His eyes adjusted slowly. It wasn’t pitch black – there was a very dim glow from a few small lights along the ceiling. Not enough to see anything of substance, but sufficient to cast shadows over the walls that seemed to move and grow.
Mark tried desperately not to let the panic take over. What he wanted to do was run the fuck up the ramp and get out of this place. What he did, though, was take a few deep breaths and slowly peel himself off the wall, crouching at the knee and feeling around until his fingers closed around his torch. Luckily, after he’d given it a shake, the light came back on and he shone it around, checking for what had scared him. There was nothing there – nothing out of place. You imagined it. There’s nothing here.
He smiled nervously, berating himself for being such a wuss. Thank God no one had seen him in that state. He’d have been the laughing stock of the nick for a long time to come. Putting one foot in front of the other, he walked down the tunnel until he got to some steps leading him deeper. The steps were damp, and he realised this was where the water had been dripping. Now, he could hear muffled voices somewhere below.
At the end of the steps was another tunnel, with holes in the concrete on either side – rooms, he realised as he walked past the first one to the shapes indicating people further down.
His sister, Annie, stood with a uniformed officer, presumably the first on scene. She looked up as he drew closer.
‘Creeped out much? Couldn’t be much darker down here, could it? The body’s down there.’ She moved to one side allowing him to see, splaying her brighter-than-his torch over the inert form of a young man. Aaron… Presumptions are the mother of all fuck-ups – don’t make that mistake.
The young lad had blond hair – it shone in the torch light like spun gold, and for a minute Mark thought of his niece Claire’s favourite story – Rumpelstiltskin.
‘You thought of Rumple just then, didn’t you? It was my first thought, too.’ Annie was shrewd – she could read him like a book, always had been able to. She called it the ‘twinection’ – like connection but between the two of them only because they were twins. If he wasn’t careful, she’d pick up on his fear too. Forcing himself to grin, he nodded. ‘The pathologist is on his way, though judging by the amount of blood it doesn’t look as if it was a natural death.’
‘I’d say having your throat cut is pretty unnatural. Looks like the killer left a calling card, too. Literally. On the lad’s chest.’ Annie shone her Maglite at the chest of the man illuminating the postcard laid picture-side up.
Mark felt the blood drain from his face, and he stumbled. He couldn’t hide the horrified expression and Annie was at his side in an instant. ‘Tell me,’ she commanded quietly, ignoring the first officer on scene whose ears pricked up, listening hard.
‘Toni knew – she saw it. She told me about the postcard.’
‘I’m confused. Use your words, Bro. Someone else has been in the tunnel and told you about this?’
Mark shook his head slowly. ‘No. She wasn’t in the tunnel. She saw this in her mind – described the postcard, said the lad will be called Aaron. Toni’s psychic.’ The last bit of his sentence was less incredulous and much more believing than he’d been previously. This was the evidence his brain required to alter his beliefs from ‘a load of tosh’ to ‘holy crap, psychics are real’.
‘Toni? Who’s Toni. We don’t know a Toni, do we?’ Annie looked confused, and he could understand why. Until a minute ago he’d been confused too. Now though, it was clear as a bell to him. He couldn’t quite believe it, but Toni had been right.
‘We went to school with her. Antonia Baillie, remember?’
‘Oh the lass you had a crush on all through school. Didn’t her dad take her out of school or something? You were like a lost puppy after that. I didn’t know you’d stayed friends?’
Annie’s tone was accusing – she was actually hurt at the thought there was something about him she didn’t know. For a moment he was tempted to tease her about it, but he didn’t.
‘We didn’t. I mean we weren’t… aren’t. She came into the nick to pass the information on a vision she’d had. McPhee made me go speak to her.’
‘Wow. Talk about a blast from the past.’
Murmurs drifted down the tunnel from the one a level up and Annie whispered, ‘Later, Bro. I’ll get all the gen tonight. For now I’ve got lamps and stuff to set up.’
