It did not make for easy-listening, and the location and method did not fit the profile, but the mention of chains and death by immolation resonated with both Dunbar and Tyler.
***
A death so deliberate in its cruelty must have arrived agonizingly slowly. Dunbar hoped that the landowner, whoever it was, would leave the mortally wounded young spruce standing after their grim work was done. Almost all its needles had been consumed and its lower limbs reduced to blackened tapers. The bark had been stripped off where the heat had been at its most intense and the dying tree wept sap, as though for both of them. Reduced as it was to charcoal and soot into its upper reaches, and silhouetted against a dull grey sky, it struck him as a fitting monolith to mark the spot where some poor soul had met a truly dreadful fate.
A chain and sturdy lock held what remained of the body semi-upright against the seared trunk. The hair had been completely burnt off, apart from a frazzled black patch above the nape of the neck. Mouth gaping, tongue curled and swollen like a black pudding; pain beyond imagination etched into what remained of the charred face. The flesh was all but consumed over the bottom half of the body. Blackened slabs of muscle tissue coated in charred, crispy skin still clung on stubbornly above the elbows and ribcage.
‘Sex?’ He asked, despite being fairly sure of, not only of the gender, but who he was looking at as well.
‘Ach! Thanks, but I dinnae bat for your team, Chief Inspector,’ Laughing Boy replied, with the trade mark fixed grin that had earned him the moniker.
It was met by a disapproving scowl from Eugene Grant. Laughing Boy lowered his camera, shrugged and crouched to look more closely at the death mask.
‘My money’s on male.’
‘You’re neither qualified, nor experienced enough to speculate on such details, Duncan.’ Eugene sniffed.’ The dour supervisor eyed Dunbar askance and there was no mistaking its meaning. It was a territorial warning shot: you do your job, leave us to do ours. Dunbar blanked him. He wasn’t in the mood for Eugene’s pompous airs.
‘Whoever it was, they were nae woodcraft experts, sir,’ a ridiculously young looking constable observed, holding up a fragment of timber from the ashes.
‘Leave the evidence be, Constable, and get back behind the tape please,’ Eugene barked, as he lit up the grim scene with an arc light.
Flushed with embarrassment, the young officer replaced it in exactly the same spot, eyed Dunbar apologetically and shuffled towards him.
‘Green wood – bad te light, slow te burn and – it makes too much smoke.’ He gave a weak grin accompanied by a Boy Scout salute. ‘Perth and Kinross Beavers, Cubs and Scouts – had more badges than an American General has medals,’ he added proudly.
It came as no surprise to the seasoned DCI; the lad looked like he should still be in short pants, but he was not about to give him a merit badge for stating the bleeding obvious.
‘On the contrary, I suspect he – they – whoever, knew exactly what they were doing,’ Dunbar countered, staring at the grotesque cadaver. ‘Green wood was commonly used for burning heretics at the stake – when their tormentors wanted to make sure the condemned lingered in the flames long enough to exact suffering worthy of their sin.’
Not everything Archie English had written had been wasted on him. The young officer gagged and swallowed hard. He had been fine from the moment of discovery, better than his more experienced colleague, which had been a relief, it being his first messy one, but the DCI’s observation somehow struck a nerve. The young officer turned to look back and shivered; funny but until that moment he had barely noticed the cold.
‘Heretic’, not a thought process Dunbar had been working on, but an interesting parallel. Is that how the killer saw his victims? Was he pursuing some warped avenging religious zealot? Behind Dunbar the crunch of leaves heralded the arrival of Falk and DC Reece walking in single file along the common approach path, from the direction of a rutted forest track a hundred and fifty yards away.
‘Ach! If you’d told me it was a barbeque, I’d have brought swilly, boss,’ Falk growled, eliciting a snigger from his companion.
‘I see you managed to drag DC Reece out from behind his computer.’
‘Sent Duck on a lap o’ the obs points,’ Falk explained. ‘Make sure the feckers are on their toes.’
‘Duck?’
‘DC Donald!’
