by Ed James
Vicky smoothed down the hem of her skirt. “I’ll be home around six-ish. Can you bring her here and babysit?”
“Fine. So long as you tell me how it goes with this mystery man.”
Vicky hugged her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mum.”
“I don’t know what you do with me, either.”
Vicky’s phone rang in her bag. She fished it out and checked the display — Forrester. “Mum, when did the clocks go forward?”
“Last week, Victoria.”
“Cheers.” Vicky put the phone to her ear. “Good morning, sir.”
“Morning, Vicky. Sorry about this but can you get out to Barry?”
“Barry?”
“Aye. It’s the next village over from Carnoustie, isn’t it? As in, really near where you live?”
“I can be there in about five minutes, sir.”
“Good. Place called Hunter’s Farm. I’ll be at least half an hour getting out of Dundee.”
“What’s happened?”
“Not a hundred per cent yet, but I think there’s been another one.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Vicky pulled in off the main road, parking behind a long row of vehicles — two panda cars, an ambulance and the local Scenes of Crime van. She got out, recognising a few reporters standing smoking across the road. Following the sign for Hunter’s Farm, she walked up the drive, noticing a male uniformed officer armed with a clipboard.
She produced her warrant card. “DS Dodds on behalf of DI Forrester.”
“Why are the Dundee MIT here?”
“How do you know I’m not North CID?”
“Because I know them.” He folded his arms, biceps bulging under his short-sleeved shirt. “Why’re you here?”
“This might be linked to a case we’re investigating. Going to tell me what’s happened?”
“Don’t you lot speak to each other?”
“DI Forrester was in a bit of a hurry when he passed on the instruction to get out here.”
“Right.” He held out a hand. “Ronnie Arbuthnott.”
“You the Duty Officer?”
“For my sins.”
“Okay, so are you going to tell me what’s happened, given I’ve asked so nicely?”
Arbuthnott stuck his clipboard under his arm, narrowing his eyes as he appraised her. He stared at the dark farm buildings. “Got a call out at half seven this morning. Couple of my boys pitched up. Found the family trapped inside one of the sheds, crammed together in a cage. The kids have passed out. Supposed to be a fire engine on its way over from Carnoustie to cut them out but they had a fire on Carlogie Road.”
“So the family are still in there?”
“Aye. The girls have had their hair shaved off.”
“Christ.”
“Aye, that’s not the worst of it. Can’t get close enough, but it looks like something’s happened to the farmer.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Aye. Just. He’s lying in the corner of the cage.”
“How long have they been in there?”
“Wish I knew. These Polish boys work here.” He indicated two men giving statements to some other uniformed officers, skinheads and pointed cheekbones. “The farmer’s daughters help out at the weekend, apparently, so the boys get the time off. There was nobody around when they pitched up this morning. Had a wee look around, heard screaming from one of the barns but they couldn’t get in, so they called us.”
“I take it they don’t know anything?”
“Barely speak English. We’re getting a Polish officer down from Brechin to help take their statements. They’re both pretty spooked, wondering if they’re being targeted by some racists or whatever. They’ve got mates in Dundee and Edinburgh that’ve got into fights with locals. We’re lucky they called us out at all.”
“Who did it?”
“No idea. Sounds like the farmer’s quite security conscious — unlocks the building himself every morning and likes to keep an eye on his staff as they clock in and out.”
“What happened when your men turned up?”
He held up a set of keys. “We managed to find these inside the house, which let us into the barn.”
Vicky took a deep breath. “Can you show me them?”
Arbuthnott called over to another officer. “Here, Iain, can you cover for me?” He tossed him the clipboard.
Iain dropped it, sending it skittering across the ground. “Sorry, Sarge.”
“Idiot.” Arbuthnott shook his head at him. “Right, let’s go.” He led Vicky along a wide lane between stacks of wooden outbuildings with pitched roofs, the eerie sound of grouped hens sounding like howling wind. They entered the sixth building on the right, signed in at an Inner Locus and put crime scene suits over their clothes.
Vicky pulled on her second glove. “Nobody’s died, right?”
“Not yet. We’ve just got the paramedics standing around smoking till that fire engine shows up. This way.”
Vicky followed him through a security door into a long room. Thousands of hens were crammed tight in tiny wicker cages, rows of uncollected eggs underneath them. Two birds climbed to the top of the rest in one cage before falling back down. A blast of birdshit stung Vicky’s nose, mixed with something meaty — bacon, maybe.
Arbuthnott shook his head. “Makes you want to get free-range eggs, you know?”
“I do already.” Vicky followed him, the calls of the hens almost deafening.
“Help! Get us out!”
Girls’ voices, coming from the end of the row they were ploughing down. All she could see were similarly suited figures at the end. They sped up.
Against the far wall, wedged next to a hen run, someone had added some metal cages. One contained two adults, the other two girls, not much older than Bella, their heads trimmed down to stubble. All naked. A man lay in the corner, barely moving, hands clamped to his face.
