by Ed James
‘Not Isobel.’
‘How so?’
‘Stress is what she thrives on.’ Deacon doesn’t look so sure now. There’s making someone’s coffees and doing their filing, then there’s knowing them. And I think he probably makes noises about how well he knows her, but at the end of the day, while the kid might go on to great things, right now he is just making her coffee and doing her filing. He doesn’t know what makes Isobel Geddes’s mind tick.
But he’s distracted by a man walking past us, splitting this daft group down the middle, and sauntering into an office like he owns the place.
Shepherd follows the boy’s path. ‘Who’s that, Deacon?’
‘The party’s lead lawyer, basically.’
‘Okay.’ Shepherd folds his arms. ‘Did Isobel ever mention Gorebridge to you?’
What the hell? Has he finally cracked?
Deacon shakes his head. ‘Not to me.’
‘Gore Glen?’
‘Uh no.’
‘What about Midlothian?’
‘Well, isn’t Edinburgh in Midlothian?’
‘Not for a long time. Edinburgh’s Edinburgh. South of the bypass, pretty much, it’s Midlothian until the Borders.’
‘Well, she never really mentioned it. There was a school visit at Penicuik in November.’
‘Nothing since?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Okay.’ Shepherd smiles at Deacon, then pats Buxton on the arm. ‘Can you work with Simon and Craig here, dig out any colleagues or friends or family that you know of, anyone who could’ve heard from Ms Geddes over the weekend, that kind of thing?’
‘I’ve been on to them all morning. Nobody’s heard from or seen her since Friday.’
‘Even so.’ Shepherd does that trick I used to do, holds the boy’s gaze with his eyebrows raised until the boy just has to nod and do what he’s been asked to. ‘Thanks.’ And he nods at me. ‘Lead on, Big Muff.’
‘Big Muff?’
‘I said McDuff. It’s from Shakespeare.’
‘Right.’ But it sounded a lot like he called me Big Muff. And I know how nicknames stick, so if that one lingers, he’s getting it in the neck. With a letter opener. Anyway, I man up and lead the big bugger into the office.
Place is absolute chaos. Papers everywhere. Two laptops and a desktop PC. Bookshelves rammed with papers and documents and not many books, have to say. Cracking view across to Holyrood House, mind, not that Her Majesty is in residence just now.
Christ knows where she is, actually. Probably Windsor? Maybe up at Glamis, riding this whole thing out. Smart move of her. Got a lot of time for the Queen, have to say.
And the baldie boy is rummaging around on her desk, going through the papers like he’s after something.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
He takes one look at us, and frowns. Daft sod isn’t wearing a mask. Can’t think if ‘lanky’ covers how tall the boy is, but he’s even bigger than Deacon outside there, and he’s got a similar boyishness about him. Maybe they’re related. Actually a good thing he’s got his mask off as I can see the port wine stain on his cheek, like a drop of sperm with a long bloody tail. Makes him extremely distinctive, though.
And the cheeky sod goes back to his search like there aren’t two cops in his office. ‘I’ll be done soon.’
‘You’re done now, sir. DC Brian Bain. This is—’
‘This is important.’ He’s sitting now, tossing documents all over the place. And shaking his head with a face like his poodle has rolled shite all over the carpet in the holiday home he’s staying in.
‘Sir, this is a police matter.’ Despite his size, Shepherd’s over there in a flash, getting between the lad and his precious paperwork. ‘For starters, I need you to put that mask around your mouth and nose.’
That gets him. He looks up at us with a snidey sneer. ‘You’re wearing masks. You’ll be fine.’
‘It’s not about us, sir.’ Shepherd pings the strap on his own mask. ‘These are to stop us transmitting it to you. You can still transmit it to us.’
‘This is a bunch of malarkey.’ The chump slumps back in the chair. ‘Complete malarkey.’
‘Be that as it may, sir, I still need to know what you’re up to here. Let’s start with your name, shall we?’
Boy’s searching the desk with his eyes, not paying attention to Shepherd. ‘Peter Tomlinson, head of Legal Affairs for our party. Where the hell is it?’
