Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  ‘Course you don’t,’ she interrupted, immediately irritable.

  ‘It’s just that if you want Central Scotland Police on side to exhume this girl, then your case isn’t exactly going to be helped by being reported for harassing a one-time suspect.’

  Rachel shook her head wearily.

  ‘He’s still a suspect as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, that’s just a chance I’ll have to take. The reconstruction is probably a bit down the line. I need something to work with first. But thanks for your encouragement.’

  ‘For fucksake, Rachel, I’m only pointing it out. You’re going out on a limb here and that’s not like you. You’re normally by the book, sensible and level-headed – the ice queen investigator.’

  She glared back at him, indignant at his response, as if he’d been disloyal.

  ‘I’ve got to do this off the books because I’m the one who has to do it,’ she argued. ‘Don’t you understand, it’s got to be me who sorts it for him.’

  Winter returned her stare, wishing he’d never opened his mouth. A silence fell between them, which was rudely broken by the ringing of the telephone. Narey ignored it, continuing to hold his gaze but finally giving in and picking up the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’ she demanded angrily, her tone quickly softening when she recognised the voice on the other end of the phone. Whoever it was didn’t bother much with pleasantries and went straight into whatever they had to say.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Rachel said finally. ‘I was. I was there on Monday. I was only outside his house though. I . . .’

  She had been interrupted and was listening intently, lines creasing her forehead.

  ‘I was just passing through and wanted to see where . . .’

  The caller had cut in on her again and Winter could tell that Rachel clearly wasn’t enjoying what was being said. Then her face fell dramatically and her eyes shot across the room to Winter.

  ‘Yes, sir. First thing. Of course. I can assure you . . .’

  The phone had gone dead.

  She put the receiver back in its holder and looked at the floor for a moment before lifting her head and looking directly at Tony. He waited for her to speak.

  ‘That was Detective Superintendent Shirley,’ she began, an obvious note of shock in her voice.

  ‘Wanting to know if you’d been to Laurence Paton’s house.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Yes. He’s dead, Tony. Laurence Paton was found dead this morning.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday 30 November

  ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing there?’

  DI Derek Addison had never been famed for his good nature or even temper and being forced to become a desk jockey while on the invalid list hadn’t changed anything for the better. Being ordered to give Narey a bollocking on the instructions of Central Scotland Police wasn’t helping much either.

  ‘I was just . . .’ Narey didn’t get far with her reply.

  ‘Shut up. When I want you to say something, I’ll ask you. Do you know how much I like having to listen to those country bumpkins telling me how to do my job? Do you? Don’t answer. I don’t like it one fucking bit. Chief Inspector Farmer Hayseed phoned me from Stirling – a place that I didn’t even know had telephones – and told me how to tell you off. Can you bloody believe that?’

  Narey said nothing.

  ‘I asked you a bloody question, Sergeant,’ Addison roared at her.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can believe it, sir.’

  ‘Too right I fucking can’t. Lucky for you I’m more mad at them than I am at you. Although unluckily for you it just makes me even madder. Now what the fuck were you doing at this Laurence Paton’s house?’

  Narey hesitated to see if a reply was expected this time and quickly sensed that it was.

  ‘I was just interested in an old case and I wanted to see where this guy lived.’

  Addison stared at her.

  ‘That’s a pile of shite, Rachel, and you know I know it is.’

  Addison had always been a man who called a spade a fucking shovel. Except that he was as likely to throw another few swear words in there as well.

  ‘It’s basically true, sir. I probably stayed slightly longer than I should have done and was maybe a wee bit conspicuous standing at his gate but I didn’t question him, threaten him or do anything to put him in a state of fear or alarm.’

  Addison shook his head wearily.

  ‘If by conspicuous you meant confrontational, then you’re probably right. You know perfectly well that the Scottish Police Service code of ethical practice demands that you “perform your duties in an open and transparent manner” – even if it is a load of old bollocks. Fucksake, Sergeant, do you not think it looks a bit of a coincidence that you were arsing about there three days before Paton fell off a ladder and cracked his skull open? Lucky for you there was a witness who could see that what happened to Paton was just an accident.’

