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Blood Is Thicker Than Water
Paul Gitsham


It all seems straightforward. There’s been a tragic accident: the old man fell asleep in his chair, woke up in the dark, fell and hit his head on the mantelpiece. But the Crime Scene Manager isn’t happy. There are just too many details that aren’t quite right and Charles Michaelson’s accident becomes a suspicious death.And, as DCI Warren Jones investigates, he and his team discover that all is not as it appears to be in the dead man’s caring family when his son-in-law disappears. Then they uncover some dark secrets in Michaelson’s past and a motive for murder.Fans of Peter Robinson and Peter James will love Blood is Thicker Than Water, the third novel in Paul Gitsham's DCI Warren Jones series.More DCI Warren Jones books by Paul Gitsham:The Last StrawNo Smoke Without FireSilent as the GravePraise for Paul Gitsham:"A wonderfully classy crime novel. Fluent writing style, great pace to the action. What's not to like? I'll be reading number 2 as quickly as I can download it. Highly recommended. Crime Writing at its very best" - Kate Rhodes, author of Crossbones Yard and the Alice Quentin series










It all seems straightforward. There’s been a tragic accident: the old man fell asleep in his chair, woke up in the dark, fell and hit his head on the mantelpiece. But the Crime Scene Manager isn’t happy. There are just too many details that aren’t quite right and Charles Michaelson’s accident becomes a suspicious death.

And, as DCI Warren Jones investigates, he and his team discover that all is not as it appears to be in the dead man’s caring family when his son-in-law disappears. Then they uncover some dark secrets in Michaelson’s past and a motive for murder.


Also by Paul Gitsham (#ulink_c274925c-0cb6-532f-a85b-0ed2f7a1dda0)

The Last Straw

No Smoke Without Fire

Silent as the Grave


Blood Is Thicker Than Water

A DCI Warren Jones Short Story

Paul Gitsham







Copyright (#ulink_ad013ca7-2229-5da2-8fc8-57554cd70b5f)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright В© Paul Gitsham 2015

Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition В© June 2015 ISBN: 9781474034159

Version date: 2018-06-27


PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said, “He’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve.” Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.* (#ulink_c20e1369-f838-51df-9d1e-ecfd0ba8ee1e)

Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently spending hours in coffee shops and pubs whilst he plots the next novels in the series. Honest.

You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com (http://www.paulgitsham.com) or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones (http://www.facebook.com/dcijones) or Twitter @dcijoneswriter (http://www.twitter.com/dcijoneswriter)

* (#ulink_61b3f157-8c23-5960-9ab4-3056d4e71bcb)This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught.


As always, writing is a joint effort. Huge thanks to Dad and Cheryl, my beta-readers for their advice and assistance.

Paul


For Cheryl.


Contents

Cover (#u0914dbed-7a8f-52d2-ac03-a57337efc401)

Blurb (#ueb9e8818-10f3-56ec-a69d-04cdff570502)

Book List (#ulink_cb9d3d60-fec2-5598-8f10-f070bbc42614)

Title Page (#ufb0f7777-6923-525d-8422-8c35624aa4c1)

Copyright (#u0c1fb16a-2cf9-5f47-b2a0-a9473d58c4cd)

Author Bio (#u4306c403-e723-5713-b3cb-568df5796efd)

Acknowledgements (#ue298bc56-188c-5580-a236-77b5f6362140)

Dedication (#u57663ae1-b490-5702-9ed1-bc7f1e9c6939)

Blood is Thicker than Water (#u1b7e441e-ec32-505f-9b0c-5be2932b36d7)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


The old man wakes with a start. It’s pitch black and for a moment he’s disoriented. He’s sitting upright; he must have fallen asleep in the chair in front of the TV again. So why isn’t the light on? Has the electricity gone off? A blinking green glow across the room is slowly coming into focus—the clock on the video player. 01:27. So, no power cut but it did explain why the TV was off. It had switched to power-saving mode. Had he turned the light off before snoozing? He didn’t think so.

Bloody eco light bulbs. They were supposed to last for ten years; he’d only fitted it six months ago. He didn’t give a fig about global warming, but his daughter had shown him how much money he would save on his electricity bill and that had convinced him to pay the premium. Had he recouped his investment yet? He didn’t think so.

