Avenge the Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Can you think of any recent problems he had with anyone here? Any bad fallout with another kid? Girl trouble?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. His work had fallen away a bit in recent months and he’d become a bit more mouthy with a few of the teachers, but he was a teenage boy so that was all fairly par for the course. No red flags as far as the school was concerned.’

  ‘Did he have a best friend? Someone he was especially close to?’

  ‘He did. A lad called George McLeish. They were inseparable until he contracted meningitis six months ago. Dead within the week. It affected Aaron badly.’

  ‘McLeish? I don’t suppose you know whether George had a big brother called Barry?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He came through the school as well. Always in trouble of one sort or another. No real badness in him, though, and he always had a twinkle in his eye. Both lads came from quite a volatile home environment.’

  ‘Did Aaron have a locker at the school?’

  ‘Yes, all the kids do.’

  ‘Can you open it for me?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really,’ he said.

  ‘Aaron was murdered. It could provide crucial evidence. I could come back with a search warrant, but it will only delay matters further.’

  ‘Very well, come with me.’

  The corridors were quiet as they walked through the school, hearing snatches of lessons leaking out from the classrooms.

  Mr Layden paused in front of Aaron’s locker and inserted the key. The inside of the door was personalized with gig tickets. PC Green felt a lump in her throat at the thought Aaron had opened it up only yesterday, not realizing it would be his last day alive and that these tiny trophies would be among the final traces of his existence.

  She gloved up before examining the contents. In it was a clean gym kit, folders, jotters and a maths text book. There was also a schoolbag which she would have thought should have gone home with him yesterday. She unzipped it and peered in. Her heart started pounding as she realized that she was probably staring at wraps of cocaine with a street value of well over two thousand pounds.

  Chapter 26

  Farrell and Mhairi grabbed two coffees from The Waterfront and took them across to a bench overlooking the river where they couldn’t be overheard. A couple of swans glided serenely past and the seagulls whooped and plunged all around them. Mhairi slipped her jacket off and turned her white face up to the sun like a plant seeking salvation. Farrell lit a cigarette, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  ‘Frank Farrell, when are you going to give up that disgusting habit?’

  He inhaled deeply as though he was trying to drag every last molecule of nicotine into his lungs.

  ‘You sound like my mother.’

  She thumped him on the arm.

  ‘Don’t ever say that to me again.’

  He grinned at her then turned to look out over the sparkling waters of the River Nith which ran through the town.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Like I could stop you,’ he retorted.

  ‘Do you feel happier now you’ve turned your back on the Church?’

  He froze. She bit her lip and pressed on. ‘I mean now you’re smoking, boozing, fornicating …’

  His startled eyes met hers.

  ‘Just kidding. That got your attention.’

  ‘Mhairi, I don’t think it’s any of your—’

  ‘It’s just that you don’t seem happier to me. I admit I never had much time for God myself, but you were different. It lit you up.’

  ‘Like Ready Brek,’ he said, always one to deflect with a joke.

  ‘Something like that.’ She smiled. Oh, what was the use? It was like trying to pry open a clam. Some things were just too broken to fix.

  Farrell glanced at his watch.

  ‘Right then, time to head for the mortuary. Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.’

  Mhairi groaned.

  She was dreading this one. Post-mortems were bad enough but this time it was a kid.

  Once suitably attired they walked through to join Roland Bartle-White. Sandy Gillespie was also in attendance, but there would be no jokes today. As his serious eyes met hers, Mhairi nodded. He looked as sad as she felt about the violent death of a young lad who had barely started living.

  The young pathologist removed the sheet and Mhairi tensed. She took an involuntary step closer but retreated when Bartle-White held up his hand.

  ‘Is that a Panopticon tattoo on his hip?’ she asked.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Bartle-White replied. ‘Done relatively recently, I should think.’

  A digital image of the tattoo was taken by Sandy Gillespie and the two men completed their painstaking external physical examination before turning to the stab wound.

  ‘As expected, cause of death is one incision but inflicted with enough force to penetrate the spleen. He would have bled out in minutes,’ said Bartle-White into his Dictaphone.

  ‘Can you determine whether the same knife stabbed Gina Campbell and Aaron Sullivan?’ asked Farrell.

  Roland Bartle-White straightened and stared at them with his chilly grey eyes. He got annoyed when they interrupted his flow, but he had to understand this was a murder investigation not a lecture hall.

  ‘I am not engaged in the realm of speculation, DI Farrell. It is impossible to say without having the actual knife employed. However, I can say that if it wasn’t that knife, it would likely be a fairly similar one in terms of size and blade. Will that suffice?’

  ‘Any sign of drug use?’ asked Farrell.

  Bartle-White straightened up after a few minutes.

  ‘None that I can see. No obvious signs such as track marks or injection sites. No sign of damage to the nasal membranes. Perhaps he hadn’t gone that far yet. Toxicology might throw some light on that. I’ll also test some of his hair, which can give a fairly accurate indication, not only of what he ingested but how long ago.’

  Despite the temperature-controlled chill, sweat trickled and pooled down at the base of Mhairi’s back. The room began to sway a little. The smell of formaldehyde and blood was overpowering. She swallowed and excused herself under the pretext of having a call to make.

