by Tana Collins
Carruthers wondered if Pip McGuire had a bit of a callous streak.
She seemed to sense the thought. ‘Has he been found?’
‘Not yet. You don’t know why he’d go missing?’
‘No, of course not. Why would I?’
Carruthers reached over to his desk. Brought out a buff file and took out the photographs of the dead girl. He passed them to Pip. ‘We left copies with Barry but just in case he didn’t show you them…’
She took the photos. He scrutinised her face as she looked at them. She leant forward and gave the photos back to Carruthers. She didn’t flinch. Why was that? Wouldn’t that be the normal reaction? He had the feeling she’d worked hard at making her facial expression unreadable. He wondered why.
‘No, I haven’t seen them, but I’ve been pretty tied up the last day or so,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had a chance yet to have a proper meeting with Barry. We try to meet up every few days to touch base,’ she explained. ‘I’ve never seen this girl before. Who is she?’
Carruthers wasn’t entirely sure whether he believed her but he didn’t push it.
‘We think she may have been an Eastern European prostitute run by a gang of people traffickers from Tallinn. She had a tattoo on her ankle of an eye with a tear drop. Apparently that’s the mark of the Haravere gang. But what she’s doing over here in Fife and what, if any, connection she has with your employer, is a mystery. A mystery I mean to unravel.’ Carruthers held Pip McGuire with his unblinking gaze. ‘If you know anything at all about this girl or any illegal activities that Barry Cuthbert is engaged in, including poisoning birds of prey, now is the time to tell me.’
Pip in turn fixed Carruthers with a steady gaze. ‘To the best of my knowledge Barry is not involved in any illegal activities, certainly none to which I am party.’
To the best of my knowledge, thought Carruthers. He did not like that expression. It told him the person in front of him was probably lying. ‘Did you know he has a criminal record?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘No, I didn’t. I take it the police record is not recent?’
Carruthers had to admit that it wasn’t. ‘The past doesn’t interest me,’ Pip said. ‘It’s what a person is like now that matters.’
‘And you said you don’t socialise with Barry Cuthbert outside work?’
‘I work long hours but no, I don’t. I like to keep my work and my personal life separate.’
In other words, don’t ask me any questions about what Cuthbert gets up to in his free time as I either don’t know or I’m going to pretend I don’t know.
Well, that’s me told, thought Carruthers. He looked at this assured young woman in front of him. Decided she was a very cool customer. She had an interesting choice of words. When she spoke, she sounded much older than her years. He decided for now she was off the hook but she was definitely someone to keep a close eye on.
He changed tack. ‘You will be aware of the recent spate of art thefts in the area, Ms McGuire, and as estate manager I’m sure it won’t have escaped your notice that Barry has some very expensive pieces of art. I would recommend making sure they are fully insured and it might even be an idea to review your security.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘You said you worked for Cuthbert Estates. That implies Barry has more than one estate?’
‘Just the one. The Ardgarren Estate.’
‘Yet his business is called the Cuthbert Estates.’
Pip shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask Barry.’ She stood up, confident that she could terminate the meeting with Carruthers.
Carruthers followed suit.
‘I need to get back to my hack,’ she said. ‘Do you ride?’
Carruthers shuddered. He was a little scared of horses but of course would never admit it. ‘No. What’s a hack?’ he asked feeling a little stupid.
‘A ride. I need to get back to my ride.’
As he escorted the glamorous woman out of the station, Carruthers wondered if she was riding more than just the horses.
Carruthers returned to his office and shut the door. He could still smell the scent of horse above the lingering perfume worn by Pip McGuire. He wondered what her story was. There was something that intrigued Carruthers about her. She certainly wasn’t your average estate manager, that was for sure. He sat back at his desk steepling his hands, taking in her faint citrus perfume. He hadn’t been sitting there more than five minutes when he heard running down the corridor and a sharp knock at the door.
‘Come,’ he shouted. Brown put his head round the door. Carruthers noticed the man was out of breath. And from the look on his face it seemed he had a big secret to share. Carruthers didn’t think he had come to tell him the air conditioning man had arrived.
