by James Oswald
McLean thought about his own situation, suddenly awash with old family heirlooms he had no great liking for and no desire to keep. Maybe that was the way to go; auction it all and use the proceeds to set up some charitable fund.
'I'd be grateful if you'd give us time to go through Albert's things before you start disposing of them, Mrs Johnson.' The last thing he wanted was to lose any useful evidence to the auction room.
'Don't worry about that, inspector. It'll take me years to get anything organised. Oh. I found this by the way.' Mrs Johnson stood and retrieved something small from a china bowl on the mantelpiece, handing it to McLean as she returned. He looked at the small, tooled-leather jewellery box, worn rough at the edges. Underneath, in faded gold lettering, was the brief description: Douglas and Footes, Jewellers. Opened, it was lined with dark green ruched velvet, and in the lid was the inscription: To Albert Menzies Farquhar, on the reaching of his majority, August 13th 1932. Stuck into their holes in the velvet were four small shirt studs, topped with sparkling red rubies like little tears of blood. Two further studs had lost their heads. There was a space for the signet ring, but it was empty.
'You found the cufflinks that made up the set.'
'We did, and this nicely confirms what I've suspected all along.' McLean snapped the box shut, handing it back. 'I suppose technically the stolen cufflink belongs to you. Bob, make a note to return both of them to Mrs Johnson when the investigation is finally over.'
'Don't do that, inspector. I don't want the beastly things. I couldn't stand Bertie when he was alive. Frankly it doesn't surprise me at all that he might have killed someone. He ran into that bus stop, after all.'
'Did you know him well?'
'Not enormously, thank god. He was Toby's age, I think, and he was quite fond of my husband, John. But he gave me the creeps, always staring at me with those hooded eyes of his. It made me feel dirty just being in the same room.'
'What about the house in Sighthill? Did you ever visit there?'
'Oh god, Emperor Ming's Folly. That's what we used to call it. I'm sure it was a grand place once. But it just looked so ridiculous in amongst all those council estates. And so close to the prison, too. I don't know why the old man didn't just bulldoze it and have done with it. It's not like he couldn't afford to.'
'I rather think he was trying to keep something hidden.' McLean reached out for one of the leather bound photograph albums that Mrs Johnson had laid out on the coffee table. Across from him, Grumpy Bob helped himself to another biscuit and continued flicking through the album he had already begun. 'He knew what his son had done, and tried to cover it up. Even after he died, Farquhar's Bank kept a hold of that empty house. They sold off the rest of the estate, so why keep it? An old established firm like that would have respected the founder's dying wishes, but when they were bought out by Mid Eastern Finance all bets were off.'
'You found a body in that house?' Mrs Johnson clasped a hand to her throat, her whole body suddenly still.
'I'm sorry. I didn't tell you before. Yes we did. A young girl hidden away in the basement. We think she was killed just after the end of the war.'
'My god. All those times. All those dreadful parties in that place and I never knew. How did she die?'
'Let's just say that she was murdered and leave it at that, Mrs Johnson. I'm more interested in finding out who might have helped Albert Farquhar, and whether anyone involved is still alive.'
'Of course. Well, he had friends, I suppose. I mean Toby and he were... You don't think Toby was involved do you?'
'Right now I've an open mind. I know Farquhar was guilty. Your father-in-law died a long time ago, and there's not a lot I can do about the dead. But there's someone out there still alive who's connected to it all, and I'm not giving up until I bring him to justice.'
'Well, look at this.' Grumpy Bob interrupted the conversation with a note of triumph in his voice. He held open the photo album, swinging it round and placing it down on top of all the others on the coffee table. McLean leant forward for a better look and was rewarded with a black and white image of five men in white flannel trousers and blazers. They were all young, late teens or early twenties, and sported the sort of hair styles that had been fashionable just before the war. Four of them stood shoulder to shoulder and held a wooden trophy shield. The fifth lay on the ground at their feet, and behind them all, McLean could make out a sleek rowing boat, oars and a river. Beneath the photograph someone had pasted in the caption: 'Edinburgh University Coxed Four. Henley Regatta June 1938', but what interested him more than that was the signatures scrawled on the photograph itself.
