by G R Jordan
‘Will you want dinner tonight?’ asked Hope. ‘I’ll be eating with the boss at the hotel, but you are welcome to join us.’
‘Right,’ said Stewart, ‘but it’s my MMA night. Alan doesn’t like to miss it and he won’t go without me.’
‘Who’s Alan?’
‘My brother.’
‘Can’t he go on his own?’
‘He’s on the spectrum. Can be violent. This helps calm him, burn off the energy. So, no, he can’t.’
And back to silence. Hope decided to try the case instead.
‘What’s your first name, Stewart?’
The woman looked horrified before answering. ‘Kirsten.’
‘Well, Kirsten, what did you make of that visit? I don’t think there was much to learn there.’
And the glasses were pushed back, the nostrils flared, and Kirsten adjusted herself in her seat. It was like she had been offended and Hope decided she needed to know what she had done.
‘What’s wrong,’ asked Hope.
‘I’d have to disagree with you, ma’am.’
‘Why?’
‘Jackie is round because he knows something is wrong. He’s trying to get her away from Declan, but he’s already been after Alice. If he had been that bothered, Alice would not be in the picture. The Macaulays have not slept together for a while and she’s had someone else in mind, the size reference. And that is what makes her state so interesting. Not been to the doctor, just ill, for three months, anyone would go to the doctor, unless…’
‘Unless what?’ asked Hope.
‘She’s pregnant. And it’s not Declan Macaulay’s.’
Chapter 13
‘What do you make of Stewart?’ asked Macleod.
‘Bit on the quiet side, Seoras, but she’s shrewd,’ replied Hope, whilst letting a piece of lamb on her fork hang rather than consume and talk at the same time.
‘She is awkward, almost anti-social, but I like her. You’re right she’s shrewd, always looking at people, sizing them up, assessing and seeing what’s behind. I’d hate to think what she thinks of me.’
‘Admiration, I’m sure.’
Macleod glowered at Hope and then pushed an imaginary pair of glasses up onto his nose, before smiling. ‘Do you think she actually needs the glasses or are they just there for effect?’
‘Every damn minute,’ said Hope, ‘every chance she gets those things are being pushed back on. I reckon she got them second hand and they don’t actually fit.’
‘And she turned us down for dinner. Pity.’
‘Mixed Martial Arts—MMA, she said. Also got a brother that goes who is special, on the spectrum were her words. But you’re fishing for knowledge. Why? What’s your interest?’
‘I think she could be useful in the team. I have you and Ross, if he comes back from his honeymoon. I’m now minus an Allinson because you grabbed him.’ Macleod saw the awkward look from Hope. ‘Have you not rung him yet? That’s being a little harsh. He was only wanting to protect you.’
‘Like I need protection. Besides, you said you saw nothing wrong with it. Or are you dwelling on it and changing your mind?’
‘I’m out regarding your state of dress on a beach. It’s an image I can do without contemplating. You’ve had my thoughts, now go and ring Allinson tonight. It’s making you unsure of yourself. Distracting you.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Hope.
‘No, you’re not. Ring him.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘If you don’t ring him, I will, and I’ll chase you down with the phone and shove it in your ear. It’s affecting you, and as much as I don’t want to get involved, you need to take some action. Stewart would say the same with her analytical skills, only she’d give you the glasses as well. It would probably work.’
‘Okay, enough.’ Hope chased a potato round her plate, dousing it in gravy before popping it in her mouth. ‘Seriously, Stewart?’
‘Seriously! Katie Macaulay, pregnant. The woman is good and will make you a fine partner one day.’
Hope sat upright and tried to read Macleod’s eyes. ‘This is the man who didn’t want women in danger, didn’t want them on the front line. And now he wants a female team.’
