Hollow Murder
by Greg Michaelson
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: None.
Description: Dead body. White powder. Porn. Or is it art?
_____________________________________________________________________
The noise grew louder as they approached the tenement.
“I can’t stand drum and bass,” said the constable. “There’s never a decent tune. I like country and western. And you?”
“Rock and roll,” said the detective.
They entered the close and climbed the stairs. On each landing, prurient eyes peered round half closed doors.
“It’s always a top flat,” said the constable, breathing heavily as they neared the fourth floor.
*
The detective rang the door bell. After a short pause, she tried again but there was still no response.
“We better let ourselves in,” said the detective.
“Damn it!” said the constable. “We forgot the ram. I suppose I’ll have to go down for it. Bloody stairs!”
“No need,” said the detective.
She delved into her hand bag and drew out a small bunch of metal rods.
“Where did you get those?” asked the constable, surprised.
“eBay,” said the detective.
The detective selected two picks, inserted them into the keyhole, and deftly sprang the lock.
“Who taught you that?” said the constable.
“My uncle,” said the detective, “after they let him out the first time.”
The noise grew deafening as she pushed the door open and entered the flat.
*
In the bedroom, the body was face down across the desk, vomit trickling onto the carpet. On the desktop was a small plastic bag of white powder, an unravelling five pound note, a razor blade and a dusty vanity case mirror.
The detective bent over the body and felt for a pulse.
“Dead?” said the constable, turning off the music centre.
“’Fraid so,” said the detective, straightening up.
“Overdose?” said the constable.
“Looks like poison,” said the detective. “You get a statement and I’ll call it in.”
*
“Don’t you know anything else about him?” asked the constable. “Where did he study?”
“I told you,” said the man, standing in the open doorway. “He’s at the Uni.”
“Which one?” asked the detective, joining them on the landing.
“What do you mean?” said the man.
“Which Uni?” said the detective.
“Edinburgh of course!” said the man.
“There are four Universities here!” said the detective.
The man raised an eyebrow.
“Did he have many visitors?” asked the constable, quickly.
“I’ve no idea,” said the man. “He’s only been here a couple of weeks. Anyway, can’t you just check through his stuff for details?”
“All in good time,” said the detective. “Thanks for your help. We’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”
“That’ll be right,” said the man.
*
“This is a rotten job,” said the pathologist. “That’s the third this week. First death though.”
“Any idea what’s behind it?” asked the detective.
“Animal tranquiliser,” said the pathologist. “A big batch was stolen from the Dick Vet a couple of months ago.”
“The things people stick up their noses!” said the constable.
“I’m pretty well done here,” said the pathologist. “What next?”
“We’d best hand this over to Serious Crime,” said the detective. “And I’ll need to contact his family.”
“Aye well,” said the constable. “Let’s empty his pockets before they bag him up.”
*
The constable and the detective sat on either side of the table, the box of effects between them.
“Shall we start with the wallet?” said the constable, pulling on a pair of thin latex gloves.
“Fire away,” said the detective, taking fawn calf-skin gloves from her bag. “Anything interesting?”
“Just the usual,” said the constable. “Student card. Debit card. Credit card. Bus pass. Library card. Thirty pounds in ten pound notes.”
“What does the student card say?” asked the detective.
“2nd year.” said the constable. “Engineering.”
“No photos?” said the detective. “Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“No,” said the constable.
“No business cards?” said the detective.
“No,” said the constable.
“No more drugs?” said the detective.
“No,” said the constable.
“Is that it?” said the detective.
“I think so,” said the constable, “but I’ll check”.
He turned the wallet upside down and shook it. A small rectangular wad of paper fell onto the table. The constable picked up the wad and unfolded it.
“Must have been some sort of perv,” said the constable, passing the piece of paper to the detective.
In the centre of the cleanly cut paper was the black and white image of a naked female torso.
“Looks like it’s from a lad mag,” said the constable.
“I’m not so sure,” said the detective. “It looks more like a painting”
She turned the piece of paper over. On the reverse, broken text bordered another fragment of torso.
