Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  ‘If you are coming back, Sergeant, then I’d suggest you bring a warrant with you. Otherwise there’s no way I’m letting you in to upset my family.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll do that. Very protective of your family, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’d do anything to protect them.’

  ‘Anything?’

  He didn’t answer but began to close the door.

  ‘Mr Deans?’ she interrupted his movement with the question in her voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me why I was asking you about Paton, Mosson and Paddy. Have you received any interesting emails lately?’

  The door was slammed in her face.

  ‘You leaving it at that?’ Winter asked her as they walked away, neither of them turning back.

  ‘Course not. It might be fucking freezing but I can still make him sweat. The man’s a bloody liar. He’s in this up to his neck and the only question right now is if he’s going to be a victim or tell us what the hell is going on.’

  CHAPTER 34

  Monday 17 December

  The Bank turned out not to be a bank at all. It was a restaurant in Upper Craigs in Stirling, a two-storey sandstone Georgian mansion with a Doric porch of pillars and fanlights at the top of a flight of stairs leading up from the road. It was an impressive building from the outside and Narey cynically wondered if Detective Inspector Marty Croy’s ambitions extended beyond lunch.

  Inside, it was surprisingly modern, with mood lighting and glass partitions a world away from the building’s façade. Croy was already seated when she was shown to a booth of plush leather seats and he got to his feet to introduce himself.

  ‘We could have done this at Randolphfield,’ he told her, inviting her to sit. ‘But from what I gathered from Kirsten, I thought you’d prefer to keep it away from HQ – for now at least.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’m grateful for that. We’ll need to go official when push comes to shove but I’d rather keep it between us for now, sir.’

  ‘No problem. Glad to help if I can. And call me Marty.’

  Croy was around forty and in very good shape, Narey noticed without a hint of guilt. He had thick, dark curly hair and a roguish glint to his blue eyes. He was a good-looking guy and she reckoned it was at least some small compensation for the generally shitty turn of recent events.

  ‘This is a nice place,’ she said, looking around at the restaurant, taking in the sky-high ceilings and the marble columns offset by the modern tones of wood and subdued lighting. It all added up to a luxurious feel. ‘Expenses must be better in Central than they are in Strathclyde.’

  Croy grinned. ‘I wish. Expenses are virtually a distant memory. But I like it here and try to come when I can. It’s been all sorts of things, this building. It started out as a private mansion built in the early 1800s before it became a private school for girls. It was a Masonic hall for a while and when I was growing up it was a nightclub named Le Clique, then a fast food joint called Fat Sams and finally the Bank of Scotland took it over before it became this place.’

  ‘So how come you know so much about it?’

  Croy had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘Bit of a local history nut.’

  ‘You’ll know all about Lily of the Lake, then.’

  ‘Ah, straight to business,’ he smiled. ‘Fair enough. Yes, of course. I’d have been about twenty, I guess. I was at university in Edinburgh and the fact that it happened so near to home made it seem worse somehow. Everyone was talking about it. It wasn’t just that the murder was so brutal, it was this idea of someone going over to the island with her and not leaving a trace. I guess it spooked a lot of people.’

  ‘How long after that did you join the force?’

  ‘Four years. I suppose I’m a bit of a home bird. I came back to Stirling because I like it here. Family and friends are around and that works for me. It was tempting to try for a move to Glasgow or Edinburgh but I’ve somehow never gone for it.’

  ‘Maybe when you go for a chief inspector’s post.’

  He laughed, his eyes creasing at the side.

  ‘Maybe, but there’s a CI post here I’ve got my eye on. Maybe when I go for superintendent.’

  Narey realised Croy was only half joking and his obvious ambition made her realise how her own aims didn’t extend far beyond catching criminals and seeing what happened from there. She was like her dad: take care of the job and leave the ladder climbing to others.

  ‘So, did you ever work on the Lake case?’ she asked him. ‘Reconstructions, anniversaries and the like?’

  ‘A little. I was involved on the fringes of it when we did an appeal for information on the tenth anniversary of her death in 2003. We went back to the lake, a superintendent did a short piece to camera for Crimewatch, we stuck up some posters and did a round of interviews with the locals. It was all superficial stuff really though. Anyway, what’s your interest in the case? Kirsten didn’t say.’

  ‘That’s because she didn’t ask.’

  ‘I guess we cops tend to ask different questions than professors of life sciences. But I’m asking.’

  There was no getting away from it. In fact, there was every chance Croy already knew about her link to the case. Whether he did or not, the time for covering it up had gone.

  ‘My dad worked the case. So I guess I’ve got a personal interest.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Alan Narey,’ he nodded. ‘I remember seeing his name in the case files. I never knew him but some of the guys who came through the ranks with me did. They said he was a very good cop. Don’t think I ever heard anyone say a bad word about him.’

  The compliment slapped her on both cheeks, warming and saddening her. She wanted to ask more about what the cops had said but wasn’t sure she could cope with the answers. Instead she forced out a single word reply.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So why now?’ he asked her, with an edge to his questioning that hadn’t been there before.

  She sized Croy up, wondering who was supposed to be getting information from whom.

