Chapter Seven
The sunlight danced around the rooftops as Johnny strolled down Guthrie Port toward his entry. He had spent the night with Veronica and now he had to email his column away to the Courier.
He climbed the stairs two at a time eager to fire off the fruits of his labours. He slid his key into the main lock, but found it to be unlocked. Strange, he thought for he always locked the main lock when he left the flat for more than a few minutes. Pushing the small key into the latch, he turned it and then pushed the door open, and
walked into the dark hallway, with thumping heart. There was a strange putrid smell hanging in the air.
Johnny switched on the light and pushed open the living room door. Light spilled over the carpet and rose over the back of the settee. There was no movement from inside the room. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed open the doors to the other rooms; everything was as he left it.
He strode into the living room and switched on the light, then froze. There was a band of red around the walls at head height with drips running down to the skirting board. The red wasn’t paint, for lying on the rug by the fireplace was the body of a man.
He crept around the settee past his CD player, which was lying on the floor beside the CD rack, its disks scattered around the carpet. He stole a glance at the body and wished he hadn’t. The eyeballs of the corpse had popped out of their sockets and hung down as if looking at the blood splattered chin. Blood oozed out of the nose and flowed over the earlier congealed effluence. More blood flowed from the body’s ears onto an already soaked T-shirt.
Johnny felt vomit rising up his gullet. He ran to the toilet and threw up the contents of his stomach. After he had flushed the cistern he splashed cold water onto his face. He then ran out of the flat and jumped down the few steps onto the window landing. Gazing out at the back garden he pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and rang 999.
Detective Sergeant Dave Mitchell was about to leave his desk when the phone rang.
“Dave?”
“Yes.”
“Comms room here. There’s been a body found at 10b Guthrie Port. Two uniform officers are at the scene.”
“Okay, wilco.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Detective Constable Colin McAllister, who was about to take a bite from a cheese sandwich. “You’ll need to leave that just now Colin there’s been a body found in Guthrie Port.”
The two detectives climbed the stairs to find Sergeant Hamish Murray standing with Johnny on the landing.
“Hamish! What’s the crack?” Dave asked, looking at Johnny.
“This is John Duncan–the owner of the flat. He found the body when he returned this morning.”
“Okay, I’ll need a statement sir. Could you wait here?”
Sergeant Murray took Dave aside with a firm grip of his elbow. “This is bad Dave. I’ve never seen anything like it. I hope you haven’t had a big breakfast!”
Mitchell subconsciously patted his jacket pockets looking for the cigarettes he had given up three years before. He sighed then pulled on a pair of shoe covers and a pair of investigation gloves before entering the flat.
The lights were on as he and Colin passed through the small hallway and into the living room. He recognised the smell only too well–the smell of death. He inspected the blood on the walls and the CD player on the floor next to the scattered disks. Then he moved over beside Constable Jim Malcolm who was standing looking at the body.“My God!” he exclaimed as he looked away for a moment. “Any weapon constable?”
“No sir.”
“Crivens!” Colin exclaimed. “What’s happened to this guy?” he asked no one in particular.
Mitchell knelt down by the body and took his mobile from his pocket and flicked it open. He pressed a key while inspecting the corpse. “This is DS Mitchell. We need a forensic team at 10b Guthrie Port Arbroath–there’s a battered body.”
He finished the call and then pressed another key. “Sir, I think you’d better make your way to 10b Guthrie Port.” He listened for a moment and then said: “The owner found a bloodied body in the flat when he entered this morning.” He listened again and then closed the mobile. “Colin, put on a pair of investigation gloves and look around for anything unusual,” he said, rising. He then walked out of the flat and down the few steps to the window landing where Johnny was standing exhaling a plume of bluish, grey smoke beside Sergeant Murray. “Hamish, you’d better set up a cordon around the front of the close and call up a few more men and ask questions around the area.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
Mitchell turned to Johnny, “Mr Duncan, where were you last night?”
“I spent last night with a friend.”
“Could I have the name and address sir?”
