A sliver of jealousy passed down his spine as he pulled into the car park at the front of the hospital – his brother would be alone in the flat with Toni. It was just a sliver – it lasted less than a second as he remembered his brother was in a committed relationship and that he would never try and take Toni from him anyway, but it had been there. Mark didn’t understand how his feelings had grown so strong in such a short space of time. True love? Shaking his head, he left that thought hanging – he didn’t believe in true love. Did he?
The corridor was silent as he made his way to the viewing room. This room meant a police officer could watch the post-mortem from behind Perspex panes – no need to go into the mortuary itself and no need for personal protective equipment. The hospital was warm today and the last thing Mark wanted was to be wrapped up in the heat-enclosing white crime scene suits that would be required if he went into the room with the CSIs and the pathologist.
The body of the young man was already waiting on the metal table, his head perched on a block and the y-incision already made on his torso. Mark grimaced as the bone saw started. It was operated by a technician clothed head to foot in white and with a full face-guard covering his features as he concentrated on cutting through the breast bone. Due to breakfast at his mam’s, he had been running late and missed the start where they washed the body down. Paula, the CSI from the day before, was ‘dirty CSI’: she would get the samples from the pathologist and hand these to the ‘clean CSI’, a young man Mark didn’t recognise, who would then package and label them as exhibits belonging to the pathologist. The photographer was close to the body – taking the images needed as the post-mortem progressed.
It ran like a well-oiled machine and Mark felt like he’d hardly been there any time at all by the time they were done.
Mark made his way through to the kitchen once they’d concluded the post-mortem. It was always the done thing to wait for the pathologist to come out and discuss the case. He didn’t have to wait long as Charles Claybourne swept into the room.
‘McKay,’ he greeted, clicking the button on the kettle. ‘Our deceased, Benjamin Rowell, was tortured heavily before he died. There was evidence of deep stab wounds with no hesitation marks, as well as the deep laceration across his neck that caused his death – exsanguination isn’t a nice way to go, but being tortured then cut to bleed out is cold. Indicates a lack of empathy in your killer. The wounds seem to match those in the previous victim – same width, same jagged edge on one side – it indicates a knife with a serrated blade on one side. I’ve taken tool castings to compare for analysis but my gut instinct says it’s the same killer. He’s escalating: – the neck wound was deep. Another inch or so and he’d have potentially had full decapitation.’
‘Any sign of sexual assault?’
‘Not sure I’d say assault – there was no bruising or tearing. But there is evidence of recent sexual activity. I found semen in the anal passage – it’s likely he had sex twenty-four to forty-eight hours before his death. We’ve taken samples for running through the database. I’ll get the full report done and over to you before close of play today.’
‘Thanks, Charles. Anything else I need to know before then?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Listen I’m off after tomorrow for Christmas but I am the on-call. Try not to ruin my first Christmas with the grandchildren by calling on me if you can help it.’
‘Absolutely. No murders until the new year. It’s on order.’
Mark smiled and left the office.
21st December, 1410 hours – Edinburgh City Police Station
The drive back to the station was slow – he felt like he was in contemplative-mode. Anything and everything was running around his head at the speed of knots.
He parked up on autopilot and made his way inside. Pausing at the sergeant’s desk at the other end of the major incident team room, he nodded at Detective Sergeant Douglas Carville. ‘Hiya Dougie, just wondering if we’ve managed to catch up with Duke Bain yet. He’s wanted in relation to an incident involving Antonia Baillie – broke into her house and pretty much held her hostage yesterday?’
‘Ah yeah I know the case – Jones is on it. He’s out at South Cantow site now trying to catch up with him. Doubt he’ll be there – you know what the gypos are like from that site. Close-knit and even closer-mouthed. He’s on the radar, though – we’ve got ANPR alerts out for the reg of his van, and I’ve put a plain clothes officer on stand-by to stake out the entrance to the camp for a bit if Jones doesn’t catch up with him.’
Mark bit his tongue – stemming his automatic reaction to the term ‘gypos’. ‘Bugger. Okay, thanks for letting me know. Keep me updated?’
‘You know it,’ said Dougie, turning back to the large sandwich on his desk.
Mark went up the stairs to the major incident team office. It was relatively quiet – two of the detective constables were crowded round the desk at the bottom, deeply focussed on whatever they were reading. The boards had all been updated with the information on the latest vault murder. A crudely drawn sign saying ‘Cave Killer’ graced the top of the board.
Bloody McPhee. He’s such a dick sometimes. He tore the sign down, crumpling it in his palm and flinging it in the bin.
Settling down at his desk, he opened HOLMES and ran through the information already loaded and linked in for the two vault murders.
He had a sinking feeling he hadn’t seen the last of those vaults. His anxiety settled in his stomach like a lead weight – he hated them. Dark and creepy. Why tourists would want to go in there was beyond him. Give him his sofa with a bottle of beer, or a glass of red wine, and he was happy.