“I think it’s from a book,” said the detective. “And the paper’s quite good quality.”
“But why cut off the head?” persisted the constable. “That’s a bit weird!”
“Hmm,” said the detective. “Anything else to look at?”
“There’s the mobile,” said the constable. “I’ll check out the contacts and the call log.”
“I’m just going to check something out myself,” said the detective, sliding the piece of paper into a clear plastic envelope, pocketing it and standing up. “I’ll not be long.”
*
The detective parked on the yellow line behind the mobile library van, waved at the Traffic Warden, and entered the Central Reference Library. Taking the stairs to the second floor, she went into the Fine Art section.
“Police,” she said, approaching the desk and proffering her warrant card. “I’d appreciate some help.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” said the librarian, looking up from her computer screen.
“Can you tell anything about this, please?” asked the detective, showing the librarian the picture.
“Oh yes,” said the librarian, barely glancing at the image. “That’s Botticelli’s Venus.”
“When I Paint My Masterpiece?” said the detective.
“Dylan!” said the librarian, turning the paper over. “Exactly! And it looks like another Botticelli on the reverse. There’s a big book of his paintings in the Renaissance section. Just over there. Help yourself.”
“I don’t think this came from a big book,” said the detective. “Can you tell me anything else, please?”
“Let’s see,” said the librarian. “The pictures are small, and black and white, so they’re probably from a cheaper paperback.”
“Any idea what sort?” said the detective.
“Could be from a themed book,“ said the librarian. “Maybe by period. Or subject.”
“Do you have any here?” said the detective.
“Oh yes,” said the librarian. “There’s lots in the Art History section.”
“Who takes them out?” said the detective.
“They’re really popular with the students right now,” said the librarian. “I expect they’re trying to crib for resits. They all think fine art’s a soft option.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” said the detective. “Any idea which publisher?”
“Not so many do them these days,” said the librarian. “It’s expensive getting permission to reproduce paintings. Could be a Thames and Hudson, but they often use colour. So I’d guess it’s a Pelican.”
“Not from a lad mag then,” said the detective.
“Well,” said the librarian, smiling wryly. “Same purpose no doubt.”
“Indeed!” said the detective. “Nothing changes, does it. Where’s Art History?”
“Over by the window,” said the librarian.
“I’ll take a look,” said the detective.
She crossed the parquet floor and scanned the shelves.
“How about this?” said the detective, pulling out a blue spine. “Kenneth Clark. The Nude.”
“Yup,” said the librarian. “Should be in there.”
The detective opened the book.
“Aha!” she exclaimed.
“You’ve found it already?” said the librarian. “That was quick.”
“I’ve found where it used to be!” said the detective, passing the book to the librarian.
“Bloody hell!” said the librarian, examining the neat rectangular compartment excised from the volume’s heart. “Why would anyone do this to a book?”
“Greed,” said the detective.
She took another book from the shelf and opened it, revealing a small plastic bag full of white powder. The next book held thirty pounds in crumpled notes.
“I’m afraid someone’s been using you like a post office,” said the detective. “Can you tell me who’s been borrowing them?”
“Just watch me!” said the librarian, sitting down and mousing furiously.
*
“Anything new?” said the detective, taking off her raincoat.
“Not a lot,” said the constable, putting the mobile phone back in the evidence box. “I can’t see any patterns in the calls. A few names keep cropping up but none have got form.”
“This might help,” said the detective, taking a CD out of her bag and spinning it across the table.
“What’ve you been up to?” asked the constable, trapping the disk and inserting it into the PC’s drive.
“I went to the Central Art Library,” said the detective, “and the librarian recognised the picture you found. So we checked the books. Someone’s been hollowing out the middles to hide drugs and money.”
“You found the book the picture came from!” said the constable. “That is so unlikely!”
“Well,” said the detective. “Sometimes it’s worth taking a punt.”
“What about the librarian?” said the constable.
“I don’t think so,” said the detective. “She was really angry that her books were damaged. The CD’s got all the people who’ve borrowed them recently.”
“Her books…?” said the constable. “Oh. Did you call Serious Crimes?”