Dunbar rolled his eyes. DC Reece had picked up the moniker ‘Grease’ somewhere along the line as well; probably long before the enquiry had even started.
‘Neil and the DI have got hands enough in the murder room. Feet on the ground are what’s needed now, sir.’
Dunbar nodded his agreement. ‘We’ll make a DI out of you yet, Falk.’
‘Bad form, letting your boss beat you to the scene, Sergeant,’ Grant sniped.
‘Gimme a break, Huge! He was closer and gets mileage allowance. I had to go to the nick first to pick up a pool car and wait for this tired twat tae get his arse out of his pit,’ Faulkner replied with a sneer, knowing how much having his name shortened irritated the haughty scenes-of-crime expert.
‘Off the nest actually – if ye’get ma’drift?’ DC Reece whispered in Falk’s ear.
Falk half turned and scowled. ‘Away, mon, at that time o’ the –?’
‘Work shifts, don’t we – ships in the night put into port where an’ when they can,’ he explained, with a wink. ‘An’ anyhow, Huge – the boss’s motor’s way more rapid than that clapped out heap we came in,’ DC Reece offered by way of explanation. Eugene Grant chose to ignore him. ‘Not that I’m suggesting you would break the speed limit, sir,’ he added, exchanging a knowing look, first with Falk and then his boss.
‘As soon as they’re done here, Falk, I want you all over ID-ing this poor bastard,’ Dunbar growled, raking through fragments of fire debris with the tip of his walking stick.
‘It’s him isn’t it, boss?’ Faulkner responded, staring at the contorted black mess that had once been a human being.
Dunbar sighed. ‘I hope not, Falk, or the case I thought we had just about got sewn up, is starting to fall apart at the seams.’ Falk looked a little puzzled by his reply as Dunbar headed back down the path towards his car. He stopped and looked back. No amount of wishful thinking could override what his finely honed instincts were telling him. It was him – but not the same ‘him’ as Falk had in mind.
He was not wrong: deliberate, cruel and agonizingly slow and exquisitely painful, and almost identical to the horrific end Morag Inglis had met at Obag’s Holm. The only difference, no convenient stone stoop; in its stead, the sturdy trunk of a young spruce. Why did he always get the weird ones?
Every so often Laughing Boy’s camera flash lit up the scene eerily, which created the illusion of the tree flinching. A fitting monolith indeed, Dunbar thought, as he limped back down the track to his car. He was dog tired, his eyes stung and head ached like he had been rabbit-punched. He had not been home at all the previous night, but had stolen a couple of hours at his desk and spent the bulk of the night driving around in the hope of catching sight of Vasquez’s car. And sleep was still not an option.
He needed caffeine, strong and black, and lots of it. That Turkish place in Old Town; what was it called? Would they be there? They’re Turks, of course they would, if it was only to clean up after the night before, or to count the takings, smoking and talking. That was the secret of their success. Not the talking and smoking, their work ethic. Work late, rise early and provide good service – and good coffee.
It was that, or a large Americano. He checked his dad’s watch, yes, at that time of the morning, he could get one of those at Waverley Station if nowhere else. Fatigue had set his mind wandering. He had to get back to the city, back to the whiteboard. Back to the drawing board, get focussed, get thinking – via a coffee shop.
He stopped when he reached his car, which he had parked on the only level space in a rutted turning area loggers had carved out of the woodland. He surveyed t
he plantation, the location and its accessibility. Questions whirled around his addled brain as he searched his mind for a pattern of behaviour, and tried to visualise the chain of events. Why there? Answer: because of the heavy police presence around the Lammermuirs – maybe. He had called for discretion, but it is impossible to blend in with the surroundings wearing hi-viz and driving liveried police vehicles. And why had the killer left the head attached this time? Answer: because, if it was who he thought it was, he was not directly associated with Morag Inglis or Mary-Mo English, therefore no ritual gesture was required. Perhaps, and if so, why had he been killed? – and why in that horrendous fashion? Whatever the answers, his case looked like going up in smoke just as sure as that poor wretch chained to that tree back there.