His legs were stiff. He couldn’t sleep here all night, he decided. Besides he needed the bathroom. The room was still dark; neither the green of the video clock nor the faint glow from the streetlamps through the curtains provided enough illumination for him to make out anything but the darkest of shadows. He thought about waiting for a few more moments to see if his eyes would adjust any more, but now thoughts of the toilet had taken hold and wouldn’t be denied much longer.

Reaching forward he groped for the wheeled trolley. He still resented the contraption. It had a tray and all sorts of useful pockets, allowing him to shuffle around his house unaided, but despite what the brochure and his carers might call it, the damn thing was a Zimmer frame. His fingertips met nothing but empty air. Where was it? Had he kicked it away in his sleep? Some sort of leg spasm that sent it skittering out of his grasp?

He swept the air in front of him with his right hand, his eyes straining uselessly. Where was the bloody thing? The discomfort in his bladder was growing. He’d have to get to the bathroom soon. Time for Plan B he decided, turning in his seat for the wooden cane—he refused to call it a walking stick—that he kept hanging from the back of his armchair. His fingers brushed against the fabric of the wing-backed chair. It must have fallen on the floor he decided.

Reaching down he moved his fingers methodically across the carpet. After a few moments he gave up, his breath ragged from the pressure on his diaphragm, tiny stars sparkling at the edge of his vision. For the first time he started to doubt himself. Had he imagined hanging the cane off the back of his chair? It was something that he did every day—had he just assumed that he had done so last night? A chill ran through him. These little episodes were becoming more frequent. Was he just getting a little forgetful in his old age or was there more to it? Something more sinister? It ran in families sometimes he’d read somewhere. His mother had remained as sharp as a pin into her nineties, but his father had died too young for any of the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease to manifest themselves. However, both of his father’s brothers had been showing at least some of the symptoms of dementia before the family curse of heart disease had taken them as well. He’d inherited the heart problems. Had he also inherited something else?

This time of year the sun made an appearance about six. Could he just sit it out until it became light enough for him to see what he’d done with his mobility aids? A rumbling in his bowels joined the pain in his bladder, answering that question. He gritted his teeth. No chance. Old and infirm he may be, but he still had his pride—too much pride, even he could admit at times—and he would not be found sitting in his own piss and shit.

Taking a deep breath, he shuffled to the end of the chair. He’d finally accepted the logic of a stairlift—it was either that or be confined to the ground floor of his own home, suffering the ignominy of bathing in the kitchen or downstairs loo and sleeping in the dining room, with a twice weekly trip to the upstairs bathroom to wash properly. He had, though, drawn the line at one of those tilting armchairs that delivered you to your feet. Not least because of the price. Eight hundred pounds for a chair! He regretted that now. Gripping the armrest with his right hand he pushed down, struggling to clamber to his feet. The chair rocked alarmingly as his full weight resting on one side threatened to topple it.

Finally he stood precariously upright, feeling a flash of pride in his accomplishment, followed immediately by a sense of shame at being proud of such a minor achievement. Maintaining a grip on the side of the chair, he shuffled his feet until he stood more firmly. His left leg was weaker than his right—not as useless as his left arm, fortunately, but it still made crossing the darkened room a time-consuming process.

The rug in front of the fire was an old, shaggy affair nearing the end of its fifth decade. It had been lying there since he’d moved into the house and had been the first piece of “luxury furnishing” his wife had bought. It had cost her a week’s wages—not that she’d earned much back then, not compared to him—but it had been important for her. Her income had been little more than pocket money really. He’d been the breadwinner but it had been important that she felt she was contributing.

He was fortunate that it was his weaker left foot that caught the fold; it left his stronger right leg to help him regain his balance. He breathed out shakily. That had been too close.

And then he was falling. Time seemed to slow and then the stars were back, an explosion of light before his eyes from the sudden contact with the mantelpiece. They were beautiful in their own way, he supposed. He felt weightless, even as he continued downwards. There was no pain; there hadn’t been time.

Then it was all over. A final crack as he met the stone hearth of the fireplace and that was it.