“No,” said the detective. “We better tell him upstairs first.”
“You go,” said the constable hurriedly. “I’ll see if there are any overlaps in the phone calls and the library list.”
*
“You took your time,” said the constable. “What did he say?”
“Bad news,” said the detective, sitting down again.
“What?” said the constable, anxiously.
“He wants us to stick with the case,” said the detective. “As if we didn’t have enough to do.”
“Is that all?” said the constable, relieved.
“He knows all about the stag night,” said the detective. “He’s seen the photos of you. On Facebook.“
“Bastards!” said the constable. “I told them not to post them!”
“Serves you right,” said the detective.
“Anyway,” said the constable, “I reckon I’ve got something. Two people keep cropping up on both lists.”
The pathologist stuck his head round the door.
“The lab tests are back,” said the pathologist. “The powder’s definitely ketamine. And the other victims are…”
“Don’t tell me!” said the constable.
And read out two names.
“Blimey!” said the pathologist. “That was quick!”
“Certainly was,” said the constable, grinning widely. “Have you got any more details?”
“Happy to oblige,” said the pathologist, passing him two slim brown folders. “Let me know how it goes.”
*
“Who’s driving?” said the constable, as they left the police station.
“It’s your turn,” said the detective, opening the passenger side of the panda car.
“Aye well,” said the constable, getting into the driver side. “Where do you fancy first?”
“One works at the kennels and the other’s at the care home,” said the detective, strapping herself in. “Maybe the kennels? No one would notice animal tranquiliser there.”
“The kennels seem a bit obvious,” said the constable, starting the engine. “Let’s take a punt!”
“All right,” said the detective. “We’ll try the care home, then.”
“Not much difference really,” said the constable, engaging first gear.
*
“Doesn’t seem so bad,” said the detective, as they walked towards the main building. “Secure. Quiet. Well kept grounds. Good views.”
“I can’t stand these places,” said the constable, “I’d rather end it all with a bottle of malt on a beach in Goa.”
A woman came out of the conservatory, clutching a stack of books.
“Have I missed it?” she shouted.
“Have you missed what?” said the detective.
“Sorry,” shouted the woman. “I can’t hear you. Hang on.”
She reached up and took off her ear phones.
“That’s better,” said the woman.
“What are you listening to?” asked the detective.
“Gustav Holst,” said the woman. “The Planets. Venus. It’s lovely. Just like having a painting in your head.”
“Now there’s a thing!” said the detective.
“What were you saying?” said the woman.
“Sorry,” said the detective. “I was wondering what you were after.”
“The mobile library van,” said the woman. “It’s usually here by now. But I’ve maybe missed it, I’ve been that busy.”
“I don’t think it’s been yet,” said the constable. “I’m sure we’d’ve passed it coming up the hill.”
“Does the van come regularly?” asked the detective.
“Twice a week,” said the woman.
“Don’t the residents change their own books?” said the constable.
“Oh no,” said the woman. “That would take far too long. They usually browse the catalogue online and order the books in advance. Then Davie goes to the van.”
“Davie Reid?” said the constable.
“That’s him,” said the woman. “But he’s off sick.”
“Has Mr Reid worked here long?” said the detective.
“Just for the summer,” said the woman. “While he’s swatting for his resits.”
“What’s he studying?” said the detective.
“I don’t think he ever told me,” said the woman. “Maybe Fine Art. He seems really focused. I keep seeing the same books in his locker.”
“Does he have any friends on the staff?” asked the detective.
“No one in particular,” said the woman, “but he’s pretty pally with the lad from the mobile library. And I think one of his class mates is over at the kennels.”
“Isn’t that the van now?” said the constable, looking round.
The mobile library came slowly up the drive, accelerated, careened round the ornamental fountain and screeched out through the gates.
“I think he spotted us,” said the constable as they ran back to the panda car. “Siren?”
“Siren,” said the detective.
(Thanks to Fraser Haley.)
Swearwords: None.
Description: Dead body. White powder. Porn. Or is it art?
_____________________________________________________________________
The noise grew louder as they approached the tenement.
