Douglas Walker’s bedroom looked much the same as it had the last time Logan was there: the same half-sketched painting on the easel, the same unmade single bed, the same flat-pack wardrobe, the same little computer desk and cheap swivel chair.
The only difference was the puddle of sick on the floor, next to an empty litre bottle of Plymouth gin and a little white packet from a chemists. Logan snapped on a pair of gloves, squatted down, picked up the empty packet and read the label. ‘Temazepam.’
Steel wrinkled her nose. ‘Can we no’ open a window or something?’
Logan levered up the edge of the mattress, peering between it and the bed frame. Nothing.
The inspector’s voice came from over by the wardrobe. ‘If you’re looking for porn, I can bring some in tomorrow. You like Dutch gay hardcore, right?’
‘Looking for counterfeit money,
She glanced around the room. ‘He leave a note or anything?’
The constable shrugged. ‘Dunno, didn’t want to disturb anything.’
‘Bet he left a poem. Artistic types always leave bloody poetry.’
Logan went through the chest of drawers, wardrobe, computer desk, the toolbox full of oil paints and charcoals, but there was no sign of any notes – suicide or counterfeit. ‘Nothing.’
‘Wanted to keep it mysterious.’
Logan stared at her. ‘It’s not funny.’
She shrugged. ‘If he’d actually managed to do himself in,
The constable shifted his feet. ‘He’s in a coma.’
Logan knelt on the floor, taking care to avoid the puddle of sick. Nothing under the bed either.
‘Don’t see what the problem is.’ Steel leant back and had a scratch. ‘I mean, you want to kill yourself – up to you isn’t it? Long as you don’t do it driving the wrong way up the motorway, it’s nobody’s business but…’ She stopped fiddling with herself and scowled at Logan. ‘What?’
‘He was terrified they were going to put his name in the papers.’
‘Didn’t want mummy and daddy dearest to know.’
‘Or,’ Logan stood, taking another look around the room, ‘maybe he thought whoever he got the cash from would come after him? Might be some clue in the suicide note, if we can find it.’
‘He’s no’ bloody dead. Want to know why he did it? Get your arse up the hospital and ask him.’
Logan dragged a big, black leather portfolio out from between the wardrobe and the single bed, dumped it down on the mattress beside Steel, and unzipped it. It was basically a huge ring binder: large sheets of black paper in clear plastic sleeves, held together with six shiny steel clips. Some photos, some prints, some originals. All pretty good.
Steel flipped through the pages. ‘Got any nudes?’
There was a little pocket at the front, with some leaflets for local galleries stuffed into it, and a fancy-looking CV with abstract black-and-white photos mixed in. Very arty.
‘Course, you know why he did it, don’t you?’
Logan looked up. ‘What, Walker?’
‘No,
The PC’s cheeks went pink. ‘It’s not my fault. I just—’
‘Come on Laz.’ She levered herself off the bed. ‘I hereby declare this a waste of CID resources. Our plucky boys in uniform can save the day for a change. We’ve got a van driver to interview before they let the bugger go.’
The Airwave handset clipped to the constable’s shoulder started making bleepy noises. He fumbled it round to his mouth and squeezed the button. ‘One-Zero One-Twenty, over?’
A broad Aberdonian accent crackled out of the little speaker.
‘Roger that Control. Over.’
‘Aye…I mean, affirmative. Do you want—’
Logan hauled out his notebook, flipped it open and scribbled down the jewellery shop’s details. ‘Does he know if—’
‘See if you’re going to the naughty knicker shop—’ DI Steel jabbed her elbow in Logan’s ribs.
‘Shite!’ Logan flinched. The notebook tumbled from his fingers, splatting down in the puddle of sick.
Steel blew out her cheeks. ‘Clumsy.’
‘It wasn’t clumsy, it was you!’ He looked down at the vomit-sodden book. No way he was picking that up. Logan grabbed one of Douglas Walker’s fancy CVs, writing ‘MACKENZIE & KERR – HUNTLY ST’ on the back of it. ‘Ask them how much he got away with.’
