He dropped his arm to his side, camera in hand, signalling the end of his feasting and immediately bodies rushed past him. They all had their game faces on, suitably serious and intent on getting out of there as soon as possible. It was a routine they had danced far too often, the inevitable consequences of letting bored kids run around with recreational drugs and deadly weapons.
Winter backed off to the edge of the circus, casually firing off shots at the crowd and the cops but knowing he was sated by his photographic feed. A detective sergeant he knew from London Road, Aaron Sutton, was standing nearby, hands rooted in his pockets but his eyes scanning the crowd for likely suspects. Winter sidled over and Sutton greeted him with a despairing nod.
‘Never ends, does it?’
‘Never,’ Winter agreed, failing to mention that a dark corner of his heart hoped it never did. ‘So who do the dog and the hand belong to?’
‘Ah, the Great British pet-loving public. I expected better of you though, Tony. Mention the dog before the severed arm because it seems the worse of the two?’
Winter laughed, conceding there might be some truth in it.
‘Maybe. More likely just that the dog is the more unusual of the two.’
‘Aye, maybe. The dog is called Klitschko after the boxers. The forearm belongs to a local ned cum drug dealer who apparently goes by the name of Casper. Named, ironically enough, after the friendly ghost. Real name Jason Hewitt and he’s on the way to hospital. After he was separated from his arm, he was running round like a headless chicken screaming for his mammy, spurting blood everywhere, making it a friggin’ nightmare for your forensic pals. It was his screaming that drew the crowd but it was the dog that got them angry. If Hewitt doesn’t bleed to death, then he won’t be scratching his arse with his right hand for the rest of his crappy life.’
‘What the fuck cut them in half like that?’
‘My guess is a sword – samurai maybe. I’m tempted to say “who cares”. But I won’t. As much as these stupid little fucks are a waste of space, I’ll keep on caring because someone keeps on paying me to care.’
‘That’s so touching, Suttie. I could almost cry.’
‘You do that and while you do I’ll smack your face, you cheeky git. How’s your pal Addison getting on?’
Winter’s best friend, Detective Inspector Derek Addison, had been confined to desk duties for the previous six months after being seriously injured while on duty. Pushing pens had done nothing to improve his infamously volatile temper.
‘He’s helping old ladies across the road, sending birthday cards to Rangers supporters and generally being indistinguishable from a ray of sunshine.’
‘A crabbit bastard as usual then?’
‘Oh, aye.’
‘Well, tell him I’m asking for him. And while you’re at it, ask him if he knows of any toerags that are handy with samurais. I’d just as rather catch the bastard that did this before he fancies trying it on anyone else. He still like a Guinness?’
‘Of course. He was shot in the head not the throat.’
‘Tell him I’ll see him in The Station Bar some time soon then. Anyway, nice as it is to chat, I have some rampaging hordes to put in line. Watch yourself, Tony.’
Winter saw the DS sigh and move back into the fray, wondering how they all managed to keep doing it time after time after bloody time. Then he peered into the Canon’s digital display and saw the butchered halves of Klitschko and the bit of Jason Hewitt that had been left behind. Okay, maybe he didn’t know how or why the rest of them managed to keep doing it, but he knew why he did.
CHAPTER 13
Monday 26 November
It was eight days since Winter and Narey had been to the Lake of Menteith Hotel and Rachel wasn’t happy at all. Despite the bombs she’d casually dropped at the hotel and in Callander, and regardless of the ad she’d placed in the Sunday papers, she hadn’t managed to kick up the shit storm she’d hoped for. The email address and PO box she’d provided had received no more than a few crank messages and chancers looking for a reward. She’d told Tony it was time to up the stakes.
She should have been investigating an attempted murder of a drug dealer in Garnetbank. Or else a suspicious fatal fire in Cowcaddens that needed a further round of witness interviews. Or a gang-related beating that had been clogging her in-tray for weeks. It wasn’t a workload any heavier than any other DS in Strathclyde but Narey was having to keep her plates spinning alongside one of her own. If any of them fell because of that extra plate, then her arse would be on the line. That afternoon, as far as anyone else was concerned, particularly DI Addison, she was in Springburn chasing a lead about a missing grandfather. But she wasn’t.
Laurence Paton lived in the Riverside area of Stirling; just ten minutes’ walk from the city centre yet quite removed from it, a middle-class area of handsome stone terraces built around the turn of the last century. Narey indicated left just before the railway station and crossed the bridge into the residential peninsula that was looped by the River Forth.
The Ochil Hills cast a stunning backdrop as the road fell before them then rose again, a long if relatively low range of summits that separated Stirling and the Hillfoot villages from the Kingdom of Fife. To their left, the Wallace Monument rose high above the Abbey Craig in stark contrast to the snow-covered hills behind it. The monument, all 220 feet of Gothic sandstone perched on the hilltop, was a magnet for tourists and fans of Mel Gibson’s bastardised biopic Braveheart.
‘Left here,’ Tony told her, a set of printed directions in his hand. ‘Then right.’
