A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series)

by Stephen Coill

  ‘That’s a two-way mirror, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, it is.’ Dunbar replied, taking his seat.

  Archie stood up and stepped right up to the glass cupping his hands around his eyes and resting them against it in an effort to see through.

  ‘That’s the whole point, Mr English – you cannae see out, but we can see in.’

  ‘Is someone watching us now?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  Archie turned and looked at them both, ‘How can you be sure, if you –’

  ‘I usually do the watching, while other detectives do the interviewing.’

  ‘Ahh, I see.’ He was very pleased to hear that and resumed his seat. ‘Detective Sergeant Faulkner’s a gruff sort. Glaswegian, if I’m not mistaken.’ Neither of them answered. ‘I’ve never been there, but Grandma was an avid fan of Taggart. Never missed an episode, which meant, neither did I. And I have encountered one or two Glaswegians, that is, tourists, you know, visitors, walking in our area.’ He eyed them expectantly.

  ‘Don’t watch TV cop shows,’ Dunbar responded.

  ‘Why would you, when you do it for real?’

  ‘So you’ve never been to Glasgow, Archie?’ Tyler asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Grandpa didnae like it. Said it was a wicked place.’

  ‘Has its moments,’ Dunbar concurred.

  ‘Been here a few times – not in here! Edinburgh! Grandma used te’ bring me.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Grandpa didnae like it,’ Dunbar gently mocked.

  Archie nodded. “Nae less of a harlot than Glasgow. Just wears a prettier frock. What’s it got that Gala or Coldstream hasn’t anyway?” Is what he used to say.’

  ‘Depends what you’re looking for.’

  ‘The other detective, dinnae catch his name, was nice, quiet and polite.’

  Unable to get a word in, Dunbar imagined, as he shared a knowing look with Tyler.

  ‘Anyway, I’d sooner deal directly with the person in charge.’

  ‘Good then we –’

  ‘At the site,’ he continued, ‘only Professor Geary and Dr Vasquez are allowed to discuss their work with me – or mine with them.’

  ‘Wilson Farish is dead,’ Dunbar said, getting straight to the point.

  Archie didn’t react to the news. He stared blankly back at Dunbar. After a moment a slightly confused expression crept across his face. ‘So I heard,’ he eventually said.

  ‘Does that not trouble you?’

  ‘Grandpa always said, the dead get their just deserts, be it in heaven or hell. So I never think about the departed.’

  ‘How do you feel about it though?’ Tyler asked.

  He turned his head to meet her gaze. ‘Feel? How am I supposed to feel?’

  ‘How did you feel when Grandpa died?’ she asked.

  Good ploy, Dunbar thought; draw him out by making him revisit his past.

  ‘It made Grandma sad and that made me sad for her.’

  ‘Only Grandma?’ Archie nodded. That tactic seemed to have failed. ‘And when Grandma died?’

  Archie sighed and eyed them in turn. They obviously were expecting a much different reaction to their questions than he was capable of. This was the very kind of situation that confused him and how the anxiety began. With that, the panic attacks followed, and he did not want that to happen, not here. Not in front of them. His Grandpa used to say they would have to send him away if he could not learn to control his tantrums. He said the polis would come and lock him away.

  ‘I got their room!’ he announced. There! He was back in a happy place. It was a big day when he got to move all their untidy stuff out of the big bedroom and put all his things in it, except the big bed, he loved the big bed.

  ‘No big deal then?’ Dunbar asked.

  ‘Yes! They had a great big comfy bed. I was still in my single bed, the one that I’d had since I was a boy. Their bed was much bigger.’

  ‘Win, win,’ Dunbar offered sarcastically. The DCI’s quip seemed to confuse Archie again.

  ‘Are you thinking – appropriate adult?’ Tyler whispered in Dunbar’s ear. Her boss shrugged. Archie was not under arrest or on tape, but if it came to that, without an appropriate adult in the room, any evidence obtained would be thrown out of court as unreliable or having been obtained under duress.

  ‘No thoughts on Wilson then?’ Dunbar asked.

  Archie frowned. ‘Not really. He was virtually house bound and in constant pain. I imagine his passing came as a relief.’

  ‘A relief!?’ Dunbar gasped.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He burned to death.’

