Killing Me Softly by Marjorie Eccles

with the Drugs Squad men had wound to an unsatisfactory conclusion, and had rushed over here. She now knew that the dead man was Timothy Wishart, aged forty-four, who lived at Clacks Mill with his family, and that he’d been found by his daughter Amy, who’d looked out of her bedroom window and, seeing his figure huddled on the bridge, had run down to see what was wrong. That was tough on her, poor kid, something a girl of sixteen wasn’t ever going to forget, never mind any amount of counselling or whatever therapy was fashionable at the moment.
    â€˜When was he last seen?’ she asked Carmody.
    â€˜Went out late this morning to do some shooting with the farmer who lives over yonder, name of –’ the big sergeant consulted his notes – ‘John Fairmile. Didn’t get much, apparently, seems he’d only bagged a few wood pigeons and a couple of rabbits.’ Carmody’s long, basset-hound face lugubriously contemplated the game bag a few feet away from the dead man. ‘Don’t care for ‘em much myself, wood pigeons or any other sort. Not much more than a mouthful when they’re plucked.’
    He was a big, gloomy Liverpudlian, and never took an optimistic view of anything, but Abigail didn’t care for eating small birds, either, for other reasons. Especially pigeons. They were too much associated in her mind with the scavenging, streetwise creatures that hopped in and out of the traffic and roosted in dismal rows on ledges of the ugly Town Hall which overlooked her office, leaving her with a permanent view of what they left behind.
    She could hear wood pigeons now, cooing softly, motionless smudges of grey in the leafless trees above the mangled body on the bridge and the dead animals in the bag. She wished she were somewhere else. There was altogether too much death around here, all too horribly reminiscent of the opening scene from that Renoir film – that shooting party, the scene of bloody carnage when birds fell from the sky like rain. She pulled her coat collar closer round her neck. ‘Did he leave a note, Ted?’
    â€˜As good as. Some letters, screwed up in his pocket. A dunning one, threatening prosecution, another from the bank. An overdraft like that, you don’t need any better reason for ending it all.’
    The portly figure of Professor Timpson-Ludgate, the pathologist, was still bent over the body. He drew off his latex gloves as he struggled to his feet and looked around for Abigail. When he saw her he crooked his finger. ‘Spare me a minute, m’dear, will you?’
    She ground her teeth. Why not Inspector, if he didn’t like Abigail? M’dear! The nice little woman, playing at being a nasty policeman. Then she decided to forgive him – it wasn’t worth the expense of adrenalin, and he probably didn’t know any better, at his age.
    The Prof’s well-known vintage Rover had scarcely disappeared before Mayo put in his official appearance. When they saw who it was, a ripple ran through the men, a smartening up and focusing of attention, they became more purposeful. It was an effect he had, but not because they were afraid of being caught out – he picked his men carefully, drew them together as a team and there were few who didn’t pull their weight, out of a consequent sense of self-respect. But he could put the fear of God up anybody found wanting, and there was no telling when he’d be on the warpath, especially nowadays. He was sharper lately, something was worrying at him, either the responsibilities of his job, or personal worries intruding into the demands of a crowded professional life. Abigail didn’t think it was work.
    The constable with the clipboard recorded his approach, as he had with everyone else. Mayo ducked under the tape and walked across to where she stood waiting for the SOCO team to give her the nod that it was OK for her to take a closer look at the body on the