Mark glanced at the cop by his side, and motioned that they should move further up the tunnel so Annie could get the photos she needed without their shadows getting in the way.
Chapter 5
17th December, 1240 hours – George Street, Edinburgh
Francis was pissed off – Duke had sent him a text saying something had come up and he couldn’t make it. Absolute bollocks – Francis had seen Duke from a distance staring straight at them. He knew Duke was in the city centre. For all Francis knew Duke would be chasing the latest bit of skirt. For as much as he liked younger men, Duke was all for the women.
The friendship between him and Duke was a volatile one – and a little strange. He recalled how they’d first met – online on the dark web at first, on a site dedicated to torture and sexually explicit content. Definitely not so nice things. Except they are nice – very nice, in fact. A shiver passed down his spine – hopefully one day soon he’d introduce Lee to such pleasures. He and Duke had chatted for weeks, both realising they had similar tastes in their sexual exploits.
The first time they’d met in person had been for a chat – there was no interest in each other for either of them, but talking about the things they’d done, well that got them both hot and bothered. It had progressed slightly on to who had the best bragging rights. Francis wasn’t as sure they’d remain friends now, mostly because Duke always had to have the upper hand and hadn’t yet learned how to shut his mouth. The main difference he was finding between them, however, was that he enjoyed doing, where Duke, it seemed, preferred talking about doing. It was two very different things – so different that it was making Francis uncomfortable.
Today, he’d been hoping to show Duke how easy it was for him to pull, to get what he wanted, then he wanted to kick him to the kerb and tell him to go ‘do’ himself. He knew Duke wouldn’t be happy about it – but life wasn’t happy. Unless you went and grabbed your happiness by their twenty-year-old testicles and had them show you happiness. Which he did. Frequently.
Lee hadn’t stopped talking for ages – barely even coming up for breath. Francis was adept at looking like he was listening when, in fact, he wasn’t. He’d always had a strange ability to retain the gist of what had been said, though, even without paying much attention. Lee’s habit of hand animation was a little disturbing – every sentence was accompanied by a flash of movement. That would have to stop. Francis knew he’d soon have that knocked out of the young man.
He was about to open his mouth and interrupt Lee when the waiter turned up to clear their breakfast dishes away.
‘Would you like more coffee? Something a little stronger perhaps?’ Francis asked Lee with a smile.
Quite charming when he wanted to be, Francis knew that Lee wasn’t suspicious of him at all. It was something he’d learned at a very young age. His old mum used to say he could charm money out of poor men with his silk tongue. Charm was a natural disarmer – he switched it on whenever he needed to, and it had got him out of a pickle or two.
Like the terrible business with Mark McKay. His face was ingrained into Francis’s mind – he’d never show the dumb police officer, but McKay hanging around constantly was starting to get to him. There was only so long he could go without someone like Lee in his life. And he knew that if McKay got the slightest whiff of his new friend, he’d be in and stealing the blond, blue-eyed fuck-magnet off to safety and then closing those heavy metal bars on him.
He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.
Lee repeated what he’d said about coffee, presuming Francis had gone off into his own wo
rld for a minute.
‘Two Irish coffees then please, waiter.’
His phone dinged, reminding him of Duke again, and he put his hand on top of Lee’s and smiled. ‘I just need to run to the little boy’s room. I’ll be right back.’
Lee just nodded and smiled – he made no acknowledgement of the fact that Francis had let his hand linger for ever so slightly longer than was comfortable.
17th December, 1350 hours – vaults under The Royal Mile
Mark had stood back while Annie had done her thing. He was really proud of her. He’d seen her work before, but not solo on a murder case. Solo for now anyway: he had no doubt the crime scene manager would be following close behind. Annie knew what she was doing, though, and was experienced. Just the last week she’d been advised she’d been shortlisted for crime scene manager – a massive deal, and she was over the moon. He guessed, that her working the murder solo was both a testament to her work ethic, as well as being a sort of test from management to make sure she could handle it.