  ‘Yes, that must have been unpleasant, but he’s at peace now.’

  ‘Someone broke into McAleavey’s parlour o’ repose, cut his head from his body, stole it and mounted it on a spike at Obag’s Holm,’ Dunbar said, scrutinising him for the slightest reaction – and he got one. Excitement!

  ‘Really!? How strange and yet –’ He paused.

  ‘And yet?’

  ‘Well there’s no avoiding the symbolism or significance. That was the fate of many of Obag’s victims and most of her clan according to accounts. The practice back then was to mount the severed heads on spikes.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand. Can you shed any light on who that might have been? And why Wilson Farish’s head should end up at Braur Glen?’

  ‘An ancestor of his led the militia against the Inglis Clan. He wasnae Scottish, you know. He just lived up here longer than he lived in England and liked to pretend he was – but he wasn’t. A Sassenach!’ Archie chortled gleefully.

  ‘Yes you said. But who apart from you knew that Wilson’s ancestor led the attack on Obag’s Holm?’

  ‘A relative of his ancestor,’ Archie corrected. ‘And he did for a start, but not until I informed him of the fact,’ he added smugly.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I might have told the Professor and she her team, I don’t know.’

  ‘So it’s not common knowledge?’ Tyler asked.

  ‘It’s on the website that Captain Farish led the attack, and in my manuscript. I haven’t included the information that Wilson is distantly related though.’

  ***

  The interview concluded where it began with a confused man-child, who was only interested in talking about himself and his find and two detectives still bewildered by the strange events that had brought them all together. Dean Carswell eventually admitted setting snares, but only after Falk suggested that the police would ask the court to recoup the costs of the forensic examination of his knapsack, which would surely connect him to it. It was a bit of a bluff, but it worked. Carswell had no alibi for the night of Wilson Farish’s murder. He had been out most of the night lamping and checking his snares.

  Dunbar hated animal cruelty and snares in particular, being such arbitrary devices. His grandfather had once taken him along to check his traps and snares. It was the day that young Alec decided he would not be following in the old man’s footsteps. Carswell wasn’t their man, but Dunbar ordered his car be impounded and shipped to Edinburgh for forensic examination anyway. It would no doubt prove a fruitless exercise, but he did it partly just to inconvenience the poacher, and because he knew that Molineux and Watt would ask. No stone unturned, no box un-ticked.

  It had been a long day and as it turned out Falk did not need to delegate. The DCI had a word with the duty shift sergeant to set up a rendezvous with the rural policing team from Galashiels to take Archie home and take Dean Carswell off their hands, so that he could show one them and the local gillie where he had set his snares. Carswell’s protests fell on deaf ears and he was left in no doubt by a frustrated DCI and menacing Glaswegian DS that his card had been well and truly marked.

  A team talk was called for – over a pint and so, he proposed ‘The Thistle Street Bar’.

  13

  His decision to take the car home first and walk back to the pub proved wise. The first pint had not so much quenched his thirst a
s given him one. The Thistle Street Bar had more-or-less become Dunbar’s local. It was only a brisk five minutes’ walk from his home, showed sports programmes on the two widescreens and was a stone’s throw from Henderson’s restaurant. He would often adjourn to ‘The Thistle’, after eating at the deli’s bijou basement diner on the corner of Thistle Street and Hanover Street. Or slip away for a ‘quick one’ if he and Elspeth were joined by one of her gossipy friends.

  By the third pint, shop talk had made way for football. The two civvies had excused themselves and left sensing that his suggestion of “a quick pint” was heading towards an epic session. The mood changed when first politics, then the recent Scottish independence referendum cropped up. What really surprised him was not Neil Conroy’s fervent nationalism but his rousing, if cliché-riddled, rhetoric. All that was missing was the swirl of a piper providing a soundtrack to go with his predictable jingoism. Conroy, the office quiet man had morphed into a tub-thumping separatist.

  His arguments for Scotland to revisit the ballot over a break with the United Kingdom were roundly applauded by DC Reece, the pub’s landlord and an old bar-fly who was already blootered when Dunbar arrived. Conroy alone was taken in by the drunken man’s harrumphing, as he pounded out his approbation on the bar top. Only when the old drunk tapped the DS for a wee dram, “for a fellow patriot”, did his true motives become apparent.

