Bred in the Bone

by Christopher Brookmyre

  Julie smiled at him as she passed, which apparently made him aroused. He turned and caught up to her again further along the path, where he took off his belt, dropped his trousers and exposed himself. Julie got upset at this and began to scream. Startled by her response, Teddy grabbed Julie and put his hand over her mouth, trying to keep her silent. As she struggled, trying to scream louder through his muffling hand, he became more concerned about getting into trouble and dragged her into the wild garlic. Panicked and confused by the strange state of excitement in which he found himself, it was here that he looped his belt around Julie’s neck and strangled her.

  Anthony marvelled at the phrasing of the confession, the insights it offered into Teddy’s mind, the little notes and minor details intended to lend authenticity to the narrative. It was a case study in why the polis weren’t allowed to pull this shit any more. Cairns had written down precisely the version he thought would play best if it came to trial, and got this befuddled, frightened and quite possibly beaten educationally subnormal suspect to sign at the bottom.

  He thought of Brenda right at the very start of the video, rambling but impassioned as she poured out her heart to her guest, before Fullerton let her compose herself and told her to take it from the top.

  ‘Oor Teddy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Everybody knew that. All those wee bastards that used to call names and throw stones: he always ran away. Never so much as turned around and told them to shut it. And when I finally got to see him on remand . . . He was scared, so scared. I asked him if it was true, if he’d done it, and he said he wasn’t allowed to talk aboot it. What does that mean? Not allowed? By who?’

  Anthony could guess.

  What did they do to you, Teddy, he wondered. What did they tell you would happen if you didn’t stick to the script?

  ‘Jesus,’ Adrienne said, the first word either had issued since they began poring over the contents of the box.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was pregnant.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Pathologist’s report. Nobody else seems to have been aware of this. None of her friends or flatmates mentioned it in their statements. Her parents didn’t know either.’

  ‘Did her boyfriend?’ Anthony asked pointedly.

  There had been a statement from Ewart in the file, with a note to say it was strictly confidential. Supporting the contention that his relationship with her was of little relevance to the case was his claim that he hadn’t even been at his parents’ house that night, and had no idea Julie was planning to drop by. She had only visited the place once before, for a dinner party a few weeks previously, but he’d driven her there.

  ‘Can think of poorer pretexts for a surprise visit,’ Adrienne suggested, ‘than to confront your boyfriend with the news that you’re up the duff in front of his scandal-wary parents.’

  ‘Can I see the report?’

  Adrienne handed him the pages, which he traded for the confession.

  There it was, in the clinical bloodless prose that reduced all that was once Julie Muir to a technical read-out of her final state.

  The victim was approximately three months pregnant at time of death . . .

  He scanned the rest of the report, the precise description of the injuries to her neck, the corresponding condition of internal organs, the estimated time of death.

  The ligature used to strangle her suggested a combination of metal and a softer material, probably leather. This was consistent with Sheehan’s confession that he had used his belt.

  She had not been sexually assaulted.

  Anthony was about to put the report back down when he saw it.

  ‘Fuck,’ he announced.

  The most vital piece of information in the entire document was at the very top, and they had both bypassed it in their hurry to get to the details.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The pathologist’s name – it’s Colin Morrison.’

  Journey’s End

  The van had maintained a steady pace for a long time, indicating progress along the open road, and Jasmine hadn’t heard any other traffic for a while. She had no way of verifying this, but she felt a growing sense of becoming further and further from anywhere populous. Thus when the van began to decelerate fear seized her, letting her know that her previous terror had been a mere overture. Truly, it was better to travel hopelessly than to arrive.

  The van stopped and she heard a door open from the cab, though the engine was still turning. A fist banged on the side, close to her head, causing her to start.

  ‘Right,’ said the pudgy man, opening one of the doors. ‘Come on.’

  She emerged into a gathering gloom, rainclouds darkening the skies and making it difficult to gauge the time of day. She was outside an isolated cottage, hills and woodland stretching away behind it. She couldn’t see any other houses. By a rough estimate of how long she had travelled, it could be Perthshire or it could be the Borders. She had no idea.

  The van drove off again as soon as she was clear. She hadn’t seen the driver at any point.

  She was led towards the cottage, trembling with every step. She wanted to run, but it was as though she was caught in a tractor beam, paralysed by the knowledge that she would be caught and punished.

  She took a closer look at the building as she walked across the weed-strewn path. The windows seemed strange: reflective and yet completely opaque. It took her a moment to realise that they were all covered from the inside by aluminium foil.

  A cloying, chokingly fetid smell filled her nostrils as she stepped inside, and she was struck by a fierce, humid warmth at odds with the absence of carpets or indeed furniture.

  Nobody lived here. Nobody had lived here for a long time.

  She could see light spilling from slightly open doorways either side of the hall, dazzling to eyes that had grown accustomed to the dimness of the van and the glowering conditions outside. It was too bright to look directly into the rooms at first, but down at floor level she could see wide plastic tubing running through the gaps between the doors and the frames, leading along the downstairs hallway and disappearing through a hole cut in a wall at the rear. It was a makeshift ventilation system. Her eyes caught a glimpse of foliage as she was directed up the stairs. It was a cannabis farm.