“I can’t stand drum and bass,” said the constable. “There’s never a decent tune. I like country and western. And you?”
“Rock and roll,” said the detective.
They entered the close and climbed the stairs. On each landing, prurient eyes peered round half closed doors.
“It’s always a top flat,” said the constable, breathing heavily as they neared the fourth floor.
*
The detective rang the door bell. After a short pause, she tried again but there was still no response.
“We better let ourselves in,” said the detective.
“Damn it!” said the constable. “We forgot the ram. I suppose I’ll have to go down for it. Bloody stairs!”
“No need,” said the detective.
She delved into her hand bag and drew out a small bunch of metal rods.
“Where did you get those?” asked the constable, surprised.
“eBay,” said the detective.
The detective selected two picks, inserted them into the keyhole, and deftly sprang the lock.
“Who taught you that?” said the constable.
“My uncle,” said the detective, “after they let him out the first time.”
The noise grew deafening as she pushed the door open and entered the flat.
*
In the bedroom, the body was face down across the desk, vomit trickling onto the carpet. On the desktop was a small plastic bag of white powder, an unravelling five pound note, a razor blade and a dusty vanity case mirror.
The detective bent over the body and felt for a pulse.
“Dead?” said the constable, turning off the music centre.
“’Fraid so,” said the detective, straightening up.
“Overdose?” said the constable.
“Looks like poison,” said the detective. “You get a statement and I’ll call it in.”
*
“Don’t you know anything else about him?” asked the constable. “Where did he study?”
“I told you,” said the man, standing in the open doorway. “He’s at the Uni.”
“Which one?” asked the detective, joining them on the landing.
“What do you mean?” said the man.
“Which Uni?” said the detective.
“Edinburgh of course!” said the man.
“There are four Universities here!” said the detective.
The man raised an eyebrow.
“Did he have many visitors?” asked the constable, quickly.
“I’ve no idea,” said the man. “He’s only been here a couple of weeks. Anyway, can’t you just check through his stuff for details?”
“All in good time,” said the detective. “Thanks for your help. We’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”
“That’ll be right,” said the man.
*
“This is a rotten job,” said the pathologist. “That’s the third this week. First death though.”
“Any idea what’s behind it?” asked the detective.
“Animal tranquiliser,” said the pathologist. “A big batch was stolen from the Dick Vet a couple of months ago.”
“The things people stick up their noses!” said the constable.
“I’m pretty well done here,” said the pathologist. “What next?”
“We’d best hand this over to Serious Crime,” said the detective. “And I’ll need to contact his family.”
“Aye well,” said the constable. “Let’s empty his pockets before they bag him up.”
*
The constable and the detective sat on either side of the table, the box of effects between them.
“Shall we start with the wallet?” said the constable, pulling on a pair of thin latex gloves.
“Fire away,” said the detective, taking fawn calf-skin gloves from her bag. “Anything interesting?”
“Just the usual,” said the constable. “Student card. Debit card. Credit card. Bus pass. Library card. Thirty pounds in ten pound notes.”
“What does the student card say?” asked the detective.
“2nd year.” said the constable. “Engineering.”
“No photos?” said the detective. “Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“No,” said the constable.
“No business cards?” said the detective.
“No,” said the constable.
“No more drugs?” said the detective.
“No,” said the constable.
“Is that it?” said the detective.
“I think so,” said the constable, “but I’ll check”.
He turned the wallet upside down and shook it. A small rectangular wad of paper fell onto the table. The constable picked up the wad and unfolded it.
“Must have been some sort of perv,” said the constable, passing the piece of paper to the detective.
In the centre of the cleanly cut paper was the black and white image of a naked female torso.
“Looks like it’s from a lad mag,” said the constable.
“I’m not so sure,” said the detective. “It looks more like a painting”
She turned the piece of paper over. On the reverse, broken text bordered another fragment of torso.
“I think it’s from a book,” said the detective. “And the paper’s quite good quality.”
“But why cut off the head?” persisted the constable. “That’s a bit weird!”
“Hmm,” said the detective. “Anything else to look at?”
