With My Little Eye (5 page)

Douglas and Tash shook their heads. ‘Gone AWOL has he?' Douglas asked, just to break an awkward little silence.

Stan usually had the jolly expression of one of Snow White's happier dwarves as drawn by the Disney studios, but George's face suggested that he could have been perpetually resenting an enquiry after his piles. He was looking even fiercer than usual. ‘He said that I hadn't followed the drawing closely and I said that the dimensions on the drawing didn't add up right and he said that that was only because the width of the wee passage wasn't quite the same at one end from the other – it tapers a bittie, you see? Anyway, we fell out and I've not seen him since the beginning of the week.'

‘He can't have gone home,' Tash said. ‘He got a buyer for his flat and he's moved his things.'

‘He has a bit of a reputation,' Douglas said. He glanced dubiously at Tash, wondering how far he should go. ‘Perhaps he met a lady.'

‘Yon was lang syne,' George said. While Douglas was trying to lose his English accent in order to fit back better into his own country, both the brothers were trying to melt into the university polyglot company that they moved among. When angry or perturbed, George lapsed into his native Scots. Now he drew himself up. ‘Changed days,' he said. ‘We're older now. And, truth to tell, Stan never stayed more than a night with the same woman. Grudged the expense,' he explained.

That suggested to Douglas that Stan had been in the habit of paying for his female comforts, a subject best avoided in Tash's company until he could be quite sure of the degree of her enlightenment. ‘If we see him we'll remind him to speak to you,' Douglas said.

‘Aye.' But George looked even more embittered. ‘The hale thing is this. Stan never trusted me. He was fine pleased with the work I did on his wee house and the price I let him awa' wi'. It went back to something that happened when we were boys, but I'll not go into that except to say that Stan wouldn't let me through his house, just the bittie I was working on and the bit we were living in. Maybe he had secrets but more likely he was feared I'd make off with one of his treasures – not that I jalouse he'd have ocht of great value.'

Douglas and Tash exchanged unhappy glances. ‘But why are you telling us all this?' Douglas asked.

George recovered a touch of his old bellicosity. ‘I'm just explaining if you'll let me finish. Now I'm just feared that something may have come over Stan. He could have had a fit, maybe, or an accident and be needing help. I telled him his locks are as common as fleas on a hedgehog but he wouldn't listen. I could go into any of his rooms and that's what I'll do but I want somebody with me – a witness to say that I didn't touch a thing. And if it's you that's with me you can tell him if what I've done is in reasonable accord with the drawings.'

It seemed an unusual request and Douglas was reluctant to break off while his own work was going well. ‘That wouldn't prove that you hadn't been in there on some other occasion,' he pointed out.

‘I ken that damned fine,' snapped George. ‘I'm not bloody daft.' He stopped and produced a lopsided smile that sat badly on his irritable features. ‘Look, will you do me this wee favour or will you not?'

‘I suppose so. Give me a couple of minutes.' Douglas turned his eyes to Tash, to his own relief. There could be no doubt which of them gave more pleasure to the eye. ‘Tash, type it up in draft as far as we've got and then make a start to setting up a decimal filing system the way I showed you. I'll be back. Come on, then,' he said to George.

S
tan's flat was to be the only one with its own entrance door which had been the original back door and tradesmen's entrance. They left Douglas's flat and descended the imposing rubber-covered staircase into the hall. All was clean and polished, showing the pride the ladies were taking in the new premises. Two connections between the house and the original servants' quarters had been blocked off, so they left the house by the front door, between a pair of Ionic columns supporting a pediment that gave shelter to a waiting visitor. After working steadily at the desk for hours the sunshine came as a pleasant shock. Douglas drew in deep draughts of the fresh air. A gravel path led round the gable of the house to where a secondary drive, little more than a gravel farm track, arrived at the back of the house. The lower window panes of the semi-basement flat were mostly of reeded glass, to give servants and employers privacy from each other, so that it was impossible to look for Stan that way.