‘Thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. Just had a phone call from a member of the public. Body’s just been pulled out the water down by West Castle Beach.’
‘Shit,’ said Carruthers. ‘Does it look like a drowning?’
‘Well, he might have drowned,’ said Brown, loving every moment of imparting an important piece of news. ‘But he’s also been shot. Bloody big hole in his chest.’
Carruthers could feel the wetness of the sea spray on his face as he ran down the wide expanse of sandy beach. The wind had picked up once more, buffeting the already choppy waves, creating white froth and foaming puddles of seawater. The sky was a stormy grey, a definite weather front pushing in from the north. Carruthers tasted salt, wiped his gritty stinging eyes. Sometimes these summer storms in Scotland were worse than winter ones.
In the distance he saw coverall-wearing figures huddled over an object on the sand. He saw one of them shout out, but the cry was lost as another gust of squally wind stole the sound away. As he drew closer he saw the body of the man, partially covered with sand and moss-green fronds of seaweed. The man was lying on his back. There was a gaping red hole in his chest.
Carruthers looked at the face, what was left of it. Skin and flesh were torn away in the cheeks where the body had been battered by rocks.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Carruthers, stopping short.
Dr Mackie was on one knee, struggling to maintain his balance as the wind sent another gust up the beach. Liu, the police photographer, setting up his camera, was muttering about the weather conditions. He started to take a series of photos of the body from different angles, the startling white flash of his camera contrasting with the brooding darkness of the glowering sky.
‘There’s not time to erect a tent, Jim,’ shouted Mackie over the noise of the wind, ‘tide’s still coming in. We need to get the photos and take him back to the mortuary. I can tell you one thing, though. This one hasn’t fallen from rocks. He’s been in the water a fair few hours.’ Carruthers saw Mackie glance at the churning sea. ‘You couldn’t survive in that sea for long but then again from the state of his chest I’d say it’s almost a certainty it was the shot that killed him. With this amount of damage you might be looking at a shotgun.’ As he spoke another enormous wave broke and one of the uniforms, who was nearer the sea, had to make a run for it as the advancing water snapped at his trouser legs.
Carruthers heard a noise behind him and swung round to see a damp-looking Fletcher arriving. Her hair was in rats’ tails. He had forgotten all about her. She doubled over, holding her stomach, rain dripping off her dark hair.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Stitch. Is it him? The McGuigan boy?’ She was still bent double and breathless.
‘I don’t know. Any ID on him?’ Carruthers addressed this question to the uniform he took to be first on the scene, who was in the process of shaking off his soaking black trouser legs.
‘Haven’t touched anything, sir. Thought it best to wait for you.’
‘The report we had was he got pulled from the water. Is that true?’ said Carruthers.
‘I’m not sure, sir. I wasn’t here when he was found. It was PC McNeil.’
‘Where’s McNeil now?
’ said Carruthers.
The dark-haired police officer ran the back of his hand over his wet nose. ‘Answering another emergency call that came in.’
Carruthers swore. ‘Get him to phone me at the station as soon as, will you?’
The terrified PC nodded.
‘Who found him?’
‘A woman in that group of dog walkers over there.’ The PC pointed to a knot of people standing in the grassy dunes.
‘I want you to take statements from all of them.’ The PC galloped off to do as ordered.
Kneeling down, Carruthers took a latex glove out of his trouser pocket. Wiped his wet hand down his damp trouser leg and fitted the glove over his hand.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Mackie. ‘Don’t want you to corrupt my crime scene. Here, let me.’ He rummaged in the trouser pockets of the body. Brought out a few coins and a bit of fluff. The fluff immediately blew away. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No ID, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Could be our man,’ said Fletcher, sinking to her knees oblivious of the wet sand beneath. ‘Young enough. About the same height and build. Looks like him.’ Carruthers looked again at those battered features. It could be McGuigan, but he couldn’t swear to it.
‘When you’re ready, get him back to the mortuary,’ said Carruthers. ‘When can you do the post-mortem?’
‘I’ll need to check a few things but should be able to start it within an hour.’
