out there tonight. Freezing wind too. You're in the best place in here.'

He looked up. ‘I could go out. If I wanted. But if it's cold I'd need to wear a . . . wear a . . .'

She'd learned not to finish his sentences for him. Better to let him get there himself, however slowly, than to demean him further by filling in the gaps. Better too not to correct him
when he got it wrong. Upsetting him would just mean upsetting them both. Lots of tears had proven that little truth.

‘A coat. I'd need a coat. A warm coat.'

There you go, Dad. Well done. She scolded herself for patronizing him even if it was just in her own head. Every little triumph, every small bit of joy was to be savoured. He remembered
coat.
That meant a synapsis had correctly conversed with another synapsis. It meant a path he could walk on and she was grateful for every single one of them.

She reached out a hand towards him.

‘Yes, you couldn't go out without a coat. Far too cold tonight. Feel my hand.'

He looked first at the hand then at her. Then at the hand again. Slowly, he reached out his own, large and soft where it was once strong, peppered with liver spots and streaked with veins. He
placed it over her hand and held it gently.

‘Oh yes, you're right. Very cold. You need a coat. And gloves. You need gloves.'

He didn't take his hand away after checking her temperature; instead he left it there for a bit then slid it underneath so his fingers curled into hers. They sat in silence, he looking at
the bed and she at him. Occasionally, he squeezed and she knew it was her dad doing that, calling to her from inside.

With one particularly firm squeeze, he looked up sharply and she felt the tug of want inside her, pleading for him to make the connection. The flesh and blood he was holding was his own, surely
he felt it, sensed it. His eyes furrowed and she waited, barely daring to breathe. Nothing. Not this time.

She sat for as long as she could. Talking about the weather and her job, sneaking in references to her mum, his wife, to holidays they'd taken when she was a kid. Nothing registered. Not
today. Still she talked and he listened. And he held her hand. Winning small battles in a losing war.

After he'd warily let her kiss him on the forehead and she'd closed the door behind her and left, she stood for a moment with her back to it and contemplated
bursting into tears. Any prospect of that disappeared when Jess the carer loomed into view from the other end of the corridor.

‘I could have told you he wouldn't know you tonight. He's not had a good day.'

Narey was torn between keeping on the right side of this girl who would be left alone with her dad or grabbing her by her hair and smashing her face against the wall. As she moved swiftly
towards the girl, she wasn't entirely sure which option she was going to take.

She put the brakes on just in time and stood close enough for the little bitch to feel her breath on her pinched face. She paused just long enough to see a flash of worry across the girl's
features.