Free Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel by Quintin Jardine

dead. Hell of a way to kill someone,’ he murmured, in a tone that almost sounded respectful. ‘After the first couple of falls, he would have had to be carried or dragged back up to the platform, and that of itself would have been excruciating. The body is massively damaged, but there is bruising to the wrists and ankles that’s consistent with him being gripped hard, lifted and tossed over the edge. In my view he was already dead, or dying, the last time this was done. He hit the floor of the pool skull and face first and there is no sign of any resistance to the impact on that occasion, but several of the fractures, to the wrists and arms for example, indicate that there was earlier. If it’s important for you to know how often he was dropped, you might have your crime scene team examine the pool for damage to the tiles. It’ll be there, it’ll be considerable, and it might give you an answer.’

    ‘It won’t tell us why, though, Joe,’ I pointed out. ‘Could they have been trying to get information from him?’

    ‘That’s not a hypothesis I could advance in evidence. You’ll have to catch the perpetrators and ask them.’

    ‘And we will,’ I said, ‘but can you say as a pathologist whether you’d expect someone to survive a thirty-foot drop on to a hard surface?’

    He pondered my question for a few seconds; eventually he nodded. ‘A young, fit man, hands and feet unrestrained: yes, I would, but I’d expect fractures, even if he managed to land feet first.’

    ‘So what we’re dealing with here is a form of torture, not just an attempted murder that took a while to succeed?’

    ‘That’s one way of putting it, yes. To be frank, the only thing I can rule out is suicide.’

Five

    L eggat, Martin and McGuire were all in the office when we got back. The two DCs were still on a late lunch break; not a great way to impress a new boss, and even less so on the first day of an investigation.

    I let Jeff Adam give them the blow-by-blow of the autopsy. ‘They bounced the poor bastard off the swimming pool floor until he was dead,’ he summarised, as neat a description as I could have offered.

    ‘Somebody must have been seriously upset with him to do that,’ the DI said.

    ‘Or very keen for him to tell them something,’ I pointed out.

    ‘Could he have been double-crossing Tony over something? Or could he . . .’ he stopped, in mid-sentence. ‘Here, he isn’t on anyone’s informant list, is he?’

    ‘Bella Watson’s son? No way. No, Fred, when he was just running for Manson we . . . the drugs squad, I mean . . . had him in often enough. If he’d been a grass, I’d have been warned. Mind you . . . have a word with the Scottish Crime Squad crew, in case they were cultivating him.’

    ‘Without telling us?’

    ‘Roles reversed I wouldn’t tell them,’ I pointed out, ‘unless they needed to know. Yes, do that, but we won’t hold our breath for a response. No, first priority is finding Tony Manson. Did you check his house?’

    ‘Yes, I sent a car out there. It’s locked up, and the phone’s on auto answer.’

    ‘How did you get on with that wee shit of a lawyer?’

    ‘He stonewalled us.’ Leggat sighed. ‘Said he doesn’t know where his client is, or how to get in touch with him.’

    ‘Did you believe him?’

    ‘The first might be true, the second won’t be.’

    I turned to McGuire. I couldn’t help but admire his suit; pale blue mohair. ‘Mario, cameras?’

    ‘They have tapes for us, boss. They’ve promised them by this afternoon.’

    ‘Fine. Chase them up if they’re not here in half an hour. When they arrive, review them; you know what you’re looking for.’

    ‘Yes, sir.’

    ‘And one other thing. The suit; when I said you could lose the uniform I didn’t mean you to replace it with Savile Row. This is CID. We do unobtrusive here.’

    The big guy looked crestfallen. ‘Sorry, boss.’

    I smiled. ‘That’s okay. It might come in handy if you