  ‘And a bit lucky I didn’t have anything to do with it,’ Rachel fired back angrily. ‘And I suppose a bit lucky I had an alibi, being 30 miles away and on bloody duty.’

  ‘Aye, okay, keep your knickers on,’ Addison conceded. ‘I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Of course I bloody didn’t. And I could have you done for that knickers remark.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off and sit down. It’s bad enough those teuchters in Stirling giving me a hard time without you starting. You going to tell me what this is all about?’

  Addison let his lanky frame collapse into a comfy looking armchair and, after standing indignantly for a few moments, Narey did the same but into a far less comfortable desk chair, her hackles still up.

  ‘You first,’ she told him. ‘Give me chapter and verse on what happened to Paton?’

  The DI sighed and picked up the sheet of paper again.

  ‘Laurence Paton, school teacher,’ he began. ‘Deputy Head of English at the High School of Stirling. Forty-three years of age. Married to Isobel; no children. Lived in Wallace Place in Riverside, Stirling. He was up a ladder trying to unblock his guttering when the ladder slipped and he fell onto the driveway. He fractured his skull, broke his neck and suffered severe brain damage. He was unconscious when neighbours reached him and pronounced dead by the paramedics on arrival.’

  Narey looked back at the DI, expressionless.

  ‘Where was his wife?’ she asked.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘Not really. He died.’

  ‘Yeah, like I said. Who’s the witness?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘You said I was lucky there was a witness who could see it was just an accident.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yeah. You’ve already met her,’ Addison glanced at a sheet of paper to check the name. ‘A Mrs Helen Haskell. She was the concerned neighbour who was doing her civic duty by asking you what you were doing there.’

  Narey rolled her eyes.

  ‘That nosy old bag? Not surprising, right enough. A proper curtain twitcher, that one. What did she see?’

  ‘She was at her front window and saw Paton fall. She ran over to him and saw the driveway caked with the poor sod’s claret. She started screaming the place down and another neighbour came running. It was him who dialled 999.’

  Narey didn’t respond.

  ‘The local cops took the relevant statements and it all seemed tragic and sad but no big deal really until Mrs Haskell mentioned the aggressive and suspicious woman who had been standing outside Paton’s house three days before. Mrs Haskell had the woman’s car number and like good little polis they ran the numbers as a matter of course. Imagine their surprise and displeasure when it turns out to belong to one of Strathclyde’s finest. Imagine too how happy Detective Superintendent Shirley was when they called him.’

  Narey closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘Your turn,’ Addison reminded her.

  ‘Laurence Paton,’ she began, mimicking Addison’s tired mon
otone. ‘Suspect in the Lady in the Lake murder in 1993. My father investigated the case but the body was never identified and the killer never caught. So there’s some personal interest there.’

  She paused but it was Addison’s turn to say nothing and he let her continue.

  ‘I’d been thinking about the case recently. It’s the anniversary of when the murder was thought to have happened. I just wanted to see what Paton looked like and . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And to see if I could spook him.’

  ‘Spook him into what? A confession or falling off a ladder and killing himself?’

  Narey raised her eyes to the ceiling and exhaled sharply.

  ‘Okay, don’t bother answering that,’ Addison continued. ‘I know why you’d want to take a look at him. I understand, Rachel. But the thing is: Paton isn’t and wasn’t a suspect. Not according to Chief Inspector Hayseed and the rest of Central Scotland Police.’

  ‘My dad was a good copper, Addy,’ she told him, all formality gone. ‘He had a good nose and he was sure Paton was involved. And, come on, it’s a bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? Him dying around the anniversary of the murder?’

  ‘No more than you turning up on the guy’s doorstep five minutes before he pegs it,’ Addison reminded her.

  ‘Yeah but . . .’

