Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

  ‘And presumably the handbag opened and some of its contents spilled out?’

  ‘Looks that way, sir, yes.’

  Warburton put on a pair of reading glasses and took a file from his desk, then flipped it open. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Haddington Police interviewed Mr Peter Taylor at length. Says here he left his home at Maynard Road in Longniddry at approximately 5.40am this morning. Joined the beach at the junction of the A198 and B1348 and proceeded west towards Longniddry Bents.

  ‘The tide was out, of course, and his dog had the run of the beach.’ Warburton paused and adjusted his glasses. ‘The dog stopped opposite sand dunes and began rooting around in the shingle. The animal took something in its mouth, ran back to his owner, and dropped it at his feet.

  ‘Mr Taylor realised it was a make-up compact, and walked over to the rocks where the dog had found it. There he saw several other items – a pocket-mirror, a nail file and a lipstick among them. He became suspicious, then looked to the sand dunes and saw a pair of shoes. He went to investigate and came upon the body.’

  ‘Like I mentioned, sir, it’s likely her killer ditched the handbag in an attempt to hamper identification. DS Beattie thinks it might wash ashore somewhere along the coast. I called Haddington on the way back. They’ve agreed to send some officers to conduct a search.’

  ‘Might prove fruitful, Jack,’ Warburton said, ‘and there’s certainly no harm trying. Meanwhile, though, we’ll need every available CID officer on the case without delay. Which is why I’ve been in touch with the other two members of your team.’

  ‘Hathaway and Mason,’ Knox said. ‘They’re off duty this weekend.’

  ‘Were off duty,’ Warburton corrected. ‘Sorry, Jack, needs must. I’ve had to bring them in.’ He placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. ‘But there’s more. Due to the seriousness of this case, I thought I’d better consult the boss.’

  ‘The Chief Constable?’

  ‘Yes,’ Warburton said. ‘And I’m afraid he’s of the opinion it should be handled by Police Scotland’s head office.’

  Knox pulled a face. ‘Gartcosh? We’re being relegated to second team?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Jack. However, you do realise the predicament? We’re at the height of the Festival and the world’s media is camped on our doorstep. The force has got to be seen to be pulling out all the stops. Another time, perhaps, he’d have been happy to let us handle it ourselves.’

  Knox gave a resigned shrug. ‘Who are they sending?’

  Warburton returned the folder to the desktop and picked up a spiral-bound notebook. ‘Not sure if you know any of them; I certainly don’t. They’re all based in the west of Scotland.’

  He ran a finger down the page and continued, ‘There are four: DCI Alan Naismith, the man in charge. The others are DI Charles Reilly, DS Gary Herkiss and DS Arlene McCann.’

  Knox shook his head. ‘You’re right, I don’t recognise the names.’

  Warburton nodded and checked his watch. ‘Okay, it’s ten-fifteen. Head Office told me to expect them around noon. I’d appreciate it if you’re here when they arrive, Jack. I’d like you to bring Naismith up to speed. The DCI can use my office. I’m being transferred to St Leonard’s for the duration.’

  Knox took his leave and walked over to Fulton’s desk and broke the news. His partner shook his head in dismay. ‘So, we’re being asked to play second fiddle to our cousins in the west. With four extra bodies I’m surprised the DCI felt the need to call on Mark and Yvonne.’

  ‘According to Warburton, it was the Chief Constable’s idea. Hands to the pump and all that.’

  Fulton grimaced. ‘I imagine they’ll be ecstatic.’

  ‘Nature of the job, Bill. You and I have had the same experience.’

  Fulton gave a shrug but said nothing.

  Knox took out his mobile and flicked through its address book. He found the number he was looking for and pressed call.

  A few moments later, a voice answered, ‘Radio Forth newsroom, Glenn Carnegie speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Glenn, it’s Jack Knox.’

  Carnegie’s voice changed; his tone now much friendlier. ‘Morning, Jack. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, Glenn. Look, there’s been a murder. The body of a young girl was found at Longniddry this morning. Can you run it now if I give you the details? We urgently need to locate her next of kin.’

  ‘Fire away, Jack,’ Carnegie said. ‘Anything I can do to help.’

