A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series)

by Stephen Coill

  ‘Take what you need for your research. The rest of the finds can go back to Dundee after their CSI people and Inspector Tyler have gone over them with you.’ Geary ordered.

  ‘I should stay really, there’s –’ Vasquez’s protest began.

  ‘Nothing you can do here until the police have finished,’ she cut in. ‘Oh and press Allyson on cross-matching of the DNA results.’

  ‘She’s your missus!’ He snapped back.

  ‘Don’t want to be accused of emotional blackmail,’ she retorted. Vasquez ignored her and began clattering and banging packing cases about in the tent like a sulky brat. ‘The rest of the crew may as well adjourn to the pub for now.’ Geary turned to fix Dunbar, who was still wrestling with the concept of Professor Holmquist being Geary’s wife. ‘Save me from moody academics. I thought we were supposed to be the unpredictable gender.’ Dunbar resisted the urge to comment.

  ‘E-Bee-Gee-Bee’s en route, sir,’ Tyler announced breathlessly, having had to hike up the nearest hill to find a signal on her phone. Professor Geary eyed her quizzically. ‘Our senior SOCO, the guy that was here yesterday,’ Tyler explained.

  ‘Suits him.’

  ‘Don’t use it within earshot though,’ Tyler cautioned. ‘Another moody bloke!’

  ‘Is there any other kind?’ Geary quipped as she turned to go, but hesitated. ‘I feel I must remain on site – as an observer,’ she added. ‘To preserve the integrity of any finds of archaeological and historical significance.’

  ‘Aye well, we could use another expert eye,’ Dunbar conceded.

  ***

  Dunbar wandered over to the spot where Shaggy had made his horrific discovery. The head was still lodged in the earth, canted over to the right. Partially exposed it cocked a gaping, empty eye socket upward surrounded by peeling, decomposed flesh. The grim death mask stared blindly back at him as if the victim had turned to look up to see who had disturbed their slumber. Stooping as low as his injured leg would allow he could still make out strands of grey hair amongst the fibrous soil.

  Zoe came alongside him, only for him to try and shield her from the grim find. She fixed him defiantly, cocked her head and skewed her lips into a goofy pout.

  ‘What? I dig up the dead for a living.’

  ‘I suppose,’ he replied softly. He found it hard enough to relax around his daughter at the best of times. So the presence of a partially decomposed head poking out of the ground only a few feet away, added to his discomfort.

  ‘This sort of complicates things for us all doesn’t it?’ she said, staring at the head.

  ‘What happened to history?’ he responded, ignoring the question.

  ‘I volunteered for one of Shelagh’s field trips – what can I tell you? Archaeology rocks!’

  ‘Geology rocks, don’t you mean?’

  She cocked her head and wrinkled her nose at his teasing. Dunbar frowned as he met her gaze. She’d changed so much since leaving sixth form; from girly to grungy. Had she jumped aboard the gay bus too? Not that it mattered, but if she had, it was yet another detail of her life his daughter had decided not to share with him.

  ‘This has really pissed Shelagh off.’

  ‘Me too!’

  ‘She’s been on the blower to Allyson bitchin’ about Obag’s curse.’

  ‘Surely she doesn’t buy into….’

  Zoe shook her head, ‘Nah! Pressure’s getting to her is all. The season’s short, so time’s tight. Seb told her not to expand the trenches.’

  ‘Strikes me as a bit of a smartarse.’

  ‘The Vaz-man, yeah, he is but, respect! The mon knows his stuff.’

  ‘They’re an item y’know, Geary and Holmquist – a couple.’

  ‘Durhhh! Work with them, drink with them – they’re totally cool.’

  ‘Cool?’ he repeated with an amused smile. ‘Shelagh and Sebastian play in a ceilidh band.’ It seemed a very strange conversation to be having with his daughter over a severed, semi-decomposed head, but he was glad of it. They didn’t talk much.

  ‘So do I – sort of, but we do more edgy stuff – punk folk.’

  ‘Yeah!?’ He responded, with genuine surprise. Zoe nodded, ‘We!?’

