‘Because?’
‘They represent the trustees of the estate that has applied to site a wind farm in the Braur Glen region of the Lammermuirs.’
***
Shelagh Geary heard the shriek but in the mist couldn’t pinpoint where it came from. Zoe suddenly appeared out of the stubbornly low clouds, stumbling down the gulley into the field as the professor and the Constable picked their way through the archaeological site. Zoe pointed back up the glen towards the plateau top.
‘Head!’ she gasped, as she dropped to her knees gulping in air. ‘In the old sheep pen – mow – mow – mounted.’
‘Mounted!?’ Geary and the constable repeated in unison.
Zoe nodded empathically. ‘On a spike, in the ground – horrible, just horrible!’ She turned to PC Warwick. ‘Get on ye radio, call my dad, get my dad – get him!’
***
A head for heights was required in Bryce Lamont-Armstrong’s dual aspect corner office. Although only on the third floor of the former tenement, it sat on the corner of the George IV Bridge and overlooked the yawning chasm of Cowgate, several more floor levels below.
The lawyer had inherited his hyphen by way of the union of the son of one and the daughter of another of the firm’s founding dynasties; his grandfather and grandmother. Lamont-Armstrong looked younger than he probably was and nothing like Dunbar had imagined. He eschewed lawyerly etiquette, if not the airs, of a senior partner by sporting an open-necked, tailored shirt and faded designer denim jeans. Lamont-Armstrong feigned mild interest in their reason for being there, as he cast an approving eye over the DCI’s three-piece suit. From the moment they arrived, it had been clear to Dunbar that the man was far more interested in DI Tyler than the subject to hand.
Being no less observant, Dunbar noted a subtle narrow door in the corner of the room, camouflaged to form part of the oak panelling. Only the word Private picked out in gold leaf on one of its bracings gave it away. Dunbar would have put money on it leading to a cloakroom where, no doubt he retained a whole wardrobe of vestments and pinstripes to go with the handmade Church’s brogues he wore.
The style-conscious DCI always noticed how people dressed; it said so much about them. The lawyer’s smart-casual apparel seemed to be saying – too cool for convention. Lean and languid, he moved with athletic grace and spoke with an accent that placed him comfortably amongst the Scottish gentry, if not its aristocracy. No Englishman Dunbar had ever met was a match for a high-bred Caledonian when it came to mastery of the grammatical nuances of the English language. It was hardly likely that mere management level detectives were about to impress him and yet he seemed determined to impress them, or more accurately, one of them.
They shook hands in turn as he ushered them towards their seats. The offer of coffee was politely declined. At least that put a smile on his secretary’s plastered mask. She was so heavily made-up it was a wonder it didn’t crack and her expression had been thunderous from the moment Tyler caught her boss’s eye.
The lawyer had a firm grip that felt more like a challenge that Dunbar had met and matched. Upon release however, he slyly examined his hand, before silencing the buzzing phone in his coat pocket.
‘Sterkarm, well named,’ Dunbar said.
‘Haven’t heard that since Gordonstoun,’ the lawyer replied. ‘Our house master was from Melrose and Reiver fanatic. He always called out “Lamont-Sterkarm” during registration,’ meeting their gaze with a practised lopsided smile. Tyler appeared charmed and puzzled in equal measure. Lamont-Armstrong eyed her and realised that she was not keeping up. ‘My apologies, Inspector Tyler, awfully boring stuff. Sterkarm is an age-old colloquial abstraction of Armstrong. Armstrong – strong-arm begat Sterkarm,’ he explained, holding her seat for her. That was Dunbar subtly shown how ‘manners maketh the man’.
Tyler nodded her appreciation as she sat down.
‘There’s more of them around than I imagined,’ Dunbar said drily.
‘Reiver fanatics? I take it you refer to the obsessive Mr English?’ The lawyer rounded his desk and relaxed into his chair, swaying it gently from side to side.
‘You know him then?’
‘He buttonholed me after a public meeting about the wind farm proposal but was far more interested in my family name than the subject I was there to discuss.’
‘Defend,’ Dunbar corrected pointedly.
‘Not everyone was against the idea, Chief Inspector. Y’know – he even knew that Lamont was derived from the Gaelic, MacErcharwhich which in turn derived from the old Norman, Logmadr. Obscure genealogical trivia to say the least.’