Unlike Shepherd, I keep my two-metre distance. ‘What are you looking for, sir?’
He gives up his hunt and actually tucks his mask on. ‘Isobel is an obsessive printer. Everything gets printed out. Emails, documents, you name it, whatever it is, if she’s received it, it’s getting printed.’
‘Even text messages on her—?’
‘She doesn’t text.’
‘Doesn’t text? Eh?’
‘Just doesn’t do it. It’s all email. All about the audit trail.’ Tomlinson huffs out a sigh. ‘So I’ve been trying to unpick any bookings she might’ve made.’
‘To find out where she’s gone this weekend?’
‘Indeed. But there’s nothing.’ Tomlinson pushes up to standing and goes over to the window. More shaking of his head. His lockdown haircut isn’t the best. Boy must be glad he’s not in court soon. ‘It’s only eight thirty, but I’ve already spent hours today speaking to people at the Argus.’
‘The paper? Why?’
Tomlinson sighs. ‘Because we have sources there.’ He looks up at the ceiling, like there are spiders up there or something. Sour look on his face, either way. ‘They told us the paper was going to run a story.’
‘A story?’
‘Aye. I spoke to them and had it shifted from the Sunday edition.’ He scratches at his mask again. ‘Only for it to turn up in this morning’s Argus.’ He nods over to the desk.
I’m nearest, and it doesn’t take us long to find it. That morning’s Argus, barely read, barely even creased.
“DOUBLE STANDARDS”
One of those telephoto shots of a woman getting out of a car and looking all shifty as she reties a long scarf. They must take hundreds of them and spend ages poring through looking for the absolute worst one. Got to love the press, eh?
I scan the text, and it looks like an exposé on Isobel Geddes using her second home in the Borders during lockdown. Every Friday night until Monday morning, when some of the other photos show her at her pad in Porty.
Well, that gives the other side of old Maureen’s journal. Maybe there’s a Maureen down in the Borders keeping another log.
I hand the paper over to Shepherd, but keep my peace.
Tomlinson is still fiddling with his mask. ‘A lot of countries haven’t locked down as hard as we have, like Sweden, say, and some were a lot worse, like China and Italy. Either way, it’s not a good look for the Schools Minister to be ignoring the rules, especially when there’s bound to be an absolute farrago come August and exam result season.’
Shepherd plonks the paper back on the desk. ‘So was that your goal?’
‘What?’
‘Well, keep the story hidden until August, then you’ll have an easy patsy for the inevitable disaster.’
‘That’s a baseless accusation.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Shepherd looks right at him and Tomlinson wilts under the heat. ‘Because you’re not telling us the complete truth, are you?’
‘You know, don’t you?’
And of course, neither Shepherd nor Tomlinson are telling me what they’re talking about. I’d point that out, but I doubt they’d stop it.
Shepherd nods. ‘Deacon told me.’
‘Little sod.’ Tomlinson leans back against the glass. ‘Then, I’ll be honest with you. There’s a slight conflict of interest here. I’m Isobel’s ex-husband.’
Bingo. Suspect number one. Ex-husband looking for something. Maybe too obvious, but then again, I’ve been caught out like that before.
‘So you know her well. She have friend
s in Gorebridge?’
Tomlinson snarls like Shepherd’s pissed all over his shoes. ‘Gorebridge?’
‘No need to say it like that, sir.’
‘Heavens, no. It’s not part of her greater ward, either.’
‘When was the last time you saw Isobel?’
‘Months ago. She’s devoted to her position here, and can be frosty.’
‘Frosty?’
‘She pushes people away. You don’t rise up in the party without having laser-like focus on your career. Embarrassments such as myself can be easily forgotten and paved over.’
‘Paved over? That’s a curious expression.’
‘Sorry, it’s just a turn of phrase. Everyone in Isobel’s life is a stepping stone, but she makes sure what’s behind her is paved over.’
‘You seem to have some malice towards her.’
‘I really don’t. Our divorce was just mutual apathy. We wanted to see other people. End of story.’
‘And is she?’
‘What?’
‘Seeing other people.’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Tomlinson picked up the paper. ‘The journalist seems to know somewhat more of her life than I ever did.’
