Part 8 (1/2)

'No!' the young detective said sharply. 'Don't do that, please.'

'Why not?'

'Because it wouldn't be helpful. Listen, Ruthie, like I told you on Sat.u.r.day, when someone dies alone under any circ.u.mstances, technically the police have to be called, and they have to make a report to the Fiscal.

Quite often that's overlooked; if the local GP is sympathetic and wants to spare a bereaved wife or husband from any more distress, he'll just certify death as if he's been there. We know that, and we don't bother about it.

'But when someone's died and lain undiscovered for a few days, that's a different matter. The police will be called and they will make a report.

What they're doing now is probably just routine.'

'Then why won't they let me into the house?'

Pye chewed his lip. 'That I don't understand, I admit. Possibly the local inspector's just an officious b.a.s.t.a.r.d. No, probably, he is; chances are that's the only reason. But if you go up to the golf club, you'll be doing something that the police may have done already, or worse, may still have to do.

'Give it up for today. Just go home.'

He heard her sigh. 'Okay,' she conceded. T will. Come and see me after work?'

'Sure.' He paused, and chuckled. 'Can I bring my toothbrush?'

There was a silence on the line. 'Okay,' said Ruth, eventually. 'But only if you bring your shaving kit as well. I'm funny about morning stubble.'

'Mmm,' he said, replacing the phone quickly; it took a conscious effort to force his mind back to the job, and to the minute of the morning's meeting.

Nevertheless, he succeeded; he deciphered his notes quickly and had almost finished transcribing them, when the phone rang once again. 'DS Pye.' That flash of pride again.

'Sammy? This is Superintendent Rose. Are you alone?'

'Christ,' he thought. 'My lucky day.'AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN.

'I mean are you free to speak?'

'Yes, ma'am. Why?'

'Because something very odd has happened, and I thought I'd talk to you about it before I did anything. My duty CID team here in Torphichen Place has just had a call from the CID in N Division of Strathclyde Police, c.u.mbernauld Office. Fortunately Ray Wilding took the call himself; someone else might not have twigged to the name.

'Sam, the Strathclyde boys have asked that we pick up Ruth McConnell and deliver her to them for questioning about a suspicious death. Do you know what this is about?'

'Jesus!' Pye exploded. 'Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d's going really over the top now.

The so-called suspicious death is Ruthie's uncle; we found him on Sat.u.r.day when we went to visit him. Mr Chase knows about it; he was in the Ops Room on Sat.u.r.day and he called out the local police for me.

'The old gaffer took a heart attack, or something similar, in his bath.

That's all there was to it. The Strathclyde lot are being really heavy-handed, Ma'am. They wouldn't let Ruthie into the house when she went through this morning.'

'She's not at work?'

'No. The boss gave her the day off to make funeral arrangements and start tidying up the old boy's affairs. Leave it to me, ma'am, I'll speak to Mr Martin or Mr Skinner. One of them'll squash Strathclyde.'

'No, Sergeant, they won't. This is my divisional responsibility, and I'm not beginning my tenure of office by showing favouritism, or by getting a name in a neighbouring force of some weak woman who pa.s.ses tough decisions up the ladder. If the c.u.mbernauld CID want to interview Ruth, that's their right in the circ.u.mstances, whether they're being officious or not.

'Where is she right now? Do you know?'