had . . .’ His expression changed to one of grim realisation. ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake.’ He held his head in his hands and started to sob. ‘Whoot the fuck am I goin’ tae tell the wee man?’
Daley got up and walked to the other side of the desk, placing his hand on Watson’s shoulder. The fisherman’s bodywas wracked with sobs. Fraser looked on hopelessly; this was an aspect of police work that he not did like.
‘We’re going to have to ask you to identify the body formally, Mr Watson.’ Daley was calm and authoritative. He knew the value of maintaining a front on these occasions, though he realised that his reaction would have been the same, had anything like this happened to Liz. He felt compassion for Watson, but his job was to find her killer; and now he was sure they had an ID, time was of the essence.
Daley left Fraser with Watson, finding DC Dunn at her desk in the CID office. ‘I want you to go and comfort Mr Watson. I think his wife is our victim, but I need to get him to make an official identification.’ The young detective was nodding solemnly. ‘Once we have that, I want you and a couple of uniforms to go to their house. We’ll need to go through everything. I’m leaving you in charge of that. OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She looked suddenly preoccupied, as though already working out some kind of strategy suited to trawling through someone’s personal possessions. ‘What about Mr Watson? Will he have to be present?’
‘Not at the moment. I’ll get his permission of course. Now tell me, how quickly can we organise one of these CCTV identifications?’
As it turned out, things took longer to organise than Daley had anticipated. For a start, they had to wait for the Glasgow mortuary dayshift to turn up, which wasn’t until seven thirty. The nightshift was there, but they couldn’t use the video equipment. And all the problems were not at the other end. Permission from the Sub-Divisional Commander was required before their audio-visual equipment at thestation could be used, and MacLeod could not be raised. Daley sent a reluctant Fraser to his home to rouse him.
He had texted DS Scott with the latest developments, and had received a terse acknowledgement in return: Great. C u soon. On my way . He had also spoken at greater length to Watson. It appeared that all was not well in their marriage, though Daley had already guessed that. Isobel Watson had apparently taken to going out regularly and, according to her husband, was associating with the underbelly of Kinloch’s society, where lots of alcohol, drugs and sex were the order of the day. Watson had described how difficult it was to maintain their relationship when he was away so much; a sentiment with which Daley could empathise, especially since he found his relationship hard to maintain even at close quarters.
On the whole, he found Watson an uncomplicated, even pleasant individual; in extremis he conducted himself with a kind of rough-and-ready dignity that the inspector found to his credit. He had looked carefully for signs of feigned surprise when Watson had discovered that his wife may well be the likely murder victim. He had found none. Nonetheless he had contacted the Garda in Dublin to make sure that his story of being ‘deep sea’ for the last three weeks checked out.
Daley, Dunn and two uniformed officers were in the station’s audio-visual room with Watson, who was sitting forward in his chair, looking exceptionally stressed. A large plasma screen displayed the force’s Semper Vigilo logo.
The door burst open, and a sleepy-looking MacLeod breezed into the room, not in uniform, but in a tracksuit with a hooded top, which he seemed to wear uneasily. Thisleitmotif of youth clashed with his balding head and abrasive manner. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand what all the rush is about. You’re lucky to catch me, I was about to go for my five-miler along Westbay sands.’ He looked around, as though this revelation
Daley got up and walked to the other side of the desk, placing his hand on Watson’s shoulder. The fisherman’s bodywas wracked with sobs. Fraser looked on hopelessly; this was an aspect of police work that he not did like.
‘We’re going to have to ask you to identify the body formally, Mr Watson.’ Daley was calm and authoritative. He knew the value of maintaining a front on these occasions, though he realised that his reaction would have been the same, had anything like this happened to Liz. He felt compassion for Watson, but his job was to find her killer; and now he was sure they had an ID, time was of the essence.
Daley left Fraser with Watson, finding DC Dunn at her desk in the CID office. ‘I want you to go and comfort Mr Watson. I think his wife is our victim, but I need to get him to make an official identification.’ The young detective was nodding solemnly. ‘Once we have that, I want you and a couple of uniforms to go to their house. We’ll need to go through everything. I’m leaving you in charge of that. OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She looked suddenly preoccupied, as though already working out some kind of strategy suited to trawling through someone’s personal possessions. ‘What about Mr Watson? Will he have to be present?’
‘Not at the moment. I’ll get his permission of course. Now tell me, how quickly can we organise one of these CCTV identifications?’
As it turned out, things took longer to organise than Daley had anticipated. For a start, they had to wait for the Glasgow mortuary dayshift to turn up, which wasn’t until seven thirty. The nightshift was there, but they couldn’t use the video equipment. And all the problems were not at the other end. Permission from the Sub-Divisional Commander was required before their audio-visual equipment at thestation could be used, and MacLeod could not be raised. Daley sent a reluctant Fraser to his home to rouse him.
He had texted DS Scott with the latest developments, and had received a terse acknowledgement in return: Great. C u soon. On my way . He had also spoken at greater length to Watson. It appeared that all was not well in their marriage, though Daley had already guessed that. Isobel Watson had apparently taken to going out regularly and, according to her husband, was associating with the underbelly of Kinloch’s society, where lots of alcohol, drugs and sex were the order of the day. Watson had described how difficult it was to maintain their relationship when he was away so much; a sentiment with which Daley could empathise, especially since he found his relationship hard to maintain even at close quarters.
On the whole, he found Watson an uncomplicated, even pleasant individual; in extremis he conducted himself with a kind of rough-and-ready dignity that the inspector found to his credit. He had looked carefully for signs of feigned surprise when Watson had discovered that his wife may well be the likely murder victim. He had found none. Nonetheless he had contacted the Garda in Dublin to make sure that his story of being ‘deep sea’ for the last three weeks checked out.
Daley, Dunn and two uniformed officers were in the station’s audio-visual room with Watson, who was sitting forward in his chair, looking exceptionally stressed. A large plasma screen displayed the force’s Semper Vigilo logo.
The door burst open, and a sleepy-looking MacLeod breezed into the room, not in uniform, but in a tracksuit with a hooded top, which he seemed to wear uneasily. Thisleitmotif of youth clashed with his balding head and abrasive manner. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand what all the rush is about. You’re lucky to catch me, I was about to go for my five-miler along Westbay sands.’ He looked around, as though this revelation
Similar Books