Vicky looked around, her desperate fingers trying to open the cages.
A SOCO smacked her hand. “Keep away from that. Might be some evidence there.”
Arbuthnott stepped forward. “I told you they’ve welded the cages shut.”
“They can barely move in there.” Vicky was breathing heavily now, condensation forming in her face mask. “There’s got to be something we can do.”
“Ah, you bugger. This thing’s still on.” The SOCO by the cage stood back, waving his hand in the air.
Vicky stepped over. A large grey box sat on a table, a strip of metal mounted on two poles sticking out of the front, the whole strip glowing red. On the table was a bracket with three holes, a screw hanging out of the bottom. She looked at Arbuthnott. “Any idea what this is?”
He nodded. “Aye. It’s a hot knife machine.”
“What’s that for?”
“Debeaking chickens. You can get hundreds of them done in an hour.”
“Why is it still on?” Vicky spun round to the cage, focusing on the one containing the adults. “Have they done something to him?”
The mother put her face up to the bars of the cage. “They put Graeme’s face up to that! He won’t let me see what’s happened!” She tugged at his arm, twisting him round.
He let his hands go — the tip of his nose was a blackened stump, at least a centimetre shorter than it should have been.
Vicky shut her eyes, swallowing hard. “They’ve debeaked him.”
“Looks like it.” Arbuthnott’s Airwave crackled. He held it up. “Arbuthnott receiving, over.”
“Fire engine’s just turned up, Sarge.”
“Finally.” He strapped the device to his suit. “Should be able to get them out of there soon.”
Vicky took another moment to inspect the place, her neck jangling. Graeme Hunter huddled back in a ball. Nothing to do but wai
t. “Jesus Christ.” Her gaze settled on the kids and the surrounding chickens. “I need to get out of here.”
Arbuthnott led her back outside.
Vicky tore off her mask. “What the hell happened?”
“We just don’t know.” Arbuthnott shoved his own mask onto the top of his head. “We’re hoping there might be some sort of security system, CCTV maybe. Going to have to wait on them getting out till we find anything.”
“Was there a note, do you know?”
“A note?” Arbuthnott scowled. “We did find something on the kitchen table.”
“What did it say?”
“No idea.”
“Show me.”
As they walked back through the farmyard, Vicky tried to calculate how many birds were suffering inside the many buildings. Thousands, maybe. Justification for a burnt nose? Saliva filled her mouth. Her gut churned at the thought.
At the entrance, Arbuthnott retrieved an evidence bag from Iain.
Vicky snatched it off him — it was another note, matching the style of the three previous ones.
Not so comfy, is it? Hope that 24 hours or so in one of these doesn’t damage you like one year does to the birds. Feathers = hair. Hope you start to respect them.
“There’s another one.” Arbuthnott handed her another bag.
Whether it’s from shock in front of the machine or starvation/dehydration cos their beaks have been mutilated, beak trimming kills. Be thankful you’re still alive.
“I take it you recognise these?”
Vicky nodded. “We’ve got three of these already. Same style.” Her phone rang — Forrester.
“Just got here, Vicky. Where are you?”
“I’m here. Just been inside. We’ve got two notes.”
“Shite.”
“It’s worse than the other one, sir. He’s had his nose burnt off.”
“Christ.” A pause. “Right, the press are here. Mac and I can deal with it. Can you get up to Ninewells and speak to the wife?”
Chapter Forty-Six
Vicky stood in the car park at Ninewells hospital, watching the ambulance carrying Graeme Hunter arrive, Considine’s Subaru just behind. The rain started up, small droplets dotting the ground, the smell of ozone with it.
As Considine got out, Vicky started off away from the car. “You’re late.”
He jogged to catch up. “Sorry, Sarge. Got stuck with Buchan speaking to these schoolgirls from Fife. Daft wee lassies didn’t really know what posting on that message board actually meant.”
“I see. Bet you enjoyed speaking to young girls again.”
“Not really.” Considine caught up with her. “Heard you were first out at this farm.”
“I wasn’t First Attending Officer but I was the first of our lot out there.”
“Sounds nasty.”
“They burnt his nose off. It’s no worse than what they do to those chickens.”
Considine held open the hospital’s front door for her. “Tell me you’re not sympathising with them.”
Vicky stared at him. “Seeing all those hens, even you’d start to think about it.”
“You’re not involved, are you?”
“Don’t even joke about it.”
Considine called the lift. “What’s the wife’s name?”
“Rhona Hunter. Her daughters are Amelie and Grace.”
“Weird names.”
“You know my daughter’s called Bella. Is that weird?”
“Maybe.” Considine entered the lift. “Which floor?”
“Three. Same ward as Rachel Hay and her brother.”
Considine hammered the button. The lift shuddered as it started to climb. “It’s like we’re getting our own ward here.”
Vicky nodded. “At this rate, we’ll be filling the hospital soon.”
The doors ground open and Dr Rankine was standing at the reception. “DS Dodds, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry we’re late.” Vicky exhaled. “How’s Mr Hunter doing?”
