***
While Tyler strolled around their elegant sitting room, Dunbar hurriedly scooped up the leftovers and headed for the kitchen. Now that was something Elspeth would have flapped about – correction: would have thrown a fit. Nothing was allowed to tarnish the pristine palace of the Brunstane Socialite, as he referred to her when she whinged about him leaving an empty cup on the coffee table or his newspaper on the breakfast bar. Trivial to some but guaranteed to get his wife’s hackles up. He eyed his jacket slung over the back of an armchair. That would not be there if she was home either, especially having received a guest. Elspeth had taken being house-proud to a pathological level.
Tyler stroked her hand along the vintage radiator. They call them ‘heritage style’ nowadays but this one looked original to her. It was cold but she noted that he had taken the trouble to light the fire. Why did she find that attractive? Did it stir something primeval in her? The man, out hunting all day – in Dunbar’s case for a killer, returns bearing food and lights the fire.
‘What did you say she does?’ Tyler asked, picking up one of those studio-posed portraits of his wife from the antique bureau.
‘I didn’t.’
Tyler turned and fixed him. She was not going to allow him to get away with that.
‘Smooth and schmooze,’ he answered glibly, before topping up his glass. He waved the bottle in her direction.
‘Tempted, but better not.’ She looked around the room again. ‘Well, I thought I had a nice apartment but – wow! Maybe I did make the wrong career choice after all. Smoothing and schmoozing obviously pays a lot better.’
He poured her half a glass anyway, which Tyler accepted. ‘Elspeth should have been a professional gambler,’ he said, repositioning the picture Briony had looked at. ‘Every card she draws is an ace, except when she pulled mine maybe.’
Tyler cocked an eyebrow. Self-deprecation did not suit him.
He shrugged. ‘Left school at sixteen to train as a secretary; got into one of Edinburgh’s leading law firms,’ he continued, as he studied his wife’s picture. ‘In no time promoted to legal secretary, then, after marrying a partner almost twenty years her senior, boosted to practice manager. Divorced him, and although she didn’t exactly fleece the prick, she gave him a thorough clipping out….’
Tyler giggled and it stirred in him a sense of guilt laden longing.
‘….Quit the practice and was head-hunted by an oil company her ex-husband’s law firm acted for. She’s some sort of “indispensible” uber-PA – stroke attack-dog to the CEO.’
‘Go girl!’ Tyler joked.
‘Oh, and in between divorce and oiling her boss’s corporate wheels, bumped into a DS who was at the time an acting DI – on a drugs raid. We married shortly after I made inspector. Don’t think DS would have cut it in her circles – not sure DCI does.’
‘A drugs raid!? Now that’s what I call showing a girl a good time.’
‘And her twat of an ex got the dealer off! Doc Monaghan, her old firm represents him too. In fact, Doc and Elspeth are still on first name terms.’
Tyler’s eyes widened but he shrugged as if it were a matter of little concern. Knowing what she now did about the rivalry between Doc Monaghan and her prickly DCI, she was fairly certain, if Dunbar was being honest, it was a matter of deep concern, or at least, grating irritation.
‘On the occasion Elspeth and I met; the manager of Doc’s bar took the fall for him. Possession with intent to supply – first offence, the idiot got four years.’ He sipped his wine and fixed her with an impassive stare.
Tyler shuffled uncomfortably under his gaze. What was he thinking? Was it what she was thinking? The scary version of the answer to that question was – peeling off her clothes and having sex with her boss. The alternative – waiting for him to make the first move, as a lady should, if that was what he had in mind? But why was she even thinking it? Could it be just the ambience the subdued lighting and crackling fire lent the room? Or the way his shirt fell open to the top of his waistcoat?
Propped against the mantle, cast in light and shadows, he reminded her of an Edward Hopper painting or was it Jack Vettriano. No, an image heavy with Hopper’s moody use of light and shade. – What!? She could feel the flush of warmth in her cheeks. Move closer to the fire, that way she could blame the heat, she told herself as she edged in that direction.
