Perfect Death. Helen Fields

to listen. She reined in her emotions.

      ‘Where’s Dr Lambert?’ Ava asked a passing Scenes of Crime Officer.

      ‘Busy elsewhere,’ the officer said, stepping around Ava to take a new pair of plastic gloves from a box. Ava took her by the arm.

      ‘She’s busy? The deceased is a former Detective Chief Inspector. He spent twenty years attending crimes scenes like this and now he’s not a priority? I want to know what happened here. There’s no way George Begbie committed suicide.’

      The officer clenched her jaw, pulled her arm out of Ava’s grasp and took a step away.

      ‘A minibus skidded on a patch of ice and left the road half an hour ago, carrying eight children. Two of those are fatalities. Dr Lambert is making that the priority. If you’ll excuse me.’

      ‘I hadn’t heard,’ Ava said to the Scenes of Crime Officer’s back. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘DCI Turner?’ a voice said from behind her. A man stepped in offering his hand as the SOCO retreated. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Dimitri. Never had the pleasure of working with George Begbie but I understand he was well respected by his men. Why don’t we let forensics do their bit? I always feel like a spare part while they’re processing. We could wait in my car if you like.’

      ‘That won’t be necessary but I appreciate the offer,’ Ava said. ‘I’d like to see the body in situ, though. I take it this is your patch.’

      ‘I was assigned to deal with it, although it seems unlikely to be an ongoing police matter.’ He paused and looked towards Begbie’s car. ‘I’ve lost people I worked with and it’s hard. The trick is not to turn it into a crusade. As soon as you start overthinking it, you lead yourself in all the wrong directions. I’m not trying to put you off, but the best thing to do really would be to leave it to us. You can count on me to look after him, and any information you want, you only have to ask.’

      Ava glanced at the Chief Inspector she’d heard of but never met in the flesh. He was so softly spoken that she’d found herself craning her neck forward to listen. Close-up, she realised his eyes were so pale a shade of blue that they were hard to look away from. His hair was white but not by virtue of his age. She guessed him to be in his mid-fifties although his face appeared sculpted from some organic material that didn’t age. Before she could respond to his suggestion, a stretcher appeared from the vicinity of the car with a body bag on it. It was carried to a waiting van for transportation to the city mortuary. Whatever assumptions had been made at the scene, there would still have to be an autopsy.

      ‘Let me walk you back to your car,’ Chief Inspector Dimitri said.

      ‘No need.’ Ava shook her head. ‘I’d like to inform George Begbie’s wife myself, if you don’t mind. I appreciate your officers will follow up and take a statement from her. But tonight … I know her. He’d have preferred it to come from a friend.’

      ‘I understand that,’ Dimitri said. ‘The facts, those few we have, are that a couple walking the coast path were aware of the sound of the engine, walked past to cut up to the road and noticed the hose running from the exhaust. They wrenched open a door – apparently the rear passenger side was unlocked – but by then it was too late. They called for an ambulance and police. The first responders asked for a plate check and that’s how we ID’d him. I’m afraid to say it all looks tragically standard, if you can think of it that way. There’s a bottle of whisky, empty, on the front passenger seat. The radio was playing. No signs of a struggle, broken windows or door locks.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Ava muttered. ‘I appreciate your kindness. My squad will be devastated. You’ll let me know what you conclude?’

      ‘Of course. He’s in good hands, I promise,’ Dimitri said.

      Ava nodded, shoved her hands down deep into her pockets and walked away, pausing before climbing into her car to look back down towards the crashing sea, a force as destructive and brutal as the news she was about to deliver to George Begbie’s wife.

      The Begbies’ house was out east of the city at Portobello, where St Mark’s Place met Argyle Crescent. A traditionally built home, with stone graduating from brown to black by years and precipitation, it stood out from its neighbours by virtue of the miniature turret rising at one side. Ava remembered the Chief joking about how his home was literally his castle, and it looked exactly like a tiny replica of one. He and his wife had loved the place, moving there a decade ago and as far as Ava knew they had been planning to remain there for the foreseeable future. A future that had been stopped firmly in its tracks. The house had been filled with warmth and laughter whenever Ava had visited in the past. This trip would mark the end of all that. It would never be the same again. Not for her, and certainly not for Glynis Begbie once Ava had delivered the dreadful news. She waited in her car a while as Mark Knopfler sang of jackals and ravens, half expecting Begbie’s wife-cum-widow to step out of her front door, a sixth sense leading her onto the street and into Ava’s path. She didn’t appear. Ava clicked off the radio, made sure her clothing was tidy, and walked the few steps up the front path to the door.

      ‘Ava! How lovely to see you, my darling. George didn’t warn me or I’d have baked. Honestly, that man. So distracted all the time …’

      ‘Glynis,’ Ava cut in. There was a second when she said nothing, that television moment as Ava always thought of it, where somehow just the physical presence of a police officer unexpectedly on the doorstep was all the omen required to trigger knowledge and grief. It didn’t come.

      ‘Come on in, quickly now. You’ll freeze out there. Probably just my age but I feel the cold all the time these days. Give me your coat. I’ll call George on his mobile and get him back. He’ll kick himself if he misses you.’

      ‘Glynis,’ Ava said again. ‘Let’s sit down.’ There it was. That fractional falter of her smile, the double blink before she responded.

      ‘Of course. Come into the lounge. Forgive the mess, I was just writing some cards. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of something hot?’

      Ava sat down on the sofa and waited until Glynis had perched on an armchair.

      ‘I’m sorry to have to bring you this news, but George has been found dead in his car. The initial indications are that it was suicide.’

      Glynis’ mouth slackened, her brow drew in. There was a small shake of her head. Ava had seen it too many times, that moment of defiance, the refusal to accept the news of a death. She waited for Glynis to speak. It was always a question first. Where? When? How? Most often in a suicide: Why?

      ‘Something was wrong,’ Glynis said, her voice a thin tremor in the air.

      Ava stared at her. ‘His heart again? Had his doctor given him bad news?’

      Glynis shook her head. ‘Not that George told me. As far as I knew he was recovering well. But for the last couple of weeks he’s been, I don’t know, sullen. Not like him at all.’

      ‘I’m sorry to ask this, but did you suspect he might be a risk to himself? Had he talked about it?’ Ava asked.

      ‘No. No, I’d have told someone. Where is he now?’

      ‘On his way to the … he’s going to Ailsa Lambert’s office. She’ll take good care of him,’ Ava said.

      ‘It’s too late for that, isn’t it? His dinner’s in the oven. Plenty of green veg. Nothing high in fat or sugar. He hated it, the diet since his heart attack. Still, he always cleared his plate without complaint. Before, we used to have a cream cake every Friday, as a treat, you know. Hasn’t had one for six months. I think that was the thing he missed most.’

      ‘Glynis, let me make some calls for you. You should have your family here.’

      ‘I’d like to go and see George first if you don’t mind. There’ll be an autopsy if I’m not mistaken?’

      ‘Yes,’ Ava whispered.

      ‘How