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“No,” said Gardener. “We were just about to go in.”
“Don’t let me stop you. The quicker I see to this one, the quicker I can get over to Kirkstall. Who knows, by the time I’ve done that one, you might have found some more for me.”
“Don’t want you sitting idle, do we, Fitz?” said Reilly.
“Carry on lining them up like this, and there’s no doubt you’ll find I’m one of them.”
“Any special requests?” said Gardener.
“Only one,” replied Fitz, nodding towards Reilly. “Keep him away from me.”
Gardener asked the medics to stay put while the four men suited and booted and set off down the small path towards the open front door. As they drew nearer, he could hear the music. Same singer, different song. That’s what Thornton had meant.
The living room proved to be one of the untidiest places Gardener had ever set foot in. The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed for some time. All the shelves he could see were dusty. There were cardboard boxes all over, some opened, some closed. How could a man in a wheelchair move around such clutter? Sweet wrappers covered a desk, as well as papers and folders. The smell was something else. He spotted a small midi hi-fi system on top of an old-fashioned sideboard. He didn’t take too much notice of the song, but the word ‘joy’ was mentioned more than once.
Quarry led them through the living room to a specially adapted wet room, designed so a disabled person could wheel himself into the shower. The hand basin was much lower than normal, but the toilet was higher to make it an easier transfer from the wheelchair. The floor was non-slip, the walls tiled in a standard shade of council magnolia. The odour in the bathroom was not as bad as the one in the living room because of an open window.
Fisher was dressed in a pair of cotton, flower-patterned pyjamas. Sadly, they were soiled, but Gardener suspected the man was not incontinent. He was kneeling on the floor with his head over the basin, his throat cut from ear to ear. The basin was filled with blood, which had started to congeal.
Fitz moved forward past Gardener and Reilly and placed his medical bag on the floor, immediately removing a thermometer.
Gardener turned to face the social worker, having no desire to watch Fitz take a dead man’s temperature to estimate the time of death. He’d seen that once too often.
“How do you think he got in here, Mr Quarry?”
Quarry glanced around uneasily. “He’d have used his wheelchair, of course.”
“And where is that do you think?”
Quarry’s head moved around like a puppet’s. He walked out of the bathroom but returned quickly, anxious, almost beside himself.
“I can’t find it. Oh my God, what’s happened to his wheelchair?”
“We have a good idea,” said Reilly.
Gardener glanced at Fitz. The thermometer was still in position, but Fitz was examining Frank Fisher’s head. The scene made for an interesting sight.
The music on the hi-fi stopped and then restarted, which didn’t surprise Gardener in the slightest. He wondered whether the tracks at the scenes had been picked out purposely.
“Do you recognize this music?” Gardener asked Quarry.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Did you know Frank Fisher well enough to comment on the type of music he listened to?”
“I’d say so, and it wouldn’t be this stuff.”
“Find me someone who would,” commented Reilly.
“He was a sixties fan, easy listening, middle-of-the-road stuff.”
“Why do you think he’s committed suicide?” asked Gardener.
“Because of how I found him yesterday,” said Quarry. “All the signs were there. He was very down. He kept harping on about his wife, the accident, his friend, the builder and Barry Morrison and how everything had been one big mistake, especially his life.”
Gardener glanced around the bathroom again. A glass cupboard was mounted on one wall, low enough for a disabled man to open it. He opened one of the doors: the shelves were full of tablets. He rattled the bottles to make sure none were empty. On a window ledge in front of the basin he saw a toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as other items of hygiene.
But the all-important tool was missing.