‘So! What was it you wanted to talk about?’ he asked, instantly snapping her out of her musings.
***
Dunbar called his team to order and they gathered into a huddle at the white board. He slapped the board with his palm.
‘Well, they say two heids are better than one!’ Trench humour, a coping mechanism at the heart of any grim investigation, laughter lightens the sense of horror. A ripple of giggles echoed off the flimsy partition walls. ‘Are we any closer to ID-ing either?’ He asked, staring at DS Conroy.
‘No hits off the dental data yet but Professor Salkeld has promised a prelim by end of office hours today and Professor Holmquist is running DNA comparisons with their database,’ Conroy replied.
Dunbar nodded his approval. ‘Let’s hope they don’t turn this into an even bigger mystery than it already is. But at least it will be more information than we have right now. So! DI Tyler has popped an each-way bet on our eccentric, amateur historian and genealogy obsessive, Archibald Fraser English. Anyone else fancy a punt on him?’
‘He’s the only runner we’ve got at the moment, boss,’ Falk offered.
‘Seconded by DS Faulkner – okay Inspector, keep digging. Not literally of course. We’ll leave that to the search team, the good Professor’s happy wee band,’ he added with a wry smile that was directed at her.
Tyler felt her stomach churn. Why? With an expression of intense yet passive scrutiny Dunbar was proving very difficult to read. Was he seriously interested in her theory or interested in something else entirely? Either way – why did she care about the latter possibility? Difficult to read indeed, and as a consequence full of surprises; her fear that he would dismiss her theory out of hand in front of the whole team appeared to be unfounded.
Dunbar had stepped aside to allow her to expound her hypothesis and was not disappointed by what he heard. Nor was he surprised. Tyler ran through the bullet points, scribbling them down as a list on the board. English bore many classic characteristics. Unwanted by his mother and abandoned to be raised by doting grandparents, who probably overcompensated, he developed into a socially inept and obsessive-compulsive loner. Having been regarded as a simpleton during his childhood may have led to a lack of self-worth and feelings of rejection and isolation. Add to the mix being bullied by other kids and sexually abused by his teacher and mentor and you have the ingredients of a damaged personality and quite possibly, a serial killer.
‘And think of the nature of the crime – method, restraint, self-control and impact,’ Tyler continued, warming to her subject. ‘All that was lacking, until now, was recognition. That’s often what it is all about to some killers and serial killers in particular.’
It was a line right out of the manual, but worth reiterating. There would be a few in the room who had never read it.
‘Got our attention now though, hasn’t he?’ DS Neil Conroy concluded.
Tyler glanced in his direction and nodded her agreement before turning to Dunbar, who allowed himself the faintest nod of approval.
‘He was forced or cajoled into givin’ Wilson Farish head – and heads turn up at a location he’s been obsessed with since he was a bairn,’ Falk observed.
‘Crudely put, Falk, but possibly a relevant point,’ Tyler concurred. She added it to her list and continued. ‘In adulthood the isolation persisted, particularly after his grandparents died, as did his obsessive-compulsive behaviour, which in turn spurred his search for Obag’s Holm.’
‘What’s that all about?’ an exasperated civilian, who had spent hours trawling through photocopies of Archie’s copious notes groaned, more by way of th
inking aloud than contribution.
‘Good question,’ Dunbar said, if only to save the woman’s blushes, before offering Briony Tyler the floor again.
She smiled appreciatively. ‘Archie is driven by a need to belong and thus needed to know who he was or more accurately – to discover that despite his illegitimacy, he is socially superior to all those people who have mocked and ridiculed him all of his life.’
‘All plausible character traits that might amount to the psychoses of a killer, but –
Dunbar responded, rejoining the discussion. ‘If, DI Tyler is right and it is Archie English, are the two heads those of his tormentors, his detractors or his neighbours? And if so, how come nobody has missed them? In a small, close-knit community like that, it’s hardly likely two of their number could disappear without it being reported, or at least mentioned once these heads turned up.’ That invited the kind of response from his team that he had hoped for – questions.