  ‘Me, Shaggy, Josh – a guy from my old history group and his girlfriend, Becky.’

  ‘Nice to know I didn’t waste my money on that guitar.’ He looked over his shoulder to see Shaggy stacking equipment. ‘So are you and Shaggy? –’

  ‘Shaggy!? she gasped. ‘In his dreams – no, just study buddies and band mates.’ ‘What’s your band called then?’

  ‘Sonic Nymph. I play acoustics –’

  ‘Acoustics? Plural?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got into mandolin and ukulele too – and share vocals with Josh – he’s our percussionist.’

  Dunbar did not try to mask his surprise, even if it was tinged by disappointment. These were things he felt he should know about his daughter.

  ‘Our stuff’s more Dropkick Murphys’, Mischief Brew and Pogues inspired rather than the kind of stuff that floats Shelagh or Seb’s boats. Shaggy plays fiddle and Becky just about anything that requires a good pucker and blow.’

  ‘Really? Her boyfriend must be a happy bunny then.’ She gave him an admonishing look, then chuckled and nodded. Until that moment he had had no idea his daughter was in a band, but at least he knew who The Pogues were – Fairytale of New York, best Christmas pop song ever in his book. ‘So Becky’s the nymph of the band’s name?’

  ‘As in mythical fairy tale creature, not porn star.’

  It was worth asking, didn’t often make her laugh either. ‘And the sonic bit?’

  ‘We feed our stuff through a synth. We gigged at The Black Rose Tavern a few months back.’

  ‘On Rose Street?’ She nodded, ‘Wow! – that’s – I don’t really get in there.’

  Zoe looked him up and down. ‘Nah’, not really your scene hey dad? You look more – Man at The Raconteur.’

  ‘That’s not really my scene either, but Elspeth likes it.’

  Zoe didn’t look surprised. After all, it was one of the capital city’s more chichi wine bars. And Zoe had reached the conclusion that her step-mother was a pretentious, social-climbing bitch quite some time ago.

  Elspeth Rennie was everything Maggie was not, cultured and self assured, independent of mind and means. Elspeth was a career girl who had no intention of bearing children, which suited him fine. Her wealth came courtesy of her high-flying job as a PA and a generous if acrimoniously fought over alimony settlement from her first husband. And that was the added rub for Jim and Elaine. Elspeth’s ex was a prominent Edinburgh lawyer almost twenty years her senior and a leading member of the city’s Catholic elite.

  Dunbar was a detective sergeant when they met. It was on the occasion of a drugs bust on a new wine bar that was little more than a money laundering front for the former gangland enforcer turned drug dealer, Gordon ‘Doc’ Monaghan. It was not the first occasion Dunbar had arrested Doc and would not be the last time one of the man’s underlings would take the fall for him. The manager duly offered himself up as the patsy. Of course Doc professed his outrage that a trusted member of his staff had tarnished his reputation and that of his establishment, abusing his trust to push drugs. Neither was anyone in the know fooled when, “out of concern for the real victims of his manager’s crime – the man’s family,” Doc offered financial support.

  That must have been the deal they had struck. After all, the poor bastard went down for him. According to rumour, Doc regularly saw to it that the manager’s wife’s other needs were met too. He reckoned it the least he could was keep the wolf from the door – and the dogs away from the pussy.

  ***

  ‘How is she?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘Oh, y’know – on the go.’

  ‘In Aberdeen?’

  ‘Last I heard.’

  Zoe decided not to pursue it. Both of them knew she was not really interested or even cared what her step-mother was doing, or where she was d
oing it.

  ‘Pop was complaining about never seeing you.’

  Dunbar eyed her curiously. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Bet he was pleased to see you.’

  ‘Yeah, I think – it’s hard to tell. Didn’t like my piercings – or hair.’

  Dunbar bit his tongue, neither did he. ‘I’ll – yeah, I’ll try and get down there while we’re –’

  They fell silent neither knowing where to go with that conversation. Another topic too painful to talk about or one that invariably ended in a row.

