‘I hope you understand, but I have to ask, sir … were you?’
‘A member?’ Cunningham laughed. ‘God no. I was rather dull by comparison. All about rugby and athletics in those days. Those that aspired to join were more your creative types with a penchant for Bacchanalian excess. Not my cup of tea. Anyway, I have it on good authority that Robert Granger rather blew their socks off with the audacity of his application. He sent in a video of him having sex with a girl who had a hood over her face and was tied to the bed, completely immobilized.’
‘Bastard,’ said Farrell, shaking his head. ‘He raped her?’
‘He claimed she had consented, but the identity of the girl in question was never established. No female ever came forward to make an allegation against him. They let him join their merry band.’
‘That speaks volumes about the rest of them,’ said Farrell.
‘The other thing of significance I uncovered was that in Robert Granger’s final year a girl was raped and murdered. Her name was Emily Drummond.’
‘Could it have been Granger?’
‘Well, that’s not who was put away for it. My source claimed that Granger was obsessed with Emily, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Farrell.
‘Anyway, Granger had a watertight alibi supplied by his high-powered parents and wasn’t regarded as a suspect, and they fingered a local lad for the crime, Tony Marino, who claimed he’d been seeing Emily at the time. Marino was nineteen then, eking out a living by supplying a bit of weed. He had a duty solicitor who apparently couldn’t be arsed and he was banged up for twenty years. He served every one of those years, as he maintained his innocence, so wasn’t eligible for parole.’
‘Where is he now?’ asked Farrell, his interest quickening.
‘Nobody knows. He did his time in Barlinnie and disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘A dead end,’ sighed Farrell.
‘It would appear so. I’ve made a note of his name, prison number and date of birth,’ he said, handing over a slip of paper.
‘Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.’
‘There’s one more snippet which might be of interest to you. Apparently, this club I mentioned adopted the Panopticon as their symbol. They were a fan of surveillance as a means of controlling information about their activities and keeping their members in line.’
‘This source of yours, sir, am I permitted to know who it is?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say. He only agreed to talk to me on the express condition that I not reveal his identity. If you have any further questions you’ll need to go through me.’
Chapter 58
Mhairi popped in to the interview room and sat down opposite Gabriel Ferrante. Capaldi had been sent back to his cell until Farrell arrived.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she smiled. ‘DI Farrell will be down in a minute. Can I get you a tea or a coffee?’
‘No, thank you. How’s your injury?’ he asked, gesturing towards her nose.
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said, making light of it, though truth be told, it was still bruised. ‘I was rather hoping for a break so I could ask for it to be remodelled along the lines of Taylor Swift.’
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Where have you been?’ She grinned.
‘Sorry, I’m not terribly au fait with popular culture.’
‘This must have come as rather a shock,’ she said.
‘There’s very little left in life that would shock me, DS McLeod,’ he said, with a weary smile.
‘I get that, in your line of work, but even so … the man works for you.’
‘I try not to be a fair-weather friend, DS McLeod.’
‘I’m impressed by your loyalty. I just hope that he deserves it.’
Ferrante looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes.
‘Why did you opt for criminal law? There must be a lot easier ways for a person with a law degree to earn a crust.’
‘I felt I had no choice. The poor and oppressed need a voice. Justice in this country is becoming once more the sole preserve of the rich and entitled. Some of us must redress the balance.’
‘That’s very noble of you. I gather that more and more defence lawyers are being forced out of the court by cuts to legal aid?’
‘Yes, it makes me worry about where society is headed. If justice cannot be seen to be done, then the citizens will eventually take matters in to their own hands.’
‘It’s already happening to some extent,’ said Mhairi. ‘You only have to look at what happens when someone suspects a paedophile is living in their street. A vengeful angry mob is conjured up by the click of a few buttons on social media.’
‘That’s true.’
The door opened and Joe Capaldi walked in with Farrell behind him.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Ferrante,’ said Farrell. ‘I had some urgent business to attend to.’
He switched on the recording device and they all identified themselves as present.
‘So, Mr Capaldi, we’ve received some information that implicates you in the murder of Aaron Sullivan. Can you account for your whereabouts that evening from 5.30 p.m. onwards?’
Capaldi looked at his boss who nodded encouragingly.
‘I locked up the office at the back of five and then went to the Pig and Whistle for a few beers.’
‘Did you meet with anyone there?’ asked Farrell.
‘Not that I recall,’ said Capaldi. ‘I go there to relax and unwind a bit, so I usually have a few beers and a read of the paper or watch sport. I may well have passed the time of day with someone if they spoke to me but that’s it.’
‘Did you see Aaron Sullivan in the pub?’
‘I didn’t know the murdered boy so I wouldn’t have noticed him if he was there.’
‘How about Barry McLeish?’
‘Who?’
‘Are you telling me you don’t know who Barry McLeish is either?’ said Farrell.
‘Correct.’
‘Maybe this will jog your memory?’ said Farrell sliding a photo of McLeish across the table.
Capaldi looked at it, his face immobile. ‘Nope, no clue.’
