Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 5: I’ve Never Been Called That Before

Wood liked the houses of old people. Even that distinct ‘old person’ smell. How did that happen? Was it because the central heating was on night and day? Really chilly here today, though. Had somebody turned the heating off? And an odour of damp obscured by the intensity of the smell of fresh furniture polish. He looked around the sitting room. Immaculate. Beautiful old-lady furniture. Decoration-wise, nothing had been done in this flat for how long? Thirty, forty years? What was the actual word Wood was looking for? ‘Chintzy’? Comfortable chairs and tassels on the antique table lamp. A beautiful, black 19th Century marble clock standing on the fireplace - *ding* - Wood checked his watch. The old clock had struck the hour perfectly on time. And those walls. A very Edinburgh blood red - but covered with more and more paintings. Paintings of every size, squares and rectangles. And mirrors, mirrors, mirrors - circular, oval and those big round spiky ones that look like a prop on the altar of a Catholic church. Every picture and mirror encompassed in a golden, antique frame. In the corner, on the Georgian table, two pairs of glasses and a walking stick.

‘Ha!’ The cry made Wood look over. McKee was pointing at an antique foot-rest that appeared to have been discarded near the window. McKee nodded: ‘You see, the thing that puzzled me was: how did the old bag get herself up to the window to throw herself out? And here’s the answer.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He put them on and lifted up the antique footstool. Wood held up his hand to stop the detective interfering with the evidence. McKee gave a contemptuous shake of the head: ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, choir-boy. The Forensics have already been in and taken the pictures and stuff. Look…’

With that, the detective placed the stool below the window and talked himself through it: ‘So - she opens the window.’ He placed his fingers into the brass rings at the bottom of the window and yanked it up. ‘Phew! A bit stiff there.’ He pointed to the stool. ‘Then, she stands on the stool. And that gives her height.’ He kicked away the stool and was now perched on the interior window ledge. ‘The stool helps her get up. And see - as she gets up, she kicks the stool away and it lands over there.’ Wood nodded. The stool had landed where they had found it. ‘She sits here.’ McKee swivelled around so that he was half-in and half-out of the window.

At that point, Wood heard a voice behind him. A woman’s voice. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

Wood turned around. Standing before him was a smartly-dressed woman in her thirties. Bobbed auburn hair. Crisp white blouse. Tailored (what the Americans would call) ‘pant suit’.

McKee called back from the window: ‘Relax, dear - he’s with me.’

Detective Maddy Price gave a sigh. She nodded over to the window: ‘You a friend of McKee?’

Wood gave a friendly frown: ‘Does such a thing exist?’

Silence for a nanosecond as a glimmer of laughter played across the young lady’s eyes. She offered her hand: ‘Maddy Price. Detective Maddy Price.’

Wood smiled and shook her hand: ‘Wallace Wood. My friends call me “Wally”. So you can call me “Wally”.’ He nodded over to the window: ‘I make him call me “sir”.’

Maddy gave a cautious smile: ‘And what is your role here today…“Wally”?

‘A chance meeting in the street - then I was strong-armed up the stairs because he thought I’d be useful.’

Detective Price shook her head. ‘Well, you know what they say: “In Bobby McKee’s book, the shortest distance between two points is a crooked line.” She gave a sudden blink. ‘Hold on a minute…are you…are you the Wallace Wood?’

Wood laughed: ‘I’ve never been called that before…’

‘The prosecutor?’

He put his hand on his chest: ‘Can I exercise the right not to incriminate myself?’

‘I saw you in court once. I was helping out the court cops for an afternoon. You were cross-examining an accused…’

‘It happens…’

‘…and you picked his evidence apart. Fact by fact. I almost felt sorry for him. It was like watching a candle melting.’

‘If only it were that interesting.’

The black mantel clock struck again precisely to announce the half hour.

Maddy Price gave a shy little laugh: ‘I’m sorry - I didn’t recognise you without your wig on.’

‘I try to leave it at home when I’m popping out to the shops.’

They laughed. Then they heard a shout from the window. Bobby McKee was perched half-in and half-out of the open window. ‘I’ll need a hand down from here.’

Wood looked at Maddy Price, a glint in his eye: ‘Happy to help, Bobby. In which direction?’

*****

Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in: Was That Not a Film with Joan Crawford?