  ‘Detetective Inspector Croy, why do I get the feeling you already know the answers to the questions you’re asking me?’

  Croy sipped the mineral water in front of him and looked at her over the glass as he did so.

  ‘Okay. So your name came up in Randolphfield after the woman in Wallace Place complained about you. It wouldn’t have registered a jot if it weren’t for the fact that you were a Glasgow copper. It put a lot of noses out of joint over here, I can tell you. If anything, it just made the people who matter all the more certain that, whatever you had to say, it was wrong. You know how territorial cops get and provincial forces are the worst of the lot.’

  Narey said nothing. She knew it had been a risk. But she needed the support now.

  ‘Your dad was lead local investigator on the case and Laurence Paton was his chief – his only – suspect,’ Croy continued. ‘Paton dies and now you turn up wanting a cosy chat about facial reconstruction. Just how fucking noddy do you think we are over here?’

  ‘Not that noddy, I guess,’ she grimaced.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Okay, that’s me told off. So now can we stop buggering around and talk straight?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, raising his glass of water in a mock toast. ‘So what’s the deal with Laurence Paton? You really think he was murdered?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hm. That would be interesting. We don’t get anywhere enough murders round here. Would look good on the CV.’

  She smiled ruefully at him, trying not to look impressed by his approach. He was cocky enough to flaunt the naked ambition routine and the cheeky sparkle in his eyes allowed him to get away with it.

  ‘So can we swing it?’ she asked, a hand carelessly toying with her hair. ‘I wouldn’t, of course, want to stand on any toes at Central Scotland Police but I do want permission to exhume Lily’s body.’

  ‘Of course you don�
�t and of course you do. I’d need to get permission from the Procurator Fiscal here but she’s generally receptive to sensible requests. Getting the okay from my guvnor might be a bit harder though. He’d want to make sure there was something in this for us otherwise he’d just propose we do the whole thing ourselves.’

  Narey knew he was only testing her as part of a prelude to a bargaining process but the suggestion of taking it away from her still caused her stomach to knot.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need to inflict an even greater workload on your force than I’m sure it’s under already.’

  ‘We like hard work,’ Croy smiled. ‘We can always find the time to do more.’

  ‘Perhaps a venture of cooperation is the way forward,’ she relented. ‘After all, Laurence Paton, however he died, died on your patch.’

  ‘So, if we give the go-ahead for Lily to be exhumed, then you’ll give us what you have on Paton’s death and any possible murder inquiry?’

  ‘Of course,’ she lied without a glimmer of guilt.

  ‘In that case, we’d be grateful for Strathclyde’s input into the identification of the girl on Inchmahome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Narey said, extending her hand.

  ‘You sure you don’t want a glass of wine with your lunch?’ Croy asked, shaking her hand for a heartbeat longer than was necessary. ‘You could have one.’

  ‘As a police officer, you should be aware that one shouldn’t drink any alcohol at all if intending to drive. But okay, a glass of white – just one.’

  ‘Perfect. In that case, I’d recommend the Petit Chablis to go with the seared scallops with Stornoway black pudding. It’s superb.’

  ‘Hm. Black pudding? Not for me,’ she replied. ‘I don’t really have a taste for blood.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Tuesday 18 December

  Julia Corrieri had bounded into Narey’s office space with such enthusiasm that the DS had to stifle a giggle at the sight of her. With her mop of dark hair and ungainly stride, a pile of folders under her arm, the tall and gangly DC could have walked straight out of double maths and be on her way to PE. She wore a bashful grin Narey now knew to mean she was pleased with herself.

  With a pang of guilt, Narey realised she hadn’t spoken to Corrieri since she’d charged her with working her way through the potential paddy38s she’d identified from the Jordanhill records. It was only seeing her approach with what would inevitably be a comprehensive history of everyone on the list, probably down to what they had for breakfast, that Narey realised she had neglected to tell Corrieri it had been none of them. Now she would have to burst the poor girl’s balloon.

  ‘Julia . . . ’

  ‘I’m sorry this has taken so long, Sarge. There was just so much to cover but I wanted . . .’

  ‘That’s okay, Julia, but . . .’

  ‘It’s been worth it, Sarge. I have quite a bit on everyone on your list and . . .’

  ‘Julia, will you just stop and listen for a minute,’ Narey interrupted her, sharper than she meant to. ‘Please.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge. Sorry.’

  Narey felt like she’d told a puppy off for bringing a stick back when she was the one who had told it to go and get it in the first place. The look of hurt in the puppy’s eyes pained her.

  ‘That’s okay. Look, I’m sorry but I’m not sure the guy we’re looking for is on the list you have.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got some new information and a new name. It looks like we’ll have to start all over again. Well, you’ll have to start all over again. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay. I’ll start on it straight away. But there’s nothing in here you’ll need?’

  ‘Sorry, no. It’s another student at Jordanhill altogether. A guy called Bradley. He’s . . .’

  ‘Peter Bradley?’

  Narey stared at her DC in surprise.

  ‘Um, yes, how did you know?’