  ‘Yeah but nothing. Who was the mystery guy in the passenger seat when you went to Paton’s?’

  Narey hesitated and was furious to see it spark a faint smirk on Addison’s face.

  ‘That was just a friend who happened to be in the car.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  Narey’s relationship with Winter was a secret but they both wondered if Addison suspected something. It was hard to tell because he was the sort who always gave the impression of knowing more than he let on. This time, he let Narey squirm uncomfortably before bringing the meeting to a close.

  ‘Look, Central say it’s a coincidence, so it’s a coincidence. You stay out of their patch and get on with your own job. You hear me?’

  Narey opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  ‘You hear me, Sergeant?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘I mean it, Rachel. They’re gunning for your ass as it is. Don’t give them an excuse to do anything about it.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Sunday 2 December

  It was only six o’clock when Winter strode off Highburgh Road and began to climb the stairs to the flat but it had already been dark for two hours. There was a clean pint glass sitting at his usual place on the pine kitchen table and it caught his eye the moment he entered the flat. There was a strange smell too, something unusual. A tour through his memory bank told him it was food.

  ‘You’re cooking?’ he called out.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Rachel’s voice came back at him from somewhere out of sight.

  ‘You don’t cook. You never cook.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  She had reappeared from behind the fridge door with a can of Guinness in her hand, a welcoming hissing sound escaping as she tore back the ring-pull.

  ‘It is true,’ Tony persisted. ‘Reheating ready meals isn’t cooking. Putting something in the microwave isn’t cooking. Toast isn’t cooking. You don’t cook.’

  Rachel stopped in front of the table as if ready to argue but instead forced a smile and slowly poured the Guinness into the pint glass.

  ‘Well, tonight I’m cooking. There’s a steak and ale pie in the oven and roast potatoes in there too. That okay with you?’

  ‘Um, sure. Lovely.’

  Tony fell into his chair, lifting the glass to his lips and his eyebrows to the ceiling. He watched her produce another pint glass and place it on the table opposite him. Winter wiped a foamy moustache from his lips and sat back, wondering what the hell was going on.

  Suddenly, the intercom buzzer barked into the room. Winter jumped at the noise but Rachel didn’t seem surprised. She picked up the wall telephone and listened for a second before replying.

  ‘Hi. Come on up.’

  Tony supped on his stout again, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t forthcoming. Instead Rachel went to the fridge and brought out a can of lager, immediately opening and pouring it. Shortly after, there was a brisk knock at the door and Rachel opened it to let the slightly out of breath and burly figure of Danny Neilson inside. Winter’s uncle grinned at him, enjoying the look of surprise on the younger man’s face.

  ‘All right, son?’ Danny asked him.

  Tony shrugged.

  ‘Um, yeah. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Dinner will be about ten minutes, Danny,’ Rachel told their visitor.

  ‘Fine, love. No rush.’

  Love? No one called Rachel ‘love’ without getting his ear chewed off. Winter was even more confused.

  Danny slipped into the chair opposite, raised the glass towards Tony and said cheers.

  ‘So how’s tricks, son?’ Danny asked him after a long sup on his beer, dragging a hand through his greying but annoyingly full head of hair. ‘You photographed any good deid bodies recently?’

  ‘No, it’s actually been pretty quiet on the corpse front recently.’

  ‘Ach, never fear, it’s Glasgow. I’m sure there will be another one along any minute. A nice shotgun wound to the head maybe. Or a machete attack. Maybe even a wee double murder.’

  ‘Aye, Uncle Danny, very good. Now look, what the fu—’

  Tony never got to finish his question, as Rachel reappeared and sat down at the table, a glass of white wine in her hand.

  ‘So, Danny,’ she began, ‘how are things with you? Still working the rank at night?’

  Tony’s uncle was a former policeman, thirty years on the force and most of those spent as a detective sergeant. He wasn’t a man for sitting on his backside during retirement though and had taken a job marshalling late-night revellers at a busy taxi rank. Keeping drunks in line in all weathers was no position for a man in his sixties but Danny could more than handle himself and he blankly refused all suggestions that he should give it up.

