by Tana Collins
‘The tattoo on the ankle of the girl on your arm is identical to the tattoo on the dead girl,’ said Fletcher.
‘So what? Tats are popular. Doesn’t mean anything.’
‘No?’ said Carruthers. ‘Well apparently this tattoo does. I’ve spoken with the Estonian authorities and this tattoo is the mark of a notorious group of pimps in the Tallinn area. The Haravere gang. Heard of them? They tattoo their prostitutes, Barry. It’s a sign of ownership. They’re also people traffickers. And this symbol refers to Lucifer. Bit more than just a coincidence that the leader of the Haravere gang calls himself Kurat – the devil. Who was the girl on your arm, Barry? I want to know how to contact her.’ Carruthers could see Cuthbert’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed nervously.
Barry Cuthbert gave the photographs back to Carruthers. He shifted his weight from his right to his left foot. He resumed playing with his signet ring before running a finger round the inside of his collar. Carruthers took a step closer to him so Cuthbert would feel the hot breath in his ear. ‘Look, she was just a girl I met. To be honest, can’t even remember her name.’
‘Easy come easy go, eh, Barry? Is she a call-girl? I need to know where you met her. I want the name of that agency. You knew Marika Paju, didn’t you? Were you her lover, Barry? The father of her unborn child?’
‘No, of course not. Like I said, I don’t know any Marika Paju.’
Carruthers sought Cuthbert’s eyes with his own. Looked down on him. ‘I have no idea what part you played in the deaths of Marika Paju or Joe McGuigan, Barry, but I swear, if you were involved, I’ll bring you down.’ Cuthbert remained silent but Carruthers had noticed the colour had drained from him. But as he said it he realised that they still didn’t know for definite that this girl was Marika Paju.
‘Nothing to say, Barry? That’ll be a first.’ Carruthers looked around him. ‘Now I believe you were going to fetch me your shotgun licence. I’m afraid I’m going to have to look at your guns.’
‘I haven’t killed anybody,’ said Cuthbert.
‘Shotguns. I’d like to see them, please. Now.’
Barry Cuthbert led Carruthers and Fletcher through the drawing room to a study situated towards the back of his house. He took a key from his pocket, used it to open the desk drawer and produced a bunch of keys on a key ring. The two police officers followed Cuthbert through the hall to a small door at the end of the corridor. Cuthbert unlocked the room and stepped back to allow Carruthers and Fletcher to enter first.
‘As you can see I’m strict about security. This is the gun room. Have a look round. I have nothing to hide.’
As Carruthers walked to the centre of the room he saw a large glass cabinet filled with shotguns. Although the cabinet was locked the gun on the far left was missing.
‘Where’s the missing gun, Barry?’ asked Fletcher.
Cuthbert was frowning. He looked genuinely surprised. ‘I’ve no idea. It should be here.’
‘Who has a key to this cabinet and to the room?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Only myself and Derek Sturrock.’
‘Is he around at the moment?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Day off.’
Carruthers turned to Fletcher. ‘Let’s get ourselves over to Sturrock’s.’ He turned back to a flustered-looking Barry Cuthbert. ‘Don’t leave Scotland anytime soon, Barry. We’ll be back. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give Sturrock the heads-up that we’re on our way.’
‘Do you think Cuthbert will warn Sturrock?’ said Fletcher as they reached the car.
Carruthers was grim-faced. ‘We’re about to find out.’
Twenty minutes later Carruthers and Fletcher were rapping on the gamekeeper’s door. Fletcher was brushing the water off the bottom of her black trousers. They’d had had to wade through a stream that was rushing past Sturrock’s front door, way over the stepping stones. The rain had stopped but the wind was still picking up. Grey clouds were scudding across a darkening sky. The home was in a row of old cottages that reminded Carruthers of miners’ cottages. The door was opened by a pale middle-aged woman. She looked as washed-out as her faded summer dress. Hugging her ankles were a couple of young children. They looked like twins.
Both Fletcher and Carruthers fished out their badges. ‘We’re here to see Derek Sturrock. Is he in?’
The woman turned her back on them for a moment. ‘Deek,’ she shouted.
Derek Sturrock came down the stairs of the cottage tucking his T-shirt into his blue jeans.