  Dunbar’s father was a lost and bitter soul who sought solace in whisky, though it had not always been the case. He was once a respected business leader in the Borders who managed a thriving tweed mill in Hawick that provided work for hundreds of locals. Having worked his way up from apprentice he was seen as the very model of a company man until the business was taken over. An audit cast doubt on his management, even his honesty. Words such as irregularities, nepotism, back-handers and under-the-counter-deals were banded about. His father could explain, but the new owners would not listen and it proved to be the excuse the parent company had been looking for.

  He opted for resignation rather than face the ignominy of being sacked. Not long after that scandal broke the business went into receivership. Although this had nothing to do with him, given the timing, it was not how the employees saw it when handed out their P45s. He was blamed, branded corrupt and ostracised by his redundant workforce, people he had counted as friends. And all because of Dunbar’s sister and the deal she brokered for her husband Edoardo ‘Eddie’ Piero. His father did not blame her but Dunbar did – and Zoe had learned long ago not to broach the subject.

  ***

  ‘Wish I’d known though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you were playing at The Black Rose.’

  They shared a sad, knowing look. Zoe shrugged in a sort of apologetic way. She glanced at the hole in the ground and curled her lip.

  ‘Dinnae ever let them plant me, dad. Cannae bide the thought of someone like Shaggy or Plug digging me up.’

  ‘Do you not like them?’

  ‘Ach, they’re canny enough aye, but – well, Plug’s a bit – y’know, into it.’

  ‘I’d have thought that a prerequisite for a student of archaeology.’

  ‘I mean a wee bit ghoulish – he was proper pissed off that Shaggy caught this one. He’d have said nothin’ an’ kept diggin’. Loves makin’ finds, so he does but, I guess we all do.’

  ‘He looks a bit older than –’

  ‘Immature – mature student, making for lost time,’ she cut in. ‘Dole, drugs, drink, homelessness – got onto a programme, got sorted and now there’s nae stoppin’ him.’

  Dunbar fell silent but eventually turned and eyed her curiously. ‘Better put it in writing. I won’t be around to stop them planting you, love.’

  ‘You might.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that.

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Gran and Granda dinnae believe in cremation,’ she said, adding, ‘burnin’s the fate o’ all sinners – why tempt it?’ cruelly mimicking her maternal grandfather.

  Dunbar smiled, it was uncannily accurate. ‘They won’t be around either.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ Zoe turned to face him. ‘Let’s face it – I’ve got the gene.’

  ‘You have not – anyway there’s nae such –’

  ‘I’m not sayin’ I –’

  ‘I’m not having this conversation, Zoe,’ Dunbar cut in brusquely.

  ‘We just have – so I’ll put it in writing for you,’ Zoe retorted, as she headed back to the exhibits tent to lend a hand.

  ‘Do that!’ he snapped. Somehow, no matter how it started, it always came around to the same thing, Maggie’s suicide and the rancour that tragic event generated.

  ***

  Maggie’s pregnancy had been no accident. It was an escape strategy from. Her parents’ religious devotion was suffocating her. Dunbar had often wondered how long it would take before Zoe felt that same desperate urge; around the same age, as it happened. University was the open door Zoe bolted through. In short, Maggie had seen him as a way out of her archly-conservative, stultifying home environment. She wanted her freedom and most of all – she had wanted sex! That was the reason she had never trusted him around other women. Maggie had presumed that all women were as voracious as she was.

  Even in the depths of her illness Maggie would sometimes send little Zoe to Elaine and Jim’s for the night and greet him in her sauciest underwear as he came through the door, then go at him like a nymphomaniac on a cocktail of speed and amyl nitrate until they eventually collapsed, sweating, sore and exhausted. He had never experienced sex like it before or since and he missed it. He missed her, even though afterwards she would invariably spoil the moment by slyly asking if any of his policewomen were as good, then rail wildly at his weary denials. He had even begun to consider divorce before she overdosed, but never raised the subject out of fear that she might. He had often wondered since whether she had sensed that divorce was on the cards. Was that why she had taken her life?