Rankine grimaced, her eyes shut. “He’s in surgery now.”
“He’ll live?”
“Of course. There’s no question of reattaching anything, more a case of seeing what rhinoplasty can do to make him look normal. A lot of the flesh and cartilage has been burnt away. The wound was cauterised with the heat.”
Vicky nodded, torn between sympathy and anger at the way he was treating the birds. “Can we speak to Mrs Hunter yet?”
“I think so. She’s mostly worried about her children. And her husband, of course. She’s suffering from exhaustion and dehydration but she’s capable of speaking to you. Just don’t push her too hard.”
“As if I would.”
Rankine led them into the ward. Rhona’s bed was stuck behind a wall of curtain.
Vicky pointed at it. “Isn’t she getting her own room?”
“None free.” Rankine opened the curtain and let them through. “Mrs Hunter? This is the police to speak to you.”
Rhona lay on a bed, a drip entering her arm, eyes looking dead. A hand clasped to her scalp, tiny dots of stubble covering her cranium. “How’re my girls?”
“They’re fine. We’re just keeping them in for observation until your husband gets the all-clear.”
“How is he?”
“I’m not entirely sure. He’s in surgery just now.”
“Okay.” Rhona wiped a tear from her face. “Thanks.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.” Rankine smiled and left them.
Vicky sat next to the bed, Considine on the other side. “Mrs Hunter, I’m investigating what happened to you.” She got out her notebook. “Can you describe what happened yesterday morning?”
“I was in the kitchen with the kids while Graeme was sorting out the ducks. I was cooking soup for our lunch. We do that every Sunday morning. He listens to The Archers on the radio as he mucks out the duck house — we’ve got about thirty Indian Runners and they get filthy.” Rhona swallowed. “A car pulled up.”
“Do you get that a lot?”
“Aye. People get lost out our way all the time. We’re a bit off the main road, but people don’t realise the dual carriageway to Dundee is a couple of miles up that road.” Rhona’s eyes widened as she took a breath. “Anyway, Graeme went over to this car.”
“What kind was it?”
Rhona shrugged. “Black thing it was. I don’t know much about vehicles without four-wheel drive and tyres weighing thirty stone, I’m afraid.”
Vicky got out the sample photos of the car from Dryburgh Industrial Estate. “Was it like any of these?”
“That sort of thing. Could be any one of them, though. I’m sorry.”
Vicky scribbled it down. “Did you see who was in the car?”
“I didn’t get too close a look at who was behind the wheel.”
“Why?”
“A man grabbed Graeme from behind. I couldn’t see his face or anything. Next I know, the driver’s out of the car, balaclava on and a knife in his hand. They came inside and threatened us.”
“Were they both wearing balaclavas?”
“Aye.”
“Did you see anything at all? Any features?”
“Just their eyes.”
“What colour were they?”
“I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. What about a physical description?”
“Like what?”
“Well, were they male?”
“One was definitely a man. The other, I don’t know.” Rhona rubbed at her forehead with her palm, her fingers resting on the stubble. “It could’ve been a woman or maybe a —” She leaned forward with great effort and spoke in a whisper, “— a homosexual.”
Vicky noted it down. “What makes you say t
hat?”
“Just the way they walked.”
“Could it’ve been a woman?”
“Well, maybe. I got the impression it was a man, though.”
Vicky made a note. “And you were in the kitchen?”
“I was. I just stood there, couldn’t do anything.” Rhona rubbed at the tear sliding down her cheek. “If only I’d got Graeme shotgun . . .”
“Did they speak to you at all?”
“They barely said a word. Everything they did say sounded garbled. It was really deep and sounded rough.”
“What happened next?”
“It happened so fast. They brought Graeme inside the house and shoved us in the kitchen. They got me and kids at knifepoint. The driver held us in the barn for half an hour.”
“What were they doing?”
Rhona’s hand started shaking. “The man got these cages out of the car and put them in one of our barns. Must’ve taken all that time to assemble them. The other one took us over there and shaved our heads.”
“What did they do next?”
Tears welled in Rhona’s eyes. “They shoved the girls inside a cage then welded the door shut.”
“Did they look like professional welders?”
“I wouldn’t know. Next, they put me in a different the cage. One of them held me at knifepoint, while the other —” She broke off, her red eyes screwed up, tears flowing down her face. “I’m sorry, I —”
“It’s okay.” Vicky smiled at her but kept her distance. “Take your time.”
“They had Graeme hot knife on.” Rhona clenched her jaw. “Stuck his head against it.” She shut her eyes. “The sound of him screaming, the smell, it’ll go with me to the grave.”
“Did they say anything to you while this was happening?”
“Nothing. They just shoved Graeme in the cage with me and welded it shut. He’d passed out by then. They left us in the dark with the hens.”
Vicky noted it down. “Did they video this, do you know?”
“I don’t think so.”
Vicky closed her notebook. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.”
“Get these bastards for me.”
