by Tana Collins
The sharp edge of the scalpel easily made the standard Y incision, though with a gaping hole in McGuigan’s chest there was a large section he didn’t have to cut. Next came out the small circular saw. Again the shot had blasted most of the sternum apart but enough remained, mostly the top inch or two, that the pathologist had to separate. He usually cut the costal cartilage at this point, but the shot had made enough mess of the sternum that it was the easiest to separate. The smell of bone burning under cutting knife churned Carruthers’ stomach: just as well he hadn’t had lunch. The way Mackie pulled back the ribs was practiced if not easy. Carruthers had never lost the ability to feel queasy at a post-mortem. A nauseating stench of body fluids and decaying flesh greeted him. Reminded him of an old meat market he knew in London that had long since closed down. Saw the doc take a sly glance at him.
‘Regretting not having had that fag now, eh?’ he chuckled.
‘No,’ said Carruthers stoically. ‘Every ciggie takes six minutes off your life,’ he added.
‘Bollocks. Where d’you hear that stat?’
‘My mother.’
Glasses perched on the end of his nose and without looking up, Mackie asked, ‘How’s your brother now?’
Carruthers shrugged. ‘On meds for life.’
‘Well, at least he’s got one. A life, that is,’ Mackie said. ‘See much of him?’
Once again Carruthers felt a pang. ‘No.’
‘Where does he stay?’
‘Glasgow.’
‘Not far away.’ Mackie took a glance at Carruthers. He chuckled. ‘Don’t fret, laddie. I’ve got a sister I haven’t seen in over seven years.’
Carruthers didn’t want to ask Mackie where his sister lived in case he said Australia.
Mackie dug his gloved hand into the dead man’s chest cavity and brought out the heart. Carruthers tried to ignore the squelching sounds.
‘Talking of hearts,’ said Mackie, cradling it in his hand, feeling the weight of it as you might a paperweight. He dropped it onto the weighing scales. Carruthers had to focus hard to not gag. Suddenly his mobile cut through the squelching noises. He fished it out of his trouser pocket. It was the station.
‘I’d better take this,’ he said to Mackie, backing out of the cut-up room.
Mackie chuckled again. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d swear you set it up so that your mobile would ring right in the middle of the PM.’
Carruthers lifted an eyebrow.
‘Sorry to call you in the middle of the action,’ said a familiar voice, that of Fletcher. ‘I’ve found something you need to see.’
‘Important enough to leave the PM for?’ asked Carruthers, surprised.
‘Definitely.’
Carruthers couldn’t imagine what that might be, but anything that would give him a legitimate reason for leaving a PM: he’d take it. He’d never had that strong a constitution. ‘Right, give me twenty-five and I’ll see you back at the station. This better be good.’
‘Oh, it is,’ said Fletcher. ‘I may have established a link between Barry Cuthbert and the dead girl.’
Carruthers felt a frisson of excitement. ‘I’m on my way.’
The earlier heavy rain had left rivulets of water running down the streets. Carruthers drove carefully, trying to avoid the flooding by the side of the road. The destructive winds that had been forecast had mercifully not materialised. At least not in Fife. Carruthers wondered if some other poor bugger further north was getting it. He remembered a visit to Shetland he’d once made with his ex-wife. That had been in August. Another summer storm. The weather had been so bad that the ferries had all been held in port for safety and theirs had been the last flight allowed in before the airport had to be shut too. He remembered the ferocious gale that had nearly knocked Mairi off her feet as she set foot on the tarmac and tried to make her way to arrivals. She managed as far as the disabled toilets in the airport building and had thrown up. Another lifetime ago.
He wondered how long it would be before he stopped thinking about his ex-wife. He still thought about her far too frequently but at least it wasn’t with the terrible searing pain that it had been in the early days of their separation. He put all thoughts of her resolutely out of his mind. An image of another woman came into his head instead.
The dead girl on the beach.