Taking a napkin, Macleod wiped his lips and took a drink of his cola. ‘I’m still unhappy with woman on the frontline, I really am. But it’s out of concern, a duty to protect. But I’m an old man, getting older and these days the ladies can be right up there. You fight better than me, Stewart’s a martial artist, you say. You’re becoming as good an officer as me and you will surpass me, Hope. I’m just fortunate I have a woman in Jane who can see my crowding and occasional stoppage in her tracks as trying to care, half-arsed as it is. Allinson cares too, Hope; he’s just being a clown, but one trying to look out for you.’
‘He is being that.’
‘But as for Stewart, I’m deadly serious. I want her on the team, and I’ll have the three of you and one of you as a DS, if not two.’
Hope waved a hand, calling for the bill. Macleod chased the last of his drink down and stared through the glass window at the grounds across the road and the fading sun lighting up the trees with an auburn blaze.
‘Fancy a walk?’
‘No, Seoras, I’m going to the gym for an hour. Then I might ring him. You go enjoy yourself.’
Half an hour later, Macleod was walking by the small river close to his hotel, staring at the water, which was slowly meandering along its course, as if it really were not bothered about its destination. In winter, this sauntering companion would be rushing along, like a mass of protestors storming the gates, falling one over another. But in summer, there was only enough rain to stop anyone from thinking it had died. The evening was easy, warm if not stifling, and Macleod lacked only one thing, a brunette he had left back in their new home.
The mobile in his pocket vibrated and Macleod took it out and checked the screen. It was his work number and there was no image with it, although he remembered typing the number displayed recently. Stewart!
‘Macleod.’
‘Sir, Bhuinaig, at the roadside in a ditch, uniform have discovered a cricket bag, one of the large equipment bags. And there’s someone in it.’
‘Who, Stewart?’
‘Unknown, they left it as soon as they realised. We’ve contacted Mackintosh, and I’m on my way once I get my brother back to his accommodation.’
‘Is it on the main road?’ asked Macleod.
‘No sir, just at the turn off for the cricket club and a little down the lane. Uniform’s there. I’m sure you can’t miss it.’
‘Take your time with your brother, Stewart. Hope and I are on our way. And bring a change of clothing, this might be an all-nighter and I take it you’re not dressed for work now.’
‘Yes, sir. I will be there directly.’
Macleod swore he could hear the glasses being pushed back with the response that told him he was being obvious. Tucking the mobile away, he jogged back to the hotel and descended to the small gym where a few Lycra-clad people were working out. There was no redhead and Macleod raced up to Hope’s room which was located beside his. He gave a thunderous knock but no answer. Taking his mobile he rang but found her engaged. Leaving a message, he checked the hotel lobby and other rooms where the guests could sit. And then he clocked her on a bench at the rear of the hotel.
Hope was still in her workout gear, holding her mobile up in front of her. There was an air of tension about her, her shoulders not sitting back relaxed, but instead hunched up. A wrinkle across her face showed the concern she was having for the conversation. The smile that could melt a man was not there but a grimace. Not now, thought Macleod; I know I said ring him but why now?
‘McGrath! We need to go. Get a jacket and a change.’
He watched her turn and open her palms asking if he was for real. When she saw his nod, she made a quick apology to the phone and then he saw the word later being spoken. There was a momentary stare at what must now be a blank s
creen before she ran over to him.
‘Body in a ditch. Grab your stuff and come on. You can change over there when we get a moment.’ There was no hesitation and inside three minutes she was at the wheel of the car, driving out of the hotel car park. A pair of jeans covered her previously exposed legs, but she still wore the workout top, complete with sweat across it and her brow.
‘Identity of the body?’ asked Hope.
‘Unknown. Uniform found the bag and when they realised what was in it, they stopped touching and walked away. Apparently, it was obvious the man was dead.’
‘How come?’
‘When I rang the team, while you were grabbing your stuff, they said one of the officers was in a bad way. Apparently, the head’s bashed in and partially removed from the neck. But it’s quite sketchy, as the officers were a bit shaken to say the least. Stewart’s heading over too.’
The moor was like a treacle sponge in the dying sun and Macleod held on to his seat as Hope raced across it, the blue lights of the unmarked car now blazing out a warning, accompanied by that most invasive of sirens. He swore she had made it to ninety at times and he fought the urge to tell her to slow down. The man was dead after all. There was no need for them to follow.