  Falk’s ambivalence was a feint. It was quite clear that he saw little merit in the nationalist argument and their economic forecasts, based on oil revenues, struck him as hopelessly optimistic. Republican heart, Unionist head, he would be a ‘no’ then. Tyler and DC Donald were emphatically against the proposal and the two civvies who had tagged along declared themselves steadfastly on the fence. When pressed, Dunbar offered only an observation, not his decision.

  ‘We fought the English on and off for a thousand years or more, and have been allied to them since 1707. Were we better off before or after the Act of Union?’ Before Conroy could interrupt he added. ‘And, if this case has taught me anything, it’s that none of us can be sure who we are. For that matter, how far back do you want to go to define your identity, Neil? Let’s face it. The likes of Professor Geary would have it that the whole human race can trace its ancestry back to a tiny wee biped in Africa. So, am I a Scot, or am I African?’

  Conroy hissed and shook his head. “Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, who never to himself has said, this is my own, my native land.”

  ‘Quoting Sir Walter Scott is a cheap shot, an’ I dinnae appreciate the inference, pal.’ Dunbar snarled, which took them all by surprise. ‘Nationalism doesnae hold exclusive rights over patriotism.’

  ‘I was just –’Conroy began to say.

  ‘I know exactly what ye game is, Neil mon. Dinnae play it with me.’

  Falk cranked the tension further with a nod towards the door. Gordon ‘Doc’ Monaghan and a couple of his henchmen had entered the bar. As awareness of Doc’s presence quickly spread through the pub, so the noise level dropped. Nobody wanted to catch his eye or those of his two companions. The previously jolly landlord fidgeted nervously and forced a smile.

  ‘Gentlemen, what’s ye pleasure?’

  Doc scanned the impressive selection of malts that filled the shelves above the row of optics. ‘Got a Chivas Regal Royal Salute up there?’ he eventually said.

  The landlord gagged. ‘Royal – Sal – oow’ – err, nae, I – I’m sorry, Mr Monaghan, I doubt any pub in –’

  ‘You asked, pal,’ Doc cut in coldly. Game on! Doc had control of the man and the situation. And the rule of the game, as those familiar with Doc Monaghan’s ways know, is: “Once in his crosshairs, dinnae take your eyes off him. ‘Cos that’s when he will strike.”

  The landlord was obliged to serve them but dare not drop his guard. Tricky, dare not look away, but both men knew that at some point, he would have to. So there he was, caught between a rock and a hard case. His only hope of salvation was the posse of detectives seated in the far corner, but he could not be sure they were aware of Doc’s presence.

  Doc Monaghan had built his reputation with such ploys. In this case, a malt whisky that retails at around £6,500 a bottle, which he knew perfectly well the landlord would not stock. The barman was right, none but one or two very exclusive private members’ clubs in the city would, but it was his way of drawing the man into one of his wicked little games. Often as not, his victims would be subjected to nothing more harmful than mental torment and humiliation, before being let off the hook. On another night though, if Doc was in a bad mood, his random target was likely to end up needing a real doctor.

  Although they were not privy to the conversation, across the room, all but DI Tyler quietly bridled at what was to them a familiar routine: Doc effortlessly menacing almost everyone he came into contact with, certainly everyone that knew of his cold-blooded reputation.

  As it happened the landlord was in luck. Doc was in a playful mood, and he had spotted Dunbar’s team seated at the back of the pub.

  ‘Vodka an’ Iron Bru with ice then, same for Dixie – less the vodka an’ ice, he’s drivin’ an’ we’re law abidin’ citizens.’ Victor ‘Dixie’ Dixon sulked until Doc nodded in Dunbar’s direction.

  ‘Bastards!’ Dixie hissed, under his breath.

  ‘What you havin’, Salty?’

  Wayne Salter tapped one of the pump tops.

  ‘Vodka, Iron Bru, Iron Bru straight, nae ice and a pint o’ lager on the house comin’ right up, Mr Monaghan,’ the landlord recited with a relieved sigh. Doc sneered, turned and met Dunbar’s withering gaze. His eyes glinted and a barely discernible smile turned up one corner of thin lips as he strode towards the detectives.

  ‘De-fective Chief Inspector Dumbo, how the hell are ye?’