‘What if, like many do, they had moved away, lost touch and been tracked down by the killer? And if they are connected with the region, could it be that their deaths have something to do with the past, the history of the area but not necessarily of Archie himself? Maybe Archie English is merely the catalyst for these crimes.’ Tyler offered for consideration.
‘Or maybe the victims were simply in the wrong place at the wrong
time?’ DS
Conroy argued.
‘Orrr – it is Archie, but he isn’t acting alone,’ a DC contributed.
‘Is Archie on any of those social networking sites? ‘Tyler asked.
‘If he is we need to establish links to possible alternative suspects.’
After a brief discussion about social networks Dunbar suggested that it was another job for the tech nerds really, but why let some geek from Fettes Avenue claim the glory? Greg Reece picked up that baton.
Another interview with Archie English was also called for Tyler insisted, and it received no objections from her boss. Out of very little she had stirred their imaginations, which is always a good thing, but his instincts were still telling him that Archie English was not the killer.
‘This wind farm proposal might have triggered a violent reprisal. Any local hostility has got to be worth closer scrutiny. Those things can stir up some fairly heated disagreements,’ Dunbar suggested, as they began to disperse.
‘They generate something more powerful than energy too,’ Tyler added. All eyes turned towards her. ‘Money! It’s money for nothing to the landowner, but there’s no upside for his or her neighbours who are left looking at those towering eyesores without the compensation of a pocket full of dosh to soften the blow.’
‘It’s an ill wind!’ someone piped up from behind the consoles.
‘Jealousy’s motive enough, boss,’ Falk observed.
‘Okay – we’ve aired a few theories, now let’s find out if any of these possibilities led to people losing their heads,’ Dunbar said, turning to Conroy again. ‘Neil! See if you can locate this lawyer old baccy-mouth was on about, the old guy the DI and Falk spoke to in the pub. From their vivid description Dunbar hazarded a guess at what had done for the snaggle-toothed old man’s teeth and gums. He had seen it before in retired gillies, such as his grandfather. Grandpa always said that the best of their breed chewed tobacco because they knew better than to smoke when stalking. Their prey had noses that would pick up the smell of tobacco smoke from miles away.
‘And when you do, tell them this is a double homicide investigation, so none o’ their advocate-client privilege bullshit, unless they want me applying for a warrant of disclosure.’
‘Nothin’ I like better than pissin’ lawyers off,’ Conroy answered, putting a brave face on it whilst glancing at Falk, who grinned back at him. It was a ball-acher of a job and they both knew it. Trying to squeeze information out of law firms where there is no incentive for them to assist was almost a lost cause, even before he picked up a phone. He was going to be arguing the finer points of client/attorney privilege for the best part of the day.
‘And we may as well take a closer look at this Wilson Farish character too.’
Tyler was pleased about that. ‘Given the degree of infirmity, can’t see him having a hand in decapitating anyone, sir,’ she replied.
‘Granted, he maybe didn’t have a hand in it, but did he trigger something encouraging Archie like he did? Not to mention the willy tickling. Who else played his pink flute for him? Paedophiles rarely prey on one victim alone.’
‘That’s a snowball that could grow and grow,’ Falk observed.
‘Aye, and if it does, Tell ye-Watt will have to throw some more bodies at the job,’ he responded.
He hadn’t used Superintendent Watt’s nickname out of disrespect, it was basic team psychology. There is a time and a place for sharing a joke at the expense of a senior officer that is likely to rain pain down upon them if the enquiry starts to stall. Pressure comes from all sides on an enquiry like theirs, but the worst often comes from within, and when it does, a ‘them and us’ mentality sets in. So a little banter goes a long way, alleviates tensions and reinforces bonds. It also created the impression that he was on their side, still one of them, even though, as SIO, he was not.
‘Listen up!’ Everything stopped and all heads turned back towards Dunbar. ‘Don’t get distracted by the romance of the history and mystery. As things stand we’re investigating two potential homicides, pure and simple – okay?’ His statement was greeted by a chorus of acknowledgments.