He knew that some of her team were working a cannabis farm over near the docks in Leith – biggest Edinburgh had seen according to the cops chatting over their radios about it. There’d also been a spate of burglaries in Granton which was tying up a couple more CSIs – when he’d last listened in on the airwaves there’d been five reported. That amount in a cluster meant automatic transfer to the CID Burglary Team – he’d worked that team himself before moving into major crimes.
Annie had finished her photography and was standing talking to the pathologist and forensic medical examiner, Charles Claybourne, about the body position, and blood spatter. Claybourne and a colleague each held both positions in Edinburgh. The colleague was on leave this week so Charles would be doing the post-mortem for this body as well as attending the scene.
Mark’s eyes moved of their own accord to the bloody streaks covering the walls and ceiling opposite where the lad lay. He didn’t know too much about spatter analysis, but even he thought it looked like one slice of the carotid arteries on either side of the neck. The spatter on the ceiling was thick bands but further down the walls the bands were thinner. The less blood in the body, the less was pumped out by the heart. Common sense really.
The metallic smell still hung in the air – Mark didn’t think it was one he’d ever get used to. He’d been standing totally still for a while now – finding that the world seemed to tilt when he moved. Until he had to head back up, he intended to remain still so as not to set it off. He shuddered as the icy temperature grabbed him and held on tight – it was chilly above ground, but down here it was like the cold was on a mission to incapacitate. It had already soaked through his skin and into his bones. It was going to take him ages to get warmed up.
Claybourne finally left Annie’s side and made his way over.
‘Definitely murder, pretty obvious really. I’ll schedule the PM for tomorrow afternoon – that alright with you? I’ve got a consultation in the morning is all. Here – his wallet was in the back pocket of his jeans. Such a shame – he’s only a young lad. Hope you catch the killer this time.’
Mark knew the jibe was referring to Francis Wright. Claybourne had been the pathologist on the death of Steven Connelly, the last known victim of Francis Wright. Claybourne knew as well as Mark did that the police had essentially let a killer wander free. Not Mark’s fault – or so he was told by everyone – CPS and serious lack of chain of custody on some evidence from one of his colleagues had resulted in Wright being let go – but Mark still felt every bit to blame. It had been his case. It was still his fault.
He didn’t trust himself to answer without sarcasm so he nodded sagely at Charles who scowled and grabbed the bannister to help him up the steps to the next level. Pompous dick.
Glancing down at the wallet now securely held in his hand, Mark shivered – not wanting to open it. He already knew the victim’s name would be Aaron. From the moment he’d seen the postcard he’d believed Toni. But he had to open it – because he had to be sure.
Sam Trannet.
Mark blinked, several times in fact, convinced he’d read the name on the driving licence wrong. But it still said the same thing – Sam Trannet. He stared at the picture on the licence, then over at the victim who was now lying prone on the floor, having been moved by Charles and Annie to check for other obvious wounds.
The pictures were similar – they could pass for brothers, in fact. But there were some slight differences. The lad on the floor still had a bit of puppy fat round his face, the picture was thin and looked marginally older. He checked the date of birth – the licence said 14/04/1989 – this lad didn’t look near thirty – maybe early twenties at a push. And the lad on the floor had a mole on his left cheek, which didn’t show in the photo.
Whoever’s driving licence this was, it didn’t belong to the lad on the floor.
Mark pulled out a debit card – scanning the name quickly.
His back and shoulders slumped – Aaron Trannet.
Fuck.
17th December, 1420 hours – Princes Street, Edinburgh
He stood in the shadows following the blond-haired lad from shop to shop. He couldn’t lose sight of him – needed to know where he lived. But he also couldn’t risk being seen – not by the young man anyway.