The back door was standing open and George led the way down the seven steps and inside.

During the planning stages, Douglas had of necessity been familiar with what the visitor might have regarded as the secret intestines of the house. Being semi-basement they had been dark, cramped and unattractive and they had smelled of cheap soap. The improvement had not yet transformed them but it had begun. The whole area was cleaner and, after some brick partitions had been removed, more open. New plasterwork shone white and both paint and paper had begun to give life to the blank surfaces. Douglas experienced the inevitable designer's jolt at seeing his vision beginning to emerge full size. The vision was still impaired by all the half executed alterations and the paraphernalia of decoration that still dominated the space. The smell of paint was everywhere. They ducked under a platform that spanned between two stepladders.

Stan's bulldog bitch, Winnie, rushed to meet them, the picture of canine relief mingled with uncertainty. Clearly she was unsure whether to welcome human help and support or to chase away intruders. Deciding that both men were known to her and that there was much more important business awaiting her attention, she bolted out onto the nearest grass and squatted for long overdue relief. Returning, she came to Douglas, rolled over in a gesture of submission and then, rising, hurried to scratch at a brightly painted door. She was drooling slightly.

‘When was she last fed?' Douglas asked.

‘I've no idea.'

George brought a can of dog-food, still half full, from the fridge and filled two dog-bowls, one with food and the other with water. Winnie was the only being that George ever treated with consideration. Douglas had noticed that the water-bowl was bone dry. Winnie threw herself at the food dish before it quite reached the floor. Douglas felt a hollowness in his own midriff. Something was far wrong. Like many a dog owner, Stan might have neglected himself but never his dog.

George fetched a ring of keys from what was obviously a living room in a near finished state and they began a tour. George was not content to glance into each room to be sure that his brother was not lying on the floor or furniture. He looked into cupboards and wardrobes, pointing out that Stan could easily have collapsed in such a confined space. Douglas began to suspect that George was motivated largely by curiosity.

They were almost back at the entry door when George unlocked and pulled open an oak door giving onto a very short passage. This had been the coal cellar and the new oil-fired balanced flue boiler could be heard whispering from its place where the old boiler had stood, in a tiny compartment behind another door to the right.

But there was no time to admire the more efficient use of space or the neat decoration. A figure sprawled at their feet. Douglas recognized the well-worn cardigan, the corduroys and Stan's thinning grey hair. George started forward, but Douglas, keeping control of all his emotions with an effort, put an arm across to stop him.

‘Wait. You wanted a witness and that's what you've got.' Douglas went down on one knee and touched the neck. ‘I'm sorry, George. Your brother's dead. There's no pulse.' He pointed silently to the yellow stain where escaping urine had dried on the floor. ‘And he's cold and stiffening. It happened some time ago. No wonder the dog was ravenous and desperate for the loo.'

Winnie, the bulldog bitch, tried to push between them but Douglas caught her collar. She whined on a rising scale, a sound that brought home the dread of death more surely than words could have done. On the sad features of the bulldog a greater sadness and the eternal fear for the future could be seen. To a person, the loss of a dog may be a tragedy. To a dog, loss of an owner threatens disaster.

George's face showed less emotion. Nothing is gained by hating the dead. ‘What do we do now?' he asked dully.

Douglas thought back to a friend who had broken his neck in a fall downstairs. ‘You need a death certificate. Who was his doctor?'

‘I don't think that he had een. He was aye healthy was Stan, working outdoors as he did. Should we call an ambulance? And an undertaker?'

Douglas was trying hard to recall what had been said after his friend's death. ‘Ambulance, yes. But you can't bring in an undertaker yet. You'll have to let the police know.'

‘Police?' George looked dumbfounded. ‘What's it to dae with them?'

‘When somebody dies in Scotland, if there isn't a doctor to certify natural death, the police report to the procurator fiscal who decides whether or not to call for a fatal accident inquiry. You'd better phone them.'

‘Why me?'

‘He was your brother,' Douglas pointed out.