‘Sounds like Archie,’ Tyler offered, only to be distracted as her phone buzzed. She shrugged apologetically. Lamont-Armstrong gestured that she should take it but she declined.
‘Names which, in both languages mean: lawman! You couldn’t make this stuff up could you?’ Lamont-Armstrong chuckled, now gently rotating his huge leather executive armchair from side to side. He stopped to face them. ‘I confess to being intrigued by your case. I do miss the cut-and-thrust of criminal law – much more fun than the virtual origami that is corporate and civil law, but alas, defending ingrates didn’t afford me the lifestyle I had become accustomed to,’ he explained unnecessarily, subtly alluding to his wealth and status. Was it a baited hook to tempt the attractive police officer, who sat across from him? That was how Dunbar read it, and nobheid was his assessment of the man.
‘Oh, yes, I cut my teeth in the criminal courts but quickly tired of representing the undeserving.’
‘Surely not all of them were undeserving?’ Tyler asked.
He seemed delighted to engage with her on the subject. ‘Well, not all. A fair majority though. They’d stomp into my office seething with indignity at the injustice of the charges they faced. But! Post conviction – would whimper through the cell door hatch, begging me to pull some legal miracle from my sack. Sadly for them it contained nothing more than my gown and wig.’ He eyed Tyler and flashed an arrogant smile. ‘Nothing quite so nauseating as the man who lacks the courage of his conviction, hey?’ The advocate chortled, having enjoyed the joke more than either of his guests; neither of whom felt inclined to debate the subject. ‘Does that surprise you, chief inspector?’
‘The whimpering? Not really, we see it every day down the cell block.’
‘I meant that we once worked in the same field.’
‘There’s an overused saying that goes, “when policemen begin to look younger,” the same applies to lawyers too, I suppose.’
Lamont-Armstrong smirked. ‘Ahh, but my career was preordained. Then again, who amongst us ever really stops to examine what it is they do – or why? Were they to do so, fifty percent or more would stop instantly, an option I have considered occasionally.’
“O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us. To see oursels’ as ithers’ see us.”
Lamont-Armstrong cocked his head in appreciation of the Burns quote. ‘No, the only people worth a jot are those who provide some service that is useful to the majority, such as farmers. If only could learn to do it without subsidies – would Scotland not then be Eden?’
‘Or wind farm subsidies?’ Dunbar countered. ‘Would that not sound their death knell, Mr Lamont-Armstrong?’
‘Were I to concur – simply to avoid argument let us say – would be morally erroneous, placing us both in the wrong. So I cannot! And please, call me, L-A. My hyphenated name is such a mouthful,’ he said, aiming the invitation squarely at DI Tyler as he patted his flat stomach, ‘You both appear to maintain a healthy lifestyle, me too.’ Tick them off, DI Tyler, rich, intelligent and fit – seemed to be the subtext. ‘Commendable – far too many police officers neglect their health, judging by some I see waddling about their beats and the courts of the city. My favourite pastime is skiing, closely followed by mountaineering and climbing.’
‘The greasy legal pole?’ Dunbar quipped.
Lamont-Armstrong nodded, ‘Touché – the rock face.’
�
��Explains your grip.’
He smiled, point made. ‘Knocked off my final Monroe this year,’ he added, with obvious pride. ‘Do either of you ski by any chance?’
Dunbar was about to change the subject, being eager to clear up the windmill farm issue until Tyler responded enthusiastically.
‘As often as the seasons and the job allows.’
Lamont-Armstrong nodded approvingly and eyed Dunbar who answered far more reluctantly. ‘My ability on the piste owes everything to gravity – and absolutely nothing to competency.’ Tyler choked back a giggle; Lamont-Armstrong’s eyes lit up. She was even more beautiful when she smiled and had a husky giggle that aroused both men, but a lifetime spent exercising professional detachment concealed their secret desires.
‘Practise more,’ Lamont-Armstrong advised, with Tyler nodding her agreement. Dunbar’s phone chirped into life; a text message. ‘It seems someone needs one or both of you rather urgently,’ Lamont-Armstrong observed. ‘We all lead busy lives, please take it.’