“There’s the mobile,” said the constable. “I’ll check out the contacts and the call log.”
“I’m just going to check something out myself,” said the detective, sliding the piece of paper into a clear plastic envelope, pocketing it and standing up. “I’ll not be long.”
*
The detective parked on the yellow line behind the mobile library van, waved at the Traffic Warden, and entered the Central Reference Library. Taking the stairs to the second floor, she went into the Fine Art section.
“Police,” she said, approaching the desk and proffering her warrant card. “I’d appreciate some help.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” said the librarian, looking up from her computer screen.
“Can you tell anything about this, please?” asked the detective, showing the librarian the picture.
“Oh yes,” said the librarian, barely glancing at the image. “That’s Botticelli’s Venus.”
“When I Paint My Masterpiece?” said the detective.
“Dylan!” said the librarian, turning the paper over. “Exactly! And it looks like another Botticelli on the reverse. There’s a big book of his paintings in the Renaissance section. Just over there. Help yourself.”
“I don’t think this came from a big book,” said the detective. “Can you tell me anything else, please?”
“Let’s see,” said the librarian. “The pictures are small, and black and white, so they’re probably from a cheaper paperback.”
“Any idea what sort?” said the detective.
“Could be from a themed book,“ said the librarian. “Maybe by period. Or subject.”
“Do you have any here?” said the detective.
“Oh yes,” said the librarian. “There’s lots in the Art History section.”
“Who takes them out?” said the detective.
“They’re really popular with the students right now,” said the librarian. “I expect they’re trying to crib for resits. They all think fine art’s a soft option.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” said the detective. “Any idea which publisher?”
“Not so many do them these days,” said the librarian. “It’s expensive getting permission to reproduce paintings. Could be a Thames and Hudson, but they often use colour. So I’d guess it’s a Pelican.”
“Not from a lad mag then,” said the detective.
“Well,” said the librarian, smiling wryly. “Same purpose no doubt.”
“Indeed!” said the detective. “Nothing changes, does it. Where’s Art History?”
“Over by the window,” said the librarian.
“I’ll take a look,” said the detective.
She crossed the parquet floor and scanned the shelves.
“How about this?” said the detective, pulling out a blue spine. “Kenneth Clark. The Nude.”
“Yup,” said the librarian. “Should be in there.”
The detective opened the book.
“Aha!” she exclaimed.
“You’ve found it already?” said the librarian. “That was quick.”
“I’ve found where it used to be!” said the detective, passing the book to the librarian.
“Bloody hell!” said the librarian, examining the neat rectangular compartment excised from the volume’s heart. “Why would anyone do this to a book?”
“Greed,” said the detective.
She took another book from the shelf and opened it, revealing a small plastic bag full of white powder. The next book held thirty pounds in crumpled notes.
“I’m afraid someone’s been using you like a post office,” said the detective. “Can you tell me who’s been borrowing them?”
“Just watch me!” said the librarian, sitting down and mousing furiously.
*
“Anything new?” said the detective, taking off her raincoat.
“Not a lot,” said the constable, putting the mobile phone back in the evidence box. “I can’t see any patterns in the calls. A few names keep cropping up but none have got form.”
“This might help,” said the detective, taking a CD out of her bag and spinning it across the table.
“What’ve you been up to?” asked the constable, trapping the disk and inserting it into the PC’s drive.
“I went to the Central Art Library,” said the detective, “and the librarian recognised the picture you found. So we checked the books. Someone’s been hollowing out the middles to hide drugs and money.”
“You found the book the picture came from!” said the constable. “That is so unlikely!”
“Well,” said the detective. “Sometimes it’s worth taking a punt.”
“What about the librarian?” said the constable.
“I don’t think so,” said the detective. “She was really angry that her books were damaged. The CD’s got all the people who’ve borrowed them recently.”
“Her books…?” said the constable. “Oh. Did you call Serious Crimes?”
“No,” said the detective. “We better tell him upstairs first.”
“You go,” said the constable hurriedly. “I’ll see if there are any overlaps in the phone calls and the library list.”
*
“You took your time,” said the constable. “What did he say?”