There were days he hated his brothers for being such dicks when he was young. His dad had called it ‘character building’, letting all of them off with the pranks they pulled on each other most of the time. It was just normal, everyday sibling crap. For everyone except him. Mark remembered being afraid of the dark when he was little. He’d wake up screaming about the monster under the bed, the same as most kids did at some point. His dad always checked under the bed and proved to him that the monsters weren’t there, but his child-brain never believed it. When Ali and Alex had started locking him in the under-stair cupboard as a prank, his over-active imagination had convinced him that the under-the-bed monsters were now in-the-closet monsters.
As an adult, he now realised how stupid that sounded – but his brain would still try and convince him that the monsters would come from the dark to get him. Most of the time he didn’t believe it, could work past it even. But not in the vaults. His imagination went into overdrive down there. He was past thirty years old and still scared of the things that go bump in the night. It was pathetic.
It’s not pathetic – it does, however, need dealing with. You can’t go on like this.
He knew his argument was moot – he’d already made the decision to speak to occupational health about counselling when he attended his remade appointment.
The stupidest thing was, his brothers had never intended to harm him like this – they didn’t even know he was scared of the dark. No one did. Because when he was awake and in the light, he knew how ridiculous it sounded and was definitely not something he’d ever admit to. Except to the counsellor – maybe.
If anyone found out about it round the station, he’d be the laughing stock.
You’re a hot mess, Mark McKay – scared of the dark, anxiety attacks, believing in monsters at thirty-four years old. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair – just like his dad used to do when he was stressed about something.
He missed his dad – a lot. He was sure his siblings did too, and he knew his mum did. He’d often see her staring through the window with a sad look on her face. It was that look that she always had when she was thinking about her husband. On countless occasions, Mark had gone behind her and held her, silent and just letting her know he was there. She always put her hand on his arm, patting him to give him as much comfort as he gave her. He love
d that about his mum. That there weren’t always words needed. She was the best mum he could ever have asked for.
On a whim, he picked up the phone and rang Interflora, arranging for a Christmas bouquet to be delivered to her that afternoon. His mum loved flowers.
Mark turned his attention back to the HOLMES system and the information on there.
21st December, 1415 hours – Mason’s Tea Room, Rose Street
Duke hated this café – it was one of those hoity-toity tea rooms that Francis liked to frequent, where the tea was loose-leaf and served in a pot with a strainer to go over the cup. He was much more at home in his local greasy spoon. Only one type of tea there – builder’s tea, strong and dark. Not like this shitty place with its twenty varieties with different flavours. Who the fuck needs twenty flavours of bloody tea? Tea’s tea.
He registered what Francis had just said and shot him a glare as the tea cup in his hand stopped midway to his mouth. Who the fuck does this dick think he is?
Francis hadn’t shut up about his sexual conquests with Lee two nights ago – over twenty minutes of gay sex talk had Duke’s stomach churning. Not that he’d openly say anything to deter that. Let Francis think he was a confidante. Everything he said was filed away in case it was ever needed. But it’s still gross. If it had even happened the way Francis was saying – he’d repeated some facts so often Duke half thought he was embellishing the truth. Maybe nothing happened at all. Doesn’t matter really. Nothing will ever be happening again, not with Lee anyway.
Duke plastered a grin on his face – no need to disclose what he knew just yet.
His grin soon turned to a frown as Francis continued – the thing pissing him off now was Francis accusing him of being all talk and no action. He was sitting there, like he didn’t have a care in the world, and saying Duke hadn’t killed the lads in the vaults – saying someone else had done it and he was just a glory hound, that he’d picked up the story from the news headlines and decided to run with it.
If he’s not careful I’ll show him the fucking vaults myself. And he won’t be leaving alive – see who’s all talk and no action then. Fucking prick.
‘Well, it’s not like you have any proof it was you, is it? You could be making the whole thing up for all I know.’
‘I can tell you the shape the blood made on the floor of the vault, the feel of the flesh as I drew the knife across their throats – but that wouldn’t be released in the news anyway – the pigs aren’t daft enough to let images of that stuff loose. You’re right – I don’t have any proof. But I don’t need proof. Knowing I did it is enough for me. I don’t kill to please you or for entertaining your sicko fantasies, you know?’
‘Well, perhaps not. But if all you’re doing is blustering, well suffice to say, my time is better spent elsewhere.’
‘I’ve had enough of this shit – give my best to Lee. If you see him again.’ Duke got up quickly, the chair legs scraping across the polished tile floor loudly.
‘Wait,’ said Francis loudly, getting to his feet. ‘What do you mean, if I see him again?’
Duke paused – he’d meant the last bit to instil unrest in Francis – he already knew Francis wouldn’t be seeing Lee again.
Duke had picked him up that very morning, from outside of Francis’s own flat as the stupid kid had gone to enter the communal doors. Does Francis need to know that yet? Nah – let him think he’s still got the upper hand and that Lee is his little bitch. I’ll tell him when the time is right.
Duke shook his head. ‘Don’t mean anything by it, just didn’t know how the relationship would be progressing now you’ve had your wicked way. Figured you might have had your fill now.’
‘Goodness no – Lee still has a lot to learn. I’m seeing him this evening. I’ll be sure to pass your regards on.’