Tobias Johnson.
Albert Farquhar.
Barnaby Smythe.
Buchan Stewart.
Jonas Carstairs.
~~~~
47
'Do you have a minute, sir?'
McLean stood in the doorway of the largest incident room in the building. It appeared to be a re-run of the Barnaby Smythe investigation, only in place of the banker's photograph now one of Jonas Carstairs was pinned to the wall. Once again Duguid had managed to bully, cajole and order most of the active personnel in the building onto his investigation, and once more it seemed his approach to getting results was to interview everyone over and over again until some clue presented itself. The man himself was standing a few paces away, hands on hips and surveying the general busyness as if activity in itself was a sign that things were going well. Quite probably that was what he truly believed. He'd have made a natural civil servant.
'I thought you were on forced leave until Monday.' The Chief Inspector didn't look entirely pleased to see him.
'Something came up. I squared it with the Chief Superintendent.'
'I'll just bet you did.'
McLean ignored the sneer. This was too important. 'I was wondering if you'd got anywhere with the Carstairs investigation?'
'Come to gloat have you?' A vein ticked in Duguid's temple, his cheeks reddening.
'Not at all, sir. It's just that his name's come up in one of my investigations. The ritual killing?'
'Ah yes. The cold case. Jayne only gave it to you because she didn't think you'd be able to cause much trouble over it. I bet she's regretting that.'
'Actually we've positively identified one of the murderers already.'
'Arrested him, have you?'
'He's dead, actually. Has been for nearly fifty years.'
'So you've achieved bugger all then.'
'Not really, sir.' McLean fought back the urge to punch his superior in the face. It would be fun, but the repercussions would be a pain to live with. 'Actually I've uncovered new evidence that links him to Jonas Carstairs, Barnaby Smythe and your uncle.'
OK, that last jibe might have been unwise, but the man really asked for it. McLean took an involuntary step back as the DCI stiffened, his hands twitching into fists.
'Don't you dare mention that in here.' Duguid's voice was a growl of menace. 'You'll be suggesting he's a suspect next. Bloody ridiculous.'
'Actually, that's exactly what I'm suggesting. Him, Carstairs, Smythe and a couple of others. And I think there as a sixth man involved too. Someone who's still alive and who's doing everything he can to stop us finding him.'
'Including killing his co-conspirators?' Duguid actually laughed, which at least lessened his anger. 'We know who killed Smythe and Buchan Stewart. It's only a matter of time until we catch the sick bastard who did for your lawyer friend too.'
Christ alive. How did you ever get to be a chief inspector? 'So you're close then? You've got a suspect in mind?'
'Actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Carstairs.'
'Didn't we go over this already? I hardly knew the man.'
'And yet you had dealings with his firm for the past eighteen months.'
McLean fought the urge to sigh. How many times did he have to say this before it sunk into that balding head?
'He was a friend of my gran. Hi
s firm had been managing her affairs for years. I just let them get on with it once she'd had her stroke. It seemed easier that way. I never met Carstairs, always dealt with some bloke called Stephenson.'
'And in all those eighteen months you never saw Carstairs? Never talked to this man who was such an old family friend your grandmother had entrusted her not inconsiderable wealth to his care? This man who was so fond of you he left you his entire personal wealth?'
'No. And the first I knew about that was when you told me, the morning after he was killed.' McLean knew he should stop speaking then, just answer the question and no more, but there was something red rag to the bull about Duguid. He just couldn't help himself. 'I don't know if you remember, sir, but it's often busy being a detective inspector. I was really quite glad there was something in place before my grandmother had her stroke so I didn't have to add managing her affairs to my ever-growing mountain of paperwork. I'd really much rather be out there catching the bad guys.'
'I don't like your tone, McLean.'