‘We need to talk to you,’ said Fletcher. ‘About Joe McGuigan.’
Sturrock licked his lips nervously. He didn’t invite them in so they stood on the doorstep. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Joe McGuigan’s been found dead, Mr Sturrock. On West Castle Beach. The tide brought him in. He was killed by a single shot to the chest from a shotgun.’ Carruthers handed the photographs to Sturrock that had earlier been shown to Cuthbert and waited for his response. ‘You ever seen the effects of a shotgun blast? Course you have. You’re a gamekeeper. It’s not pretty. But perhaps you’ve never seen the effects on a human body before. Unless, of course, you were the one who fired the shot that killed Joe.’
Sturrock pushed Carruthers roughly aside and vomited into the shrubbery. Carruthers had the impression Sturrock hadn’t been warned by Cuthbert. Perhaps they weren’t particularly close, Sturrock and Cuthbert. Or maybe Cuthbert wanted to throw his gamekeeper to the wolves.
‘Sorry,’ Sturrock managed to say. He spat onto the ground. As he wiped his hand over his mouth, his eyes kept returning to the photographs. On his face was etched a mixture of horror and revulsion.
‘When did you last see Joe?’ asked Carruthers.
Sturrock thought for a moment. ‘About six o’ clock on Wednesday. Knocking off time.’
‘Was he going straight home?’ said Fletcher.
‘No idea. We don’t tend to talk about stuff unless it’s work-related.’
‘At the moment you’re the last person to see Joe McGuigan alive,’ said Fletcher.
‘We want to know what’s going on, Derek,’ said Carruthers. ‘Second dead body on a Fife beach within a week. It’s making us look bad.’ Carruthers paused for a moment before continuing. ‘There’s a shotgun missing from Cuthbert’s gun cabinet,’ he added. ‘Where is it? Have you got it?’
‘No,’ said Sturrock. ‘I keep my own. I dinnae use the boss’s.’
That’s not what Cuthbert said, thought Carruthers. ‘We need it. Your gun.’
‘Oh no,’ said Sturrock, ‘you’re not planting this one on me. I havenae killed him.’
‘Then who has?’ asked Fletcher. ‘Barry Cuthbert?’
Sturrock remained silent.
‘We know it was you and Joe up on the cliffs that day when the girl’s body was found,’ said Carruthers. Of course he didn’t know any such thing, but Sturrock didn’t need to know that. ‘You were out laying poison on Cuthbert’s orders. What part has Barry played in the girl’s death? We already know he’s up to his eyes in it. What’s more, he knows it, too.’ Carruthers allowed the pause to stretch a few moments longer than necessary before continuing. ‘What do you know about Cuthbert running prostitutes?’ Carruthers knew he was on very thin ice. After all, they had no evidence that linked Cuthbert to prostitutes except for a newspaper cutting. At least not yet. Whether he was linked to the dead girl, well, that was another matter.
‘What? Look I’m just a fucking gamekeeper. I ken nothing about hoors.’
‘But it was you laying poison that day, wasn’t it? On Cuthbert’s orders. We’ll find your prints on the binoculars. The binoculars that were at the scene of the crime.’ Of course, Carruthers knew no prints had been found on the binos. ‘It doesn’t look good. We also know about your criminal record and your boss’s criminal record. What’s your involvement in the girl’s death? Did you kill her, Derek? Is that what you did? She found you spreading poison, didn’t she, high up on those cliffs? Worked out what you were doi
ng. She may have been Eastern European but she still knew that poisoning birds of prey is a crime, punishable by a prison sentence. Of course you already had a criminal record, didn’t you? You wouldn’t want to go back inside.’
Even as Carruthers said it, it sounded like nonsense to his ears. You wouldn’t kill a woman to stop her reporting you for trying to poison birds of prey. The best she could give was a description to the police, by which point you’d be long gone from the scene. So why had she been killed and what, if anything, did McGuigan and Sturrock have to do with her death?
Carruthers felt something wet land on his hand and then something on his head. The rain was coming back on. He turned up the collar of his jacket. He was aware of Fletcher buttoning up hers.
‘Where does Joe McGuigan’s murder come in?’ said Fletcher. ‘McGuigan made the anonymous phone call, didn’t he? Wanted to tell the police. Became a loose cannon. After all, what else did he know that he might just tell the police about? Considered too much of a threat so he was taken out?’
