A Rush of Blood

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‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire asked, as he looked at the crumpled form, lying on the frozen hilltop.

Neil McIlhenney sighed. ‘Always with the rhetoric, even at this time of the morning. I reckon he must be, unless his brains have wireless capability, seeing as how most of them are spread over that cairn.’ He nodded towards the pile of stones that marked the summit. ‘It’s a bizarre situation; I doubt if even the boss has seen one like it. Given that it’s minus five degrees at the moment, according to the readout in my car, and that today’s forecast is for minus two, at best, we’re going to have to figure out how to thaw the stuff, to get it off.’

‘Boiling water?’

‘Jesus,’ the detective superintendent chuckled, ‘how did you ever get to be head of CID? We’re at the top of Arthur’s Seat. Where are you going to plug the kettle in?’

‘Primus stove? Or maybe we could light a wee fire.’ McGuire stamped his feet. ‘Christ knows, we need one.’ He paused. ‘And now, are you going to tell me why our force’s two highest-ranking detectives are standing here, at seven thirty in the morning, freezing our nuts off over the body of one of the most obvious and effective suicides I have ever seen?’

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