'And I don't care, sir. I came here to see if you had any leads on Carstairs' murder, but since it's obvious you haven't got a clue, I'll not keep you any longer.'
McLean started to turn away, not wanting to give Duguid time to react, then thought what the hell? He might as well go for the full house.
'One thing though. You really should re-open the Smythe and Stewart cases, sir. Go over the forensics with a fresh pair of eyes, double check the witness statements, that sort of thing.'
'Don't you bloody well tell me how to run my investigation.' Duguid reached for McLean's arm, but he shrugged the grip away.
'They all knew each other, sir. Carstairs, Smythe, your bloody uncle. They were at university together, they were in the army together. They raped and killed a young woman together. And now they've all died in a remarkably similar way. Don't you think that at least deserves a cursory glance?'
He didn't wait for an answer, left Duguid to stew about it on his own. The chief inspector would either shout at someone to go and look into it or go scuttling off to the chief superintendent to complain. Neither was what was bothering McLean as he hurried down the corridor towards his own incident room. No, what was bothering him was the gut certainty that he was right, about the three men being involved in the ritual murder and about their deaths all being somehow linked. An organ for each of the ritual murderers; an organ ripped from their own bodies and shoved in their mouths. The coincidences had long since stacked too high to be safe. It wouldn't take much to bring the whole lot toppling down.
*
'What if he's still alive?'
Puzzled faces looked up at McLean as he entered the incident room. Grumpy Bob had at least put his newspaper down for a moment, although his feet were up on the table, so he might have been having a quick forty winks. MacBride was hunched over his laptop, peering at what looked like thumbnail images spread across the screen. When he looked up, McLean was surprised how pale he looked, his eyes rimmed red as if he'd not slept in days. His suit wasn't its normal pressed perfection, and his hair hadn't seen a comb recently either.
'The sixth man. The one who's not there.' McLean pointed at the photograph pinned to the wall and showing the young rowing team. 'What if he's still alive, knows we've uncovered the body and is trying to cover his tracks?'
Grumpy Bob continued to give him the blank stare of the recently roused.
'Look. The body's gone, along with all the organs and jars. The only stuff we've still got is the artefacts they left behind. We know they're clean for prints and DNA traces, so they're not going to be much use. Even if we got a name, we'd have a difficult time pinning anything on them. Just being associated with Bertie Farquhar's not going to be enough. Hell, my grandmother knew at least three of these people, and I don't think she had anything to do with it. But until a month ago, three of those five men were still alive.'
MacBride was the first to pick up the thread. 'But we know Jonathan Okolo killed Barnaby Smythe. And Buchan Stewart was killed by a jealous lover.'
'Are you sure of that, constable? 'Cause I'm not. I think that investigation was wrapped up quickly to save a chief inspector from being embarrassed. Just like Smythe's murder was never investigated once we had Okolo. And Duguid's not got a clue who killed Jonas Carstairs. Now we know that they were all linked to the ritual murder, and someone's been cutting out their organs. Three murders, all too similar to be coincidence.'
'Umm, actually, there was something might explain that, sir.' MacBride swivelled his laptop around to reveal the screen. 'I was trying to find our leak. You know, to explain how a copy-cat could know so much about Smythe's murder when we've not told the press anything. Well, it occurred to me that SOC photographs are all digital now. It's easy to make electronic copies. You can fit thousands of photos on a card the size of a stamp. But I couldn't exactly walk into the SOC offices and ask them, and I couldn't think what anyone would want with copies if they weren't going to sell them to the papers.'
'They'd get good money for them in Brazil.'
'What?'
'It's a part of the culture over there, death. They have newspapers that specialise in publishing pictures of fatal accidents. Sometimes the photographers are there before the police and ambulances. You can buy the papers from street vendors. Images like this would be very popular.'
MacBride shuddered. 'How do you know this stuff, sir?'
'Benefits of an expensive education. I know a little bit about a lot of things. That and the Discovery Channel, of course. Anyway, you were telling me about Smythe and his pictures.'