Sturrock was silent.
‘I would start by telling us everything you know about Barry Cuthbert,’ said Fletcher.
‘He’s not likely to protect you, is he?’ said Carruthers. ‘We’ve just interviewed him. Asked him not to contact you and give you the heads-up. And by the look on your face when we told you of McGuigan’s death he didn’t, did he?’ Carruthers paused, to allow time for this to sink in. If he hoped Sturrock would crack, he was disappointed.
‘We want names of all his associates, but first of all we want to know where you were Wednesday evening. You can start by telling us where you were from the moment Joe McGuigan left work.’
‘I was with Barry and then I came home to my wife.’
‘How convenient. Two old lags together.’ Another heavy raindrop splattered by Carruthers’ feet. He hoped they’d be able to finish the conversation with Derek Sturrock before the heavens opened fully.
They left a jumpy Sturrock and headed back to the car. The drops of rain had turned into another downpour. Carruthers could hear the rain bouncing off the roof as they opened the car doors.
‘Well, you’ve got Sturrock’s cage rattled, that’s for sure,’ said Fletcher as she climbed into the driver’s seat. There was a deafening noise as hail like marbles started to hit the car roof.
‘Shit,’ said Fletcher pulling her door quickly closed. ‘Looks like we got in just in time. This weather’s unbelievable. One day blazing sunshine, the next a hailstorm. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to Scottish weather. How on earth do we manage hail in the middle of summer?’ She turned to Carruthers. ‘Do you think Sturrock’s responsible for McGuigan’s death?’
‘By his reaction, I’d say no,’ said Carruthers. ‘I find it interesting Cuthbert didn’t try to contact him before we got there.’ He stared out of the window at the blanket of white appearing as if by magic as the layer of ice-balls covered the ground.
‘I get the feeling Barry Cuthbert knows how to look after Barry Cuthbert,’ said Fletcher. She started the engine to the sound of the battering hail.
Carruthers stirred his coffee. An idea was coming into his head. He kept batting it away but it just kept coming back. It sounded ludicrous, even to himself. And yet… Looking at his watch he made a decision. Grabbing the detested paperwork Bingham wanted him to do, he pulled his jacket off the back of his chair, swept up his mobile and car keys.
‘Is this weather set in for the rest of the day, do you know?’ he said to Brown on the way out.
Brown shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Think it’s due to blow itself out. Supposed to be dry later.’
Good, thought Carruthers. One less obstacle.
Once back in his cottage he showered, changed his clothes, pulled on hill-walking trousers and a T-shirt and headed out to the award-winning Anstruther Fish Bar. Settling himself in a seat by the window he people-watched while tucking in to haddock and chips washed down with a mug of tea.
He looked at his watch once more. It was seven o’clock. No doubt Bingham would be at Cuthbert’s by now. He wondered idly which external caterers the man would be using. A dark-haired waitress collected his plate and while he waited for another mug of tea, he pulled the paperwork out of a rucksack and made a start on Bingham’s figures.
Just after eight, he gathered his belongings and squeezed past a queue of people waiting to be seated. He walked towards the cobbled harbour to his car and opened the driver’s door. While looking at the bobbing boats, he threw his rucksack onto the passenger seat then got into the car and set off with one aim in mind. Stake out Cuthbert’s estate.
He pulled up in a country lane just yards from the main entrance. Brown had been right. The rain had finally stopped. Carruthers reached over for his rucksack. Dragged it over to his lap, unzipped it and grabbed his binoculars. Trained them on the house. The wall was obscuring all downstairs rooms. Swearing, he started the car up again and drove round the estate looking for a gap in the wall, anything so he could get a better view. He finally settled for a layby, parked up and got out. Immediately he planted his foot it went cold. He’d stepped straight into a deep puddle. ‘Fuck,’ he said. He walked to the back of the car, opened the boot, leant in, pulled out a pair of latex gloves from a box and stuffed the gloves in his trouser pocket. You never knew when they might come in useful. Shutting the boot, he walked away from the car. Nicked through a hole in the old stone wall and positioned himself behind a clump of trees.