‘I don't have a phone.'

Douglas's right foot wanted to give George a good kick. This was not the moment for nit-picking. Instead, he produced his slim mobile and offered it to George, who stepped back and hid his hands. ‘I couldn't use een o' they things. You make the call.'

It seemed hardly worth arguing about. Douglas keyed the emergency services and asked for the police. More from habit than for any other reason he was careful to keep the Englishness out of his voice – the telephone is notorious for exaggerating accents and the police can be just as prone to Anglophobia as even the French. He was told to wait where he was and that officers were on their way. He remembered to tell the disembodied voice to direct the officers to the back drive. It would have been more comfortable for him to wait upstairs but George seemed reluctant to leave the body, which Douglas supposed showed a certain amount of respect. They sat in folding garden chairs in Stan's living room until the crunch of tyres on gravel told of the arrival of the police at the door.

Douglas decided that he had more than enough to be thinking about, so when George got out of his chair and went to meet the officers he was content to sit where he was. The police contingent comprised a tall young sergeant in plain clothes and a uniformed constable whose duties seemed to include those of chauffeur, note-taker, recording technician and witness. Also, Douglas thought, probably custody officer if police time were being wasted.

The sergeant introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Dodson, the constable remained anonymous. ‘Who made the phone call?' the sergeant asked.

Douglas raised his hand. ‘I made the call, but the body seems to be that of Mr Stan Eastwick, the owner of this flat. This is his brother George.'

The sergeant looked at him coldly. ‘That is not what I asked you. You made the call so you can show me the body. We'll take things in sequence, please.'

As Douglas rose to comply he noticed, from the corner of his eye, George seeming to relax. The constable was left to keep an eye on George while the sergeant followed through to the small passage and stooped over the body. ‘You've touched him?'

‘Only to check that he was cooling and that there was no pulse.'

‘Is that why you didn't call for an ambulance?'

Douglas nodded. ‘I guessed that you wouldn't want him moved. He was beyond any help that an ambulance could bring.'

The sergeant nodded, straightening his back. ‘You know he's dead and I know he's dead. If he knows anything he knows it too. But in the eyes of the law he's in limbo until he's certified dead. Who was his doctor?'

‘So far as I know, he didn't have one.'

The sergeant produced his radio, reported an unexplained death and asked for the attendance of the police surgeon.

‘His brother can tell you more that I can,' Douglas said. ‘I live and work upstairs and I've got plenty to be getting on with. Shall I get out of your way and wait upstairs? I'll still be available at a moment's notice.'

After a few seconds of silent thought the sergeant said, ‘There's only a Transit van outside this door and one car standing at the front.'

‘The car's mine, the blue BMW. The van belonged to the dead man. George Eastwick had a terrible old car but it went to the crusher late last week. I've seen George driving the van. I think it was insured for either of them to drive.'

The sergeant absorbed the information without comment. ‘Don't go near the van, sir, without asking me first. Yes, go and get on with your own business and I'll get a statement from you later.'

Douglas nodded. Outside, the sunshine looked less cheerful and the cool air was definitely cold. Nobody likes to be reminded of his own mortality and Douglas had other concerns on his mind.

Upstairs, Tash had finished the typing and was struggling to arrange Douglas's files in the way that he had decreed. He called her to him. ‘More dictation,' he said. ‘I'm afraid Stan Eastwick's dead. We'd better prepare a note for the other householders.'

From his manner, Tash had already guessed that ugly news was coming. She settled without a word and produced her dictation book. Douglas took off an imaginary hat to her. She was going to type the note, so she would hear the facts and so there was no need to waste time asking questions. Douglas liked that. A woman who thought first and spoke afterwards, if at all, was, he thought, a treasure to be prized.

‘Do a note for your mother, the professor and Seymour.' And Douglas dictated the following note:

This is to advise you that Stan Eastwick has been found dead today. The cause is not yet known. He did not have a doctor to certify death from natural causes so the police will be making enquiries.