  * * *

  ‘Call just came in from a Mrs Ellen Fairbairn, boss,’ DC Mark Hathaway said.

  It was an hour after Radio Forth had broken the story, and Knox and Fulton were at their desks in the Major Incident office. Hathaway was red-haired and in his early thirties, and was seated near the fourth member of the team, DC Yvonne Mason, a trim brunette half a decade younger.

  ‘Switchboard passed it through a minute ago,’ Hathaway continued. ‘Her daughter, Connie, didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘How old is she?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Nineteen,’ Hathaway said. ‘Apparently she phoned her mother just after eleven last night. She and a friend went to a pub in the Grassmarket after work. She told her mother they were going on to a club in the Cowgate and she’d be home after two. That’s the last her mother heard. She’s tried calling her daughter’s mobile but isn’t getting an answer.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Where does Mrs Fairbairn live?’

  ‘Moredun,’ Hathaway said. ‘18 Capercaillie Way. It’s near the Royal Infirmary.’

  ‘Okay, Mark,’ Knox said, then nodded to Mason. ‘Yvonne, will you and Mark drive up there and talk to the woman. See if it’s the victim or another misper?’

  Mason stood, took a smartphone from her handbag and flicked through some images. She smiled at Knox and nodded. ‘Just making sure I had the forensic team’s shot of the murdered girl, boss. I’ll get Mrs Fairbairn to show me a photo of her daughter.’

  ‘Good,’ Knox said. ‘Mightn’t be her, but it’s better to be sure.’

  * * *

  The Gartcosh team arrived a few minutes after twelve. Naismith led his officers upstairs to the detective suite and popped his head around the door. Knox and Fulton were hunched over their computers, checking messages received in response to Radio Forth’s broadcast.

  ‘DI Knox?’ he said.

  Knox turned, then rose and extended his hand. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘I take it you’re DCI Naismith?’

  Naismith gave a confirmatory nod, shook his hand, then ushered in the others and made introductions. ‘Wasn’t sure if we were in the right place at first,’ he said. ‘Thank God for sat nav, eh?’

  Knox said, ‘You managed to get parked okay? I kept a couple of spaces vacant.’

  ‘Aye, Jack, thanks,’ Naismith replied, then waved to the surroundings. ‘This is the Major Incident Inquiry office?’

  Knox shrugged. ‘Afraid so, sir. I daresay it’s a bit cramped compared to what you’re used to.’

  Naismith smiled and shook his head. ‘No, Jack, it’s fine.’ He set down his briefcase and added, ‘And it’s Alan, by the way.’ He gestured to the others, indicating each in turn. ‘Charlie, Gary and Arlene. I think it better if we keep it informal, don’t you?’

  Knox nodded, then gave the Gartcosh team a quick appraisal. The DCI was in his late fifties, lantern-jawed, a good head taller than his colleagues. Despite the warm weather, Knox noticed he was wearing a pair of stout brown leather brogues.

  Reilly was around the same age as Knox, but pale-skinned. He sported a pencil moustache so thin Knox’s first thought was that it had been drawn on his lip.

  Herkiss was a few years younger, heavy-set and, judging by his waistline, looked like he had a weight problem.

  Of the four, McCann was the least like a detective, appearing diffident, even reserved.

  Knox motioned to Warburton’s room. ‘Your office is over there, Alan.’

  Naismith nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said, then rubbed his hands toge
ther. ‘Okay, to business,’ he added, then turned to face Knox. ‘I’ve taken a look at your file, Jack, and I’m quite impressed. You’ve been in CID since 1993?’

  ‘1992,’ Knox said. ‘I was a DS in Peebles until 2002, when I applied for a posting to St Leonard’s.’

  ‘And you made DI in 2003?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Naismith said. ‘Your homicide experience is extensive.’ He paused and added, ‘Okay, Jack, you’ll lead the investigation. I’ll chip in here at the station, of course – once suspects come in for interview, that sort of thing. My team will work with you, give you every support.’

  He glanced at the other Gartcosh officers and said, ‘You’re all okay with that?’

  Herkiss and McCann nodded agreement, but Reilly cleared his throat and said, ‘You’re sure DI Knox has the right qualifications, sir? I’m not questioning your judgement, but I’ve successfully concluded four homicides in almost as many months.’