‘OK. I’ll meet you there.’ He looked across at Fletcher who had stood up but was struggling to stay on her feet. ‘Do you feel comfortable coming to see his grandparents with me? We’ll need to get them to the mortuary.’
She shouted to him over the wind, ‘I’d be pissed off if you asked anyone else.’
Carruthers nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. Carruthers unpeeled the glove and stood up. His knee was soaking from where he had been kneeling in the wet sand. He glanced up at the sky. The brooding clouds were advancing, growing darker by the minute. ‘There’s going to be a downpour,’ he said, noticing that Liu had already packed away his expensive camera equipment. He looked across at Fletcher. ‘Let’s get back to the car.’
They got back just as the rain started to lash down. Sitting behind the steering wheel, Carruthers stared out through the blurred windscreen at the increasingly choppy grey waves. Tonelessly he said to Fletcher, ‘We’d better make a move to Joe McGuigan’s grandparents. It’s not something I’m looking forward to doing.’
7
Carruthers and Fletcher stood on the doorstep of the McGuigans. Carruthers hesitated before pressing the bell.
‘Shit,’ said Fletcher. ‘I hate this part of the job.’
‘You never get used to it,’ Carruthers responded.
The weather front had closed in. Torrential rain was falling with the sort of wind that knocks old people off their feet. Damaging gusts of sixty miles an hour were due later that evening. Rain beat against the McGuigans’ door, dirty streaks running down the blue paintwork. Carruthers heard a crash as a green household bin toppled over. Thankful for his waterproof jacket he looked down at Fletcher whose face and hair were soaked.
‘When I moved up to Scotland I didn’t think I’d have to wear waterproof trousers and Gore-Tex in summer,’ she said.
Carruthers rang the bell again and waited. He could hear voices inside. Snatches of conversation greeted him as the door was opened by Mr McGuigan.
Carruthers took in the drawn and anxious face. He didn’t want to prolong their agony.
‘Have you found him?’ Mr McGuigan asked.
‘Can we come in, please?’ said Carruthers. He ushered Mr and Mrs McGuigan into their living room and told them to sit down. Carruthers watched as stoic-faced Mr McGuigan guided his wife to the sofa. She sat down and once she was settled he took his place beside her. She looked up at Carruthers with worry etched in every facial line.
‘The news isn’t good, I’m afraid.’ As he spoke he searched their faces. ‘A body of a young man has been pulled out the water at West Castle Beach, Castletown. We don’t yet know what exactly killed him or if it’s definitely Joe, but he’d been shot.’
A heart-rending scream filled the air as Mrs McGuigan half-collapsed against her husband. The sound she made was neither human nor animal, a deep primal sound of keening. Mr McGuigan bent over his wife and tried to lift her from her half-collapsed position. Carruthers helped him.
‘It’ll be the shock,’ said Fletcher. ‘Can we lay her out on the sofa with her legs up?’ Mr McGuigan stood and walking round his wife lifted her legs onto the couch. Fletcher grabbed a cushion from a chair and gently placed it under the woman’s legs and feet. Mr McGuigan knelt by his wife’s side.
Carruthers looked at Mr McGuigan. ‘I hate to ask this, but we need someone to accompany us to ID the body.’
Looking up from his kneeling position Mr McGuigan said, ‘I’ll come to the mortuary with you. But can I call the doctor for my wife first? I can’t leave her like this.’
‘Of course,’ said Carruthers. ‘Is there a relative or friend who can be with her?’
‘I’ll phone Mary. She’s Sarah’s best friend and only five minutes’ drive away. She’s a capable woman. She’ll know what to do.’
As Mr McGuigan was making his calls Carruthers had a quiet word with Fletcher. ‘Keep an eye on the wife,’ he said. ‘I’m going into the hall to call Mackie.’
Fletcher nodded.
‘Are we scheduled to start the PM on time?’ Carruthers asked the pathologist as soon as the man answered the phone.
‘You’re in luck,’ said Mackie. ‘Nothing more pressing has come in. I’ll get it done straight away. Where are you now?’
‘With the grandparents of a young gamekeeper who’s gone missing. We’re just waiting for the doctor to attend the man’s wife then I’ll drive the boy’s grandfather over. Can you hold off til then?’