‘We’re here to talk about your professional life, as opposed to your leisure time activities, if you don’t mind,’ he replied curtly, scrolling through the text.
‘Merely breaking the ice,’ the lawyer explained, with a cheeky wink directed at Tyler.
‘Specifically the proposed wind farm at Braur Glen,’ she added.
‘Ahh yes, well – there are limits to what I can tell you about that.’
‘We’re conducting a murder investigation. I need to know if it has influenced things,’ Dunbar explained, frowning as he read the text message.
‘I have more than just my client’s interests to take into consideration. There is a much bigger picture to consider. The proposal is part of a rolling programme of green energy initiatives to meet the government’s commitment to –’
‘Sorry, Mr Lamont-Armstrong, we’re going to have to reschedule – Briony!’ Dunbar cut in, jumping to his feet.
‘Happy to continue this conversation with the inspector alone if –’
‘We’re both needed – urgently,’ Dunbar explained, already on the move.
‘Of course – I hope it’s not –’ Dunbar was already out of the door. Tyler shrugged apologetically as she followed. ‘My secretary will be happy to –’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ she offered, before hurrying after her boss. Lamont-Armstrong leaned on his doorframe his gaze fixed on Tyler’s backside as she scuttled out past the secretary, who glowered with disapproval.
***
‘Bastard’s playing games with us, Briony,’ Dunbar growled.
‘Lamont-Arm –’
‘Aye, him too!’ He snapped as he sped down the Mound only to run into heavy traffic. ‘Ach! To hell with this.’ Dunbar executed a U-turn and headed back up to Old Town. ‘We’ll go straight there. Get on the blower – tell them to bell Stella at the path lab and put the PM on hold until we get back. Looks like we have the head to go with the body after all.’ His mind raced as he forced his way through the city traffic. ‘I want dog-handlers at Braur Glen pronto and roadblocks at Duns junction, Greenlaw, Carfraemill and Danskine, if they haven’t already thought of it and log every car, driver and their passengers. Tell them to stop and check everything that moves.’
Tyler tapped at her phone. He sounded the car horn to clear their way of jay-walking tourists as the car swept up Cockburn Street.
11
Climbing that winding staircase had caused him pain enough; dashing back down them was agonizing. Before they had even reached the ring road Dunbar had to pull over and ask Tyler to drive, while he chugged down his daily quota of analgesic and pushed the passenger seat as far back as it would go so as to ease the strain on his knee.
He cursed the effect that crash had had on his life, but at least it had spared him the annual humiliation Elspeth’s skiing holiday invariably inflicted. As a latecomer to the sport, he was forced to weave his way tentatively down a green slope or occasionally, driven by the combined effects of shame and embarrassment, follow the path of least resistance down a blue, where his Stem Christie more resembled a Christ Almighty! All the while, Elspeth and her clique of regulars showboated at eye-watering speeds on the black diamond run. Had the crash not put an end to his skiing, Val d’Isere or Chamonix surely would have, eventually.
***
At least someone had been thinking on their feet. The ever reliable DS Conroy had already seen to it that the roadblocks were in place before Dunbar’s instructions had reached him. He had even placed them in the exact locations his boss had had in mind as he and Tyler raced from Lamont-Armstrong’s office. Measured against any detective inspector Alec Dunbar could think of, his office manager should be one. But like Falk, he first had to pass the inspector’s exam, an obstacle to advancement that both his sergeants appeared inexplicably reluctant to sit. More likely, the thought of all that studying put them off.
Dunbar and Tyler’s progress was halted at the Danskine checkpoint. Despite heading in the opposite direction to that which the perpetrator might reasonably be expected to travel, two constables from the Tactical Support Group had stopped them. One moved to stand directly in front of the stationary BMW and far enough back to leap out of the way if the driver suddenly hit the accelerator. He was instantly on his radio, no doubt running Dunbar’s number through the PNC via HQ control room. Clipboard gripped in one hand, his partner rested his free palm on the passenger door and dipped to look in as the window opened. His eyes widened into a leery gaze that flitted past the DCI and locked approvingly onto the driver, who met his stare with a sternly arched eyebrow.
‘We’ll nae keep you a minute folks, is this your –?’
