Free Off the Record by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page B

pistol, was loosely clasped in Dunbar’s hand.
    ‘It’s funny how often they come to a hotel to do it,’ offered Constable Flynn. ‘Think they’ll save trouble at home perhaps.’
    ‘Maybe,’ agreed Butley.
    ‘Or,’ continued Flynn, ‘they could want one last night of living it up.’ He looked round the room appreciatively. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’
    ‘Not if you’re dead,’ said Butley dryly. Although not an imaginative man, he was conscious of a feeling of depression. The Marchmont was clean and comfortable with a reputation for good service, but as the gateway to the next world it was so . . . so ordinary.
    The curtain flapped and through the open window came the sounds of a fine summer evening in London. The hotel overlooked Southampton Row with all its bustle and traffic. A car backfired in the street below and Sergeant Butley nodded in recognition. It sounded just like a shot. That, presumably, was why no one had heard the gun. It would be easy to mistake the noise, and you’d never dream it was a shot you’d heard. Talking of the shot . . . Sergeant Butley tilted his head critically to one side. ‘Constable Flynn?’
    ‘Yes, Sarge?’
    ‘Just have a look at where this bullet went in. Right at the back of his head.’ Constable Flynn knelt down beside the body and peered closely. ‘Do you notice anything?’
    ‘It’s an awkward way to shoot yourself, sir. Why, the bloke must’ve twisted his arm right round. I . . . I don’t see how he could have done it.’
    ‘Neither do I,’ said Butley slowly. ‘By cripes, my lad, this isn’t suicide.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s murder.’
    Inspector William Rackham waited as the Divisional Surgeon completed his investigation. ‘Well?’
    ‘It’s murder, all right,’ said the doctor.
    Rackham nodded to Butley. ‘Well done, Sergeant. Good work. What can you tell us, Doctor?’
    Doctor Morris wiped his thermometer and put it back in its case. ‘You can have a report with all the fancy language after the post-mortem but I can’t see it’ll tell you much more than I know already. There aren’t any burn marks round the wound but that, by itself, doesn’t constitute a case for suicide.’ He nodded towards the gun held limply in Dunbar’s hand. ‘There frequently aren’t any, especially when an automatic pistol has been used. What is significant is the angle the gun was fired at. I won’t say that it’s impossible for a man to shoot himself in that way, but it’s virtually impossible. I don’t think it’s on the cards. The other thing to notice is this.’ He stooped down on one knee beside the body and pointed to Dunbar’s outstretched hand. ‘You can see for yourselves how stiff the corpse is. He’s absolutely rigid, which, I may say, is very common in brain injuries. Rigor’s very little guide in these cases. It often sets in immediately. However, if you look at this hand which is holding the gun –’ Doctor Morris lifted the index and forefinger of the right hand, ‘– you can see that this hand, and this hand only, is flexible. And what that means is that someone moved this hand after death.’
    Rackham smiled grimly. ‘They’ve tried to be clever, haven’t they? What about the time of death, Doctor?’
    Morris glanced at his watch. ‘It’s just gone half past six. It’s a warm day, which will affect things but, on the other hand, the window’s open, which has cooled the room. I’d say he died between half past three and about half past five. If I had to make a guess it’d be roundabout four to half past or thereabouts, but that’s only a guess, mind. It’s impossible to be any more accurate.’
    ‘He was discovered at five o’clock,’ said Sergeant Butley. ‘The chambermaid came in with fresh towels and found him.’
    The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she, by Jove? That narrows down the latter end of the timescale. We’re fortunate that the body was discovered so soon.’
    ‘He would have been