Sarcastic fuck. I don’t think so…
Chapter 16
21st December, 1630 hours – The Writing Museum, Royal Mile
‘Marge, I’m going to head off home. You sure you don’t need me in tomorrow?’ Toni wanted to make certain before accepting the day off. Marge had already allowed her the morning to get things sorted with Joseph fixing her door. She didn’t want to be seen to be taking the piss.
‘Absolutely. The museum is only open for a couple of hours in the morning. You enjoy your Christmas. I’ll see you on the other side.’
Toni grabbed Marge and pulled her into a quick hug.
‘Merry Christmas, Marge. Don’t forget to take your pressies home.’
‘I won’t, love. Now go! Enjoy the season!’
Toni flashed Marge a wide grin then headed out of the museum onto The Royal Mile. She’d parked her car at one of the park-and-rides outside the city today, wanting to do some last-minute shopping at the Christmas markets before heading home.
The old town was busy: a melee of people wrapped up in thick coats, with hats and scarves – anything to prevent the icy wind from penetrating and making them shiver. The shops were staying open late tonight, the last late-night before the early closures of Christmas Eve. The city felt electric – alive, even.
Toni loved this time of year. Even before she’d left the Romani community, Christmas had been magical. Her community was Orthodox Christian, which basically meant they celebrated Christmas with everything it entailed, from honouring Christ, to attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve. She’d continued that tradition on despite being shunned once she left. It was still, even now, the most important time of the year for her.
She made her way down the steep bank and across Waverley Bridge, stopping at the coffee cart on the corner to grab a hot cup of tea and a pastry for the homeless man who was always midway across the bridge, sitting on his sleeping bag. She’d had many a conversation with the man. Paul was an army veteran, suffered PTSD and couldn’t settle for long in any accommodation. She knew he sometimes got a room with the Salvation Army on the particularly cold nights, but he usually sat on the bridge until the city started dying down, then would head into the park at bottom of the castle.
Sure enough, he was sitting there again, his sleeping bag folded neatly under his bum on top of a piece of tarpaulin so it didn’t soak up water off the path. He had a waterproof poncho over the top of his clothes and glanced up as she made her way over to him, a grin breaking his face in two.
He was near enough the same age as her, only in his early thirties. Stubble graced the bottom half of his face, untidy but not yet a full-grown beard. His face was tanned even though it was the pit of winter – a testament to his outdoor lifestyle. He had lines across his forehead and round his eyes and a weight on his shoulders heavier than anyone should have to deal with.
Despite this, though, his eyes were clear and reactive. Toni knew he wasn’t involved in drugs and didn’t get pissed at every opportunity with any donations he was given. A rule unto himself for sure.
‘Evening, Toni. How’s things? Those for me? Thanks. I’m starving.’
‘All okay with me, Paul. How about you? It’s going to get to minus three tonight. Have you got somewhere to stay? It’s too cold to be sleeping out tonight.’
‘Minus three is nothing – won’t even feel that through my thermal layers. Might get a room tomorrow.’
‘Listen, I’ve got some spare blankets and a polar sleeping bag at my place. Will you be here tomorrow? I can drop them off for you.’ Toni smiled at Paul. She’d bought the bag and blankets last week but he didn’t need to know that. There were so many homeless on the streets of the city. If she could provide comfort to just one then she knew she’d done a good thing. She already donated monthly to the various homeless charities. It broke her heart to know someone like Paul, who’d served his country and come back broken, had to spend cold and wet nights lying on concrete or hiding in the park. She’d put the option of counselling to Paul numerous times, but he closed the conversation down every time she mentioned it so she’d finally stopped, just accepting that he was where he felt he wanted to be at this time.
Maybe one day he would accept the help offered and get himself pulled up, but until then Toni would just have to do what she could.
‘I’ll be here until lunch time tomorrow, I reckon – only come down if it’s not putting you out, though. I’ll appreciate the gear but don’t want to create extra work for you. Like I say, I’ve got a room sorted for Christmas Eve. They serve a mint Christmas dinner in the shelter – there’s even crackers and a gift. Always pays to have new socks!’
‘It’s not out of my way – I’ll be at work.’ A small lie but one meant to keep Paul at ease and chilled. He nodded in response.
‘Great – I’ll see you tomorrow, Toni. Thanks again for the tea and food.’
‘Anytime. Here,’ she held her hand out to him and pressed a twenty-pound note into his unturned palm. ‘Please get yourself some hot food tonight, okay?’
‘Now, I don’t need your charity, Toni. A coffee and pastry are okay, but I’m fine – you don’t need to give me handouts.’
‘Please take it, Paul, consider it a Christmas present. You never know when you might need some cash.’
Paul pushed himself to his feet, stretching briefly before asking, ‘Can I hug you? You’re always buying me food, making sure I’m okay. I can never repay your kindness, but today, you look like you need a hug.’
As Toni nodded, he reached out pulled her to him – his touch was gentle and even as he pulled her in, he kept her at a distance. It was plain that he wanted to avoid causing any distress. He smelled faintly of damp and mould – off his clothes. His hair wasn’t greasy and there was no body odour that she noticed. He’d had a shower recently. Good for him. I’m glad he’s at least trying to take care of himself.
From the Dark Page 15