  Naismith considered this for a long moment, then replied, ‘You’re right, Charlie. Both you and Jack are equal in experience and ability.’

  He put a hand on Reilly’s shoulder. ‘No disrespect, son, but Edinburgh is Jack’s fiefdom. Local knowledge is an asset that can’t be discounted.’

  Naismith paused again and added, ‘In my opinion, that gives him the edge, don’t you agree?’

  Reilly’s expression made it obvious he wasn’t happy with the DCI’s decision. Several moments passed, then Naismith repeated, ‘Do you agree, Charlie?’

  Reilly gave a reluctant nod. ‘Yes, sir. I agree.’

  ‘Good,’ Naismith said, then turned to Knox. ‘Now, Jack, the other two members of your team. Hathaway and…?’

  ‘Mason.’

  ‘Aye, Mason. They’re chasing up a lead?’

  ‘Gone to talk to a Mrs Fairbairn on the south side of the city. Local radio ran a report on the murdered girl a couple of hours ago. The woman phoned in to say her daughter was missing.’

  Chapter Four

  18 Capercaillie Way was a small, semi-detached house situated at the end of a cul-de-sac off Moredun Park Road, a stone’s throw from the Royal Infirmary.

  Hathaway and Mason exited the car and were halfway along the path when the door opened and a middle-aged woman looked out.

  ‘You’re police?’ she said. ‘You’ve heard from Connie?’

  Mason took out her warrant card and held it aloft. ‘Mrs Fairbairn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Mason and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Hathaway.’ She gestured towards the entrance. ‘Is it okay to come in?’

  Mrs Fairbairn held open the door and stood to one side. ‘Of course.’

  She ushered the detectives into the living room. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘take a seat.’

  Mason and Hathaway did so, then Mrs Fairbairn sat on a matching armchair and said, ‘I was asking if you’d heard anything.’

  Mason shook her head. ‘No, not yet.’ She motioned to Hathaway. ‘Details of your call were passed to my colleague only a short while ago. You said you spoke to your daughter at eleven last night. She mentioned she was going to a club?’

  ‘Yes. She said that she and Shona…’ Mrs Fairbairn paused and added, ‘Shona – that’s her friend’s name – were going to a club in the Cowgate.’ She shook her head. ‘She told me she’d be home after two.’

  ‘Where was Connie when she phoned, did she say?’

  Mrs Fairbairn nodded. ‘The Quaich pub in the Grassmarket. She and her friend often go there on a Friday after work.’

  ‘Did she say if they’d met anyone?’

  ‘Yes, she told me a couple of lads had asked them. To go to the dancing, I mean.’

  Mrs Fairbairn took a tissue from a box on a table next to her chair and clasped it in her lap. ‘This girl who was murdered,’ she said, her eyes brimming, ‘do you think…’ She trailed off, tears starting to run down her cheeks.

  ‘Could Connie have spent the night with her friend?’ Mason asked gently. ‘If they had difficulty getting a taxi?’

  Mrs Fairbairn shook her head. ‘I don’t see why she’d do that,’ she replied, dabbing her eyes. ‘Shona lives in Portobello, almost as far from the centre of town as we are.’

  ‘You tried phoning her friend?’ Hathaway said.

  ‘I don’t have her number.’

  ‘Do you know her surname?’ Mason asked.

  ‘No, sorry, I don’t.’ Her lips began to quiver. ‘It’s not like Connie not to let me know where she is,’ she added, then began sobbing. ‘Something terrible has happened. I just know it has.’

  Mason rose and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Look, Mrs Fairbairn,’ she said softly, ‘in the wee hours of Saturday morning, the taxi trade is very busy. More so at Festival time. Isn’t it just possible they got a cab and went to Shona’s place? Perhaps Connie’s battery ran down and she couldn’t phone and let you know.’

  Mrs Fairbairn brightened a little. ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ she conceded. ‘They might have had a wee bit to drink, too. Went straight to bed.’

  Mason nodded agreement. ‘We’ll find out Shona’s number, give her a ring. Put your mind at rest.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Mrs Fairbairn said, ‘That’s a comforting thought.’

  Mason smiled in response, then suddenly remembered. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to ask. Do you have a photograph of Connie you could let me see?’