“Charles Michaelson, seventy-eight years old, lived alone,” the young constable greeted Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones as he stepped out of his car. He nodded in the direction of a middle-aged woman dressed in a plain skirt and woollen cardigan, talking to another uniformed officer. “That’s his daughter over there. She discovered the body this morning when she came by to help the deceased get ready for the day.”

“Anything suspicious at the scene?”

The policeman shook his head. “Nothing obvious. It looks as though he fell and cracked his head. Apparently he was unsteady on his feet after a stroke a few years ago.”

The daughter was sitting on the steps of the ambulance’s loading bay, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Warren decided to head into the house to see the scene for himself before speaking to her.

It was nine a.m. on a Tuesday and the morning rush hour was well underway. In Warren’s experience, the flashing lights of an ambulance elicited a curiousness that was usually tempered by respect. Nobody felt comfortable slowing down to stare as some poor soul was taken out of their home. However, the presence of a police car elevated the scene to an “incident” and all such restraint melted away. He turned back to the constable who had greeted him.

“Go and ask those kids why they aren’t in school yet and tell them to stop filming or I’ll confiscate their phones as evidence.”

Leaving his empty threat to be passed on to the gaggle of gawking teenagers, Warren walked up the short garden path, towards the door. The house was a neat, terraced affair. The faint scent of air freshener and furniture polish spoke of a well-cared-for property, although he noticed that the paintwork on the windowsills and the front door was slightly faded, suggesting that the occupant was more interested in the interior than the outside. A glance back at the front garden confirmed his impression; the grass on the tiny lawn was recently cut, but small weeds poked their heads between the untidy rosebushes.

Another constable stood guard inside the narrow, dark hallway with a copy of the scene log attached to a clipboard. Behind him, Warren could see through an open doorway into the living room beyond, the bottom of a right leg encased in grey corduroy trousers with a bright red slipper just visible. Warren signed his name, noting that aside from the two officers he’d already met and a couple of paramedics, he was the first on the scene.

“The daughter found him this morning when she let herself in to make him breakfast.”

“Did she disturb the body?”

“She says that she saw he wasn’t breathing and touched his neck, but she couldn’t find a pulse, so she called 999.”

“What about the paramedics?”

“They came in, but they could see he was dead, so they backed out and called us in.”

Warren nodded his thanks. The chances were that it was nothing more than natural causes, an old man collapsing of a heart attack or stumbling. Nevertheless an unexplained death was an unexplained death and Warren was the senior on-call officer this week. Reaching down, he slipped a pair of sterile booties over his work shoes and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

The living room was old-fashioned. Aside from the large flat screen TV at the far end of the room, the décor probably hadn’t been updated in the last forty years. The carpet, though clean, was faded, the three-piece suite slightly shiny from decades of use. Thick, dark curtains were still drawn, the electric light providing the only illumination.

The body of an elderly man lay face down in the fireplace. It had been a warm night and Warren was relieved to see that the fire hadn’t been lit. Past experience told him that the smell of burnt flesh and the sight of charred features would linger in his dreams for weeks afterwards. Unfortunately, the man had soiled himself and the odour was starting to fill the room.

First impressions were that the deceased had fallen, face first, into the fireplace, striking the mantelpiece on the way down. The wood was cracked and broken picture frames lay scattered about the body. Warren recognised a photograph of the woman outside. Slipping his hands into his pockets to avoid touching anything, Warren stood still and moved his gaze slowly around the room.

The most useful piece of technology that any investigating officer has in his possession is the original, mark one eyeball, his former mentor was fond of telling his junior officers and Warren had found himself passing Bob Windermere’s pearl of wisdom on to his own detectives. Until the technicians arrived with their cameras and briefcases crammed with equipment, it was all that he had at his disposal.

The cause of death was beyond Warren’s remit. That was a job for the pathologist, but still he found himself looking for clues. The biggest question was why had the man fallen? Had he collapsed, falling towards the fireplace, or had he stumbled, the fall itself killing him?

A few paces behind the man was a wing-backed armchair angled towards the TV. A small table to the right of it—festooned in magazines, empty mugs and a selection of remote controls—suggested that this was the favourite chair in the room and probably the seat that the deceased had spent most of his time in. A little over an arm’s length away from the chair was a wheeled Zimmer frame with a tray surface. On it the remains of a sandwich sat on a plain, white tea plate. Hanging off the left side of the chair was a curved, wooden walking stick.