Mhairi could tell Farrell was grinding his teeth.
‘What time did you leave the pub?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Around eight thirty,’ said Capaldi.
‘Were you alone?’
‘At that point, yes I was.’
‘Where did you go then?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I went to Mr Ferrante’s flat,’ said Capaldi, looking shifty. ‘He lives above the office.’
It was obvious that he was lying. Mhairi glanced across at Gabriel Ferrante, allowing her disappointment in him to show in her eyes. He dropped his gaze.
‘And what were you doing there?’ Farrell asked.
‘We were working on some cases for court.’
‘And what time did you leave?’
‘I didn’t. I stayed the night. It was so late when we finished all the buses had stopped running.’
‘And can you corroborate Mr Capaldi’s alibi, Mr Ferrante?’ asked Farrell giving him a hard stare.
‘Yes,’ he answered, meeting it with an unflinching one of his own.
Farrell sat back in his chair and regarded them both.
‘A young boy of fifteen was murdered. He’d had a shitty break in life and been knocking around the care system for years. The Kerr family were going to adopt him. Then, in the blink of an eye it was all snatched away. He was discarded in an alley like a pile of rubbish. Like the shit on someone’s shoe. Don’t you think someone should pay for that crime?’ he said.
‘Someone always pays, DI Farrell, you can be sure of that,’ said Gabriel Ferrante.
‘Aaron Sullivan was running around with drugs in his schoolbag,’ said Mhairi, her lip curling with contempt as she looked at Joe Capaldi. ‘Did you supply him with those drugs or introduce hi
m to someone who did?’
‘On the advice of my solicitor, I wish to make no comment.’
‘Whether you stabbed him or not that kid died because of your actions, didn’t he?’ said Mhairi, her voice husky.
Farrell nudged her under the table with his foot. She was losing it.
‘On the advice of my solicitor I wish to make no comment,’ said Capaldi, his face closed off like he had already left the room.
This was getting them nowhere and in light of the alibi they had insufficient to charge him.
‘Interview terminated,’ said Farrell. ‘You’re free to leave after being discharged by the custody sergeant.’ He opened the door and showed them out.
‘Goodbye, DS McLeod,’ said Ferrante. ‘I hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances.’
Mhairi turned her head away, refusing to acknowledge him. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he followed Capaldi out of the room.
Chapter 59
The next morning Mhairi was sitting in her dressing gown nursing a cup of coffee at the small round table in the tiny garden when Farrell joined her after his morning run, breathing heavily. It was still only the back of six and they wouldn’t be leaving for another hour or so.
‘The coffee’s still warm,’ she said, pushing the cafetière towards him as he loosened off his muscles with some stretches.
‘Cheers,’ he said coming over to sit with her and pouring a cup for himself.
He really had no idea how fit he was, she thought, staring at him through narrowed eyes.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, just thinking,’ she replied.
‘Should I be worried?’ He grinned.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ she said, waggling her eyebrows at him.
They lapsed into comfortable silence. It was going to be another scorcher. Mhairi turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes, enjoying the scents of the summer morning and the sounds of the birds squabbling in the trees. It was like an antidote to the stress of the last few days. If only she could just sit here all day …
She awoke with a start as Farrell thumped down a plate of scrambled eggs and some orange juice in front of her.
‘Eat,’ he commanded. ‘We need to get going in half an hour.’
She sat up at once, embarrassed to have been caught napping like an old lady. She sensed a trail of drool snaking down her chin and tried to casually wipe it away.
‘Too late.’ He grinned.
Feeling flustered she scowled at him.
‘Your face will stay like that,’ he remonstrated. ‘Now eat your eggs.’
With a final glare for good measure she turned to her plate. Farrell was now dressed, his wet hair already starting to curl in the sun. He smelled good. She scowled at her thoughts. What the hell was wrong with her this morning?
Farrell laughed.
‘Are you having some kind of argument in that head of yours?’ he asked, looking amused.
‘Something like that.’
She must be coming down with a type of brain fever, she decided. Being cooped up with Frank Farrell for days on end in this heat must be sending her nuts. It would pass. It had to. Even she wasn’t that much of a masochist, surely?
It took them only one hour and forty minutes to reach Jedburgh. Once there, they headed for the local station down Castlegate, where Farrell had arranged to meet DI Bill Coburn who had been the investigating officer at the time.
As they entered a young PC jumped to his feet knocking the file he had been reading to the floor. He glanced at Mhairi and blushed.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ he asked, trying to recover his composure.
It was true what they said, thought Farrell, the policemen really were getting younger. This one wouldn’t look amiss in a school uniform.
‘DI Farrell and DS McLeod to see DI Coburn,’ he said.
‘Third room on the left,’ said the young officer and buzzed them through.
Farrell found the room and knocked lightly.
DI Coburn opened the door to them. He was a cadaverous man in his fifties with thinning hair and protruding sad brown eyes that looked like they’d seen a thing or two.
‘Welcome, sit yourselves down,’ he said. ‘I was intrigued to get your call after all this time. What can I do for you? Why are you interested in an accidental death from ten years ago?’
