by Matt Hilton
SEVENTEEN
Police office, Skelvoe
Their shift had become increasingly long, and both Sergeant McCusker and PC Bob Harris were incredibly fatigued. The thought of getting any sleep was wishful thinking at that point in time. Something grasped at but unattainable. Out of reach.
“You should go home, Sarge. It’s been a hell of a long night.”
Bob slouched at the computer, elbows on the desk. His hair had dried long ago, but without the benefit of a comb it had formed curls across his scalp and over the tips of his ears. He reminded Shelly of the gruff, but softhearted, Irish-Bronx coppers that populated the black and white gangster movies of the nineteen forties.
“You’ve been at it as long as I have, Bob. Why don’t you go home?”
“Just finishing up with this file, then I’ll be off.” Bob didn’t make a move to add anything to the script on the monitor.
“The file can wait until you come back on duty this evening, Bob. So long as you leave a copy of your notebook for CID, the rest can wait.”
Bob looked up at her. Shelly was perched on the corner of a desk, rubbing at an ache in one of her knees. Her face was pale, as much to do with fatigue, as what they’d discovered at the crime scene.
“Why do you have to hang around, Sarge?”
“I’ve just a little bit to do on the computer, then I’ll be out the door behind you.”
Bob indicated his screen. “You waiting to use this one?”
“No. It’s okay. I’ll use the one in my office.”
Bob batted a dewdrop off the end of his nose. He continued to eye her. In the end he smiled sheepishly. “What is it, Sarge? You obviously want to say something to me.”
“Why’d you think that?” Shelly, caught off guard, also gave an embarrassed smile.
Bob indicated the small squad room. All the others remained on duty at the scene out at Catherine Stewart’s property. Even though, the room was cramped with only the two of them taking up space. “Not exactly a sergeant’s hang out.”
Shelly shrugged. Looked around, feigning interest. “Maybe I should spend more time in here with the team. Maybe they’d think better of me if they started to see me as one of the gang.”
Bob grimaced. “Not a good idea if you ask me.”
“Why not?”
“Get too close to them, they’ll start taking liberties,” Bob explained. “I’ll guarantee you that. Best you keep the little space you have; elevates you above the rest of us.”
Shelly studied Bob’s face. Exhaled through her nose. “Is that how you see me, Bob? As being above the rest of you?”
Bob lifted his shoulders. “You’re the sergeant, Sarge. Of course you’re above the rest of us.”
“In rank only,” Shelly pointed out. “But not on a personal level, surely?”
Bob sat back, awkward in his own body. “I wouldn’t know, Sarge. I’m not one for getting personal with those I work with.”
Shelly laughed. “I just want to make a few more friends, Bob. I’m not talking about having a love affair.”
The big policeman laughed also, but it was one of those embarrassed sounds that said that was exactly what he had been thinking. Shelly blinked, frowned. “Hang on, Bob. I hope you haven’t got the wrong idea here? I wasn’t hanging around to hit on you or anything. When I mentioned going out for a drink together, I was talking purely as a friend.”
Bob waved a large hand. Forced out a chuckle. “I ken that.”
But Shelly was studying him. Was that regret in the droop of his eyebrows?
His disappointment had a knock on effect she hadn’t expected. For some reason they both cleared their throats at the same time, and Shelly found herself slipping off the desk and standing up straighter, pulling at her equipment belt. Maybe not a good idea after all, considering it tugged at the cloth of her shirt, emphasising her breasts. By the impulsive lifting of Bob’s eyebrow, he too had noticed. Shelly quickly turned to riffle through a pile of statement paper. Both of them laughed hollowly.
Bob stood up, pushed his fingers into his own belt. “So…now that that’s been cleared up, what was it you wanted to say?”
Residual smiles plucking at the corners of their mouths, they stood looking at each other from opposite ends of the desk.
Shelly said, “Two things really.”
“Aye?”
“First thing,” Shelly said. “I wanted to thank you again for keeping quiet about me passing out.”
