‘That’s my wife, Helen … the pregnant one.’
‘That right? Planning to get all your family over at once, are you? So she’d be Helen Maciver as was, right? Now Mrs Dunn as is. I’m getting there. Mrs Kafka I know. And yon Cressida, I remember her. The other is …?’
‘Sue-Lynn, Pal’s wife.’
‘Oh aye. All here then. Some bugger must’ve sent invitations.’
‘Is Pal in there?’ said Dunn pleadingly. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘I’ve no idea. Any reason to think it might have done?’
‘No. I mean, he didn’t turn up … we play squash on Wednesday evenings and when he didn’t show …’
‘Stood you up, did he? And that makes you worry something’s happened to him? I see. People stand me up, it’s when they do appear that something’s likely to happen to them. Maycock, you reckon you can keep this mob at bay?’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Good lad. Sergeant, lead on. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.’
‘Please, can’t I come with you?’ pleaded Dunn.
‘Nay lad,’ said Dalziel kindly. ‘I think most likely you’re under arrest. Often happens when you assault a police officer. That right, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bonnick.
‘Don’t worry too much, but. It probably won’t delight the governors at Weavers but it will really impress the kids. Now I’m going to give you a choice. You can either sit in a car handcuffed to the wheel till we’re ready to deal with you, which could be hours. Or you can promise to be a good boy and go and take care of that poor wife of thine before she explodes. Which is it?’
‘No more trouble, really. I’m very sorry,’ said Dunn.
‘Good lad. Off you go. Now, Sergeant, fill me in.’
He listened carefully to Bonnick’s digest of events as they entered the house and climbed the stairs, only interrupting to ask, ‘What made Tweedledum and Tweedledee come up the drive in the first place?’
There was a slight hesitation before Bonnick said, ‘Just a random check, I think, sir. Also some of the girls bring their punters up these driveways, I believe, and we’ve been doing a bit of a blitz on kerb crawlers recently.’
‘Very conscientious pair of officers, then,’ said Dalziel. ‘You’re lucky to have them.’
The old sod knows that most likely they were skiving, thought Pascoe, but he wouldn’t have rated Bonnick if he’d said so.
When they reached the landing, he saw a uniformed inspector standing by a door with a splintered frame. This was Paddy Ireland, a small, rather self-important man, whose trousers always looked as if they’d been re-pressed after he put them on. He turned and acknowledged Dalziel with a parade-ground salute. Behind him through the doorway Pascoe could see a man in a white coverall whom he recognized as Tom Lockridge, one of a small group of local doctors registered as police medical examiners. He was looking down at a man slumped at a desk. At least Pascoe assumed it was a man. Too little of the head remained to make confirmation certain at this distance.
‘Poor bastard,’ said Dalziel. ‘Any ID?’
‘Haven’t been able to check, sir,’ said Ireland. ‘Thought it best to disturb things as little as possible till SOCO had got their photos.’
‘There’s a car parked round the back of the house,’ said Bonnick. ‘Blue Laguna estate, registered owner Mr Palinurus Maciver, who’s also the designated keyholder of the property, so it seems likely …’
‘Let’s not jump the gun, if you’ll pardon the expression,’ said Dalziel. ‘Dr Lockridge, how do? What can you tell us?’
Tom Lockridge had emerged from the room. He didn’t look well.
‘He’s dead,’ said Lockridge.
‘Don’t reckon you’re going to get any argument there,’ said Dalziel, peering towards the shattered figure. ‘But it’s always good to have these things confirmed by an expert. Saves us laymen wasting time with the kiss of life. You wouldn’t like to give us just a bit of detail, but, Doc?’
‘Not long dead,’ intoned Lockridge dully. ‘Two to four hours, maybe. Cause of death, probably self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head …’
‘Probably?’
‘You won’t know for certain till the pathologist has taken a look, will you?’ said Lockridge, sparking slightly.
‘Won’t know what? That they killed him or that they were self-inflicted?’
‘What? Both. Either. They look to be self-inflicted. He took his shoe and sock off …’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘I presume so he could pull the shotgun trigger with his toe.’
‘You’re a bugger for presumptions, Doc. Mebbe he were a freemason. Didn’t notice an apron, did you?’
This was a facetious callosity too far, thought Pascoe.
Lockridge evidently thought so too.
‘Mr Dalziel,’ he said very formally, ‘as a doctor, I know the therapeutic value of gallows humour, but I still find your tone offensive. I hope you will take pains to control it before you break the sad news to Mr Maciver’s relations.’
‘Mr Maciver? That’s Mr Maciver, is it? How can you tell?’
They all stared towards the shattered head.
‘I don’t know … I just assumed, with him going missing … Yes, I’m sure it’s Pal … I used to be his doctor, you see.’
‘Is that right? So how about distinguishing marks? Something that ’ud spare us having to give his nearest and dearest a close-up of that?’
‘He does … did … does have a distinct naevus at the base of his spine.’
‘Naevus? Like in Ben Naevus, you mean?’
‘Birthmark,’ explained Pascoe, he knew unnecessarily.
‘Oh aye. But you’ve not taken a look?’
‘No. I assumed you’d want the body left as undisturbed as possible till your SOCO people had finished in there.’
‘SOCO? You think there’s been a crime then, Doc?’
‘I know there’s been a suspicious death. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. You’ll have my report as soon as possible.’
He started to peel off the protective overall but Dalziel said, ‘Hang about, Doc. Do us a favour. Just pop back in there and check out yon naevus thing, just so’s we can be sure.’
For a moment Lockridge looked as though he might refuse, then he turned, went back into the room, pulled the dead man’s shirt-tail out of his trousers, peered down for a moment, then returned.
‘It’s him,’ he said shortly. ‘Can I go now?’
He didn’t wait for an answer but removed his overall and hurried away down the stairs.
‘Bit pale round the gills, weren’t he?’ said Dalziel. ‘And he didn’t even tuck the poor sod’s shirt back in.’
‘He knew the guy. Bound to be a bit of a shock, seeing him dead,’ said Pascoe.
‘Don’t be daft. He’s a doctor. Spends his life looking at dead folk that were alive on his last visit. Show me a quack who’s not used to it and I’ll pay hard cash to get on his panel.’
‘Perhaps