Rachel took them onto Millar Place, then quickly onto Sutherland Avenue before taking another left into Wallace Place, a narrow street dotted with cars and neatly tended gardens, a series of semi-detached villas, most a monotonous pebble-dashed grey fronted by low hedges and fragile fences. A stone, high on the marled wall they were looking for, declared it had been built in 1920.
‘You have arrived at your destination,’ Tony intoned.
Rachel reversed the Megane easily into a space in front of Paton’s house, turning off the engine and pulling hard on the handbrake until it made a decisive series of clicks and stopped dead.
‘Now what?’
‘Now we wait,’ Rachel replied.
The prospect didn’t fill Winter with joy. He’d be there for her but he’d rather have been on the business end of his camera, seeing whatever darkness Glasgow had to offer.
‘Wait until what?’ he replied.
‘Until we’re noticed.’
A thin path of slabs ran from the solid low wooden gate that ran from the street to the door, dissecting a pink-chipped front garden. Climbing the walls of the house was some hardy-looking shrub while a drive by the side of the building was paved in the same mix of pink chips and dreary grey concrete. The front door was recessed within a porch, two windows on either side of it. White venetian blinds left the windows guarded but enough light shone through that Tony and Rachel could see there was no light switched on in either of the rooms that faced the street.
‘What if there’s no one home?’ Winter asked her.
‘Then we wait until there is.’
Rachel’s patience lasted all of half an hour. Tony was content to close his eyes and let his skull sink back into the Megane’s headrest, while she was the one who proved more impatient. She gave up staring at the windows, willing someone to look back at her through them, and instead got out of the car.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just you sit there. I’m pushing things along.’
She positioned herself, half perched on the bonnet, half standing on the kerb, facing Paton’s house. Not looking remotely suspicious, Winter thought. Her white coat was buttoned up to the neck but still she held the collar closed in a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay.
Suddenly, Tony saw a figure behind the venetian blinds on the furthest left of the four windows, a shadow looking out at the street and at Rachel. The shape lingered there
before slipping out of view again. Rachel had seen him too; of course she had, for her eyes had never left the house.
Then, from the other side of the road, a door opened and a fair-haired woman in her early sixties stepped onto a gravel path. She was pulling on a coat as she walked, a look of consternation on her face, and making a direct line for Rachel.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
The woman’s tone of voice was more demanding than attempting to be helpful.
Rachel turned slowly, casually swivelling her head to face the neighbour.
‘Help me? No thanks,’ she smiled.
The woman looked confused and none too pleased.
‘Are you lost? Perhaps I can help you with directions.’
Narey smiled again.
‘Nope. Not lost at all.’
‘Well, I . . . I was just wondering what you were doing here.’
‘So I see.’
The woman hesitated, clearly expecting Rachel to explain herself. Instead, all she got was a calm smile and her stare returned.
‘I . . . well . . . I’ll be watching.’
‘You do that.’
The neighbour’s mouth dropped slightly before she turned on her heels and sped back into her house, doubtless ready to tell a long-suffering husband about the rude and highly suspicious stranger in the street.
Narey turned back to Paton’s house and saw that the shadow had returned behind the blinds. He – she was sure it was a he – looked back out at her. She could make out fair or perhaps greying hair.
Inside the car, Winter’s gaze tore back and forth between the window and Rachel. The shape in the blinds was bulky and tall, clearly staring at Narey but not flinching – neither of them was. Winter realised he was tense, braced to jump out of the car if Paton, assuming that’s who it was, left the house to confront her. Rachel probably wouldn’t thank him for it, and was perfectly capable of looking after herself, but he doubted he’d be able to stop himself.
The figure left his position at the window, moving off to his left, but Rachel didn’t budge. She continued to lean against the car, her arms calmly crossed. In a matter of seconds, he’d returned and was staring at her again. Then he moved, an arm raised towards his head – no, not to his head, not quite yet anyway. He was holding something about chest high, gripping it in front of him as if to let her see it. It was a phone.
Rachel realised what it was and the message he was sending to her. She simply smiled at him and shrugged. The man didn’t move for an age, as if trying to decide what he should do, then he brought the phone and his other hand together, punching in numbers. He lifted the phone to his shadowy head and held it there. Winter looked at one, then the other, waiting to see who would blink first.
It wouldn’t be Rachel. He knew it. Rather than back off, she pushed herself away from the car and walked deliberately to the left of the brown gate that split the low hedge bordering Paton’s castle. She stood right against the hedge, directly in front of the window where he stood. The arm holding the phone fell slowly to his side. The phone call, if he’d actually made one, was over. Then he moved quickly, a decision seemingly made, reached out an arm and the venetian blinds closed, hiding him completely. In quick succession, the blinds on windows two, three and four were also closed, leaving Narey staring at four white shields.
She stood there for a few moments longer before turning slowly and walking back to the car, noticing with some satisfaction that the nosy neighbour from across the street was still watching through her own window.