Turning back to the body, Warren saw that the man was fully clothed, wearing a checked shirt with a sleeveless woollen pullover. The trousers were loose, but he wore no belt. The man’s left hand lay at his side, his right was outstretched, as if to break his fall.

The body was lying on a threadbare, shag-pile rug. The furthest edge from the fireplace was curled up slightly. Warren measured the angles by eye. Had the old man tripped on the fold and fallen, catching his head on the way down? Careful not to disturb the area immediately around the body, Warren squatted down. Sightless eyes stared back at him disconcertingly, below a massive darkened bruise. A fresh-looking slice across his eyebrows hinted at a huge impact. A dark puddle of shiny blood on the gleaming, black tiles of the hearth indicated that the deceased had continued to bleed for at least some time before death. Warren looked up and saw, just as he had expected, blood smears and what looked like grey hairs embedded in the split wood of the mantelpiece.

The smell was beginning to get to Warren and he stood up. It looked like an unfortunate accident. An old man, unsteady on his feet, catches his foot on an old rug and takes a dive into the fireplace, splitting his head open on the way down. Nothing to get excited about, Warren decided as he left the room.

He glanced at his watch. The monthly budget meeting was due to start in fifteen minutes. He should really delegate, he supposed. If he put his foot down he could be in Welwyn within thirty minutes, but the thought of two hours in a stuffy room poring over spreadsheets was deeply unappealing on such a pleasant morning. Besides which his next most senior officer, Detective Inspector Tony Sutton, was away on a course, Warren was the senior on-call officer and the meeting was always minuted…

He decided to compromise. He’d speak to the daughter now, assuming she was in a fit state, satisfy himself that there was nothing untoward and then pass her off to a detective constable for follow-up. Then, if he wasn’t too late, he’d make it for the last few minutes and pick up the highlights of the meeting. After removing his protective gear he pulled out his phone and dashed off an apologetic email to Detective Superintendent Grayson. His immediate superior generally did most of the talking in such meetings anyway.

Heading back outside, Warren made his way to the ambulance. It was always best to question witnesses as soon after an incident as possible, he told himself.

Kathy Mackay spoke with a local accent, as best Warren could tell, and she looked tired, the smudges underneath her red-rimmed eyes spoke of a long-term weariness that went beyond the stresses of the morning. Warren guessed her age to be late thirties.

“I believe you found your father?” Warren started, sympathetically.

She nodded and when she spoke it was as if she didn’t quite believe what she was saying. “I let myself in about eight o’clock—I have a set of keys—and went into the kitchen to get Dad’s breakfast ready.”

“You didn’t call out?”

She shook her head. “Dad’s not what you’d call a �morning person’. I figured he was awake, since I could hear the Today programme coming from upstairs, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“So you were expecting him to be up there?”

“Yes, we had a chairlift installed a couple of years ago. He insists on sleeping in his old bedroom.”

“Do you make his breakfast every morning?”

“Yes. He had a stroke about ten years ago. His left arm is pretty much useless. I drop the kids off at breakfast club and pop in on the way back.”

“So your father needed help with his day-to-day care?”

“Not twenty-four hours. He can walk with assistance but he was never much of a cook even before the stroke. I usually make him a spot of lunch at the same time then leave him to it until the early evening.”

“You say that your father was not a morning person. Do you have any idea why he was already downstairs in the living room when you arrived this morning?”

She shrugged slightly. “He sometimes falls asleep in his chair in front of the TV. I’ve found him there once or twice, although I think he normally wakes up and goes upstairs to his bed.” She paused for a moment. “I think those were the clothes he was wearing yesterday.”

So Mr Michaelson had probably fallen on the way to bed the previous night, rather than getting up early that morning. The time of death should clear that question up.

“How did you find your father?”

“As I said, I let myself in about eight after I dropped the kids off. The living room door was closed, so I didn’t look in there. After I made his breakfast, I went in to collect any dirty mugs and have a bit of a tidy-up. He spends all day in there and it gets a bit messy sometimes. And that’s when I found him.”

