‘Not now, Pat. I don’t think you’re in any fit state. But let’s see if we can get that envelope from the car.’
He helped her to her feet and she staggered, but he was strong and held on tight. He put her in the driving seat before snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. She gave him the keys and he got her into the driving seat and rummaged about in the glovebox and found the letter. He took it and put it in an inside pocket.
Pat had dozed off. Perfect.
He took the garden hose off the garage wall and stuck one end in the exhaust pipe, making sure that it was secure. Then he shoved the other end in the car, went around to Pat’s side and started the engine.
When he had first come to her house, he was careful what he touched and wiped everything down afterwards. He didn’t touch door handles if he could help it, and insisted on washing the dishes when they had eaten and had a drink.
Pat had confided in him that her doctor had prescribed Temazepam for her because she wasn’t sleeping. He had gone into the bathroom and then crunched them up with two teaspoons (carefully washed afterwards) and put the medication in her drink.
When the police came, they would find her dead or unresponsive. Even if she survived the carbon monoxide poisoning from the exhaust fumes, she would be mentally damaged. But he thought with the drink and the fumes, she wouldn’t make it.
He quietly left the house, and wondered what Alan McRae had written in the letter he had given Pat.
He would soon find out.
32
David Duffy’s block of flats appeared ahead. Brodie pulled up outside.
‘No car,’ Lucy observed. ‘Think he’s at work?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
They approached the front door, Brodie’s instincts already telling him something was off. The house had that particular quality of emptiness that occupied homes never quite had – no lights visible through the windows despite the grey afternoon, no sounds of movement or life.
Brodie knocked firmly, then rang the bell. They waited, listening.
Nothing.
‘Mr Duffy? Police. We need to speak with you.’
Still nothing. Brodie banged harder, and the door opened a fraction. Brodie pushed it wide open with his shoe.
‘Mr Duffy! It’s the police. Liam Brodie. We need to speak to you.’
No reply. David Duffy might be in danger, and that was enough to go in.
‘Come on, Lucy, let’s get in here.’ He marched in. ‘Duffy! Police! If you’re here, show yourself.’ No reply.
Lucy was right behind him. ‘I’ll check through here.’ She marched out of sight. Brodie went into the living room, and everything looked like the man had just gone to work. But without closing his door?
He heard Lucy coming back before he’d even had a chance to check the bathroom and the kitchen.
‘Nothing in the bedrooms,’ she said.
‘Check the kitchen and the bathroom,’ he told her, and she wandered off, coming back in a few seconds.
‘Nothing. There’s no sign of him. But he might have been in a hurry for work and ran out, thinking he’d pulled the door closed behind him.’
Brodie shook his head. ‘No. That’s a uPVC door. You have to lift the handle and lock it with a key. You can’t just pull it behind you and hope it locks.’
Brodie pulled out his mobile and dialled the Asda where Duffy worked. The phone rang six times before someone answered – a young woman who sounded harried and distracted.
‘Asda Dunfermline, how can I help you?’
‘This is DCI Brodie from Police Scotland. I need to know if David Duffy is working today.’