7
Murray was waiting, standing by his car, arms folded, eyebrows raised. ‘Pampas grass.’ He was pointing to the side.
Cullen shut his door and checked the address.
A post-war semi, harled in beige-brown, but with a cracking view across to the new housing development spreading this way. A dog-walking path ran to the side, but the parking area was filled with Cullen’s car and a squad car, with its Battenberg Police Scotland livery. The drive had a work van and a souped-up blue Clio, the kind that wee dickheads would hurtle around B-roads in.
And sure enough, slap bang in the middle of the lawn was a big spidery pampas grass.
Cullen shook his head at Murray. ‘That’s a myth, Stuart?’
‘Sure?’
‘Well, I hope it is. My parents have one in the front garden.’
‘Best left unsaid, eh?’ Murray headed up the drive and pulled his mask low.
The front door opened and a burly uniform stood there with McKeown. ‘Sarge.’ Just that, and he was back inside.
McKeown shook his head at the closing door. ‘Can’t get the staff, eh?’
‘Can you get an update from Craig Hunter?’
McKeown sniffed. ‘Shouldn’t that be from Luke Shepherd, sir?’
‘Please.’ Cullen followed Murray into the house. The thing he always forgot about these houses, only to always realise when he was in one, was how they might look the same from outside, but they were all completely different inside. Some were hellholes with gardens filled with weeds and discarded shite, some were smoke dens, but this one…
One of Ryan and Dawn Marshall had an eye for decor. Everything seemed immaculate and well considered. The small hallway had little nooks and crannies cut into the walls, all filled with tasteful ornaments.
Murray followed his uniform into the living room. A pair of beige sofas sat a few feet apart, covered with purple and yellow cushions. The walls had atmospheric black-and-white photos of central Edinburgh.
Dawn sat facing two uniforms, holding her husband’s hand. Her purple jumper matched the cushions perfectly, like they’d been made from the same material. She had a slight sadness in her eyes, and looked absolutely shattered. ‘I mean, we’re struggling with homeschooling our kids. You think three is going to be fine, don’t you? But then this happens and… You try getting a full day’s work in when you’ve got to make sure Daisy’s doing her reading, or Sam’s at his sums or Casey’s—’
A racking cough burst out of Ryan. ‘CHRIST!’ He jerked forward and started thumping his chest. He wore a sports vest, not to show off muscles but his many tattoos, including a griffin fighting a snake on his neck. At least, that’s what it looked like. And something on his left shoulder looked like it had been only partly done come lockdown. ‘CHRIST!’
Dawn stroked his back, slowly. ‘But if he’s like this, I’ll have four bairns to look after, won’t I?’
Murray got one of the uniforms to clear off and took a seat on the sofa, but he kept his mask tightened. ‘So it’s definitely Covid-19?’
‘Aye.’ Ryan cleared his throat into a closed fist. He was sweating, hard enough to soak through his pale fabric. ‘Had a test. Got the results back this morning.’
Murray had his notebook splayed on his lap, like he was taking this seriously. ‘Do you know where you caught it, sir?’
‘I was at a boy’s house, fitting a hen run for him in his garage. Inside. He was coughing and, let’s just say, he wasn’t social distancing.’
‘You didn’t try and get him to back off?’
‘Course I tried.’ Ryan coughed again, though it wasn’t as hard as before. ‘He wouldn’t listen. Must be where I caught it.’
‘And when was this?’
‘Weekend before last.’
Murray nodded at his colleague. ‘That fits the timeline.’
Ryan frowned at them. His arms were filled with footballer’s sleeves, a mishmash of tattoos covering every inch of skin. ‘What timeline?’
‘Well, for infection. It’s the eighteenth now, so you catching it on the eighth or ninth would fit.’
‘Why are cops doing this contact tracing?’
‘A good question, sir.’ Murray smiled. ‘Normally, we’d let Public Health Scotland take the lead, but they’ve had to abandon contact tracing. And we have reason to believe that you weren’t the only person attending a particular event who had the virus.’
‘Event? What are you talking about?’
‘On Friday night.’
‘We were in here on Friday. I’ve not passed nothing to anyone.’