Her voice broke and Warren told her to take her time. The tissue in her hand was sodden and starting to shred, so Warren fished out a small packet from his inside jacket pocket. After a few deep breaths, she continued. “He was lying face down in the fireplace. I knew as soon as I saw him he was dead.” Her voice cracked, but she continued, “You just know, don’t you? He was too still. His eyes were open, staring at me.”

“Did you touch him at all, or move anything?”

She shook her head. “I felt for his pulse—” she touched her throat “—but there was nothing. I walked out and called an ambulance.”

She was looking tearful again and so Warren decided to move away slightly from the discovery of the body. The follow-up interview could answer any other questions. He cast about for the right choice of words. “Did your father require help with his more…intimate…personal care?”

“No fortunately. Dad was quite insistent about that. It took him a while, but he could pretty much dress himself and we had one of those sit-down showers fitted. He needs a bit of help with fiddly things, like his tie and button-up shirts if he’s going out to the British Legion for the day, and about once a week we’d give him a proper wet shave instead of using his electric razor.”

“You said �we’. Do you have any other help?”

“No, just my brother, Tommy, and my husband. We split the rest of the duties between us: cleaning, shopping, odd jobs. We took it in turns to make him dinner.” Her mouth twisted. “Dad had a good job and was always very careful with his money, so he doesn’t qualify for any state care. He was—reluctant—to pay for help whilst my brother and I live so close.” The speech was delivered in careful, neutral tones, but her eyes gave her away. Warren filed away her reaction for future analysis, if need be.

“Has Tommy been told about what’s happened?”

“I phoned him about half an hour ago. He’s on his way. He works in Stevenage.”

“What about your husband?”

“His phone’s off, but he’ll pick up his messages when he finishes work in an hour or so.”

“You said your father needed assistance walking?”

She nodded. “He could move around the house on his own and we got him one of those wheeled Zimmer frames with a tray fitted, but that’s about it. His left leg was affected by the stroke and he wasn’t very steady.”

“So he was mostly housebound?”

She nodded again. “He didn’t like going out. For some reason he was ashamed of his disability. He hated using a wheelchair.”

“But he used to go to the British Legion?”

“About once a week. Funnily enough, he didn’t mind that. I think it’s because several of the others need assistance as well. They have a minibus that picks them up. I guess they’re all in the same boat.”

Nothing she had said changed Warren’s mind about what had happened. Charles Michaelson had been unsteady on his feet; he’d either collapsed or tripped, possibly on the rug in front of the fireplace, and cracked his head against the stonework.

“When did you last see your father?”

“Last night. It was my turn to make him some dinner.”

“What time was that?”

She thought for a moment. “I put the kids to bed about eight, then came straight around. I live about five minutes away.”

“And how was your father?”

“A bit quiet. He’s been a bit tired and under the weather for the past few days. He didn’t say very much; he was watching some documentary on TV. He doesn’t eat much in the evening so I just made him some sandwiches and a cup of tea and gave him his pills. I did a spot of ironing, then left.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after nine, I guess.” She paused for a second. “Yes that’s about right. Whatever he was watching had ended and he’d changed channels to watch something else. Programmes usually start on the hour don’t they?”

“And you went straight home?”

“Yes, Ian, my husband, leaves for work about ten. He works nights. I have to get back to look after the kids.”

She suddenly looked exhausted. Warren wasn’t surprised. Young children—an eight o’clock bedtime suggested they were probably still at primary school—an infirm father and a husband working shifts. Kathy Mackay had a hard life. There was nothing overtly suspicious here he decided. He’d get DC Gary Hastings to conduct a follow-up interview after the post-mortem.

Expressing his condolences again, he headed for the car. If the traffic was kind he’d make the tail end of the meeting. If he timed it right he’d miss the death-by-PowerPoint that finance loved and still manage to nab a custard cream.

* * *

Charles Michaelson’s death remained a tragic accident until late that evening.

“Harrison here, sir. I’m out at the Michaelson death.” Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison’s Yorkshire tones were clipped, his voice slightly tense. “I’m not happy with the scene.”

* * *

The smell from the late Charles Michaelson hadn’t improved any since the morning, even though the body had been removed to the morgue, pending autopsy. CSM Harrison and his team had been working in the small room for nearly three hours. Warren assumed that their noses had become used to the smell. Hopefully his would soon become accustomed to it also.