  ‘I am, love,’ he told Rachel. ‘The work of the taxi rank superintendent is never done. There were some right bampots out last night. I’m guessing they were full of the drink after watching the match on the telly. Did you see it, Tony?’

  The normality of the conversation was doing Winter’s head in. Uncle Danny, for all that he had been virtually a father to Tony after the death of his parents, was the first person ever to visit Rachel’s flat while Winter was there. Their relationship remained a secret to all except Danny and he knew only because Winter had desperately needed his help a year before. Rachel had been threatened by a vigilante sniper and rogue cop, and it was Danny Tony had turned to when he needed help to protect her. It was Danny who’d known what to do. Despite all that and knowing about Tony and Rachel, Danny had never been invited to Chez Narey. Yet, out of the blue, here he was, large as life, at the dining table. Cosy.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Tony finally asked them.

  Danny shrugged, seemingly amused at Winter’s confusion, while Rachel shook her head at him in exasperation. Finally she blew out her cheeks and arched her eyebrows in surrender.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll explain but let’s eat dinner first. If you knew how tough it was for me to cook this bloody stuff, then you’d know I don’t want it to be wasted. Another drink?’

  They ate with little more than polite, strained conversation, each appetite ruined by the anticipation or dread of what was to be said.

  ‘First of all, Danny,’ Rachel began at last, ‘I want to tell you about my dad. He was a cop, just like me, just like you were. He’s ages with you so maybe you even knew him. His name was Alan Narey and he was a chief inspector in Central Scotland. No?’

  Danny shook his head.

  ‘He was from Glasgow, born and bred, but he preferred not to work over the shop. So he worked out of Stirling, drove in every day. He
figured, given the nature of the job, it would be better for me and my mum if he didn’t have too many enemies who knew where we lived. That’s the way he always was – put us ahead of anything else. He could have made at least superintendent if he’d sacrificed a bit more but it wasn’t in his nature. Not that he wasn’t dedicated to the job; he was. He cared about people and about the right thing being done. He was my hero. He still is.’

  Rachel stopped and took another swig of wine. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger.

  ‘Anyway, you’ll remember the Lady in the Lake case, the winter of 1993 and ’94.’

  Danny’s eyes furrowed.

  ‘Lake of Menteith?’ he answered. ‘Young woman found battered to death on the island in the middle? I remember it. It made headlines for weeks, months.’

  ‘Inchmahome,’ she confirmed. ‘My dad worked the case. Worked it for months, maybe the only time in his whole career he lived and breathed a case twenty-four hours a day and me and Mum never saw him. The victim wasn’t that much older than me and I always wondered if that was part of it, why it got to him so much. But I think it was just because he cared, wanted justice for her. You know how it is, Danny.’

  Neilson nodded slowly and gravely. He knew how it was all right. He’d worked on a series of high-profile killings back in the early seventies: four young women who were murdered after nights out in Glasgow. They’d never caught the killer and there weren’t many days that went by that Danny didn’t think about it and feel guilty about not having done his job.

  ‘Yeah, I know, love. It eats away at you and it doesn’t stop.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she agreed, her voice wavering again. ‘My dad’s not well, Danny. He’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.’

  Rachel let the sentence hang there and Tony flirted with the notion that she was playing this for sympathy. He immediately reproached himself for thinking it.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Rachel,’ Danny comforted her. ‘It must be hard’

  She nodded, her eyes on the table.

  ‘It’s hardest for him. He’s a proud man, used to looking after us and now he’s struggling to look after himself. He can’t always tell you what day it is and he forgets people’s names. He puts the oven on and leaves food to burn; he misses appointments and forgets birthdays. It might not sound much but it’s . . . it’s like you said, it’s eating away at him. I can see my dad slipping away bit by bit.’