“Not a problem. What’s the second thing?”
“Well, I wanted to ask you your opinion on something.”
The desk creaked as Bob leaned his knuckles on it.
“What do you think could have done that to the little boy?” Shelly asked.
Bob ruminated. “Various things. Torn limb from limb. Bones splintered. Decapitated. Bits of the poor wee soul scattered all over the hillside. Grizzly bear. Lion. Pack of wolves.”
“In other words, something that doesn’t exist on the island?”
“Not that we ken about. Nothing to say that someone hasn’t shipped in a large animal without licensing it through the proper channels.”
Shelly chewed a lip. “I don’t buy it.”
“Maybe a machine, then,” Bob offered.
“Wood chipper?”
“Aye, something like that.” There was no sincerity to his tone. “Of course, if there’d been some kind of accident with a machine, it fails to explain a number of things. Where’s the machine? Who owns it, and where have they put it? If they knew a child had been killed, why didn’t they report the accident? Even if the child was killed on purpose, what happened to the little girl?”
“Bethany,” Shelly said.
“Aye. Bethany.” Bob straightened. “It doesn’t take a CSI tech to see that the remains are those of wee Jimmy alone. Bethany has disappeared without a trace. Unless she witnessed the accident and was so traumatised that she wandered off. Then you’d have to believe that the machine owner didn’t realise that he’d just shredded a bairn and didn’t notice the mess sprayed over the hillside and he’s took the machine away and parked it up someplace.”
There was no conviction to his scenario, and if you excused the subject matter, his conjecture wasn’t meant to be a serious prognosis of events. Shelly gave it the lack of regard that it was due.
“Is a man capable of doing that, Bob?”
“With enough time and the right implements? Yes, I believe a man could eviscerate a bairn.”
“But what about Bethany? Could a man have subdued them both, then did what he did to Jimmy, then carried Bethany off?”
“Would take a bit of doing. But I suppose he could have knocked Bethany unconscious, maybe - God forbid - killed her first. Then cut the little lad up.”
“It would explain why no one heard any screams or cries for help,” Shelly said.
“Place the boy was killed, there’d be little chance of anyone hearing anything. Their Ma wasn’t home; she was still at work at the plant. No other houses in quarter a mile. And don’t forget the wind and rain.”
Shelly nodded at his wisdom.
“Course, it’s hardly likely that whoever did this carried the girl very far. There were no signs of a vehicle at the scene. Means she could be hidden quite close by to where Catherine Stewart found the boy.”
Shelly asked, “You’re saying that Bethany could be hidden on Catherine Stewart’s property?”
“Could be. Any way, protocol made it the first place we checked. Maybe we should check again.”
“Why? You don’t believe that Catherine did it, do you?”
“No more than you do, Sarge.”
“Who is capable? Of the men you know on this island, I mean.”
Bob rolled his shoulders. “Plenty are capable. Physically, I’m saying. But there’s not a man I know could do that, and carry it on his conscience.”
“Not that you know of.”
“True. I can’t be guessing what goes on in the minds of men.
No one can.”
“But you don’t think there’s a resident who could do this?”
“Couldn’t - and wouldn’t - even begin to lay the blame on any of the islanders.” Bob leaned forward and clicked the computer mouse a couple of times, shutting down the programme. “As you know, there are certain men around the toon who get violent when they’re drinking, but its one thing fighting round the back of The Muckle Ram to tearing a wee lad to shreds.”
“What about someone from off the island? There are the archaeologists over at Trowhaem, for instance. MOD staff up at the base at Burra Ness. Some visitors.”
Bob nodded, but remained noncommittal.
Shelly finally breached the subject she’d been edging towards since entering the squad room. “That man we stopped up on the glen. Carter Bailey. What did you make of him?”
“Bit strange,” Bob agreed. “But nothing that said he was any kind of danger to anyone.”
Shelly’s eyelids flickered. “You think so?”
