Dead Still (DCI Andy Gilchrist) by T.F. Muir

Author:T.F. Muir [Muir, T.F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472131065
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2020-02-06T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 29

By five-thirty that evening, Gilchrist’s frustration was reaching boiling point.

Every key and padlock for the shed, the main entrance to the Lodge, and the gate to the grass track to the loch, were devoid of fingerprints. The only prints the SOCOs managed to lift were those of Fraser Lindsay and Katherine Dunmore. Dunmore’s were all from the inside of the house, while Lindsay’s were found on tools and equipment in the shed, and on various pieces of furniture throughout the Lodge. Disappointingly, or perhaps more correctly, unbelievably, no fingerprints were found on the tarpaulin, the trailer, the boat, or on any part of the outboard motor itself. Everything about the boat sparkled – from the marine high gloss varnish on the inside of the hull, to the polished stainless steel clamps, and the cleaned and oiled propeller.

The SOCOs sprayed the inside of the boat with luminol, a chemical that reacts with the iron in blood haemoglobin to emit a blue glow that can be seen in a darkened room. As the glow lasts for less than a minute, Colin set up a digital camera on long-exposure. But it turned out to be a wasted effort. No traces of blood were found anywhere, not even on the varnished transom, the part of the boat on which fishermen typically kill hooked fish.

It seemed as if the boat had never left the shed.

To make matters worse, the SOCOs assigned to the loch reported no new findings. Casts were taken of the tyre tracks, but no one could say with any certainty that the tracks had been made by the trailer. Damaged reed grass at the loch edge, where Gilchrist had found that sliver of paint, was due to activity that could have been made by a boat being offloaded and launched, or by a group of people fishing from the water’s edge, or even just standing there, birdwatching. Reed grass was tough and sturdy by nature, and clumped together close to the loch, they found no tyre tracks there.

With doubts now growing, Gilchrist removed the tissue from his pocket and held it out to Colin. ‘See if this matches the paint on the boat,’ he said, unfolding the tissue to reveal a flake of paint.

Colin studied it for a moment, then ran a hand over the boat’s shallow keel, where damage was most likely to have occurred. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘But we’d need to scrape a sample from the keel, and compare both samples in the lab.’ He scratched his head. ‘Could take a day or two to get back to you.’

Gilchrist gritted his teeth. Talk about making things difficult. But he thanked Colin, then decided to drive back to the loch with Jessie.

On the way there, Jessie said, ‘Jackie’s got Janet Milne’s death certificate. Eighty-seven when she died in her sleep. Heart failure. No suspicious circumstances.’

What had he been expecting? ‘Was she buried?’ he asked, just to keep hope alive. He could always have the body exhumed for drug tests.

‘Cremated.’

Well, that was that.

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