  Mrs Fairbairn indicated a cabinet at the corner of the room. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  * * *

  He had a delivery at Pathhead Ford, ten miles south of Edinburgh. The parcel, addressed to a catering company, was marked urgent and had to be delivered by twelve. The storeman signed his docket, and at just after noon he was on the road back to the city.

  As he drove along the A68, he began to ruminate on the previous evening.

  They had remained in the Quaich until eleven, when Joe suggested they all go to Bungo’s, a club in the Cowgate. The women had agreed and they walked the short distance from the pub, arriving soon afterward.

  He knew he’d clicked with Connie as she never left his side, either on the dance floor or off. They remained at Bungo’s until one, when he offered her a lift home.

  Just before they left the club, Shona told them Joe had invited her for a curry at an all-night Indian place in nearby Forrest Road. Shona told Connie not to worry, she’d get a taxi home afterwards.

  His van was parked in Merchant Street, a ten-minute walk. When they arrived, he asked if she was interested in taking a drive. She readily agreed and they headed out of town.

  Although Connie hadn’t had much to drink, she appeared a little tipsy. He suggested stopping off at the beach at Longniddry, where the sea air might revive her. There were parking areas at the sand dunes, he said.

  She gave a wry smile – hinting that she knew what was on his mind. Her manner suggested she was quite willing, too.

  He parked the van and they lay on the dunes and began necking. He felt a stirring in his loins and began to explore her. She gave a low moan, then felt for his crotch and took him in her hand. As she did so, he quickly detumesced. Then she whispered softly, ‘It’s okay, John. Don’t worry. We’ll give it a wee while.’

  Then, just like the night at Doonan’s, it happened again.

  He seemed like an observer: watching as his hands encircled her neck and began squeezing her throat. She attempted to scream, but all that came out was a whimper.

  He experienced an overwhelming feeling of euphoria and lost consciousness.

  When he came to and saw Connie’s lifeless body, he felt remorse. Then the more calculating side of his nature reasserted itself.

  He realised he had to flee the scene, and quickly. His victim’s handbag lay near her body. He heard the sea pound the shore less than twenty yards distant. He took the bag, heaved it into the ocean, then ran back to the van and drove off.

  His though
ts returned to the present and he began to ponder each possibility; various scenarios spooling like a tape in his mind.

  It wouldn’t take the police long to trace her identity, he reasoned. It wouldn’t be long, either, until they discovered he’d been at the Quaich with Connie and the others.

  Joe and Shona could identify him, but neither had seen the van, nor knew of its existence. He’d been with Connie when she said goodbye to her friend. She hadn’t known then he was driving a van, so it was likely Shona would assume he had a car.

  What else might implicate him?

  Think.

  CCTV! Where – Bungo’s? Perhaps. The place had been busy and dark, though; and some kind of artificial smoke had swirled across the dance floor, pervading the premises.

  The roads? He couldn’t be sure. He had driven via the Old Dalkeith Road, joining the bypass at Sherrifhall Roundabout and the A1 at Old Craighall. He’d stuck with it all the way to the B6363 cut-off, and travelled the same route coming back, avoiding built-up areas. Consciously or unconsciously, he’d taken every precaution… hadn’t he?

  He nodded to himself as he merged with traffic joining the A772. There was a fair chance he hadn’t been picked up by CCTV cameras.

  And that was all that he needed.

  A fair chance.

  * * *

  Knox showed Naismith to his office, then took a large whiteboard from a cupboard and placed it near a window. He was in the process of assigning desks to the other Gartcosh detectives when he received Mason’s call.

  ‘Mark and I have just had it confirmed, boss,’ she told him. ‘The victim’s name is Connie Fairbairn.’

  ‘You identified her from the photograph?’

  ‘Yes. I checked it with the forensic team’s headshot of the deceased. One and the same. No question.’

  Knox nodded. ‘You’re still at Moredun?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Mark and I are in his car, outside Mrs Fairbairn’s house. Connie was an only child, and Mrs Fairbairn’s husband died a couple of years back. None of her relatives live locally. So, I called St Leonard’s and asked them to send down an officer trained in bereavement counselling. She and her colleague just arrived. They’re with Mrs Fairbairn now.’