corpse.
‘His heart tells us more than that. It tells us in death what he would never have wanted us to know in life,’ I coldly stated.
‘Lord Arbuthnot was a chronic drug abuser.’
ELEVEN
I could hear Frank Pearson’s sharp intake of breath. I had committed myself so I might as well carry on.
‘Chronic ischemia, fibrosis of varying age, plus an absence of coronary artery disease or cardiomegaly, and patchy necrosis…basically a coke heart.’
‘Well done, Brodie,’ said Professor Patterson. I glowed under his approval. I had won the prize for forensic medicine at the Old College, and Patch had hoped at the time that I would take it further. Maybe I would have had it not been for two things–the desire of my mother to see me as a lawyer, and my own preference for the vibrancy of the living–with all their flaws–rather than the stench of the dead.
I looked across at Frank. He had wilted under my display, and his newfound confidence had left him. The words of Jack Deans came back into my head–I didn’t want to make any more enemies than were strictly necessary.
I caught Patch’s eye, silently pleading with him to bring me down a peg or two.
‘Of course, it’s not strictly correct, Brodie…’
Frank heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Drugs such as narcotics, synthetic narcotics, whatever the addict can get their hands on, will destroy the heart just as effectively as cocaine. Elvis Presley is a sad example…’
Patch’s voice trailed off on the slight technicality as a smile lit my face. Elvis was his one failing. In terms of the ‘Wee Free Kirk’, any singing or joviality is frowned upon. Patch had to keep his infatuation with the King well hidden from the brethren.
Slowly, it sunk in. The Lord President of the Court of Session was a cokehead. I found it hard to believe, but the toe tags confirmed that it was indeed Alistair MacGregor, aka Lord Arbuthnot, lying there on the slab. And I had seen inside his body with my own eyes. At least it explained why he had fallen out with his father. Why his father thought he was unsuitable material to be a judge. Old man MacGregor went up in my estimation; it was a hard step to take to report your own child, but that must have been the real reason behind their argument.
‘Why was this information not known?’
Frank Pearson looked as I felt–shell-shocked.
Patch was staring despairingly at us.
‘Again you are assuming facts. How do you know that it was not known? Simply because this is news to the people in this room does not mean it was unknown to others.’
Patch is always pedantic; right but hair-splitting. Unless, Lord Arbuthnot was manufacturing the narcotics himself, someone had to know.
‘If the authorities knew about it, then they should have made him resign.’
Frank’s voice was indignant, but quiet; as if he was mindful that no one outside the room should hear of this.
‘What about blackmail? He left himself wide open to it.’ I stated what we were all thinking.
‘There’s no evidence that he was being blackmailed.’ Frank Pearson looked annoyed with me for even having mentioned it.
‘Funny though…when you consider…’ Patch was wandering, but a point would arrive soon. ‘The MacGregors were the original blackmailers.’
He ignored my warning glances.
‘It’s true. The MacGregors stole cattle and “sold” it back to their owners. Rob Roy MacGregor was a blackmailer. Poetic justice if it happened.’
It wasn’t enough that Patch had revealed to us the flaws of character in the present MacGregor, he sought to destroy a legend as well. I could see that he was enjoying himself, so I did not react. One thing did concern me–Patch had switched his tape-recorder off again, and none of this information regarding the heart was being recorded. Patch was meticulous, he would not have done this by accident. Either he had made a decision, or someone had made it for him. This information was going no further.
The chest
‘His heart tells us more than that. It tells us in death what he would never have wanted us to know in life,’ I coldly stated.
‘Lord Arbuthnot was a chronic drug abuser.’
ELEVEN
I could hear Frank Pearson’s sharp intake of breath. I had committed myself so I might as well carry on.
‘Chronic ischemia, fibrosis of varying age, plus an absence of coronary artery disease or cardiomegaly, and patchy necrosis…basically a coke heart.’
‘Well done, Brodie,’ said Professor Patterson. I glowed under his approval. I had won the prize for forensic medicine at the Old College, and Patch had hoped at the time that I would take it further. Maybe I would have had it not been for two things–the desire of my mother to see me as a lawyer, and my own preference for the vibrancy of the living–with all their flaws–rather than the stench of the dead.
I looked across at Frank. He had wilted under my display, and his newfound confidence had left him. The words of Jack Deans came back into my head–I didn’t want to make any more enemies than were strictly necessary.
I caught Patch’s eye, silently pleading with him to bring me down a peg or two.
‘Of course, it’s not strictly correct, Brodie…’
Frank heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Drugs such as narcotics, synthetic narcotics, whatever the addict can get their hands on, will destroy the heart just as effectively as cocaine. Elvis Presley is a sad example…’
Patch’s voice trailed off on the slight technicality as a smile lit my face. Elvis was his one failing. In terms of the ‘Wee Free Kirk’, any singing or joviality is frowned upon. Patch had to keep his infatuation with the King well hidden from the brethren.
Slowly, it sunk in. The Lord President of the Court of Session was a cokehead. I found it hard to believe, but the toe tags confirmed that it was indeed Alistair MacGregor, aka Lord Arbuthnot, lying there on the slab. And I had seen inside his body with my own eyes. At least it explained why he had fallen out with his father. Why his father thought he was unsuitable material to be a judge. Old man MacGregor went up in my estimation; it was a hard step to take to report your own child, but that must have been the real reason behind their argument.
‘Why was this information not known?’
Frank Pearson looked as I felt–shell-shocked.
Patch was staring despairingly at us.
‘Again you are assuming facts. How do you know that it was not known? Simply because this is news to the people in this room does not mean it was unknown to others.’
Patch is always pedantic; right but hair-splitting. Unless, Lord Arbuthnot was manufacturing the narcotics himself, someone had to know.
‘If the authorities knew about it, then they should have made him resign.’
Frank’s voice was indignant, but quiet; as if he was mindful that no one outside the room should hear of this.
‘What about blackmail? He left himself wide open to it.’ I stated what we were all thinking.
‘There’s no evidence that he was being blackmailed.’ Frank Pearson looked annoyed with me for even having mentioned it.
‘Funny though…when you consider…’ Patch was wandering, but a point would arrive soon. ‘The MacGregors were the original blackmailers.’
He ignored my warning glances.
‘It’s true. The MacGregors stole cattle and “sold” it back to their owners. Rob Roy MacGregor was a blackmailer. Poetic justice if it happened.’
It wasn’t enough that Patch had revealed to us the flaws of character in the present MacGregor, he sought to destroy a legend as well. I could see that he was enjoying himself, so I did not react. One thing did concern me–Patch had switched his tape-recorder off again, and none of this information regarding the heart was being recorded. Patch was meticulous, he would not have done this by accident. Either he had made a decision, or someone had made it for him. This information was going no further.
The chest
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