‘Who do you think he was phoning?’ Winter asked as Rachel slid back behind the wheel.
‘Don’t know; don’t care. I’m just happy he was spooked enough to have phoned someone.’
‘Maybe you should care. If he was phoning the cops, then you’re in the shit. You do know that, Rachel, right?’
‘He might just have been bluffing,’ she pondered, paying him no attention. ‘Either way, I think we can safely say he’ll remember that we were here.’
‘Fine, Rach. Ignore me if you want but you’re walking the line here. Now is there any chance we can get back to civilisation? This country living is starting to wear me down.’
‘Sure, let’s go. I think I’ve stirred up enough shit for one week. I’m not finished though.’
‘I was afraid you were going to say that.’
CHAPTER 14
‘Yes, she’s gone . . . Of course I’m sure. I saw her drive away.’
‘And you’ve no idea who she was?’
‘I told you. None.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘About five foot four, dark brown hair tied back. Pretty. Wearing a white coat.’
‘And you’d never seen her before? What about the guy in the car?’
‘I’d never seen either of them in my life.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay? It’s not okay.’
‘Look, just keep calm.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. It wasn’t your house she was standing outside. It wasn’t your window she was staring into.’
‘It could be nothing. Just a coincidence.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence. I know it’s not a bloody coincidence. Not this weekend.’
‘You have to stay calm. It’s vitally important you don’t lose focus. Not now.’
‘I just can’t take this any more. I’ve lived with it for far too long.’
‘Exactly. You’ve come this far. You’ve gone through too much to crumble now.’
‘Who the hell is she though? What does she want?’
‘It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t know anything. That’s all that’s important.’
‘You can’t be sure of that. You don’t know.’
‘Hold it together. Stay strong.’
‘I don’t think I can. I just . . . it’s too much . . . I’ve got to go.’
‘Laurence . . . Laurence. Hello?’
CHAPTER 15
Thursday 29 November
‘You do know that both Paton and the neighbour across the road probably took your registration number?’
Tony and Rachel were in her flat in Highburgh Road, she in a dressing gown and he with his shoes kicked off, lying back on the bed. Rachel was sitting at the computer and working her way through a search engine. It had been three days since they’d returned from their visit to Wallace Place but it was still dominating their conversation.
‘I’m counting on it,’ she called back over her shoulder.
‘What?’
‘Look, if Paton has nothing to hide . . .’ She let her reply fade.
‘Then the first thing he would do is get on to the police and tell them about the crazy woman outside his house the other day,’ Winter finished for her.
‘Right. Or maybe the second thing. The first would have been to open his door and ask what the hell we wanted. So if we don’t hear from Central Scotland cops, then that tells me I’m on the right track. In this case, no news is definitely good news.’
Winter fell quiet, not as convinced by Rachel’s argument as she was. The truth was, he wasn’t convinced by any of it. He was fascinated by the horror of what had happened in Inchmahome, there was no denying that, but he doubted the good that could come of trying to investigate it after all these years. He could see the strain her dad’s condition was placing on Rachel and he was worried where it would lead – not that he voiced any of his reservations. He knew her much better than to think that was a good idea.
‘So what do you think you’re going to find on the internet?’
Rachel shrugged without looking back at him.
‘My dad’s files are still held by Central Scotland Police because the case is still open, officially at least. I know most of what’s in them. I’ve spent enough time talking to him about it. So . . . I’m searching everything I can find on here in case it offers something new.’
‘Think it will?’
‘Probably not but you never know. There is
just so much of this stuff,’ she waved her hand at the screen. ‘And it’s as full of as many rumours as old Dick Johnson or the public bar in The Waverley.’
‘Gypsies?’ he asked her.
‘Yeah. Romany princesses and honour killings. There’s plenty of that. Witchcraft, kidnap gangs and links to every known nutter in the country.’
‘The internet’s great but there’s so much shite masquerading as fact that you can’t trust any of it. Anything useful?’
‘Maybe, although not directly about what happened. I’ve been reading about a forensic anthropologist at Dundee University who has done some great work in facial reconstructions from skeletal remains. I was thinking she could help us out.’
Winter let the ‘us’ pass without comment.
‘Recreate an image of the girl’s face, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ she spun to look at him. ‘Professor Kirsten Fairweather. It was her team that reconstructed the medieval knight that was found under the floorboards at Stirling Castle. You remember it? They produced a computer-generated image of him. And that guy had been dead for nearly 700 years, so a twenty-year-old body should be a piece of cake.’
‘Well, obviously, if you found out who the girl was, then it would make it a hell of a lot easier to find out who killed her,’ he conceded. ‘Think they’ll go for it?’
‘That’s a slight problem. They’d need a skeleton to work on. The hard bit is going to be to persuade Central to give the go-ahead to dig her up.’
Winter looked at Rachel doubtfully. He had that familiar feeling of knowing full well he shouldn’t say something but was going to do it anyway. It was like some form of Tourette’s.
‘Look, I don’t want to be negative here but . . .’
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