“Veronica Cahill. She’s an American reporter, and she’s staying at the Harbour View Guest House.
“Okay, could you take me through the events which led to you finding the body?”
“Well, I came upstairs and noticed nothing out of the ordinary. I put my main key into the lock and found it to be unlocked. I thought this strange because I always lock it before leaving the house for any length of time. I then unlocked the latch and entered the flat.
“Before we go any further sir,” Dave Mitchell stroked his jaw, “why is there a swastika on your front door?”
“Veronica and I came back on Saturday night to find it daubed on the door.”
“Did you report it?”
“Detective Sergeant, in my line of work if I reported every crank thing that happened I would have no spare time!”
“Okay, carry on sir.”
“I looked in all the rooms to see if anything was missing, but everything was as I left it. Then I entered the living room and put on the light intending to open the curtains. But the blood spattered walls and the dead body froze me rigid.”
Johnny paused for a moment and stared out of the window up at the sky where small, white cumuli were being blown along by the wind. “I then ran out of the house and phoned you people.”
“Okay, next question: did you recognise the victim?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.”
Two men in white protective suits with the hoods down climbed the stairs and then stood beside the two men on the landing. One carrying a large, black plastic case asked: “DS Mitchell?”
“Yeah, that’s me. The body’s in the living room,” he said, pointing toward the open front door.
Colin McAllister strolled out of the flat.
“Any luck?” Dave asked the young detective.
“Nothing.”
“Knock on the doors of the other two flats and find out if they saw or heard anything last night. The lady’s in downstairs I saw her peeking up the stairs earlier.”
He headed down stairs just as a man with thick, grey streaked, black hair ascended. He wore a black, knee length coat over a dark, grey suit. “Colin,” he said, nodding as the two men passed one another.
“Sir,” replied DC McAllister.
Dave Mitchell moved to the front of the landing. “Sir, this is Mr Duncan he owns the flat, and he found the body when he entered this morning,” he then turned to Johnny, “this is DCI James.
“I read your column.” James said as he drew level with the pair and looked at Johnny, “every week in the Courier.”
Johnny raised his eyebrows and nodded his head.
“I’ve also read the article in Time Magazine about your adventure in Israel; seems like you’ve stirred up quite a hornet’s nest.”
“Yes,” said Johnny nodding.
“Right Dave, have you taken a statement from Mr Duncan?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Let’s have a look inside then.”
They entered the living room where one white-suited man was taking photographs of the body and the other was searching the carpet area between the settee and the body.
As they stood by the victim a voice boomed out, “DCI James!”
The two men turned toward the door to see a tall blond-haired man in a blue coverall walk toward them.
“Doctor Connors.” James said.
“Not a pretty sight,” the pathologist said, looking at the corpse.
“Are they ever?” James replied, “We’ll let you get on Derek,” he continued as he and Mitchell walked over to the window. They turned and looked back into the room.
Gordon James took a deep breath. “So where was our Mr Duncan last night then Dave?”
“He was staying with a woman at the Harbour View Guest House.”
“You’ve got a name I take it?”
“Veronica Cahill.”
“Did he know the victim?”
“No.”
“What’s Colin doing?”
“He’s talking to the neighbours in the building. Hamish Murray and his men are knocking on doors in the street.”
They walked back into the centre of the room.
“Contents of the pockets anyone,” said the Pathologist, holding up a clear plastic bag with items inside.
“Thank you Derek,” said DCI James accepting the bag. “Anything else for me yet?”
“Time of death approximately nine-thirty last night. Can’t see any wounding or bruising. The skull looks to be fractured, not consistent with a blow or blows externally to the head more as if blood surged into the cranium at massive pressures.”
“Strange.” D S Mitchell said shaking his head.
“Yes, I’ll have more for you when I get the body onto the slab.”
“Okay, thanks Derek,” said James, taking Mitchell aside. “Dave, you get down to the Harbour View Guest House and get a statement from this Veronica Cahill. I’ll see you back at the station later.
DCI James moved back to the window and watched as a large, black cloud dispatched rain drops onto the glass.