“Bad news,” said the detective, sitting down again.
“What?” said the constable, anxiously.
“He wants us to stick with the case,” said the detective. “As if we didn’t have enough to do.”
“Is that all?” said the constable, relieved.
“He knows all about the stag night,” said the detective. “He’s seen the photos of you. On Facebook.“
“Bastards!” said the constable. “I told them not to post them!”
“Serves you right,” said the detective.
“Anyway,” said the constable, “I reckon I’ve got something. Two people keep cropping up on both lists.”
The pathologist stuck his head round the door.
“The lab tests are back,” said the pathologist. “The powder’s definitely ketamine. And the other victims are…”
“Don’t tell me!” said the constable.
And read out two names.
“Blimey!” said the pathologist. “That was quick!”
“Certainly was,” said the constable, grinning widely. “Have you got any more details?”
“Happy to oblige,” said the pathologist, passing him two slim brown folders. “Let me know how it goes.”
*
“Who’s driving?” said the constable, as they left the police station.
“It’s your turn,” said the detective, opening the passenger side of the panda car.
“Aye well,” said the constable, getting into the driver side. “Where do you fancy first?”
“One works at the kennels and the other’s at the care home,” said the detective, strapping herself in. “Maybe the kennels? No one would notice animal tranquiliser there.”
“The kennels seem a bit obvious,” said the constable, starting the engine. “Let’s take a punt!”
“All right,” said the detective. “We’ll try the care home, then.”
“Not much difference really,” said the constable, engaging first gear.
*
“Doesn’t seem so bad,” said the detective, as they walked towards the main building. “Secure. Quiet. Well kept grounds. Good views.”
“I can’t stand these places,” said the constable, “I’d rather end it all with a bottle of malt on a beach in Goa.”
A woman came out of the conservatory, clutching a stack of books.
“Have I missed it?” she shouted.
“Have you missed what?” said the detective.
“Sorry,” shouted the woman. “I can’t hear you. Hang on.”
She reached up and took off her ear phones.
“That’s better,” said the woman.
“What are you listening to?” asked the detective.
“Gustav Holst,” said the woman. “The Planets. Venus. It’s lovely. Just like having a painting in your head.”
“Now there’s a thing!” said the detective.
“What were you saying?” said the woman.
“Sorry,” said the detective. “I was wondering what you were after.”
“The mobile library van,” said the woman. “It’s usually here by now. But I’ve maybe missed it, I’ve been that busy.”
“I don’t think it’s been yet,” said the constable. “I’m sure we’d’ve passed it coming up the hill.”
“Does the van come regularly?” asked the detective.
“Twice a week,” said the woman.
“Don’t the residents change their own books?” said the constable.
“Oh no,” said the woman. “That would take far too long. They usually browse the catalogue online and order the books in advance. Then Davie goes to the van.”
“Davie Reid?” said the constable.
“That’s him,” said the woman. “But he’s off sick.”
“Has Mr Reid worked here long?” said the detective.
“Just for the summer,” said the woman. “While he’s swatting for his resits.”
“What’s he studying?” said the detective.
“I don’t think he ever told me,” said the woman. “Maybe Fine Art. He seems really focused. I keep seeing the same books in his locker.”
“Does he have any friends on the staff?” asked the detective.
“No one in particular,” said the woman, “but he’s pretty pally with the lad from the mobile library. And I think one of his class mates is over at the kennels.”
“Isn’t that the van now?” said the constable, looking round.
The mobile library came slowly up the drive, accelerated, careened round the ornamental fountain and screeched out through the gates.
“I think he spotted us,” said the constable as they ran back to the panda car. “Siren?”
“Siren,” said the detective.
(Thanks to Fraser Haley.)
About the Author
Greg Michaelson has been publishing short stories since
2001. His first novel The Wave Singer
(Argyll, 2008) was shortlisted for a Scottish Arts Council/Scottish Mortgage
Trust First Book Award. His second novel Singing About The Dark Times was self-published in 2014. Greg, who lives
and works in Edinburgh, likes to write about how things aren't and how they
might be.