  In the top hall she passed two more rooms turned into nurseries, before being led into a starker chamber. It was a single bedroom, though it didn’t contain anything to lie down on. The floorboards were bare, and the only wall covering to speak of was a rampant outbreak of mould resultant of a humidity not normally found at this latitude. In the centre of the room was a wooden table with two foldaway chairs on either side.

  The room had a single window, possibly the only one in the house not lined with foil. It gave a view to the rear, showing the rain begin to fall on the stark hillside behind the cottage.

  She took a couple of paces forward, not knowing where to put herself. It looked like a cell, but for some reason she was relieved that it didn’t have a bed.

  Pudgy closed the door and stood just in front of it.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ he said.

  Jasmine froze, revulsion over-riding the defensive impulses that had previously compelled her to obey. Instinctively she gathered her arms about herself. Pudgy took a surprisingly speedy step forward and punched her again.

  She fell to the ground amid another explosion of light and pain, all of her previous hurts revisited and amplified by this further blow.

  ‘Take your fuckin’ clothes off and put them in a pile,’ he shouted.

  He backed away again as she struggled woozily to her feet.

  Her hands were shaking so much that she could barely grip the buttons on her overcoat. Slowly, she managed to remove it, fold it over and place it on the table.

  ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘Get on with it.’

  She became conscious of the little assurances she was giving herself: he’s not taking my clothes off; he’s keeping his distance; ther
e isn’t a bed in here. Any time she caught herself doing this, she recalled what Fallan had taught her.

  We don’t listen to fear properly. We feel it, but we try to explain it away. When we rationalise it, we’re looking for reassurance. We’re looking for reasons why it’s going to be okay.

  This was not going to be okay.

  She had to listen to her fear, but equally she could not let her senses be overwhelmed by it. She could not give in to panic and desperation. She had to stay in control.

  She undressed as commanded, placing all of her clothes in a pile on the table. Pudgy watched her, arms folded. She tried not to catch his eye, aware he was watching her the whole time. He was detached from what she was doing, but only in the physical sense. He was an intent voyeur, empowered by feeling no need to disguise his gaze. She was the one afraid to be caught looking.

  He remained against the wall until she was finished. She flinched and backed away when she sensed him move, but he only came as far as the table to pick up the clothes. Then he retreated from the room and locked the door.

  She was left standing next to the table, naked, scared and confused. Instinctively she went to the small window, driven by thoughts of flight. It looked paint-stuck, but she could use a chair to break it. What then, though?

  This was why he’d asked her to undress; or at least she hoped so. No need for ropes and restraints when your prisoner is one storey up in the middle of nowhere and hasn’t a stitch to cover herself against the November rain.

  A moment of despair was dispelled by further panic as she heard footsteps announce his return. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, placing down a mug full of water and a chipped bowl.

  ‘Water in, water oot,’ he muttered, smirking to himself, then withdrew once again.

  Outside the rain grew heavier.

  Jasmine sat down on one of the folding chairs, hugging her arms to herself though the room was stifling.

  She was too scared even to cry.

  Gutted

  ‘So if we’re secretly investigating the DCC,’ Anthony said, climbing the stairs to Colin Morrison’s flat, ‘is it ripping the piss to be pulling overtime on it?’

  ‘This could be our last ever pay packet from the force,’ Adrienne replied. ‘Might as well try for a heavy one.’

  They were joking about it but they each knew how deep they were in. Neither of them had slept well, and both of them had lied about why, as if a refusal to name their fears would somehow ward them off. Adrienne said it was because one of the kids had woken her in the night complaining of bad dreams. Anthony suspected that it wasn’t her daughter who had been visited in the darkness by demons from her own subconscious.

  Anthony claimed his bleary appearance was down to playing Team Fortress 2 online until the small hours. Truth was he had tried, but he couldn’t concentrate. He had logged on to a server and joined the blue team, but he wasn’t sure whether he truly was on the blue team any more.

  They were both nearing the end of their shift by the time they had finished up at the Fiscal’s offices and tracked down an address for Colin Morrison, but there was little question of them clocking off. It was easy enough for him, but potentially more of an issue for Adrienne.

  ‘Have you got to get back for the kids?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a nanny, and I always check with her before a shift starts, to make sure she can stay on if work gets complicated. This definitely qualifies.’

  ‘So she scores overtime too. Everybody wins.’

  ‘Or it’s one more person on the bru if this goes tits up.’

  Morrison’s flat was on the second floor of a tenement in Cathcart, two to a landing. The close was immaculately kept, its walls lined with green tiles to roughly shoulder height, above which was crisp and regularly re-coated blue paint. There were planters on each half-stair turn, a bay tree in the first, a healthy ficus in the second. It always amazed Anthony how different one tenement could be from the next. He had shared a flat just around the corner from this place when he was a student. The buildings looked identical, but the only organic life he’d ever encountered on the common stairs was a jobbie laid overnight by some manky bastard who couldn’t wait until he got home.