  Her parents’ blinkered take on events went something like: a lip-service Anglican stole their daughter’s innocence and got her pregnant when she was barely eighteen. Then, having done so, left her to raise their granddaughter while he pursued his career and a life of carousing with his mates while she sought comfort from prescribed drugs. It was a singularly prejudiced view but accurate enough to cut a grieving man to the quick. Then four years after Maggie’s funeral he met Elspeth Rennie. That put the seal on what were already, quite strained relations with his former in-laws – and further distance between him and his impressionable daughter.

  ***

  As Zoe flounced from his view into the tent he turned to see Tyler watching from close by.

  ‘Did you want something, Inspector?’

  ‘Me!? No, sir. But your fashion editor does. A wee quote I imagine.’ Tyler prodded her thumb over her shoulder. Ruth the Truth was balancing on the next to top rail of the gate, craning her neck, trying to get a better view of the scene. Dunbar groaned and marched towards the nosy reporter. Tyler fell in alongside.

  ‘Rule one when I’m SIO – we never lie to the press,’ he growled. ‘And the best way to ensure that is by not telling them anything.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No buts – refer them to press liaison.’

  ‘We haven’t appointed a press liaison yet, have we?’

  ‘No, but that’s who I’m going to send her looking for.’

  ***

  Dunbar dismissed the reporter politely but firmly and once she realised there was nothing to gain by hanging around she staggered off down the rough track in her particularly unsuitable footwear. Watching him assuage and deflect the persistent hack with effortless authority, Tyler began to feel as if she was getting a handle on her reluctant mentor. His was not a contrived air of nonchalance; it was an energy-saving device in order that he could direct everything towards the immediate problem. Ruth the Truth was not a problem, just a distraction he could do without. In fact Dunbar wasted little in words, thoughts or deeds. Tyler had begun to suspect that even his small talk concealed an objective. She was as much under his microscope in his company as any suspect sitting across the table from him in an interview room.

  Dunbar’s leg was troubling him, Tyler saw him tapping it with his stick out of frustration. Professor Geary had noticed too and wandered over to him, carrying a shooting stick. He half turned and smirked.

  ‘Didn’t have you down as one of the country set, Professor.’

  ‘I most certainly am not – but like the hip-flask of malt, I find this invaluable in the field,’ she explained, as she snapped open the seat concealed within the handle. Dunbar nodded his appreciation and perched on it to survey his crime scene.

  ‘Plug’s ferrying your SOCO people up the lane
.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, as the professor moved to leave. ‘Can you recommend any decent accommodation within striking distance? Inspector Tyler and I will be stopping over tonight.’

  ‘We’re stopping in Greenlaw. It has a couple of pubs that do decent bar food and it’s only ten minutes away – if you have a Land Rover and don’t have to walk from the road.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  The professor wandered back to her tent to see Tyler opening the gate as the Land Rover roared into view. Inside Eugene clung on for dear life to the overhead handle beside the passenger door. How many times had she told Plug about his driving? He seemed determined to test that vehicle to destruction. But on this occasion, just to see Eugene Grant’s expression – it was perhaps worth it. The vehicle ground to a stop, chewing up turf as it did. Eugene stepped out unsteadily.

  ‘Thank you, Plug – cannae commend the ride comfort though. Had a seat but rarely had my arse on it,’ the dour CSI muttered before turning towards Briony Tyler. ‘Might as well ridden up here on a bucking bronco.’

  Laughing Boy could barely contain himself as he unloaded their kit from the rear with Plug’s help. Dunbar suspected that it was Eugene’s mischievous assistant who had probably asked the student digger to put his foot down.

  ***

  Tyler felt that there was little point in standing around watching Eugene and Laughing Boy dig up a severed head. Dunbar could do that and he now had the professor’s shooting stick, would comfortable while doing so.

  ‘Can I borrow the car?’

  ‘My car?’ he asked.

  ‘Well I don’t think they’d let me take the Land Rover, sir.’

  ‘Driven many automatics?’

  ‘My dad’s Range Rover. Does that qualify me?’

  Dunbar rummaged in his coat pocket and produced his keys and let them hover above her open palm. ‘Where are you going?’