Dookin In Ribena

“Long way from Govan down to here on a sunny morning, doctor.”

“Jesus, Stevie! What are you...no, forget I said that, stupid question...”

“Talk to PC Wright – he needs to recognise what a stupid question sounds like.”

“Answer it, anyway. Dead body in a tree, why’re you on the spot?”

“I found it...him. Called it in.”

“That’s a funny -”

“- don’t say coincidence. Just don’t. Anyhow, seems a kinna entry-level suicide to call the chief pathologist all this way.”

“We take our turns, keeps us honest.”

“Nothin’ to do with the fact that this is the Doune family residence?”

“Is it? I don’t know. And how do you know? Although, I guess…why you’re out here this morning, that’ll also be because it’s the Doune family residence, one way or another.”

“Aye, man called Lachlan Doune called me here, arranged a 10 o’clock meeting. I’m hopin’ that’s not him in the rowan tree.”

“Well, it’s somebody. Let’s see...actually, since you’re here, might as well ask you now – you touch the body? No? Not at all? Not even to check if he was still alive?”

“Look at the colour of him. Either dead or he went dookin’ in Ribena. And he soiled himself, but it’s long dried-in. He’s been up there a good few hours. Even from down here, looks like there might’ve been magpies or crows havin’ a wee look-see. So, no, I never checked if he was alive.”

“And you didn’t touch anything else?”

“Only the front door of the house. Knocked it, rang the bell, that’s all. Never touched or moved any objects. If you’re thinkin’...that branch is, what, ten, twelve feet up there...and there’s no ladder or anything. Aye, I thought that myself. Mibbe he could loop a rope up and over, but...”

“...but there’s a ladder lying on its side next to the front door of the house. Eighty feet away.”

“I did notice that, aye. Quite interesting, I’d call it. But you must want to get on and do your job now.”

“Aye – I’ll get back to you after. Always keen to see what the reviews say...and everybody’s a critic.”

It was then that the front door of Airdlaggan House creaked open.

*** *** ***

A dishevelled, but fully clothed, woman blinked bleary at the people meandering around in front of the house and pointed, unsteady but determined.  “Who the fuck are all you people here? Are you...is that police? What are you doing here? You need to get off...Lachlan! Lachlaaaaaaaannnnnn!”

Using sophisticated detection techniques, it was around that point I determined my new client, Mr Lachlan Doune, would likely prove unresponsive to invoices.

*** *** ***

“What’s your thoughts?”

“My first thought would be that I’ll be telling DI Simpson what my thoughts are, not you.”

“Just in general, I mean. I’m curious why this guy calls me up yesterday and when I show up, he’s a Christmas ornament.”

“Well, I’d say he wanted you to see this. But I thought you didn’t know him?”

“Never said that, although, no, I didny know him. And my theory about why’d he’d call me and do this’d be better told -”

“- to DI Simpson. Aye, call that one quits. As it happens, first look says this is suicide. No defence wounds, no signs of restraint or a struggle, obvious injuries are just what you’d expect from a strangulation...”

“Slow, then?”

“Not quick. In this light, I can see the petechial haemorrhage already. We’ll need to see what we find in the bloodstream to determine if he was awake and sober when he got up there. And see what’s under his fingernails – looks like there might be some of that nylon rope in there.”

“Suggests he was awake, if he was pulling at the rope while he strangled.”

“Aye. Second thoughts, panic, pain, whatever. Or mibbe he just pulled it really tight.”

“While he fired that ladder thirty yards away?”

“Yes. My report will note the absence of an obvious way for the deceased to have found himself in that position.”

“Hope you use that exact phrase. It’ll amuse some court clerk somewhere.”

“Aye, that’s always the audience you have in mind with a post-mortem. Anyhow, I think that’s the end of this conversation, Stevie...you can read the report along with the great Glaswegian public. You can count on this bein’ all over the tabs, one way or the other. Y’might find some of your old buddies on the phone tonight – could be headline news - ‘city private eye’s horror find at mansion of secrets’...‘troubled heir was jist hangin’ there like a saggy bag a’ plums, says rugged local ‘tec McCabe, age undisclosed...’. Unless you’re still on a retainer with the Daily Banner?”

“The Banner’s ancient history and...‘heir’? What’s Lachlan Doune heir to?”

“Whit? C’mon, Stevie – sharpen up! This isn’t some smackhead’s gurned their last up a stairwell in the multis. Do your homework – it’s your first-ever country house mystery. This is pure Poirot here.”

That was when Baws Wilson ruined the atmosphere, corrupting the Golden Age of the Country House Mystery, silencing the string quartet and sending the waiters scuttling back below-stairs.

“The fuck’s aw this? How come aw these cunts is aw ower the shop? Polis, is it? Haw, that’s fuckin Lachie! Is he deid?”

“My name’s McCabe – who’d you be?”

“Eh? Billy Wilson. Baws. Whit’s happened here?”

“You got a reason to be here?”

“’Course I fuckin have. I work here. Whit d’ye ‘hink the shotgun’s fur? I’m the fuckin gamekeeper. Now, whit’s the score? He’s deid, right? Lachie? Stupid bastard that he is...what’s he done? Jesus, canny believe this. Is Deborah in? I’m gonny see whit’s the score.”

“You might find that a wee bit tricky. I think Deborah might actually be in the house, aye, but the polis baggsied first go.”

“Polis? You’re no’ polis? Ye can fuck right off then. This gun’s broke the now, but it’s fuckin loaded and it goes right back the-gether again. Out my road!”

Baws Wilson might score some points for determination and (maybe) loyalty, but the diplomatic service missed nothing when his application got lost in the post and only a very particular circle could ever accommodate his bouquet of fuck-ye’s – which probably played better in Levenhall, the forgotten stalag of Glasgow Corporation post-war social failure whose roofs distantly half-nudged their way over the sheep-pocked fields that surrounded Airdlaggan House. If Baws didn’t live in Levenhall, then the one pub that “served” its mean streets wasn’t called The Fort Apache Bar. And it definitely was.