Tyler returned to her desk under her DCI’s curious gaze feeling pretty good. He had not dismissed any of her conjectures.
Dunbar was happy too. It was all credible stuff and had created a positive buzz. But she was wrong about Archie English and did it require her running it by him the night before while his wife was out of the country? Not really. Was that indicative of a lack of self-belief or something else? He turned back to the board and wrote down the questions the briefing raised as he considered that thought. More questions than answers, but pursuing those answers might bring them a lot closer to the killer than they had been when he walked into the room.
***
Tyler was not sure how or even if she should broach the subject. Maybe Zoe had married, or she’s his step-daughter; whatever the reason the name on her statement read, Zoe Keenan – not Dunbar. She was suddenly aware of someone standing over her shoulder and snapped her head around. Dunbar reached over and gently took the statement from her hand.
‘You seemed transfixed, Inspector, something in Zoe’s statement that’s troubling you?’
‘No, sir, I just –’
‘Her surname?’ he cut in, finishing the sentence for her.
‘I was re-reading them all. I’d only just noticed.’
‘Keenan is her mother’s maiden name, part tribute, part spite.’ He handed it back without elaborating. Of his former in-laws Elaine Keenan had grown more accepting of the truth than her husband. Jim could not even bring himself to call it depression, let alone manic depression. As for bipolar, that was just a trendy word that mind-meddlers, as he liked to call them, had made up to justify their jobs according to him.
‘A stupid accident, attention seeking – ‘cos yer’ always at work, Alec.’ Jim had wailed. ‘Wouldnae have happened if you’d spent more time at home with yer’ wife and bairn.’ Bare-faced denial and veiled accusation spat out in the same breath. It was that blame-laying mind-set that led to Zoe into favouring their surname over that on her birth certificate.
***
‘More to the point have you discovered anything useful reading through them again?’
She shook her head. ‘I know you don’t fancy Archie for this but –’
‘I don’t fancy Archie, period,’ he shot back.
‘Well – thanks for not voicing your doubts in front of the team.’
‘It’s not him, Briony – but like Falk said, he’s all we’ve got to go on and you never know what you might find digging i
nto his past. I liken it to searching the house for something and instead, finding something you didn’t know you’d lost, until the moment you rediscover it. Professor Geary was looking for evidence of seventeenth century criminal deeds when she discovered our two heads. Who knows what you might turn up while looking to link Archie to them?’ Dunbar winked and walked away and without looking back added. ‘And he is linked to this. That much I’m certain of.’ He stopped and turned to look back at her. ‘Chivvy the web nerds in cyber crime along, see if they’ve found anything interesting trawling his blog and website yet – but leave Greg to have a go at the social media stuff. He’s keen and I want him to stay keen – all of them to stay keen.’
‘I’ll get right on it,’ she replied, cursing herself for not having thought of it herself. Spinning plates, that’s what Detective Superintendent Watt called it: “Naebody else I know can spin plates like Alec Dunbar,” he had told her. “And that’s what a homicide investigation is like, Briony lass – spinning plates. Alec knows how to keep an enquiry moving, even when it has little or no momentum.”
And theirs had very little. They had nothing to go on but the history and a curious chap called Archie English. Neither had they had established a link between the past and present murders yet. For that matter, they hadn’t established where the murders of their two victims occurred. Dunbar was probably right. The gangland theory was looking like a non-starter. Why hack somebody up and leave the teeth intact? And why ramble all over the Lammermuirs with body parts in bags when a weight and bottom feeders in the Firth of Forth would do a far better job? For that matter, a carcass grinder at an abattoir and a corruptible employee was another unproven but well known means of disposal favoured in the heavyweight division of the underworld.
The stuff from the two labs, theirs and the University of Dundee’s, was taking its precious time. There were millions of dental records, so identification via the teeth was going to take an age and they might not have even been UK residents. Who would be an SIO on a job like this?
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 11