The street lights on Princes Street had started to turn on – dim glows in the dark hue from the overcast skies and rain pounding the pavement. It didn’t deter the tourists – they wandered along with their heads down, umbrellas up, and scarves and hats keeping them warm. They also made it easier for him to move along the street without being seen by his prey.
And prey the young man was – for he was the hunter, strong and sure of himself. The small frame of the lad would make his job easier. It was always so much simpler when they were smaller than him. A quick jab of the needle in his pocket – and they would do whatever he wanted before they even realised what had happened. Rohypnol was a great drug for getting what he wanted.
The blond man pushed his way through the crowd, pausing at the bus stop, and jumping onto the bus that had just arrived. He pulled his scarf up around his face and tugged his woolly hat lower – no way the lad would even look twice at him now.
He stepped onto the bus with ease, placing his bus pass face down onto the panel. The machine beeped, and no acknowledgement needed from the driver, he found a seat behind where the lad was sitting – the perfect place from which to observe. He needed to see when the lad got off the bus.
A small smile hovered on his lips. He loved this part of the chase. Getting to know the habits of the next in his repertoire. This one would be even easier than the first he was sure. He had great plans for the young man – fantastic plans. And he knew that the vaults were the perfect place to leave the lad for the world to see. Just like they used to. Burke and Hare – they would coax their victims into drinking heavily, then suffocate them and hand them off for medical advancement via Dr Knox. He knew this because when he’d first heard of them in school, their story had fascinated him. He’d read anything and everything he could find on the pair – it was a pretty ingenious way to get money.
He knew all the conflicting stories – he knew about how Hare was offered immunity to send Burke down the river, and that Hare had taken the deal. Burke was hanged and Hare was dumped on the Scottish borders and was never heard from again. He knew without a shadow of doubt that he was the best person to emulate them. No one ever had before – they were serial killers – possibly the first ones noted in Scotland, but their methods were flawed. There were far easier ways to kill someone than by smothering them. He’d tried that once – it was hard work. He hadn’t enjoyed the feeling of being fought – hadn’t enjoyed the beating he’d incurred when the smothering failed either. Or what came after… so he’d thought carefully about how to kill someone – he’d considered many of the methods available and had finally decided on the method that would suit him the best.
Cutting the throat was clean, simpl
e and it guaranteed death within a few minutes so it was time effective. And it left the most beautiful designs behind – artwork in itself. That had been the clincher for him – the fact it could be viewed as art – his own individual touch that no one else had considered.
The bell sounded on the bus and he watched the lad stand with the intention of disembarking. Glancing out of the window he realised he was in Niddrie. Figures – a shithole for a shithead. He stood once the lad had got to the front of the bus and made his way down the aisle, pausing at the bottom and thanking the driver. The slight delay gave him a chance to follow the lad much less obtrusively. He stepped off the bus, his left shoe hitting a large pool of someone’s spit. Carefully he wiped his sole on the nearby grass verge. Fucking Niddrie. Home to all the scumbags and dirty bastards.
The blond lad popped into the corner shop without sparing a glance towards him. He paused and lit a cigarette, leaning against the bus stand on the opposite side of the road, looking down past the shop as if he belonged there and had every right to wait for a bus. When the lad came back out, he followed him at a distance.
He kept following him until he went into an address, presumably his home, just as a delivery driver pulled up outside. Walking as if to go into the garden, he paused at the gate and waited for the driver to approach. ‘Delivery? Thanks mate.’
The delivery man smiled and nodded, handing the package over and offering his signature machine. He scrawled a squiggle on it and the driver turned without even checking it and got back into his van. Only now did he look down. The envelope read Lee Robson. He had the information he’d followed Lee for – his real name – there was always a chance that people gave fake names.
Having no further need for the package, and having zero interest in what it held, he dropped it in the garden behind the gate. Maybe Lee would find it, maybe he wouldn’t. Frankly he couldn’t give a toss.
From the Dark Page 4