“There was nothing on record about him,” Bob reminded her.
“Doesn’t mean that he’s innocent, just that he hasn’t been caught yet.”
“Bit of a push, don’t you think, Sarge?”
“Maybe.” Despite concurring, and evident by the set of her jaw, she remained convicted to the idea. She remembered what she had seen behind Bailey’s eyes.
“Anyway,” Bob said. “Preliminary opinion is that Jimmy was killed late yesterday afternoon. Bailey said he came in on the ferry in the evening. He wasn’t even on the island when the bairn was murdered.”
“We’ve only got his word for that,” Shelly said. “I think we need to speak with him, Bob. Something about him…”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Just something. A feeling.”
“Stating the obvious, Sarge, I thought we’d need more than just a feeling before we could bring him in,” Bob said.
“I’m not talking about arresting him. Not yet. But it wouldn’t do any harm to go speak with him.”
Bob eyed her. He could see that she was adamant on this. And, notwithstanding his apparent lack of prior contact with her, believed that he knew her better than she suspected. He believed she wasn’t one to be swayed once she got an idea in mind.
“You’re the sergeant,” he said. “You want to speak to him, then we go speak to him.”
Bob stepped towards where he’d slung his jacket over the back of a chair. Shelly interjected herself between him and the coat. Pressed him back. “No, Bob. Not now. There’s time to speak to him later. Right now I want you to get off home to your bed.”
“I’m okay for another couple of hours.”
Shelly smiled. “Of course you are.” She scrubbed a palm through her hair. “But to be brutally honest, I could sleep on a washing line. And unless you get yourself away home, I can’t either. You’ll be keeping me from my beauty sleep, Bob. Don’t think you’re the type to be happy having that on your conscience.”
Bob gave a bashful shrug. He said, “Don’t think you need worry about that. Tired or not, you still look a right bonnie woman to me.”
Secretly delighted at his unexpected compliment, Shelly feigned shock. “Constable Harris! Now who’s hitting on who?”
Bob didn’t know which way to look. Shelly was chuckling as he bustled out of the squad room with barely a backward glance. She would swear under oath that his ears were glowing bright red as he disappeared into the locker room. Coming out, minutes later, he avoided eye contact and left the station with only a mumbled goodbye.
Shelly went into the sergeant’s office. On the island, she was the only person of rank, and unless she received a periodical visit from an inspector from the mainland, this remained solely her domain. Although it was hardly likely that any of the other duty constables would return to the station any time soon, she shut the door. What she had in mind wasn’t your usual police work. Best done in private.
She had men on her mind.
Bob, for one.
Primarily, though, she was thinking about Carter Bailey.
EIGHTEEN
Near Ura Taing
Considering my bucket list, being a passenger in a car driven by Paul Broom wasn’t the first on my list of things to do before I die. In fact it didn’t feature at all. Trouble is, when it came to his driving, it could be the very last thing I ever did. To say that he lacked confidence would be an extreme understatement, yet he manages to drive at speeds that only professional Grand Prix drivers or F16 fighter pilots should attempt. Lack of feeling in his throttle pedal foot could explain his over use of revs, but I couldn’t come up with a feasible excuse for the way he sawed at the steering wheel. Putting together the equation of speed plus erratic manoeuvres plus dodgy road surfaces, I was thrilled to arrive at Catherine Stewart’s place with all my body parts intact.
He pulled his Subaru onto the verge, parking among the vehicles of a number of other sightseers. It struck me how tragedy brought out the ghoul in most people, and experienced a momentary pang of embarrassment that we’d shown up to join the group of vultures already milling in the space this side of the taped off crime scene. However, torn between mawkishness and the very real need to escape the claustrophobic confines of Broom’s car, I clambered out on to wet turf with hardly a second’s pause.
As Broom stepped from the car, a number of faces turned to regard us. Evidently Broom had gained a certain amount of celebrity - even here on this outpost where I’d hardly credit one of them for having read any of his books. Some gave him the star struck eyes, but I could see that as many of them gave him downcast looks before turning away and grumbling into their shirtfronts.
