Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 10: ‘Is it ‘Appraised’ or ‘Apprised’?’

He didn’t recognise the number. More spam?

At one time, he had set his phone to silence unknown callers, but that had backfired because once, when Abbie was a teenager, he had agreed to take the car to collect Abbie from a friend’s house in The Braids. On that occasion, it turned out that her phone had run out of charge and she was calling from a friend’s mobile. Wood’s phone did not ring - the number being unrecognised - and Abbie had had to walk home. Oh - the resultant grief and recriminations (although there was that small ironic satisfaction that it had been Abbie who had insisted that he set his phone that way in the first place and had, herself, set up the block)!

The ringing stopped. He passed the barber’s shop. Wood smiled. In the window, there was a black chalk board with a new joke every month.

This month: Husband: When I die, I’ve decided that I want to die while making love.

Wife: Well, at least it will be quick…

Good one. Must save that for PC Gordy.

Then the phone buzzed again. Same number. Again. Persistent beggars. Wood did a quick mental inventory of what it was likely to be and his possible responses: No - he had not been in an accident in the last three years (that wasn’t his fault, you understand); no - he did not need a new kitchen. If they are going to be this persistent, then best to answer it and get his number off their (no doubt illegally-purchased) lists. Maybe he should wind them up for a change. He put the phone to his ear and spoke:

‘Hello - Edinburgh Crematorium - do you wish to incinerate a loved one or a pet monkey?

Silence on the other end. But there was definitely a connection, because Wood could hear scuffling noises in the background. He tried again: ‘If you wish to incinerate your dead granny, press button one…’

More silence. Then, on the other end, an uncertain voice: ‘Is that Wally? Wally Wood?’

Wood gave a little gulp: ‘Um, this is he…’

‘Wally - it’s Katharine….’

‘“Katharine”?”’

Wood racked his brains, but the caller did the work for him: ‘Katharine Livingstone…’

Of course. In fact, probably the only Katharine that he knew: ‘Sorry, Katharine - I keep getting these spam calls…’

‘I get them too. But I’ve never driven a car, so that tends to end matters quickly.’

Wood nodded: ‘Must remember that one.’

Then, an uncomfortable silence. The enigmatic forensic examiner had phoned the retired prosecutor (for the first time ever), but Ms Livingstone seemed in no hurry to explain the reason behind this inaugural communication. It reminded Wood of when he was a child, his grandmother and his aunts would sit around the coal fire, and when the conversation would run dry, one of them would sigh: ‘Aye - the nights are fair drawing in…’. This reverie was interrupted by Ms Livingstone’s voice: ‘I hope you don’t mind - your phone details were still on the system…’

‘Of course not - it’s nice to hear from you…in fact…’

She cut across him: ‘It was Detective Price said that she wanted you to be kept..um…is it “appraised” or “apprised”? I can never…’

I think it’s “apprised” - appraisal is something you do to antiques, and I’m not that old yet’.

Katharine Livingstone - all business - ignored the joke: ‘She said that she would appreciate your take on the development.’

Wood frowned: ‘The “development”?’

‘I’m sorry. I thought she would have told you by now. About Rose Bryant.’

The Lady in Red

‘The cause of death was not the fall.’

Wood shook his head, as if shaking himself awake: ‘Then what was it?’

‘Probably a heart attack.’‘

How do you know it wasn’t the fall?’

The forensic examiner went into professional mode: ‘Post-mortem lividity.’

Wood reverted to his store of knowledge from his days in legal practice.

When a person dies, gravity pulls the blood down and it settles into a pool inside their body. After death, the pool doesn’t move. Generally speaking, if you die face-up, lying on your back, then the blood collects at your back. It stays there, even if the body is moved afterwards.

Wood shook himself back into the conversation: ‘Post-mortem lividity. What about it?’

‘It’s all wrong. The lividity is all at her front.’

‘And?’

‘When she landed, she landed on her back. After she died, she must have lain on her front for a long time and the blood gathered there. Also, looking at the decomposition markers, she had probably been dead for around two days already, maybe a bit longer.’

The retired prosecutor blurted out: ‘Two days??? Are you sure?’

‘The microbes don’t lie. I just thought that you would like to know. Anyway, must crack on...’

Wood stood still in the middle of Dublin Street, eyes closed, processing what he had just been told. Being a man, an inappropriate thought struck him. Wasn’t this conversation - on the face of it, about the possible suicide of an old lady - a good opportunity to invite Katharine Livingstone out to meet him somewhere for a drink? Finally see if there was something between them? Maybe not the most propitious time - in the middle of a conversation about blood and decomposition. But - you know what they say (whoever ‘they’ are): Faint heart never won fair maid. Wood shut his eyes. Here goes: ‘Katharine…I’ve been meaning to say…would you like to…sometime…sometime…um…’

He had a sudden realisation. The noise on the line had gone quiet. In fact, Katharine Livingstone had already hung up.

*****

Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in: ‘That’s an Abrupt Goodbye’