Chapter 7
As a detective constable with CID at Haddington, Emma MacLeod’s work covered the whole of East Lothian, stretching from coastal towns to sleepy rural villages. Mostly, her time was split between the CID office, wrestling paperwork, and whatever crime scene uniform called her out to.
She didn’t outrank the constables – something they reminded her of frequently – but once CID was officially assigned a case, they were expected to piece the investigation together.
It wasn’t glamorous work. Some days she’d swear she spent most of it driving.
Then there were seemingly endless witness statements, and monotonous hours of watching CCTV – but Emma was dedicated, and good at her job.
Generally, the first couple of hours of her workday were spent at her desk. Which meant that on any other day it wouldn’t have mattered – or even been noticed – that she arrived a few minutes late and a little groggy from the previous evening’s migraine.
Of course it had to happen when her sergeant was waiting for her.
The subtle shift of his eyebrows conveyed his smug disapproval.
There were definitely worse superior officers, so she couldn’t complain too much, but Sergeant Brodie was someone who seemed to take pleasure in other people’s mistakes.
Or hers anyway. Not that she made many, but sometimes it felt as though he scrutinised her work more than necessary.
She tried not to ponder the fact that he wasn’t as critical of her male colleagues. No point going down that road.
“Sorry,” she said, stepping around the tall, lean man. “It’s one of those mornings.”
“Don’t get comfy,” he said as she unzipped her coat. “I need you over in North Berwick.”
The mention of her hometown had her on alert. “What’s happened?”
“Uniforms are over there now. A woman was found unresponsive. Looks as though she fell down the stairs.”
“An accident?” Why was she being sent to an accident? There had to be more to it. And why wasn’t the sergeant going himself?
The migraine threatened to return as her thoughts raced.
“There was some issue with a defective banister rail. It’ll be an accident, but uniform want someone else to sign off on it. You know how it is. Go and make sure there’s nothing suspicious.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll send you the address,” he said and strode to his office.
Heading to the kitchen, Emma knocked back a couple of ibuprofen, then grabbed her radio and returned to the car park.
The drive to North Berwick took a little less than twenty minutes.
Tempting as it was to stick the blue light on the roof and floor it, she resisted.
Driving at high speed was probably the thing she missed the most about being a uniformed officer.
There generally wasn’t a lot of urgency with her job now she was a detective.
Arriving at the address the sergeant had sent – a close lined with well-kept houses and glossy cars – she was happy that the house meant nothing to her. It was always the worry when she was assigned cases in North Berwick that she might end up dealing with someone she knew personally.
She greeted the young officer in front of the door – PC Holt – and got the lay of the land from him. A woman in her sixties found by her husband and a neighbour, apparently having fallen when a banister rail gave way, and probably dead for a couple of hours before she’d been found.
Emma’s blue overshoes made a crinkling noise as she wrangled them over her ankle boots on the doorstep.
In the corner of the entranceway, two paramedics talked quietly, pausing to acknowledge her. Emma didn’t know them by name but they were familiar.
Muffled voices drifted from a room to the side. The victim’s family. She’d get to them shortly. First things first.
Her analytical brain kicked in when her attention landed on the body covered in a thin sheet.
There was a time and place for emotions and this wasn’t it.
After easing on a glove, she pulled the sheet back.
First glance told her the accident was exactly what it looked like.
The position of the body seemed consistent with a fall.
Nothing obviously striking about the scene.
Her gaze went upwards. It was a decent drop – around ten feet at a guess. Given the deceased’s age, and with nothing to break her fall, it wasn’t surprising it had been fatal.
Splintered wood lay around the body and Emma’s mind worked overtime, attempting to slot the pieces back together like a jigsaw puzzle. An almost impossible one.
Slowly, she drifted up the stairs. At the top, she crouched to examine the wall where the banister rail would have been attached. The metal bracket for the screws lay on the carpeted floor. Emma leaned closer, peering at the holes in the wall.
“Bloody hell, Emma,” a familiar voice whisper-hissed, pulling her attention to PC Alasdair Robertson on the stairs. “Move back a bit, will you? You’re freaking me out just looking at you.”
She shrugged. Heights didn’t bother her, and there was a good half a foot between her and the edge.
“Have you seen this?” she asked, pointing at the wall.
“What?”
“There are no marks on the wall where the screws came out. You’d think there’d be some scuff marks.” She stood and settled her hands on her hips. “Something feels off. Let’s get forensics in and get this whole banister photographed and measured. Tool marks, rot analysis, the works.”
“You want me to call forensics?”
“Yes.” Her attention went back to the dead woman in the hallway, her mind conjuring images of her leaning against the rail, falling . . .
“You sure, Em?”
Her head whipped up. For approximately the thousandth time in the last ten years she regretted the tequila shots at that Christmas party which had led to her snogging PC Robertson in the car park.
“It’s DC MacLeod,” she said through gritted teeth. “And what exactly are you questioning me on?”
“Calling in forensics?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“They’re busy, and when I spoke to Sergeant Brodie earlier he was in agreement that it sounded like an accident.”
She rubbed at her forehead. “Just call forensics,” she said wearily.
He raised his palms. “You’re the expert.”
That was a dig. It was sad really – back when they were PCs together she’d enjoyed working with Alasdair. But then they’d both applied for the detective constable position and their amicable working relationship had dissolved as soon as she’d got the job.
She was fairly sure he knew as well as she did that she’d got the job based on merit and experience, but that didn’t stop him from whispering about positive discrimination loudly enough for her to overhear.
She tried not to take it personally. He wasn’t malicious, just insecure and disappointed.
In fairness, jobs didn’t come up in CID very often so she could understand the disappointment.
“The family,” she said, maintaining professionalism. “It’s the husband and the daughter, right?”
“Yeah. In the living room with the community support liaison.”
“Was there a neighbour here when they found the body?”
“Yeah. We spoke to her and let her go. She’s just next door if you want to speak to her. The workman is still here. Figured you’d want to talk to him.”
She gave a short shake of her head. “Who?”
“Some handyman who’d been working at the house. He was the first on the scene this morning.”
“Where is he?”
“Patio at the back.”
“Was he here to work today?”
“Not today. Just came to return a tool. He was here yesterday.” A small grimace pulled at his lips. “Fixing the banister rail.”
“Are you joking?”
He shook his head.
“A guy came yesterday to fix the rail,” she whispered harshly, “and today that same rail killed a woman? You really didn’t think that was an automatic reason to call forensics?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and took a calming breath. It was moments like these when she knew that her getting the job was nothing to do with her gender and everything to do with PC Robertson not having the right instincts to be a detective.
“I’ll talk to the family first,” she said, passing him. “Then the handyman.”