'Was I? Oh, aye. Well, I figured if they were selling them, they'd be doing it on-line. So I went looking for dodgy photos.'
'On a station computer? That was brave.'
'It's all right, sir. Mike gave me this laptop. It's outside the main tech monitoring loop. Otherwise I'd have had to ask Dagwood to sign a waiver form, and you know what he's like.'
'The pictures, constable.' McLean pointed back at the screen.
'Yes, sir. Well, I found lots. Crime scene photos, car accidents. I guess some of that Brazilian stuff you were mentioning, though I couldn't understand the language. It was like Spanish only different.'
'That's because they speak Portuguese in Brazil.'
'Portuguese. Right. Anyway, eventually I found this newsgroup tucked away behind some serious security. And there was all this stuff there. Smythe's crime scene, Buchan Stewart, Jonas Carstairs. Even those two suicides. There's loads of other stuff up there too, but the pictures I recognised were all posted by someone calling themselves MB.'
McLean clicked the thumbnail page. Scrolling down, he counted over a hundred pictures, and there were dozens more pages like it.
'Whoever's doing this must have access to every photo we've ever taken,' he said. 'How many SOC photographers are there?'
'About a dozen specialise in it, but they're all trained to use the cameras. And I guess the technicians and support staff might have access, too. But it could be a police officer just as easily, sir. We all have access to these photos.'
'Can we track this MB person back from this site?'
'I doubt it, sir. Mike's going to have a look at it tomorrow, but it's all anonymous servers and routing through overseas accounts. Way over my head. But it does explain how someone might know the details of Smythe's murder. And I guess if you get your kicks from looking at this kind of thing, it's only a matter of time before you escalate.'
Damn. He'd been so sure. Was still sure. But this was too much to ignore. 'That's good work, Stuart. Get a report typed up as soon as and I'll make sure the chief superintendent knows who did all the work. Meantime I still want to work on the theory we've got our sixth man still out there and he's doing everything he can to make sure we don't find him.'
'Did I hear someone mention my name?'
McLean looked around to see the chief superintendent standing in the doorway. MacBride leapt to his feet as if someone had just zapped hi
m with a tazer. Grumpy Bob nodded and took his feet off the desk.
'I asked constable MacBride to look into the crime-scene leak. I rather think he's found it.' McLean gave McIntyre a quick run-down of what he'd just himself learnt. She fidgeted throughout his short presentation, like a young girl needing to be excused but not knowing how to ask.
'That's top work, constable,' she said when they were finished. 'And Christ only knows, we could do with some good news.'
And now McLean could see what was coming. It was written all over her face.
'Do you want me to...?' He motioned towards the door.
'No. It's OK, Tony. This is my job. And I thought it only fair I tell you myself. Tell all of you.' McIntyre straightened her uniform jacket, momentarily unsure how to go on. 'It's Constable Kydd. She took a turn for the worse. The doctors did their best, but she was too badly injured. She died about an hour ago.'
~~~~
48
There weren't many places he could go when the shit really hit the fan. There was Phil, of course, except that Phil's normal cure for any ills came on tap or in a bottle, and McLean really didn't feel like getting drunk. Grumpy Bob could usually be relied on keep him from getting too morose, but the old sergeant seemed to have taken an avuncular liking to Constable Kydd, and took the news of her death with uncharacteristic tears. McIntyre had told him to take the rest of the day off, told them all in that school matron manner of hers that she didn't want to see any of them for twenty-four hours. She had enough shit of her own to deal with, so he couldn't really burden her with his own guilt. In the past there had been his grandmother; even when she was lying comatose in the hospital she'd been a good listener, but now even she had left him. Which was why, less than an hour after hearing the news, and still slightly numb, McLean found himself in the mortuary. So much for a wide and vibrant social circle.
'We have a phrase for it, Tony. It's called survivor's guilt.' Angus Cadwallader was still wearing his scrubs from the last post mortem of the day.