  Adrienne rang the doorbell but Anthony wasn’t any more optimistic about getting an answer than when they had tried Morrison’s landline. The flat had a wooden outer door comprising two halves meeting in the middle. They looked robust, heavy and unwelcomingly closed. Contrastingly, across the landing his neighbour’s outer doors were open, tucked back to form the walls of a shallow porch.

  Adrienne tried the bell again and waited a little longer, but there was no sound of movement from within, and no light from the glass panel above the semi-doors. She tried the handle and, to their mutual surprise, it opened.

  ‘Not locked. Shit, look at this.’

  The inner door’s lock had been punched out: a pro-looking job, fast and quiet, probably executed with the outer doors closed for concealment. Whoever had done it had closed everything over again upon exit, not wishing to advertise the fact that the place had been hit.

  Adrienne opened it and stepped inside, then promptly stepped back out again, pulling the door behind her.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re going to need face-masks. At least a hanky or something.’

  Anthony’s stomach lurched. He wasn’t sure he was ready to be first on scene at the discovery of another body, especially as it would necessitate an inescapable admission of how they had come to find it.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘No, it’s not a smell. Not yet anyway. It’s just . . . You ever see that film Sunshine, the bit where they find the spaceship that’s been dead and drifting for decades?’

  Adrienne reached into her bag and produced a pack of wet wipes.

  ‘New use number two thousand, seven hundred and twelve,’ she said, placing one over her nose and mouth and proffering the packet.

  Anthony followed her inside, where he was grateful for the wet wipe but could have done with a pair of goggles as well. As the thick clouds of billowing particles stung his eyes, he tried not to think about how in the movie Adrienne just mentioned the dancing dust was disintegrated human flesh.

  ‘Single men,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘They never think to lift a duster or push the hoover around once in a while.’

  Anthony had never seen anything like it, and given that he’d lived in a few student gaffs, this was saying something. The closest he’d witnessed had been when his parents were getting their dining-room floor sanded, and he’d made the mistake of sticking his head around the door while the bloke was running the machine.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he asked, but as he looked past Adrienne and further into the flat he could see the answer through every open door.

  The place had been torn apart. Anything that could be opened was ripped asunder; anything that could be broken was in a thousand pieces; anything that could be turned inside out had been disembowelled. The air was choked with fibres from every seat cushion, every pillow, every duvet, the stuffing pulled out and dumped on the floor. Picture frames lay broken at the foot of every wall, their canvases slashed and discarded. Skirting had been tugged from the walls, carpets lifted and rolled back, floorboards worried at with tools.

  ‘Do you think they were looking for something?’ he asked.

  Adrienne turned around very slowly. He couldn’t see her mouth over the wet-wipe, but her eyes told him his patter was rotten.

  ‘At least this means we’re not going to find a body,’ she said. ‘If Morrison had been here they’d have made him tell them where whatever it is was hidden.’

  ‘Unless he came home and interrupted them,’ Anthony mused, eyeing the one closed door off of the chaotic hall.

  ‘Flip you for it?’ she asked.

  Anthony was having a heated internal dialogue regarding the price and value of chivalry when the doorbell suddenly rang from eight
een inches above his left ear. He had a mental image of himself as Scooby Doo leaping into the arms of Adrienne’s Shaggy, so chivalry probably wasn’t going to edge the debate.

  ‘Hello?’ said a female voice, following up the ring with a knock on the frame of the door.

  He pulled it open to reveal a woman in her late sixties or early seventies, dressed in a paint-spattered smock, further pigment flecking her hair. Behind her across the landing he could see that the front door was open on the flat opposite. This was the neighbour. She had a brush in her hand, a fine, pencil-thin item indicating that she was working on canvas as opposed to slapping a fresh coat of emulsion on the ceiling.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, taking in the sight of two strangers and the devastation at their backs.

  Anthony produced his warrant card as quickly as he could, before she might flip out in the fear that she’d caught the bad guys in the act.

  ‘Police, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh no. There’s been a break-in. Oh, God, that’s awful. Poor Colin. What a dreadful sight to come back to.’

  ‘Do you know Mr Morrison, Miss . . . Mrs . . .?’

  ‘Alva. Margo Alva. Mrs. I live across the landing. But this is just dreadful. Poor Colin, after everything that’s happened. I just hope he’s having a nice holiday.’

  She was very precisely spoken, reminding Anthony of his Great Aunt Vera who would not tolerate a glottal stop within the walls of her Kelvinside abode.

  ‘Everything that’s happened?’ asked Adrienne. ‘Has Mr Morrison had some trouble recently?’

  ‘Hmm, well, not that recently perhaps. Honestly, where does the time go? He lost quite a bit of money in that credit crunch business. Back when he was still working, he used to joke about retiring to the sun. Now he’s just grabbing it a bit at a time, I suppose.’