He hopped out of the car and half walked, half ran into the building. He grabbed a coffee from the vending machine before going to find Fletcher. No thoughts about lunch. He was being fuelled by caffeine and pure adrenaline. So much for healthy living. Knew it would catch up with him sooner or later but in the meantime…
He found Fletcher at her desk, head bent over some newspaper cuttings and photographs.
She had a grin on her face. ‘This is what I want you to look at,’ she said. ‘I’ve been doing some research on our Barry Cuthbert. Being a local bigwig and self-styled celeb I thought he’s bound to have made it into the newspapers at some charity event or other. I wasn’t wrong. Take a look at this.’ She pushed a picture towards him. It showed Cuthbert centre stage dressed in a tux with a stunning and young woman on his arm. The girl was wearing a short silver dress and high heels.
‘When was this photo taken?’
She pointed to the date. ‘Six months ago.’
Carruthers took the photograph. ‘Likes them young then, our Barry, does he?’
‘Looks like it,’ said Fletcher. But that’s not what I’m showing you. What else can you spot?’
Carruthers’ eyes took in the girl. She really was very beautiful. Scandalously beautiful cheekbones, long neck, tiny waist, long tapered legs. Just looking at the picture made Carruthers’ pulse quicken. Carruthers glanced at Fletcher. She was looking at him. Looking at where his eyes were on the picture.
‘Keep going,’ she urged.
He gazed at the girl’s calves for a nanosecond too long and then he saw it as his eyes travelled towards her feet. Tattoo on left ankle.
‘That’s it. You’ve got it.’ Fletcher said it with a touch of victory in her voice.
Carruthers held up the paper closer so it was almost at his nose. ‘Is that–? We need an enlargement of that tattoo. It’s the same size, looks like the same shape…’
‘Already onto it.’ She handed him another photograph. ‘Speccie Techie owed me a favour.’
Carruthers eagerly grasped the photograph. Studied it. And there it was. A close-up of the tattoo. An open eye with a teardrop and a strange curved line. The same tattoo as the dead girl. But not the same girl.
‘Shit,’ he said.
‘Told you it was good. The question is what does this all mean? We now have two girls with the same tattoo. Have we got people traffickers from Eastern Europe operating in Scotland?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought anything other than this is a popular tattoo, if it hadn’t been for the information from the Estonian police,’ said Carruthers. ‘But then I know nothing about tattoos.’
‘We’ve found a link between the dead girl and Barry Cuthbert,’ said Fletcher. ‘Through a tattoo. And if we’ve found one link there’s bound to be others. We just have to find them. How are we going to play this?’ she asked. ‘Do we tell Bingham? And what about Joe McGuigan’s body? When do we confront Cuthbert? We need to interview him again. Even if he wasn’t involved in McGuigan’s death, Cuthbert was McGuigan’s employer.’
Carruthers looked at Fletcher’s earnest face. He was glad she was back to her old self. At least on the surface. But her miscarriage hadn’t really been that long ago. Not in the grand scheme of things. She must still be hurting. Losing a baby must be like an open wound that won’t go away, he thought. He wished she’d opened up to him a bit more at the time. But he knew she’d say that of him, too. Sometimes they had more in common than he wanted to admit.
‘Almost a certainty McGuigan was killed by a blast from a shotgun, although I’m still waiting for Mackie’s final PM results. Who do we know that keeps shotguns, Andie?’
�
�Cuthbert. And the last time we saw a shotgun it was being carried by Derek Sturrock.’
Carruthers shook his head. ‘We need to interview both Cuthbert and Sturrock as soon as possible. I want to start with Cuthbert. Put some pressure on him. And get a home address for Sturrock, will you? He may have been the last person to see Joe McGuigan alive.’ Carruthers touched Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘Also, find Gayle. She’s dealing with the press. Tell her to get them to hold off making the discovery of McGuigan’s body public. At least for twenty-four hours.’ He wondered if he should interview Pip McGuire again but decided she could go on the back burner. She would just deny any knowledge.
‘Right you are, boss,’ said Fletcher.