Training the binoculars on the downstairs drawing room he had a good view of the guests. There were maybe twenty people in the room. Cuthbert had plumped for a buffet rather than a sit-down meal. People were standing talking in groups of threes and fours. The men wearing evening suits, the women long evening dresses. No sign yet of Bingham. And no sign of estate manager, Pip McGuire.
A light suddenly switched on in an upstairs room. It looked like a study. A familiar figure came into view. Barry Cuthbert. And who was that with him? Could it be Derek Sturrock? It looked like him. Carruthers licked his lips. The men were arguing. That much was clear. Sturrock was angry, he appeared to be shouting. Cuthbert was calmer. Carruthers could hazard a guess at what they were discussing.
Carruthers craned his neck, putting the binoculars to his eyes. He edged closer but the closer he got the less he saw as his view was now being blocked by trees. He needed to hear what they were discussing. Saw a window open on the second floor. Wondered if he would be able to access it by climbing up the outside of the building. A bat flew low overhead making him aware twilight was falling. From somewhere far off he heard the hooting of an owl. He was also aware he was out of shape, wasn’t as young as he used to be and that this endeavour was nothing short of foolishness. He hesitated for a few seconds, wondering what this would do to his already dented career.
Finally he decided this was the best opportunity he was going to get and at least it wasn’t as bad as punching a fellow officer… was it? He made his move.
Pulling the latex gloves out of his pocket he carefully put them on. Taking a deep breath he stealthily climbed up a drainpipe, grateful for his decision not to wear jeans. Despite not having the best diet he had twenty years of hill-walking and scrambling behind him. His one concession to fitness. He was also as lean as a whippet. He ignored that one foot felt heavier than the other because it was wet. The gloves seemed to hold so that was fine.
Suddenly he heard voices outside the building and immediately beneath him. He froze. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted upwards. Not daring to look down, hardly daring to breathe, Carruthers clung to the drainpipe. He stayed there motionless, praying that the men wouldn’t look upwards. They didn’t. But they said nothing interesting either. Carruthers cursed to himself. It was only when their voices became more distant that he allowed himself to expel a long anxious breath. Realising this was utter recklessness, he attempted to climb back down the drainpipe.
He didn’t make it. He lost his grasp of the pipe then his footi
ng and as he fell he made a desperate grab for the piping, a section of which came away in his hand. He felt himself falling through space, landing on a rhododendron bush that broke his fall. He bashed his arm on a branch, felt a sudden sharp pain. He fell from the branch onto the ground, landing awkwardly, banging his knee. He gave an involuntary cry. He got onto his feet as quickly as he could and stood behind an old oak tree, ripping the latex gloves off and nursing his bleeding arm.
‘I’m telling you, I heard something outside.’ The voice belonged to Barry Cuthbert. ‘Go outside and ’ave a look. I’m not ’aving gate-crashers. We’re accommodating a special guest soon.’
Carruthers stayed sitting behind the tree. Wasn’t sure how long for. Long enough to notice twilight turn to an inky darkness, giving him some much-needed camouflage. He suddenly heard voices coming closer. Took a few slow, shallow breaths.
A gruff male voice said, ‘Told him there’s no one out here. It’s foxes. He’s fucking paranoid. Still, no harm in having a quick look. At least this way we’ve done our job.’
‘So, do you ken who this special guest is, then?’
‘Nah. And best not to ask questions. You’ve seen what happens to people who ask too many questions. All I know is, he’s flying in.’
Carruthers was listening intently. Cuthbert accommodating a special guest? Flying in? At last, something interesting to be heard. Carruthers frowned. Where would he be flying in to at this time of night? And what about the other bit? What exactly did he mean by that? Well, one thing was certain, he wasn’t going to have an early night. His curiosity was piqued – he would have to stay here until this VIP arrived.
He hobbled back to his car still holding the gloves. Opened the car door and threw them on the passenger seat. Knew he had some tablets in the glove compartment. Popped two from the blister pack then looked round the car for a bottle of water. He was in luck. Underneath some empty crisp packets and the remnants of a takeaway he found a half-drunk bottle of Highland Spring. With difficulty he unscrewed the top, popped the two painkillers in his mouth and took a slug. He sat in his car surveying the damage. His hill-walking trousers were ripped where he’d fallen.