This island breed appeared not to have inherited any of their Viking forefathers’ genetic propensities for size, and Broom in particular stood at the back of the crowd of watchers like a Scandinavian giant shepherding a band of dwarfs. Feeling awkward next to him, I moved off to the road seeking a clearer view at the place where it was reputed that a little boy had been dismembered.
There wasn’t much to see. Police had arrived in numbers, and a large white plastic tunnel had been erected over the site, both as protection against the elements destroying any trace forensics, and as a blindfold to the encroaching crowd. Whatever was happening was being conducted in the poly tunnel, and the faces of the constables on guard at the perimeter gave no clue to what had been discovered. The TV crews hadn’t arrived yet, so I didn’t have the option of listening in to a reporter’s take on the situation. Disregarding this, I fisted my hands in my jacket pockets and stared along with everyone else. Something I did notice; there was a police photographer moving around the site, and I was sure that half the photos he took were of the crowd of bystanders. I’d heard that police procedure was to pay attention to those gathering at a crime scene; it was no cliché that the perpetrator often returned to gloat at the scene of his crime.
I turned my attention from the police activity, surreptitiously glancing at the crowd. Faces meant little to me; everyone barring Paul Broom was a complete stranger. I was searching for something subtler, perhaps a gleam in an eye, or a secret smile when the person thought no one was looking his or her way. Only one face caught my attention. A tall man, with the erect bearing of a military officer stood in the tree line, surveying as I did. I took him to be one of those police observers I’d just warned myself about. His eyelids narrowed perceptibly. I skirted around him with my eyes as though I hadn’t noticed him. He looked away.
“Sometimes you gotta look past the dead wood to see the trees, Carter.”
I was surprised at the sudden intrusion of Cash’s words, and I made a flat grunt in my chest. He’d been silent since I’d left him in the Poe-inspired chamber in the early hours of this morning. I snatched a glance to each side, wondering if the mawkish onlookers standing close by had noticed my response to his voice. Evidently not. I didn’t earn as much as a lifted brow. Even the undercover cop had moved away and took no further notice of me.
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In private I’d usually speak out loud in response to my brother. If I did so there, I’d probably have had half the island’s police resource on top of me. I could as easily converse with him within the confines of my mind, but under the circumstances I chose to do neither.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I stepped away from the crowd, walking along the blue and white taped off perimeter. Choosing to ignore Cash’s words, I concentrated on the trees beyond the poly tunnel.
“Suit yourself, but I thought you wanted me to help you.”
“Leave it out for now, Cash,” I finally muttered. “I get what you’re saying, okay? And I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t think you do, Bro. But, hey! Don’t let me be the one to stand in the way of progress.”
“Shush!”
“Of course, if you want to believe any of that crap Broomie was giving you on the way over…go right ahead.”
Pushing him to the back of my thoughts, I found myself searching the shadows beneath the trees. Crazy, I know, but I’d taken on board more of ‘that crap Broomie was giving me on the way over’ than I’d readily admit. Namely the islanders’ take on what had happened here. One that Broom had accepted. By default of my acceptance of the task Broom had set me that made me an accessory to his wild theories, too. Even though to admit so was ridiculous.
It had started with me demanding answers from Broom, regarding the reticence of Stan the café man’s suspicions and Broom’s equal resistance to further explanation.
Hanging on to my seat belt as he’d swung the Subaru through a sequence of bends, I’d asked him, “There’s been talk…as you know. What the hell was Stan talking about, Broom?”
Gritting his teeth in concentration, Broom forced out a laugh. “You know what island folk are like. Close-knit. Closed-minded. Very, very superstitious.”
Despite the obvious stereotyping, I nodded in understanding. I think what he meant to say was that most secular communities have very distinct and individual traditions and practices, and sometimes these customs could intrude upon logic.