‘We suspect the ten-year anniversary of Colette Currie’s death may have acted as a catalyst for two ongoing investigations – murders – in Dumfries,’ said Farrell.
Bill Coburn whistled through his teeth.
‘I’m aware of the murders, of course. Every time I turn on the news, that harridan Sophie Richardson has been banging on about it. She makes it sound as if you lot are sitting on your arses twiddling your thumbs, which I highly doubt.’
‘I take it you’re not a fan then,’ said Mhairi with a smile.
‘You could say that. I’ve been roasted over her hot coals before.’
‘She’s a total nightmare,’ replied Mhairi. ‘We’re hoping that delving into this old case might give us some new leads to follow. If it gets Sophie Richardson off our backs for a while that would be a bonus.’
‘What can you tell us about the circumstances around the fire? Anything occur to you looking back now with the benefit of hindsight?’ asked Farrell.
‘Honestly? Nothing at all. I was SIO at the time. All the evidence pointed to a tragic accident. Of course, forensic science wasn’t as sophisticated then as it is now. There was no trace of an artificial accelerant. It looked like she’d taken her duvet downstairs to sit by the coal fire. In the absence of any indicators of foul play, it was surmised she’d fallen asleep and a spark had landed on the duvet, which caught alight.’
‘Did you consider the possibility that the fire might have been set to cover up her murder?’ asked Farrell.
‘Of course,’ said DI Coburn. ‘The body was discovered by the door. It bothered me that she had got so close to getting out. What had stopped her? Had she simply been overcome by the smoke?’
‘I gather no door keys were recovered at the scene,’ said Farrell in light of what Fergus Campbell had told him.
‘No, tragically there was a key right beside where she’d collapsed. The working theory at the time, in the absence of any foul play, was that she’d been fumbling in the dark, dropped it and not been able to find it again to unlock the door.’
Farrell glanced at Mhairi. Maybe there had been two keys?
‘What about the back door key?’ he asked.
‘That was a nonstarter. It had broken off in the lock so the door couldn’t be opened. The old lady hadn’t bothered fixing it and her nephew hadn’t had time to get around to it.’
‘Did you interview her colleagues who were staying at the guest house?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes, here are all the statements.’ He handed over a bulging file. ‘Take them.’
‘Thank you, we appreciate that,’ said Farrell. ‘You were the one who questioned them. Did you notice anything odd about their demeanour at the time?’
‘They were young and obviously in shock. All three of them looked like they’d had a good skinful the night before.’
‘Did the results of the post-mortem throw up anything unusual?’ asked Farrell.
‘It was hard to draw much in the way of conclusions from any external examination because of the burns. However, the toxicology report indicated that she’d ingested a considerable amount of alcohol. There was also evidence of both cannabis and ecstasy consumption.’
‘Was there anything else that stood out?’
‘Obviously the body was badly burned. However, someone did drive by the road end, see the flames and call it in, so they got her out before the fire had completely consumed her. I do recall that two different semen samples were obtained from the body.’
‘Did any of her friends admit to having had sex with her the night she died?’ asked Mhairi.
‘
We did follow that up but they all denied it. Given that they swore they’d been together the whole night and that we had no grounds to suspect that a crime had been committed, we couldn’t compel them to provide semen samples, and they declined to produce them voluntarily when asked.’
‘That’s a bit strange,’ said Mhairi.
‘She was young, perhaps blowing off steam,’ he said with a shrug.
‘But it was Jedburgh,’ persisted Mhairi. ‘She was here for work, had a fiancé at home. If it wasn’t the guys she was up here with then where would she even have had the opportunity to meet anyone else?’
‘What happened to the cottage? Has it been sold on?’ she asked, following another train of thought.
‘No, it’s a charred ruin. The buildings insurance had lapsed. Peter Swift never did anything with it. Either he didn’t have the money or he simply couldn’t face it. One way or another that poor bloke lost everything that night.’
Chapter 60
DS Byers and DC Thomson arrived at the morgue. Reluctantly they exchanged the sounds and smells of the balmy May day for the squelches and odours of a decaying human body. The chemical smells of formaldehyde and disinfectant were trying but failing to gain the upper hand.
Byers had crossed swords with Sheriff Granger a few times in court while giving evidence. Now, as he nodded to Roland Bartle-White and his assistant, Sandy Gillespie, it felt somewhat surreal to be staring at his naked body without the trappings of power.
‘DS Byers, observe the ligature marks around the neck,’ said Bartle-White. ‘The hyoid bone has fractured, which is consistent with hanging.’ He then pointed out areas where the blood had pooled in the body causing a reddened appearance in the skin. ‘If I had to make an informed guess, I would say that the lividity is consistent with him sitting for a time after death before he was hung up.’
‘That would fit with the stained carpet beneath the table in his chamber and the rather unpleasant smell,’ said Byers.
‘I assume that you seized any liquids in the room to test for toxins?’ said the pathologist.
‘Yes,’ said Byers. ‘We haven’t received the results back yet. Do you think that he was perhaps poisoned first?’
Avenge the Dead Page 21