Carruthers picked up the plastic cup and drained it of the lukewarm coffee. ‘In the meantime, I’ll talk to Bingham. I’ll see him now. Give me anything you’ve got on Cuthbert, including this photograph.’
Fletcher handed over a folder.
‘And, Andie,’ said Carruthers, ‘fine work. You’ve done a good job.’
Carruthers tapped on Bingham’s door. Put his head round. Bingham was sitting at his desk immersed in paperwork.
‘Ah, Jim. I take it you’ve got those forecasts for me? About bloody time. Hand them over.’
Carruthers’ heart sank. He walked in. Thought he could detect cigarette smoke again, faint but there. Was starting to wonder if Bingham was defying the smoking ban. He closed the door behind him without looking. His hand came into contact with polythene.
Bingham made a tssking noise with his tongue. ‘Mind my suit.’ Carruthers glanced behind him seeing a recently dry-cleaned dinner jacket.
‘Going somewhere nice tonight?’ Carruthers said, feeling a stab of resentment that this man was allowing himself the evening off.
‘Dinner party at the home of one of the golf club members,’ Bingham said at last. ‘Not that it’s any of your business. Now where’s the paperwork? And stop changing the bloody subject.’
Carruthers had a bad feeling. Call it a sixth sense. ‘Which member?’
Bingham took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Putting them back on, he said, ‘Barry Cuthbert.’
‘You’re not serious?’ said Carruthers, suddenly realising he hadn’t been keeping Bingham up to date about the developments. So much had happened in such a short space of time. ‘Listen, sir, before you go to that dinner party I need to speak to you urgently about Cuthbert. There’s something you need to know.’
Bingham sighed. ‘Is this more of your stalling tactics? Because if it is–’
‘With all due respect, this is more important than forecasts and paperwork.’
Bingham cracked the knuckles of his left hand. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Carruthers. I’m your bloody superior. And if you’ve got something on Cuthbert, let’s hear it.’
8
Carruthers left Bingham’s office fuming. Bingham wouldn’t countenance one of his golf club members having any part to play in any illegal activities, let alone the possibility of murder. Even managed to excuse the fact Cuthbert had a criminal record. And refused to put a tail on Cuthbert, citing budget restrictions.
As he strode away from Bingham’s office, Carruthers’ mobile flashed up Mackie’s number. He accepted the call.
Carruthers immediately recognised the Highland lilt of the voice. ‘I’ve just finished the PM, Jim. As expected he was definitely killed by the shotgun blast unless toxicology comes back with anything else. The most important thing you need to know, though, is that he’s been dead between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. Closer to forty-eight hours by my reckoning, although we both know it’s not an exact science.’
‘Most likely he was killed sometime late on Wednesday then,’ said Carruthers. The day he went missing.
‘Agreed. However, he hadn’t been in the sea that long so you can make your own deductions from that.’
Whoever killed McGuigan had kept his body somewhere before disposing of it.
Carruthers listened to the pathologist. ‘Thanks for giving me a ring.’ He ended the call. Glancing at his watch he realised the day was getting away from him. It was near on five o’clock.
Carruthers walked back to his desk. It dawned on him he was famished, that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. However, he had no time for food. He was on a mission. He grabbed his jacket and picked up Andie. His thoughts were on Barry Cuthbert. Wondered how the man would react to the discovery of his young gamekeeper’s body and brutal death. Not to mention how he’d react to the discovery of the photograph of himself with the young woman bearing the same tattoo as the dead girl, the mark of a prostitute. How would he be able to explain that one away?
Carruthers selected a car pool key and he and Fletcher headed to the station car park. The weather was still gusting and the wind made it feel ten degrees colder than it actually was. Nobody would think this was the height of summer – except the Scots. It was only as he climbed into the Corsa that he realised for the first time in a couple of days he didn’t feel as if he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat as he’d left the building. The air conditioning must have been fixed and he hadn’t even noticed.
‘For crying out loud, what is it now?’ asked Barry Cuthbert.