  Once outside, she sat on a wooden bench and took several deep breaths until the nausea subsided. Despite the beauty of the morning she felt wretched. Was there no end to the pain and suffering around her? Maybe she should take a leaf out of Farrell’s book and become a nun, join a contemplative order. She imagined wafting about in gilded serenity. Then she thought of the unflattering headgear and sensible shoes. Not a chance. She was still smiling to herself when Sandy Gillespie rushed out the door she had just come through, his brows creased in worry.

  ‘Oh, there you are.’ He sounded relieved, as he sat beside her. ‘Are you all right? I didn’t quite buy the phone-call thing.’

  ‘Sorry to be a walking cliché,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve attended loads of these. It just got to me because it was a kid. That and the smell.’

  ‘Not to mention Bartle-White droning on in his boring monotone.’

  ‘I don’t know how you stand it day in and day out.’

  ‘That’s only one part of the job. I find pathology fascinating, a bit like being a detective but all your clues are in one place. I think your job’s far harder. Dealing with people who are alive? No thanks. Give me a nice juicy corpse any day of the week.’

  ‘You do know who you’re talking to, right? Next thing you’ll be telling me you live with your mother.’

  ‘Er, I do live with my mother.’ He looked away.

  Mhairi felt her skin flush. Her and her big mouth.

  He turned back to her with a grin.

  ‘Just kidding.’

  ‘You’re as bad as Frank Farrell.’ She glared at him.

  ‘I choose to take that as a compliment,’ he said, getting up. ‘Well, I’d best get back in. I’ll see you around. If you have any questions or you’d like to meet up sometime for a drink, here’s my car
d.’

  Mhairi took it dumbfounded. The cheek of the man! It didn’t stop the small smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

  She had no intention of calling him. However, she placed it carefully in her jacket pocket, just in case she had some burning question on forensics that needed answering.

  Keep telling yourself that, Mhairi, whispered the annoying little voice in her head that sounded eerily similar to her mother.

  Taking a deep breath she followed him back in.

  Chapter 27

  They headed gratefully out into the sunlight after the post-mortem. There had been no further insights gained, pending the remaining results coming through, which wouldn’t be for some time yet.

  ‘I think you’ve got a fan there,’ said Farrell, shooting her a sideways glance.

  ‘Bartle-White? I think he’s a bit old for me,’ she said.

  ‘You know perfectly well who I mean.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, pulling his card out of her pocket and waving it at him. ‘You mean Dr Sandy Gillespie?’

  ‘He didn’t waste much time. Are you going to meet up with him?’

  ‘Nosey much?’

  ‘Sorry, none of my business. He seems harmless enough, if you like inane chatter.’

  ‘I must do or I wouldn’t be partnered with you,’ she snapped.

  Farrell’s face tightened but he said nothing further.

  ‘What on earth is the deal with that Panopticon tattoo?’ asked Mhairi, keen to get back on to safer ground, as they got into the roasting hot Citroen. She quickly opened the windows before they became mummified corpses themselves.

  ‘It’s so creepy,’ she went on. ‘The idea that someone is watching you all the time and knows everything you’re up to. Of course, I’m sure that the watcher would find some of us a little lacking in excitement,’ she said.

  He turned to her, startled.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I was only joking,’ she said, glancing at him.

  ‘No, not that, I meant “the watcher”. Do you think that’s what it is? He’s watching them and stalking them like a voyeur?’

  Mhairi shuddered.

  ‘God, I hope not. Could the tattoo be a gang thing?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘It could just be the latest fad,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘True, maybe we’re reading too much into it,’ said Farrell. ‘We need to canvas any local tattoo shops, and if it’s a current fad or fashion, they’ll be able to tell us.’

  As they drew near the Kerr household they could see that the street had been overrun by public school media types rushing around with cables and furry microphones and hair that didn’t move in the breeze. One of these unlovely creatures was shouting through the letterbox.

  Farrell leapt out the car, with Mhairi at his heels, and roared at the spotty youth with the slicked back hair and no manners.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at? Get back to the pavement before I charge you with a breach of the peace. Move it!’ he yelled looking sufficiently wild-eyed and unpredictable for the suit to decide discretion was the better part of valour and leg it down the path.

  It would not keep them at bay for long.

  Farrell rang the doorbell and himself shouted through the letterbox, the irony not lost on him.

  ‘Sarah, it’s DI Farrell and DS McLeod. Can you let us in?’

  For an awful moment they thought she wasn’t going to and they would have to beat a humiliating retreat, but the door opened a crack and her white face peered out. This triggered a burst of camera flashes from frustrated journalists. She admitted them and quickly slammed the door, sliding the chain across.

  ‘Those bastards have been here all morning,’ she shouted. ‘They’re doing my head in. Can’t you make them leave or something?’

  The phone was lying in bits on the floor after she’d clearly thrown it against the wall in a fit of rage.

  Farrell felt bad for her. They should have foreseen this. Trouble was they were severely overstretched.

  ‘I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer over and an officer to stand guard at your gate,’ he said.