  Corrieri visibly brightened and delved into one of the folders clutched under her arm. As she did so, she dropped the bottom folder, blushing in embarrassment as it plopped onto Narey’s desk. She tried to pick it up at the same time as looking inside the other folder and had to wedge the lot against her for support. At last, she triumphantly produced a couple of sheets of paper that were stapled together.

  ‘Peter Bradley. Born 22 September 1970 in East Kilbride. Attended Halfmerke Primary School from 1975 to 1982 and Hunter High School from 1982 to 1988. He then went to . . .’

  ‘Why have you got all this information on Bradley? Have you got me details on every student that ever went to Jordanhill?’

  Corrieri smiled shyly.

  ‘No, Sarge. I looked at the list of names you gave me as being potentially the paddy38 you were looking for. I did all of those but it occurred to me that list wasn’t . . . no offence, Sarge, but it wasn’t necessarily as comprehensive as it might have been.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Er . . . well, um. Anyway, I also looked at two Smiths, a Connor, a Grady, one with the first name Ryan, one called Maureen . . . and Peter Bradley. I hope that’s okay.’

  Narey laughed.

  ‘Yes, Julia. It’s definitely okay. What have you got?’

  Corrieri lit up.

  ‘Well . . .’

  Narey patiently sat through Corrieri listing Bradley’s CV in minute detail, thinking the least she deserved was the right to share her findings. Narey knew the schools he’d worked in and positions he had held there were unlikely to be of much use to them but they would be itemised nonetheless.

  ‘He moved to Hillpark Secondary in 1988 but only stayed there for one year, which is fairly unusual, though there was nothing on his record to suggest there was any problem. He then taught at King’s Park Secondary from 1989, becoming Deputy Head of History in 1995. He held that position until 1998.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Her interest was piqued.

  ‘Nothing at all, Sarge. He resigned from the deputy head’s position and then we don’t know where he went next. His national insurance contributions stopped, income tax stopped, no record of social security benefits, no telephone line or bills. Nothing.’

  ‘Did he die?’ Her mind was turning over the possibilities.

  ‘No registry of death, Sarge.’

  ‘So where the hell did he go?’

  Corrieri shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t know, Sarge. Sorry. If I’d known it was him specifically that you were looking for, then I’d have delved deeper. I can . . .’

  ‘Christ, there’s no need to apologise, Julia. You’ve done well, although we can’t leave it there. Go and see what else you can turn up. If he isn’t dead, then there must be some bloody trace of him.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  Corrieri hesitated and Narey realised there was more she wanted to say.

  ‘What is it, Julia?’

  ‘Well . . . there was something that I thought maybe you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Corrieri looked more awkward than ever and Narey had a bad feeling.

  ‘This may not be right, Sarge, but I heard the information you wanted on the students might be related to an old case – the Lady in the Lake killing.’

  Narey levelled her with a hard stare, all considerations of not upsetting the puppy vanishing completely from her head. Corrieri shifted uncomfortably from side to side under the searching gaze of her boss.

  ‘And where exactly did you hear that, DC Corrieri?’

  ‘Um, canteen gossip, Sarge,’ Corrieri admitted with more than a hint of a blush. Narey knew Julia was struggling a bit to cope with the macho nonsense that passed for banter round the station. She wouldn’t be the type for gossiping but was trying to fit in and would probably get involved in conversations she shouldn’t.

  ‘Who’s talking about this and what are they saying?’

  ‘Well, I . . . A few people in CID. I’d rather not name names, S
arge. The word is you’re looking into the Lake killing and you’re putting yourself out on a limb. That you’re . . . well, maybe getting involved in something you shouldn’t.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Um. I think you’ll be doing what you think is the right thing, Sarge. I told the rest of them that too.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m sure they laughed in your face.’ She looked at Julia and knew she was right. ‘So why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I thought you should know that people know. And if you want any help, then I’m here. In fact, um, I’ve actually already started.’

  ‘You’ve done what?’

  Corrieri fidgeted with embarrassment again.

  ‘Well, I was going through all the databases for the names you gave me so I thought I’d maybe just take a little look back at the Lake of Menteith case and see if I could find anything that might help. I searched for a record of every missing girl to see if anyone fitted but didn’t come up with much initially. I’ve sent out requests to every force in the UK to ask them to search their case files for anything still open, even if it was a year or two before the body was found. I’m also in touch with the National Policing Improvement Agency’s Missing Persons Bureau, the Samaritans, the Salvation Army and Reunite. I, um, hope that was okay.’

  Narey shook her head despairingly at Corrieri but a reluctant smile etched itself on her face. She marvelled that the girl could be apologetic about what were clearly natural investigative skills.

  ‘Yes, it’s more than okay. What have you got?’

  ‘More questions than answers,’ Julia admitted. ‘I’ve already had a lot of cases sent through to me and I’m just trying to wade my way through them, ruling out those that don’t fit because of time, height, weight, etc. I got a lot of information, too, from the NPIA and it makes depressing reading. According to them, there’s around 350,000 people reported missing every year. Of those, nearly two thousand are still missing a year later. Around twenty people are found dead every week after being reported missing.’