‘You weren’t at Gore Glen?’
‘Of course I wasn’t!’
‘Sir, it’s okay to be there. We just need to know.’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything!’
‘Mr Marshall, it’ll make our jobs a lot easier if you just admit to it. And if our jobs are easier, we can stop the further spread of this bug.’
Ryan looked at his wife, but Cullen could see denial in his eyes. And in her hers. ‘Fine. We were there. For a walk!’ He coughed again. ‘But the reason I’m a bit cagey about it is I heard some deviants were there on Friday.’
‘Deviants?’
‘Aye. Swingers. Weirdos. We’re worried we’ll get prosecuted and fined, when all we were doing was having a walk.’
‘Were your kids with you?’
‘They weren’t, no.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘What’s this about?’
Cullen had already had enough. He’d seen this denial before. The shame of public sexual intercourse was what attracted people like Ryan and Dawn Marshall to it in the first place. The danger, the frisson of excitement too. ‘Look, whatever you were doing there, I’m sure it was between consenting adults.’ He waited until Ryan looked right at him. ‘That’s cool. But if you still want to deny it, then that’s not fine, because people’s lives are on the line here, just because of your shame.’
Ryan and Dawn looked at each other, but yep, Cullen saw more denial. A shared secret, a shared fantasy, but a shared denial.
‘Okay, so you’re not going to play ball. Totally understand that. But I’m looking to identify a body. A murder victim. Someone who was there likely on Friday night.’ Cullen held up a finger. ‘I mean, I’ve worked a lot of murders, but this turned even my stomach. And I want to identify her. I want to help her family understand what’s happened to her. At the moment, we don’t have an identity for her. Flip that around and you get a family missing someone. And I want to stop whoever did this to that poor woman from doing it again. And maybe it was just that you might’ve seen her on your walk, that’d help.’
And there it was, the struggle in their eyes. Wondering if they could help, but still curtailed by the shame and embarrassment
.
‘Was there anyone you might’ve seen in the park on Friday night?’
Still they didn’t speak.
Time to hit the nuclear button. Cullen sat on the coffee table, blocking the uniform’s view, but sitting across from Dawn Marshall. ‘You might’ve seen in the news how the Covid-19 infection rates are on the way down. It’s good news. Maybe lockdown will be over soon and we can have some new normal. But whatever happens, until we have a vaccine for this virus, we’re going to need to prevent the spread. Everyone will. Wearing masks like these will help, a bit. Social distancing too. But what’s a really, really good way to spread it is having sex in public with strangers when you’ve got the bug.’
Ryan stomped his foot. Nailed. Then he got up and towered over Cullen. ‘This is bollocks!’
Cullen was happy to sit there, let Ryan feel big and powerful, despite the crushing cough. ‘What is, sir?’
‘This whole thing. Making us stay in for months. Keeping our kids at home, stopping us working!’
‘And yet you were fitting a hen run in someone’s garage?’
Ryan slumped back in his sofa. ‘It’s so bloody hard. I’m self-employed and it’s an absolute pittance what they’ve given us. A pittance. I had to get out and earn. I’ve got kids to pay for and things are always so tight and, CHRIST, it’s all well and good the politicians saying we should stay at home, but then you see shite like the Schools Minister slipping off to her second home in bloody Stow!’ He tossed a paper at Cullen. ‘What’s that all about?’
Cullen checked the headline. Ryan was right — it seemed like a million miles away from the Marshall’s world. A huge disconnect that explained a lot of the schisms in the world. ‘I don’t have much in her defence, I’m sorry. It must feel terrible. You’re sacrificing so much. Your income, your kids’ schooling and mental health, your hobbies and interests, and someone in authority does this.’
‘Aye.’ Ryan was nodding. ‘Exactly. And it’s all a myth, it’s just flu.’
Okay…
Cullen gave a flash of his eyebrows. ‘Well, I’ve had it, sir, and I’m still not over the cough. Two months on. You’ve got it, and maybe you’ll be okay in a few days. But you might have to go to hospital. And believe me, it’s much, much worse than the flu. A lot of people have been dying from it. This is no joke.’