  Mhairi took out her phone and walked into the hall.

  ‘Thank you. Sorry. It’s all been a bit much,’ she said, collapsing onto the sofa. ‘I’ve been up all night. Aaron stormed out again yesterday. After you two had gone I’d got on at him about his exams, how he had to work harder if he wanted to get on in life. If I’d only known that would be our last conversation.’ She broke down in tears.

  Farrell felt helpless in the face of her grief.

  Mhairi came back in. She sat beside Sarah and enfolded her hand in two of her own.

  ‘PC Joanne Burns is on her way along with another officer to prevent access by the press.’ She glanced at Farrell. He nodded.

  ‘PC Rosie Green went to the school this morning to gain access to Aaron’s locker. There was a backpack inside.’

  She showed Sarah a picture on her phone.

  ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

  Sarah looked.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not his schoolbag, it’s just an old one he uses for going to the gym or to stay with a mate.’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m afraid it was full of drugs,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘What? That’s impossible! They can’t have been his.’

  Farrell and Mhairi said nothing, allowing the information to sink in.

  ‘What kind of drugs?’ she whispered after a few moments.

  ‘We won’t know for sure until tests have been carried out,’ said Mhairi. ‘But it looks like cocaine.’

  ‘I’d like to search his bedroom, if you don’t mind,’ said Farrell. ‘We’re also going to need to remove any electronic devices or computers.’

  ‘Do what you have to, DI Farrell. It’s up the stairs and first on the left.’

  ‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘My husband should be here,’ she said with a tinge of bitterness. ‘He always manages to put his clients before his family. Our son was dealing drugs? How could we have missed this?’

  ‘I’m sure your husband will get away just as soon as he can,’ said Mhairi, giving her hand a squeeze before getting to her feet.

  ‘Oh, one more thing. Did you know that your son had a tattoo?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. What kind of tattoo?’

  Mhairi showed her an identical image of the one from the post-mortem.

  Sarah shook her head and shrugged.

  ‘It means nothing to me. Hardly seems to matter now, does it?’ Her lips pressed tightly together to avoid crying.

  Aaron Kerr’s bedroom showed that he wanted for nothing. There was an expensive laptop sitting on a study desk and the latest games console with a good selection of games beside it. The wardrobe was well-stocked with all the latest teenage gear.

  Farrell groped along the high shelves and on top for anything concealed from prying eyes. Mhairi crouched down and raked about carefully on the bottom of the wardrobe and under the bed, pulling everything out to examine it. Together, they lifted the mattress and extracted some computer magazines.

  ‘At least it’s not porn,’ she said.

  ‘All that stuff is online nowadays,’ said Farrell. ‘Or so I’m led to believe.’

  Mhairi was about to put them back when a twenty pound note fluttered to the floor. Farrell replaced the mattress and she carefully flicked through the magazines. They were stuffed with well-pressed twenty pound notes.

  ‘I reckon we’ve found his drug money,’ said Farrell.

  They bagged up the computer and games console and also removed the magazines.

  By the time they returned downstairs, PC Joanne Burns was installed and a bulky uniform was stationed outside the front gate looking suitably menacing.

  Farrell took a moment to show Sarah the magazines and the money contained within. Given her husband’s occupation he didn’t want any suggestion that he had planted
evidence to rear its head.

  Sarah Kerr shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘But there’s hundreds of pounds there. What did he need all that money for? It’s not as though we kept him short. He could’ve come to us if he was in trouble.’

  ‘I’m hoping that once our techs get into his computer and social media accounts we’ll get a better idea of what was going on,’ said Farrell.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ said Mhairi. ‘Teenage boys his age are notoriously secretive.’

  Chapter 28

  It was hot and stuffy in the interview room. Farrell and Mhairi stared at the barman from the Pig and Whistle. Hamish McTaggart was a thickset, mulish man in his late forties with a gut that strained against the buttons of his polyester shirt. He folded his arms defensively.

  The two detectives glanced at each other in frustration. This guy was absolutely determined not to play ball. Talk about hear no evil, see no evil.

  Farrell leaned across the table and stopped the tape.

  ‘Interview suspended at 14.06.’

  ‘Look, Hamish, I get that you’re no fan of the police. However, a young lad of fifteen lost his life last night, so I’m at a loss to understand why you won’t tell us what happened.’

  The man shifted in his seat. ‘That was nothing to do with me. I know what you coppers are like. I open my mouth, you’ll be charging me with all sorts.’

  ‘Look, if you’re simply worried about serving someone underage, then I can take that off the table right now. When I saw the lad he was quiet and sober. Murder trumps underage drinking. Answer our questions fully and we can guarantee no criminal charge for that.’

  ‘Equally,’ said Mhairi, ‘if you choose to hinder our investigation we’ve got no reason to do you a favour.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss about that. It was before 8 p.m. and the lad was in with an adult having a meal. It’s not as though I served him alcohol.’

  ‘What’s your problem then?’ said Farrell.

  ‘Some proper hardmen come in the boozer. If word gets back to them I’ve been squealing to you lot, I’m going to be in far more trouble than you can dish out.’