Fragile Lives by Jane A. Adams Page B

glass and concrete chunk of a structure set just a little apart. Behind that was the car park and beyond that a public footpath leading down to the river.
    As Mac came out of the double doors at the rear of the building and headed towards his car someone called his name.
    â€˜McGregor, is it?’
    He turned, puzzled. Then recognized the tall, grey-haired man standing beside a red Range Rover. Mac had seen his picture on the reports he and Andy had been sifting through the previous afternoon.
    â€˜Mr Duggan.’
    A second man stood close by. As tall as Duggan but broader, heavier. He watched warily as Mac approached. Duggan held out his hand. Automatically, Mac shook it.
    â€˜They cutting up my son in there? I went to make the identification last night. Not that there was much to recognize.’
    â€˜We could have spared you that.’ Mac was surprised. ‘The ID number on his implant and his dental records would have been enough.’
    â€˜Wanted to see, didn’t I. His mother would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t made sure.’
    Mac nodded. ‘I understand.’
    â€˜So. Are they?’
    It took Mac a second or two to realize what the original question had been. ‘The post-mortem is complete,’ he said. ‘It confirmed cause of death but so far we don’t know a lot more. There are tests still to come back.’
    â€˜When did he die?’
    â€˜Best guess is seven to ten days, erring towards the shorter time.’
    â€˜I see. Let’s walk.’ Taking Mac’s assent for granted Duggan moved towards the river path. Mac followed and the big man brought up the rear. The tarmac path laid beside the water was just wide enough for two abreast and Duggan waited for Mac to fall into step beside him.
    â€˜Who’s your friend?’ Mac didn’t recognize him from anyone he’d seen in yesterday’s search.
    â€˜Name’s Fitch. You won’t find nothing on him.’
    Mac made no comment. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you want to talk about, Mr Duggan?’
    â€˜Who killed my son? What else reason would there be for us to talk?’
    Noted, Mac thought. ‘Who might
want
to kill your son? From what I’ve read, he’s not exactly high profile in his own right. Few convictions as a juvenile. Nothing since university. He seems to have travelled widely between his degree and starting his postgrad studies. Is that right, Mr Duggan?’
    â€˜That’s right, Inspector McGregor. We can only raise our kids the best way we know how, we don’t control how they turn out and Pat, he wanted to study. Always stuck with his head in a book. His sister, well, if it doesn’t have Jordan on the cover, she don’t want to know and his older brother manages my clubs for me. But not Pat. You could see the lad tried to fit in, hence the spot of trouble he was in, but true nature will out as they say and we sat him down, told him what was what. His grandad was a man who loved books and his great grandad too.’
    â€˜The pharmacy,’ Mac said.
    â€˜The little chemist shop, that’s right. So, he stopped his mucking about and he got on with his school work after that. Made us proud. So what did they go after
him
for? I ask you that?’
    Mac’s heart skipped. ‘Any particular “they”?’ he asked. ‘Mr Duggan, if you have any idea who might have killed your son …’
    â€˜If I knew who the bastards were and where to find them, I wouldn’t be having this conversation, would I? I’d be out there doing something about it.’
    Mac nodded. ‘I suppose you would,’ he agreed. He didn’t think it was the right time for any sort of ‘you have to leave that sort of thing to the police’ platitudes. ‘But, Mr Duggan, it sounds as though you might have some idea, some clue as to what led to your son’s death?’ He let the question hang and waited. Beside