‘No bother. You thinking he’s our victim?’ said Mackie.
‘Could be. I have a bad feeling… Can we do the ID first then get straight on and do the PM?’
‘OK, I’ll check over the facial injuries and prepare the body for viewing. If I know you, you’ll want to stay for the PM. I’ll have the fags to hand.’
‘You know I’ve given up.’ Carruthers finished the call and turned to Mr McGuigan.
‘Mary’ll be over in five minutes,’ he said. ‘She’ll sit with Sarah until the doctor arrives.’
Forty minutes later they were at the mortuary with Mr McGuigan. Fletcher took the man’s arm and guided him into the viewing room. Dr Mackie hung back. Carruthers could see Mr McGuigan’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard.
‘Take your time, Mr McGuigan,’ said Carruthers. The man remained silent but nodded.
The only part of the corpse visible was the victim’s face, a white sheet having been draped over the torso. Mr McGuigan, who appeared to have visibly aged in the last hour, shuffled up and leant over the body. As soon as he laid eyes on the face he looked away, taking a sharp breath as he did so but not before Carruthers saw the grandfather’s agonised expression. The hoarse voice came out just above a whisper. ‘It’s him. My grandson. That’s Joe.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr McGuigan,’ said Carruthers. He squeezed the man’s shoulder. Mr McGuigan turned to Carruthers, tears in his eyes. Carruthers hadn’t known Joe McGuigan personally, wasn’t a parent himself, but looking at the pain in the old man’s face, he still had a lump in his throat.
‘Just find who did this to my boy. And why,’ he said to Carruthers.
My boy, thought Carruthers. Reinforcement that they had been closer than the average grandfather and grandson.
Carruthers nodded.
As Fletcher led a numb-looking Mr McGuigan away Dr Mackie joined Carruthers in the viewing room. ‘PM after a fag and caffeine break. Coming?’
‘I won’t say no to a coffee.’ Once again Carruthers thought about his brother’s heart attack. He was finally taking heed and starting to li
ve a healthier lifestyle.
Whilst Mackie nipped outside to smoke, Carruthers sat in the canteen, hand wrapped around his coffee. He stared into the cup, trying to piece together the events that may have led to a nineteen-year-old local being shot in the chest. He glanced at his watch. Lunchtime but he didn’t feel like eating.
He could see Mackie outside, apparently oblivious to the rain but Carruthers knew the Highlander was a hardy soul. The only concession to the foul weather was that the old boy had put his waterproof jacket on and turned up the collar. Mackie tossed the cigarette butt to the ground. The doctor’s habitual littering habit normally irritated Carruthers but this time it registered only as the end of his coffee break. He stood up.
The body was laid out naked, covered only by a sheet. Mackie took the sheet away and the post-mortem started. The pathologist began by examining the hands, picking each up in turn. Carruthers found it hard to tear his gaze away from the gaping hole in the boy’s chest. There was also livid bruising on McGuigan’s torso and gashes to the legs and upper right arm. Mackie caught him looking at the gash in the arm.
‘Jagged. Most likely caused by the body coming into contact with underwater rocks. Been in the water for a while. Likely twenty-four hours.’
‘Can you tell me when he died?’ Carruthers was wondering if he died soon after disappearing.
‘Hold your horses, laddie. All I can tell you at the moment is that it wasn’t self-inflicted. As I said at the locus I’ve every confidence it was the shotgun blast that killed him, but we need to be thorough. There’s procedures to be followed. And it’s definitely a shotgun that’s been used on him, by the way,’
Mackie picked up a scalpel. He looked at the edge, shifting it in the light and making Carruthers wonder if the man was malicious or just hamming it up for the audience, knowing Carruthers wasn’t keen on this sort of thing. ‘Physically he’s in good condition. Excellent muscle definition. Must work out.’ Carruthers remembered the books on keep-fit in the bookcase of Joe McGuigan’s bedroom. He also remembered the lads’ mag found under McGuigan’s bed. Funny how death often made people think about sex. Why was that?