Dunbar dropped his walking stick into the passenger foot well, and was just about to get into his car when Molineux and Watt arrived. He groaned and stiffened. Not now! Not when he was so close and yet so far away from solving this riddle. Not when he was so damned tired. Dunbar turned to face them. He leaned on the roof to take the weight off his right leg; would not do to show Bob Molineux the slightest sign of weakness. Molineux, smug and well rested, was first out of the car.
‘We have come by some fuzzy CCTV taken off a camera mounted on one of Vasquez’s neighbours’ houses from the night before Vasquez gave your team the slip,’ he announced, as if he personally had made a breakthrough. ‘Some paranoid bastard that thinks students keep vandalising his car and killing his annuals by pissing in his window boxes.’
‘Let’s hope his paranoia pays dividends,’ Watt interjected, having finally extricated himself from behind the steering wheel. Really? “Now why don’t you two just fuck off back to HQ where you can do the least damage and let me get on with my job?” was what Dunbar wanted to say. Instead he chose silence.
‘I’ve told DI Tyler to rush it over to Fettes to see if the geeks can clean it up.’ Molineux added. Again Dunbar did not respond. He would have sooner heard it from one of the team, but it did offer a sliver of hope. Molineux looked up the path and grimaced. ‘Is it Dr Ferguson then?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. What’s left is charred beyond recognition,’ Dunbar replied. ‘But if I was a gambling man, my money’s on Vasquez.’
His two immediate supervisors exchanged puzzled looks.
‘That much we know, Alec,’ Watt grunted.
‘Hence the man-hunt,’ Molineux added. ‘He’ll turn up.’
‘No, what I meant was – I think he already has. My money’s on that poor bastard up there being Dr Vasquez.’
Molineux and Watt were momentarily thrown by that.
‘What!? Molineux gasped.
‘Why?’ Terry Watt added, stepping closer.
‘Because he still has his heid.’ There and then, in that location the vernacular seemed somehow appropriate, and his theory – so obvious when said out loud and seemed so clear, somehow irrefutable. Granted Dunbar was just as confused – but Molineux and Watt, they were clueless, which alone was worth the price of being wrong, if only to see the look on their faces.
‘That’s it? Because the sick bastard didn’t chop the head off this time, you think it’s our main suspect,’ Molineux sniped.
Suddenly he was our main suspect. When did that happen? Molineux had wanted Archie English arrested less than twenty-four hours ago.
‘In this case that’s been the M-O, sir! That’s why I think it’s Sebastian Vasquez chained to that tree and not Dr Ferguson. Ferguson’s head would have been removed.’
‘So where’s Ferguson if –?’
‘I dread to think,’ Dunbar cut in.
Molineux regained his composure and went on the offensive again. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake to assign such an attractive DI to your team, Alec,’ he said, slyly changing tack.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Dunbar asked, through gritted teeth, understanding the inference perfectly well.
‘That she might have proved too much of a distraction.’
So that was why he had dragged himself out from behind his desk. He was preparing the grounds for his defence when the top landing started asking questions. His DCI was distracted by a pretty face, shapely figure and spectacular arse. Dunbar could imagine him whining those very words to the chief constable. He – in his capacity of departmental commander, should have realised sooner and taken charge of the investigation, blah, blah, blah. Dunbar eyed each of them in turn, shook his head and turned to get into his car, then hesitated.
‘Then you’d better take it up with the chief – it was his idea.’
‘It’s just that, well, you do seem to have taken your renowned forensically keen eye off the ball on this one, Alec – umm?’
Dunbar got in behind the wheel, hung out of the door and half turned to look back at them. ‘No – the ball’s still in play, sir! Want me to – call the press office and debrief Christina Dean. Or shall I leave her debriefing to you – sir!? For the press pack when I get back, sorry –I’m knackered, lack of sleep, I meant brief of course.’
Dunbar chortled as he drove away. Watt gagged as Molineux spun around, but Dunbar’s tyres were already chewing up the dirt track. A speculative aside, but judging by both Watt’s and Molineux’s reactions, it was true. He was shagging the comely but vacuous Ms Dean, well, well.