Harrison had turned up at the scene with his current trainee, expecting a routine unexpected death. He’d been anticipating an opportunity for Shaniya to try out some basic techniques in a low-risk environment, where there’d be no danger of jeopardising a prosecution.

“It’s a combination of a few small things, sir.” Harrison had photographed the body in situ before covering the hands in plastic bags to preserve evidence, then sending it away.

“First, I’m not happy with the positioning of the body.” He pointed at the upturned rug. “If he’d tripped and gone straight down, I’d have expected the body to have landed a bit further back. He’d have still hit his head on the stone hearth, but probably missed the mantelpiece.”

“He could have stumbled, caught himself, then gone down,” suggested Warren, playing devil’s advocate.

Harrison shrugged. “It’s circumstantial, I agree. But I’m not happy about him tripping in the first place.” He pointed to the far end of the room. “He’s supposedly unsteady on his feet and needs assistance walking. So why didn’t he use his Zimmer frame?”

Warren gauged the distance between the chair and the wheeled frame. “It looks as if it was beyond arm’s reach. Did he knock it out of the way in his sleep?”

Harrison shook his head. “No chance. Look at the design: two wheels at the front, rubber stoppers at the back. That’s not going anywhere unless it’s moved deliberately.”

“OK, so somehow the frame is out of his reach. He was a stubborn bugger from all accounts. Maybe he chose to walk unaided, to prove to himself that he could do it?”

“But why not use his walking stick?”

Warren thought for a moment, before seeing what Harrison had already spotted. “It was hanging off the left-hand side of the chair.”

“Exactly. Michaelson supposedly had no use of his left arm. He’d have had to twist around to hang it on that side. Why would he do that, when he can more easily hang it off the right side, which is where he usually placed it?”

Stepping over to the wing-backed armchair, he showed Warren a faint indentation in the overstuffed velvet.

“He hung his walking stick here for years, I’ll bet. Within easy reach of his right arm. There’s even photographic evidence.” He pointed to a picture sitting on the TV stand and another one on the windowsill. Both were family shots, taken a couple of years apart. Both in the same room. In one he was holding a newborn baby in his lap, his face split by a huge smile. In another, he was flanked by a younger version of Kathy Mackay and a clearly related man of a similar age. An oversized badge proclaiming “70” and a coffee-tableful of greetings cards identified the occasion. In both pictures he was seated in the same wing-backed chair, the wooden cane clearly visible hanging off its right wing.

Harrison was right, the scene wasn’t quite as one expected, but then they rarely were. He said as much to the veteran crime scene investigator.

“Again it’s very circumstantial, Andy. I agree it’s weird that he hung his walking stick off the back of the chair, pushed his frame out of the way then decided to walk unaided. But it’s pretty clear his bowels were full. Maybe he got caught short and decided he didn’t have time to shuffle to the bathroom? People do silly things all of the time.”

Harrison still looked unhappy. The man was a highly experienced CSI and Warren could see the man’s gut was troubling him, and that troubled Warren.

“You said on the phone that you had some concerns about the body as well?”

Harrison led Warren over to the broken fireplace. “Look at the pool of blood. What do you see?”

The puddle was larger than Warren had initially thought, the body having hid some of it. The blood gleamed, wet and shiny against the stonework.

“This probably happened in the very early hours; his temperature was already down slightly when the surgeon measured it mid-morning.”

“It’s still wet.”

“Exactly. It should be sticky by now.”

Warren thought for a few moments. Now his own gut was uneasy.

He was the senior investigating officer; it was his call.

“Let’s call it an unexplained death for now and treat this as a potential crime scene.”

* * *

By eight a.m. the following morning, Middlesbury CID was buzzing. The death was still classified as unexplained, but Warren was under pressure to try and decide if it was suspicious or not by the end of the day. His decision would determine how much manpower and resources would be thrown at the investigation. If Warren declared it a suspicious death, then the cost could run into hundreds of thousands or even millions of pounds, perhaps for nothing. If he decided to be conservative and treat it as non-suspicious and it turned out to be the result of foul play, valuable clues could be lost and prosecutions placed in jeopardy. In either case, Warren would find himself in front of the chief constable explaining himself. Warren had been promoted to DCI less than a year ago—he didn’t want the chief to even know his name this early into his career.




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