His housekeeper had taken them through to the drawing room. Carruthers took out the photographs of the dead gamekeeper and slapped them down on Cuthbert’s mahogany table.
‘The body of Joe McGuigan was discovered this morning on West Castle Beach. He’d been shot at close range in the chest with a shotgun. His body ended up in the sea.’
Cuthbert stopped dead in his tracks and just stared at Carruthers. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard. McGuigan’s been found dead. Blasted by a shotgun. Let’s hope for your sake it wasn’t one of yours. Whoever did it obviously thought the body would be taken further out to sea. No such luck. Tide brought him back in. Not a pretty sight.’ Carruthers paused whilst watching Cuthbert carefully for any reaction. If Carruthers had to name an emotion he would have said Cuthbert was in complete shock. But then again the man might be a good actor.
‘I’d like to start by asking you where you were from about 6pm Wednesday evening and then I’d like to see your firearms licence, please,’ said Carruthers.
Cuthbert stared for a moment, mouth open, then said, ‘You’re not seriously suggesting I’ve murdered one of my own staff?’
‘Just answer the question, please, Mr Cuthbert,’ said Fletcher.
Cuthbert smiled. ‘As it happened I was with Derek Sturrock until about eight.’
‘And then?’ said Fletcher.
Cuthbert shrugged. ‘I changed for dinner and went to friends.’
‘We’ll be asking for their names and address,’ said Carruthers, ‘but in the meantime I take it you were on your own at some point that night?’
Cuthbert grinned at Fletcher but Carruthers could see there was worry in his eyes. ‘Normally I don’t go to bed alone but that night I did.’
He hasn’t got an alibi and he’s worried.
‘I also want to examine all your shotguns,’ said Carruthers. ‘They may have to be taken away for forensics.’ Carruthers knew fine well that shotguns could only be matched to the mark left on the expelled casing by the firing mechanism. To do this the casing was required, yet in this case no shell casings had been found because the body had been discovered distant to the site of death. Still, no harm in putting the wind up Cuthbert. He continued talking. ‘Then I want to talk to your estate manager and senior gamekeeper again. And I want to know the movements of all your staff in the last seventy-two hours.’
Barry Cuthbert turned white. Started playing with the gold signet ring he was wearing. Carruthers knew a nervous habit when he saw one.
‘And when we’ve done all that I want you to tell me what you know about Marika Paju.’
‘Who?’
Carruthers brought out the photograph of the dead girl. ‘The girl found dead at the foot of the cliffs. And I want to
know what your link is with Eastern European prostitutes.’
Barry Cuthbert did a good job of trying to look mystified and outraged all at the same time but it didn’t wash with Carruthers. He knows about the prostitutes, thought Carruthers, but he genuinely did look shocked at the mention of McGuigan’s death. Interesting.
‘Come on, Barry,’ urged Carruthers, ‘you’re in it up to your neck. We also know about your criminal record and that of your senior gamekeeper.’
Cuthbert took the photograph from Carruthers, pretended to study it. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never been to a prostitute. And as for having a criminal record, well, let’s just say I had a bit of a misspent youth.’
‘So you’re also saying you have no link with Eastern European prostitutes?’ said Fletcher.
‘On my life, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Carruthers stared at Cuthbert until the man looked away. He had a strong feeling Cuthbert knew more than he was saying.
‘Well, in that case how do you explain this?’ Carruthers pulled a folded up piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Barry Cuthbert. It was a copy of the newspaper clipping Fletcher had showed him. Cuthbert stared at the image in front of him.
‘It’s not a crime having a pretty girl on your arm, is it?’ he said.
Carruthers looked at Cuthbert’s blank expression. ‘It’s not so much the girl that interests me, Barry, as her tattoo.’ Carruthers delved into his pocket again, bringing out a second photograph. ‘It’s incredible what the IT guys can do nowadays. This is a blow-up of that tattoo. Take a look at it. Then take a close look at this second photograph.’ Carruthers handed him the photo. This time the image was of the dead girl and her tattoo blown up. The tattoos were identical.