***
Zoe had phoned to apologise, and had left a voicemail on his phone. Her contact was not on campus, was not even in Dundee as far as she could tell. In fact he had been acting real weird just lately. Ever since Shaggy uncovered that head – Murray was it? Whatever, the second one anyway; and she was unable to access the database. She added, in passing, that she was beginning to wonder if he was using again.
Dunbar rang her back. ‘Using? Using what? Who?’
‘Plug!’ she replied. ‘Back on the skunk or worse.’
‘Why do you say that?’ The caffeine must have kicked in or had she just pricked his instincts?
‘Well, it’s just – he’s been all over this dig from day one. Just add trowel – instant expert. I wouldn’t mind but he was only taken on as a digger.’
‘Not a mature student then?’
‘Kind of, but he was never going to sit his degree! He pestered the life out of Shelagh and got his sponsor from the drugs programme to get him on her case as well. To be fair, he’s dead keen, a proper grafter. We think he’s been crammin’ though – and pumpin’ Seb, to impress Shelagh.’ She was rambling but it was good, and at more than one level. They had talked more in these past few weeks than they had in the previous year and what he was learning about Plug was forming into yet another plausible theory.
‘He even talked Seb into lettin’ him crash at his place.’
‘He’s been living with Vasquez?’
‘On and off, we thought it was maybe a gay thing at first, ‘cos Seb’s – well, doesnae matter. Turned out he was just pickin’ the mon’s brain for brownie points. But then just lately, he’s like, Mr-no-show – skipping lectures and stuff. Now the mon’s gone AWOL.’
‘So he was really into it and then, all of a sudden, not so?’ he asked.
‘Ohh, like sooo into it, couldnae get enough o’ it. Shaggy wrote a wee song he calls ‘Obag’s Poet’. Plug fancies himself as a street poet, yeah? Did a bit of busking when he was homeless and that.’
‘A poet.’
‘Yeah, come over all Burns-ish since the dig got underway. Tryin’ te tell the tale in vernacular rhyme.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I didn’t say he was good.’ She chortled. ‘Had like – a total sense o’ humour meltdown over Shaggy’s song, but it’s no’ se bad. Shaggy wants te put it in oor repertoire but –’
‘So he’s keen but a wee bit touchy about the subject?’ he cut in.
‘Oh, aye, a queer moody bugger, is oor Plug. But then, when that fruitcake Archie used te come up Plug was the only one that bothered with him. He got on everyone else’s nerves so he did.’ She chortled. ‘But Archie didnae want te t
alk to mere diggers. Plug’d get really pissed off about it. Went from callin’ him bro te a stuck up wee retard.’
‘Bro?’
‘Yeah,’
‘Did he refer to everybody in that way?’
‘Err, no not that I – don’t think so. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’
‘Anyway, when Murray’s head turned up an’ he was like – right inte what you lot were doing. Started talkin’ about becoming a CSI, kept buggin’ Eugene’s wee mate about it while they were tryin’ to get their job done, an’ buggin’ me about askin’ you stuff.’
‘Did he ever borrow Vasquez’s car?’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen him drive it, why?’
‘Let it go, Zoe – no more digging, literally or figuratively until I’ve cracked this case and forget Holmquist’s database. I’ll use the proper channels for the DNA.’
‘And Seb?’
‘Still looking for him.’
‘For him!’ she parroted. ‘Not – at him anymore?’
‘Does Plug have an address in Dundee?’
‘Plug?’ she repeated. Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh God, Dad, please tell me he –’
‘Stay in Dundee, Zoe.’ he interrupted. ‘And stay out of Plug’s way, but call me if he shows up, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she replied.
‘Dinnae breathe a word, just stay put unless Plug comes around. If he does, put distance between you and call me.’ Dunbar ended the call and immediately pressed speed dial. ‘Neil!’
‘Boss,’ came the immediate response.
‘Find that lass that stopped Sebastian Vasquez at Carfraemill and get his picture to her. Ask her if that’s the guy she spoke to?’
‘He produced his ID, sir.’
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 32