‘Not much doing lad?’ Dunbar cut in. He flashed his ID. ‘This is DI Tyler.’
The constable shifted his gaze to the laminated card, tensed, cleared his throat and stood upright. ‘Err, nae sir – ma’am. Nothin’ te report.’
‘Mike!’ his partner called. Mike glanced in his companion’s direction. The other constable tapped the Lothian and Borders logo on his hi-viz utility gilet. ‘CID Rupert!’ Mike nodded, to show that he already knew, and then turned back to Dunbar.
‘Rupert! Must be ex-military?’
‘Both are, sir, but Cal’s no’ a bad lad for a hair-bear.’ He noticed Tyler’s quizzical expression. ‘Scots Guards, ma’am – wear Busby’s – bear skins – hair bears!’
Tyler nodded an acknowledgement and chuckled inwardly. Squaddies and coppers appeared to share the same disparaging sense of humour. Little wonder so many join the police after their military service.
‘I would think they’d be heading away from the Braur Glen not to it, mind.’
‘Aye, but.’
‘But!?’ he repeated.
‘It’s been gay quiet and –’
‘You were bored,’ Dunbar cut in. The officer blushed and shuffled his feet.
‘It’s okay – I ken boredom, mon. Done my share of roadside stop-checks and just ended an eight month stint as a desk jockey on light duties.’
‘Aye, well, that an’ y’never know. Disnae hurt to be alert to the unexpected, hey?’
‘Fair enough – keeping a log are you?’
‘Oh aye,’ he replied, wafting his clipboard.
‘Good mon. Spread the word to the other officers on roadblocks. Make sure DS Conroy at our incident room gets all the stop-check logs after you’re stood down,’ Dunbar ordered, as Tyler moved off. Not literally every vehicle, he thought, glancing in his rear view mirror, to see the officer jot down his number plate.
***
Human remains are bread-and-butter to archaeologists but no matter how grim their finds archaeologists usually enjoy the luxury of a very slow and painstaking reveal, one that affords them time to prepare for whatever they are presented with. Seeing Walter Farish’s fire-damaged head mounted on a pointed stick had even shocked Professor Geary, a veteran of hundreds of digs and some fairly unpleasant discoveries. It reminded Zoe of one of those Gothic grotesq
ues that adorn cathedrals but in vivid, stomach-churning Technicolor. Not something any of them would forget in a hurry – if ever.
The arrival of the two detectives went unnoticed by them, as they huddled around the rear of their Land Rover staring blankly into the mugs of coffee they cupped to their chests. Geary was gagging for something stronger. She craved that fire in her throat, to cleanse an imaginary bad taste the experience had conjured. Or was it just that she was developing a habit? Better she set an example and leave her hip flask of malt in her kit bag, she decided. Despite running late, and thus arguing about it, she was now very grateful that Allyson Holmquist had insisted on packing her off with a jumbo sized thermos flask of green tea. It was one of those curious blends her lover favoured. She couldn’t quite place what it was infused with though. Something exotic; mango or lychee or both, she could not decide.
Dunbar rested a reassuring hand on Zoe’s shoulder. She shuddered, snapped her head around and then smiled weakly.
‘Hey, Dad,’ she responded, instantly putting her cup down on the rear bumper before wrapping her arms around him. He could barely remember the last time she had greeted him that way and so took time to relish the moment. He hugged her to his chest and planted tender kisses on those pink streaks that, like his Dad, he didn’t care for.
‘Any closer to catching this maniac?’ Professor Geary asked bitterly.
‘I believe we are,’ he answered, as he gently but reluctantly released his hold on his daughter. ‘Whoever it is – was playing a long, patient and distant game. With this stunt they’ve gone interactive. They’ve announced their presence and I – we will catch them.’
‘I certainly hope so.
***
Dunbar paused during the ascent and swallowed another two tablets under the scornful glower of his DI.
‘What?’
‘You can take too many of those things, sir,’ she retorted.
‘So you’re my nurse now?’
‘They’re masking the problem – not mending it,’ she hissed, as she walked on.
‘Aye, well – better that than that bloody desk,’ he replied, slapping the side of his leg with his walking stick. They covered the final hundred yards plus a detour to a stile in silence. He was struggling to keep up anyway and so let her pull away.
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 16
