‘The last one was a pub called The Globe, less than two miles away,’ she says. ‘Maybe that’s where he bought the beer.’
‘What beer?’
‘He drank a six-pack. We found the empties on the floor. He was probably working up the courage.’
Walking back across the factory floor, I pause to examine how the rope was looped and knotted around the pylon. The scene doesn’t make sense. It’s nothing overt. Instead, I notice small things. Anomalies. Discrepancies. Absences. Men usually choose more violent suicide methods than women. They use firearms, or hanging, or carbon monoxide poisoning; whereas women are more likely to take a drug overdose or open their wrists in a bath. Decapitation is an overt, outrageous statement. It isn’t a cry for help. It’s a roar of pain.
Even without knowing Hamish Whitmore, I sense that he had an ordered mind. I’d have expected him to choose something neater. Cleaner. More clinical.
There isn’t a single scratch or stone mark on the Maserati. Every inch has been waxed and polished with expensive products. The alloy hubs gleam and the tyre walls have been painted black. Men often lavish more attention on a car than a wife or a girlfriend because it gives them a sense of dominion and freedom. Unlike a woman, a car comes with a key or remote ignition, and it usually starts first time. It doesn’t protest your decisions or ask for a greater commitment, or get jealous, or moody. A car can represent who you are or who you want to be. Wealthy. Stylish. Fast. Sporty. A man might never find his dream woman, but he can own his dream car.
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ I say, walking back to the Maserati. I point to the dashboard where the only blemish is a small tear in the leather to the right of the steering wheel. ‘A man who loves his car doesn’t open beer bottles on the dashboard or toss his empties on the floor.’
‘Maybe he was past caring.’
‘No. He loved this car.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I think he was dead when he was put behind the wheel,’ I say, pointing to the driver’s seat, which is pushed back too far. ‘When the rope took off his head, it covered everything in blood, including the steering wheel. Where are the handprints?’
‘Maybe he let go at the last moment,’ says Lenny.
‘Or his hands were in his lap.’
I straighten and roll my neck, releasing the tension.
‘Were there fingerprints on the beer bottles?’
‘He wore gloves.’
My look says enough. Lenny gives me a pained expression and turns away, striding to the doors of the factory. She yells to the detectives who are watching Hamish Whitmore’s body being loaded into the waiting van.
‘Get SOCO back here and widen the perimeter. I want a fingertip search of everything within three hundred yards of here and more teams knocking on doors.’
‘What are we looking for, Guv?’ asks one of them.
‘My sanity,’ says Lenny.
6
Cyrus
Brake lights flare ahead of us, creating oily trails of light on the wet asphalt. It has been raining since we reached the outskirts of Manchester and the drizzle looks like beads of mercury falling through the headlights.
Lenny is behind the wheel, but her mind is still on the factory, pondering the details. According to the satnav, Whitmore visited the pub, but the bar staff found no record of him buying beer and nothing showed up on the CCTV footage from the bar.
‘If he didn’t go inside, he must have met someone in the car park,’ says Lenny, talking to herself as much as to me. ‘When the victim is one of ours, a lot of things run through your mind. We make a lot of enemies in this job. People we put away. People who bear grudges.’
‘Do you have enemies?’ I ask.
‘Enough.’ She changes lanes. ‘What were you doing in Cornwall?’
‘Following up a case.’
‘Police business?’
‘Not really.’
Lenny recognises that I’m not going to talk about it. We might be almost family, but we each have parts of ourselves that we keep private. Once a month we get together socially. Normally she invites me over to her place and cooks a family dinner for Nick, her husband, and his two boys, who Lenny has raised as her own.
It’s almost six by the time we reach Hamish Whitmore’s house. Three cars are parked in the driveway. Visitors. That makes it more difficult. The front door is opened by a woman in her late twenties, red-eyed from crying. She’s heavily pregnant, dressed in maternity jeans and an oversized white shirt. A young man, bearded and shaggy-haired, joins her, putting his arm around her waist. His jeans are speckled with paint or plaster.
‘I’m looking for Eileen Whitmore,’ says Lenny, slightly unsure of herself. Something isn’t right.
‘That’s my mum,’ says the young woman. ‘I’m Suzie and this is Jack.’
Lenny continues. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
‘If it’s about Dad, we already know.’
‘How?’
‘This afternoon. A detective told us.’
‘I see. I’m sorry. I thought …’ Lenny doesn’t quite know how to react. ‘Can I speak to your mother?’
We’re taken to a sitting room where an older woman is standing by the fireplace as though posing for a photograph. She has delicate features and short grey hair, swept back behind her ears. I notice the family photographs on the mantelpiece. Suzie as a baby … a child … a teenager … getting married. An earlier wedding photograph shows Hamish Whitmore in his dress uniform and Eileen wearing a white wedding dress with a split up her thigh.
Seats are offered and chosen. Mrs Whitmore perches on the edge of an armchair, barely making a crease in the cushion.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ says Lenny, who sits opposite. ‘He was a fine man.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘The other officer said he committed suicide.’
‘Does that surprise you?’ asks Lenny.
‘It shocks me.’
‘But he retired on health grounds. Depression was given as a reason.’
Mrs Whitmore waves the information aside dismissively. ‘That’s what every officer says when he wants a medical discharge. Get a shrink to diagnose depression or PTSD and you can retire early.’ She glances at me. ‘I mean no offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘You and Hamish were estranged,’ observes Lenny.
‘We were living separately.’
‘Divorcing?’
Mrs Whitmore looks offended by the suggestion.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘On the weekend. He came over to fix a broken drawer in the laundry. We had a cup of tea and talked about Suzie and the baby. We were both excited about becoming grandparents.’
She dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Where had Hamish been living?’ I ask.
‘In our spare room,’ answers Suzie. ‘He’s been helping Jack get the nursery ready and paint the place.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Yesterday morning. We had breakfast together. He was joking about my waters breaking early and how he’d organise a police motorcycle escort to the hospital with all the lights and sirens.’