As they approached the turn for the cricket club, Macleod saw the road blocked off by a marked car and they flashed their credentials before the car moved aside. At the roadside Macleod saw various officers standing around but one dark-haired woman was standing at a ditch, dressed in a pair of track bottoms and a crop top with her hair tied back. There were a trademark pair of glasses on her nose. Macleod saw the toned muscle that was normally hidden beneath loose clothing and realise that Stewart’s dumpy appearance was made by her baggy clothes. She may just have been in better shape than Hope. But without the eyelashes enhanced, the colour added to the face and the hunted-for hair tie and earrings, Stewart looked like a serious sportswoman, not a woman of beauty.
‘Stewart,’ shouted Macleod on exiting the car, ‘what do we have?’
‘Male in a cricket bag, partially decapitated, seriously beaten and fairly fresh according to the officers who opened the bag. No one has been near it since.’
‘Any ID?’ asked Macleod.
‘No, sir. But it’s Jackie, sir.’
Macleod thought it was a possibility but as much as anyone else. ‘Why so definite?’
‘Only possible witness to the crime. Only person that was on scene the whole time. He was in a frenzy yesterday at the Macaulays, storming around and therefore a liability if he had seen something. Drunk too, so recollection at this later time is a possibility. I know it’s not proof but it’s him. The body size and shape are about right.’
Macleod stared into the ditch and saw a small piece of black hair sticking out from the open bag, but every other part was covered. Stewart was accurate about the size.
‘We’ll leave this until Mackintosh arrives, Stewart. Right now, get uniform to check the whereabouts of our cricket club members today. And Irvine too. That’s your priority, got it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Stewart,’ said Macleod, looking at the woman before him and her arm that had more muscle than he had in his body, ‘get a jacket on, its—’
‘Distracting?’
She was no beauty, but it was. ‘Unprofessional, and it will be getting cold soon.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry about that.’
‘I’m not having a go,’ said Macleod. She outdrove Hope to here, she is to be commended. ‘I’m just concerned for your welfare.’ And he saw a smile. Macleod had wondered if she could crack a grin or an inch of joy across the face or was everything a semi-sarcastic mood. ‘Well done.’
‘She seems pleased,’ said Hope joining him. ‘I think she likes you, or at least looks up to you.’
‘Really, I thought she was mocking me mainly,’ said Macleod but underneath he felt a warmth. Hope had been a battle to come to terms with, although the struggle had been worth it. But to mentor someone who thought you were worth learning from seemed a better idea.
‘Why dump him here?’ asked Hope. ‘Why risk it—after all, it was daylight?’
‘Maybe they had to,’ said Macleod. ‘Maybe they were on their way somewhere and they had to.’ Looking over at the cricket ground, which was less than a half mile away, Macleod saw someone trundling up and down the square in the middle with a roller. The giant cylinder of metal was slowly flattening all in its path, but it moved with a struggle, not a consistent pace.
‘Alan Painter, Hope. That’s Alan Painter at the club. I wonder if they were going to drop this one at the club too.’
‘I hope you haven’t been playing with my corpse, Inspector.’
Macleod spun around but he knew the voice. The short powerhouse that was the main forensic investigator was smiling broadly at him as if their previous conversation had never happened. Macleod felt outnumbered, surrounded by women on all sides. Two years ago, he had never worked with a woman on the case, at least not in any in close sense. There had been uniform and his boss had been receiving briefings, but his partners and even the forensic leads had been men. Back then he would have resented an all-female intrusion of this sort. And that would have been wrong. But now, as enlightened as he was, the balance leaning heavily to the other gender made him feel nervous. Jane would laugh.
