Final Diagnosis

By Peter Garrett and Simon Walpole

Nominated for the BSFA Awards 2017!

In the port city of Searcy, murder is no longer a common occurrence, despite its history of violence. But when a senior psychiatrist is found with his head quite literally emptied out, it seems things might be about to take a dark turn. For DI Shaymie Sjaemusson, it marks the beginning of an investigatio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luna Press Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781911143307

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FINAL DIAGNOSIS

WRITTEN BY

PETER GARRETT

ILLUSTRATED BY

SIMON WALPOLE

First Published 2017 by Luna Press Publishing

‘FINAL DIAGNOSIS’ Text Copyright © Peter Garrett 2017

Images Copyright © Simon Walpole 2017

Book Design © Francesca T Barbini

First published by Luna Press Publishing, Edinburgh, 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owners. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

www.lunapresspublishing.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-911143-30-7

To Gwen.

Partly for constructive criticism,

but mostly for tolerating me.

Peter

Debbie, Amy and Luke because they are the most important people in my life by a country mile.

My dear old Dad and Mum for their unfailing encouragement.

My family and friends.

Fran, Rob and my lovely new Luna Family.

Peter Garrett for writing such a great story.

Everyone who has seen something in my illustrations and has commissioned work or let me contribute to their projects.

And you Dear reader for reading this story.

Simon

1

The frame of the sterile vestmentor had been erected in front of the door of the crime scene and, looking through it, Shaymie could see his team for the day. That compact new intern, smart girl, he couldn’t quite remember her name, shrink-wrapped in smart polymer from the neck down and hands clasped in front of her. While by the near pillar of the door just half of DS Pahrixen’s asinine, long face was visible, together with one shoulder and one elbow, leaning sideways to see what was going on. Half a smirk discernible through the contours of the micropore mask covering that half a face.

Between the two, propped against the far wall, slumped the victim: a portly man in late middle age, wearing a greasy bow tie and a white coat of crumpled neo-linen. One leg extended, the other bent beneath him.

Shaymie squeezed his eyes shut and suppressed an unexpected feeling of acute sadness. He took a deep breath through his nose and flipped open his jotter. Making eye contact with the personal interface, he winked at the icon of a grinning winged pig as it came into focus.

After a few moments, the similarly grinning face of Detective Chief Inspector Menteith jumped into view: shiny cheeks and forehead; thinning ginger hair, grizzled at the temples.

‘Morning, DI Sjaemusson,’ said Menteith. ‘Just catching up with some administrative work at home. What seems to be the problem?’

What’s the problem? For fuck’s sake. ‘It’s to do with this new murder, Chief. I’m here at the scene.’

A very slight crease appeared on the DCI’s brow but he didn’t stop grinning. ‘And what new murder would that be?’

Oh, for crying out loud. In these days of peace, there might be as many as a dozen homicides in Searcy a year.

‘The one in the hospital, sir.’

‘Aye, I think I heard something about it.’

‘The problem, Chief, is that the victim is known to me.’

‘And why should that be an issue?’ Menteith’s grin hadn’t faltered.

‘Well, I think it’s inappropriate for me to head up the investigation.’

‘Why so?’

Shaymie paused, pressed his back teeth together and glanced down at the floor before looking back at the jotter’s screen.

‘It transcends the code of ethics, sir.’

‘So, what would ye like me to do about it?’

Shaymie hesitated. ‘I just wondered if you’d consider appointing somebody else to take charge of the investigation.’

Menteith grinned back at him. ‘Completely impossible, I’m afraid. Everybody else is already allocated to other duties.’

‘Well, Chief, it will be a high-profile investigation, and the force might gain credit if it was all dealt with by an established and respected senior officer. Such as, for instance, yourself.’

He could discern no sign that Menteith had registered this appeal to his hunger for the spotlight. ‘Absolutely out of the question,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Far too busy. Big meeting in Brodhelv this afternoon.’

Right. A big meeting that couldn’t proceed satisfactorily without Menteith’s presence. Shaymie aborted an exasperated sigh.

DCI Menteith shifted his body as if about to terminate the connection then seemed to change his mind. He leant towards the camera.

‘And another thing, Sjaemusson. As senior executive officer in the department, it’s up to me to decide when something’s ethically acceptable and when it’s not. D’ye catch my drift?’

Shaymie nodded and the hologram of Menteith’s face melted away, Cheshire-cat-like.

He swiped the jotter. It rolled back into its pen mode and he slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt before pressing his palm against the vestmentor’s recognition pad and looking towards its camera lens.

Glancing sideways to the machine’s visual monitor as the recognition routines ground forward, he wondered which poor bastard’s receding hairline he was looking at.

Some poor bastard with two days’ growth of stubble, dressed in an old, charcoal-grey, neo-woollen trench coat pulled together at the front in an obvious attempt to hide an incipient paunch, a coat identical to the one he himself wore to work every day.

Oh, sweet Jorleth. The coat Sjila had given to him, what, ten years ago?

Well, at least something of use had come out of that relationship. And perhaps the day would improve once he got up to speed with the investigation.

Absolutely. And, just possibly, DCI Menteith might fly.

The vestmentor lobbed the smooth lozenge of its positive recognition tone into his ear and its light turned green. Shaymie shrugged off the coat, hung it on the row of hooks beside the machine, and walked through the frame. As