The Hard Way by Duncan Brockwell (electronic book reader .txt) 📗

it, and updated it. If I give you the little shit’s handle, you can contact him, can’t you?”

“Outstanding!” Hayes nodded. “Absolutely. If this kid can corroborate your story, you’re in the clear. We’ll need to confiscate your console to add verification, but if this all comes to pass, you’ll be off our list of suspects.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. I’ll get you that name.”

Hayes’ mobile vibrated in her pocket. She delved inside her jacket and retrieved it. The digital display informed her it was the pathologist. “Hi Sheila, what’s up?”

“Sorry to do this, Amanda, but you need to come down here. I’m processing Henry Curtis, and something’s presented itself that I need to show you.” Sheila sounded both excited and perplexed.

“Yes, we’ll be right over. Listen, is this going to be good or bad news?”

“I think it depends on your perspective, but knowing you as well as I do, good news.”

34

Miller pulled into East Ham Mortuary, where they were due to meet the pathologist. After parking up, Miller locked their car and walked with Hayes to Sheila’s exam room, which held four examination benches, only one of which was in use. Even from a distance she recognised the corpse was that of Henry Curtis.

“You were very cryptic over the phone, Sheila,” Hayes said, following the pathologist over to Henry’s body. “What’s up?”

“As you can see, from here all looks usual for a suicide, right? Slit wrists, and although done horizontally, and not vertically, very effective. The body almost bled dry, which struck alarm bells with me.”

Miller observed the deep gashes on Henry’s wrists. When Sheila prised the wound apart, Miller saw white. “Is that bone?”

“It is, very good. And do you know why it rang alarm bells with me? Slashers rarely dig that deep.” Sheila put the arm down.

Hayes stepped forward. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

“You have to think about this logically. Anyone who is contemplating suicide is on the edge of the abyss, right? They’re going to be petrified. Most of the slashers I’ve seen come through here have made several attempts at their wrists prior to severing arteries deep enough to kill them. Mostly, they’re scared and don’t really want to kill themselves. But here, there are no marks from previous attempts, no hacking practises, just two clean slices, right to the bone. In my time here at the mortuary, I’ve never seen two cleaner cuts.”

“Right, I’m with you, but what does it mean?” Hayes raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“It got me curious. I wanted to see if there were any other marks on the skin that shouldn’t be there. Here, help me with the body, would you?”

Watching the pathologist and Hayes roll the body onto its side, Miller stepped closer when Sheila probed the back of Henry’s head, going through his hair. “Is that a scab?” She saw a dark circle in the centre.

Sheila and Hayes rolled Henry face down. “That’s from a gun muzzle.”

Miller was having trouble processing the information. “Wait! Are you saying Henry Curtis was murdered? He didn’t kill himself?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. At some point, Henry’s killers put a gun against his head so hard it broke the skin, leaving that mark. You said there was a letter found in the home? My guess is, if you asked a graphologist to analyse his handwriting, the results would say he wrote it under duress.”

“So, you believe the killer forced him to slit his own wrists?” Miller was still having trouble believing it.

“With how cleanly his wrists were sliced, I’d say it’s more likely your suspect slit his wrists. They aren’t cuts of a suicidal man, detective. Like I said, they set alarm bells ringing. They’re the reason I looked elsewhere on the body.”

“And you’re certain the scab on the back of his head is from the muzzle of a gun? You’re going to write that on your report?” When Sheila confirmed she would, Hayes turned to Miller. “Smile, partner, at least now we can stop investigating Reid and Austin.”

35

Charlotte Edwards opened her front door to let in her brother. When she received a phone call from Hayes that she had information about her brother’s and Henry’s deaths earlier, she suggested they drive over to her house. When she hung up with the detective, she immediately phoned Richard, who was driving at the time. “Oh good, you got here first,” she said, letting him through.

“Tell me what the detective said, Lottie.” He stood in the hallway, agitated.

After closing the door, she faced him. “What? Nothing! She told me she has news about Colin’s and Henry’s deaths, that she needs to speak with us. Why? What are you hiding?”

Richard seemed unduly irritable. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“Then why are you so tense? I heard you talking to Henry before. I know you had something going on with him, so you might as well tell me what it is before they get here. And don’t lie to me; you’re a terrible liar.”

Instead of revealing all, Richard went to her dining room, opened her drinks cabinet, and poured himself a whisky. “Do you want one?” When he necked a double measure, Charlotte saw his hand shaking.

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it? Are you an alcoholic, or something? It’s barely midday, and you’re necking it like it’s squash.” She watched him slam back another double. “Right, that’s enough. You’re not going to be pissed before the police get here.”

Closing the drinks cabinet, she shooed her brother away. “What’s wrong with you? This isn’t like you at all; you’re normally so together, so with it.”

“One of my employees died last night,” Richard replied, sitting on her sofa.

Charlotte sat next to him. “Oh Richard, that’s awful. I’m so sorry for going off on one. I didn’t know.” She left a pause before asking, “How did it happen?”

“Car crash late last night. He wrapped his Beamer round a tree on his way home to his wife. I only