‘Good to see you, Mackintosh,’ replied Macleod, ‘and no, we’ve left the body for you but get me an ID as soon as please. We think it’s Jackie, the young man who was drunk on the floor overnight at the club. Been beaten and the head is detaching.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m here until it’s over, sir.’ Mackintosh flashed a smile at Macleod, and he swore the eyebrows were given a brief lift and fall for his benefit. And then she turned around and was bellowing instructions to her team, commanding and clearing out any superfluous persons to her work. Quite a woman, thought Macleod.
‘Sir,’ said Hope, interrupting his thoughts, ‘shall we go and see Alan Painter. He might be at risk if he saw anything.’
Macleod nodded and they walked the short distance to the club, crossing the outer field of the pitch towards the central square of wickets that lay side by side. When Painter became less of a speck and more a discernible figure, a bottle of scotch could be seen in his right hand and a muttering under the breath was detectable.
‘Mr Painter,’ said Hope, approaching the man from behind. He had momentarily stopped pushing the wheel to take a long slug of the scotch.
‘The sweet tones of a native robin,’ the man replied before turning around and almost losing his balance. Cocking his head, he swayed from side to side but smiled like it was going out of fashion at her. ‘What an angel, sent to me on this dark day to light up my way. God, I could look at you all day.’ The man burped and apologised before spotting Macleod. ‘No, they always have to send the devil as well. I’m not talking to him; I want to talk to the angel.’
Macleod nodded at Hope and stepped back two paces allowing her to take the lead.
‘Mr Painter, how long have you been here?’ she asked.
‘All my life, dearie, waiting for you. Tell me you like cricket. It’s a women’s game now you know. Didn’t used to be. But they were on the pavilion, making the cream teas for the afternoon, watching their men take part in a little bit of aggression. All good fun, and resplendent in their summer dresses, the men in whites. Oh yes, you’d love the game. But I’d imagine you’d pad up and play yourself, you look sporting enough, bit of a game girl. Oh, not in that way, no, I mean a batsgirl . . . woman . . . person . . . batter.’
‘Yes, Mr Painter, I’m sure it’s great to play, but how long have you been here?’
‘Alan’s the name; call me Alan.’
‘Alan,’ encouraged Hope, ‘how long have you been here?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘McGrath, Alan.’
‘No, the name your boy calls you, the one they say to you on the pillow.’
Hope looked at
Macleod who waved his hand, encouraging her to continue. ‘Hope.’
‘Hope? Nah, if I were looking at you on your pillow, you’d be Robin, Robin redbreast. Your hair is like the robin, do you see? I watch them too, popping around the trees—‘
‘Mr Painter,’ Macleod broke in, ‘this is a police investigation and my constable has asked you how long you have been here, sir. Kindly answer or I will take you down the station to sober up for the night and then have more words.’
The man looked hurt. ‘Why did Robin let the devil out?’
‘How long?’
‘Okay, mister devil. This afternoon, doing some rolling, see the big roller thing. Getting it all ready for the match.’
‘What match?’ asked Macleod.
‘The next one.’
‘Did you see a car stop by, over there at the road recently?’
‘I saw nothing. I didn’t get here until the morning and I went home the previous night.’ Alan Painter fell to the ground and his bottle fell from his hand, spilling over the ground, the brown liquid, what little remained, seeping away from surface. ‘Good man, American but a bloody good man. And sweet Summer, sweet, sweet Summer, like a gazelle, legs like a gazelle. My friends!’ The last two words were cried out to the sky with an arm raised. And then he collapsed back down and simply lay there.
‘Go get one of the cars to take him home, Hope. And place a watch on his house in case someone thinks he saw something.’
‘Delicate soul, isn’t he?’ said Hope. ‘Gets a chance at something to be involved and someone kills his two new friends. No wonder he went back to the bottle.’
‘I doubt he left it. It’s a mistress that doesn’t let go. But I doubt he saw anything though we’ll try when he’s sober. In the meantime, it’s up to Hazel.’
‘Hazel, sir?’
‘Mackintosh, Hope, Hazel Mackintosh.’
Hope walked away to get a car for Alan Painter and began to smile to herself. Competition, she thought, I haven’t heard him call anyone else by their first name in work.