  Dunbar fixed him blankly. Doc stopped short of their table with his chuckling sidekicks flanking him. It was a well-practised manoeuvre. Back the boss up and cover him but leave him room to work in case things get ‘tasty’. Doc nodded at the team of detectives without attempting to mask his contempt and then fixed upon Briony Tyler.

  ‘Jesus! The recruitin’ standard’s gone off the scale, mon. Who’s this wee honey?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Tyler,’ she answered curtly.

  His eyes widened. ‘DI ye’ say, wow!’ He glanced around at his two henchmen who had by now cleared a nearby table for their boss by simply looking at its occupants. ‘Check oot the new, De-lectable Inspector boys,’ Doc said, turning back to Tyler. ‘Ye can conduct an intimate search o’ me any time you fancy, darlin’.’

  Salty guffawed loudly. Falk shot to his feet. Doc calmly squared off to the tough detective sergeant and grinned. ‘Ye no’ gonna’ go all commando on me are ye, DS Faulkner?’ The two henchmen burst into fits of laughter at that. Doc eyed them again. ‘Liked that one, hey boys? DS Faulkner here’s an ex-Royal Marine Commando.’ A fact that surprised Salty but not the older, weasel-faced Dixie. ‘Go commando – just came to me.’ He turned back to face Falk. ‘Nae offence, mon – just a wee joke. I have nothin’ but respect for oor soldier boys. Look see!’ He raised his right arm and drew back his sleeve to show his ‘Help for Heroes’ charity wristband.

  ‘I’ve got none for you, Monaghan,’ Falk hissed.

  ‘Then I can see I’m gonna have to earn it, hey, Falk mon?’ Doc replied. Suddenly his smile melted away into a cold hard stare.

  ‘Sit down, Falk,’ Dunbar said. His DS reluctantly complied.

  ‘Good boy!’ Doc teased, the smile having returned. ‘Obedience trained; does he fetch sticks as well?’

  Falk moved to spring up again but Dunbar gripped his forearm. Falk seethed but complied and relaxed into his seat.

  ‘Reckon his bark’s worse than his bite anyway – don’t you boys?’ His two sidekicks sniggered and nodded their agreement.

  ‘I see young Salter’s had to step out of Bull Heid’s shadow,’ Dunbar observed.

  Doc turned again and studied his bulky minder. ‘Ach! Ca
sts a big enough one o’ his ean – don’t ye, Salty mon?’ Wayne Salter nodded, puffed himself up to show off his massive bulk and sneered at them. ‘So, I hear folk are losin’ their heids doon the way.’

  ‘You heard right,’ Dunbar replied. ‘Can you shed any light on it?’

  ‘I have a wee theory.’ Doc replied. ‘Maybe it’s got somethin’ te do wi’ this outbreak o’ leprosy in Gowrie,’ he offered flashing a grin at his henchmen who, being in on the joke burst into fits of laughter.

  ‘Leprosy?’ Dunbar repeated.

  ‘Aye, did ye no’ hear about Chick Pea Little?’

  ‘Lost a toe,’ Falk said.

  ‘Ach! More than one toe, mon – an’ a pinkie since. Skag-heided wee fella’s fair fallin’ te bits.’

  His henchmen cackled as their drinks arrived at the table.

  ‘This must be the loan shark you told me about?’ Tyler suddenly said to Falk, in an effort to alleviate the tension that was reaching critical mass between him and the gangster.

  Doc snorted at that and shook his head. ‘Tsch! What a thing te be tellin’ the lass, mon,’ he protested, with faux indignation.

  ‘No, Briony, he’s –’ Dunbar began.

  ‘Oooow’, lovin’ that name, Bri-Honey,’ Monaghan sneered.

  ‘– the IMF of loan sharking,’ Dunbar continued. ‘They lend and lean on the punters and do the collecting – and cutting. If payments are late, Doc puts the squeeze on them.’

  ‘Awa, mon, fair’s fair – where would the scum economy be without regulation? I mean look what happened when the banks just pleased their sels’. Austerity’s the buzz word, just like the banks, us freelance lenders have te make cuts.’ Salty choked on his pint and Dixie squeaked hysterically. ‘Aye, a wee bit o’ fiscal prunin’s a necessary evil te keep the capitalist economy on track.’