Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  Danny shook his head at her.

  ‘That is one of those questions to which there is no definitive answer, like “Is there life on Mars?” or “Why do women talk so much shite?”. The sausage is in the roll not on it so it has to be a “roll and sausage”. But stop avoiding the question: does Tony make you happy?’

  She let her head fall back against the wood-panelled wall, narrowly avoiding one of the tall jars of old-fashioned sweets that were dotted around.

  ‘Yes, I think.’

  ‘Good, I think. And if you don’t mind me saying so, I’d suggest you remember that with all this crap that’s going on. And before you bite my head off, there’s something else you should remember.’

  ‘I do mind but okay. What else should I remember?’

  ‘You.’

  She made a face but Danny ploughed on regardless.

  ‘I ask how your dad is and you say he won’t get better. I ask how you are and you say you’ll be fine, as if you don’t matter, as if it’s all about your dad. Is that right?’

  ‘Listen, Danny . . .’

  ‘No, you listen. I’ll answer the question for you: it’s not right. It isn’t right at all. And I know that because I’ve got a better idea of how your dad would feel about it than you have. Do you really think he’d agree that you don’t matter?’

  A waitress slipped a steaming plate in front of each of them. Rachel smiled her thanks and waited for the girl to leave.

  ‘Gimme peace, Danny. And stop trying to psychoanalyse me. I’ll deal with my dad in my own way and my own time.’

  ‘And how is that going to affect you and Tony?’

  ‘Pass the salt.’

  ‘Okay, two final things. First, your dad wouldn’t thank you for doing anything that would make you unhappy. Secondly, you really need to use less salt. It’ll fuck up your arteries.’

  Narey sprinkled more salt on her lasagne, paused to stick two fingers up to Danny, then sprinkled on some more.

  CHAPTER 42

  Thursday 21 December. 4.30 p.m.

  This time when Winter and Danny drove back into Bridgend Caravan Park, they knew just where to head. Danny parked outside Tommy Baillie’s home, recognising the bashed car that sat beside it. The snow piled on top suggested that neither it nor Baillie had gone anywhere for days.

  Their exit from their own car attracted the attention of a yelping dog, a brown and white mongrel that seemed unperturbed by the cold or the snow. The barking brought the wary head of Tommy Baillie to the caravan window and he nodded to his visitors before opening the door to greet them.

  ‘Come away in,’ he told the two men. ‘Far too cold to be standing avri on a doorstep. The chill’s going right through my old bones. Not seen weather like this in years.’

  They followed Baillie inside, immediately grateful for the warmth of the caravan, and accepted his invitation to take a seat. The old man had a pipe on the go, puffing it contentedly as he waited for his guests to settle themselves.

  ‘So you have some news of young Sam, I hope, gentlemen.’

  ‘We have,’ Danny agreed. ‘But it’s not . . .’

  Before Danny could go any further, he was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door and, the stocky figure of Jered Dunbar walked in without waiting for an answer. Closing the door behind him, he stood and glared at the visitors in his usual sullen and threatening fashion.

  ‘Uncle,’ he nodded at Baillie.

  ‘Relax, Jered,’ Baillie told him. ‘Gentlemen have just come to let us know what they learned about cousin Sam and his activities in Glasgow.’

  Jered stood grudgingly by the door, accepting the old man’s counsel to relax but still obviously on edge.

  ‘And to get some information in return,’ Danny reminded Baillie. ‘This arrangement was to benefit both parties, Mr Baillie.’

  A flicker of a smile crossed the man’s mouth as he nodded in agreement.

  ‘Ah, yes, your long-lost girl. A proper sadness that was and all. I think it is only right we help each other after such a terrible thing, Mr Neilson.’

  Danny levelled Baillie with a hard stare.

  ‘Yes, except the help you were offering us was a load of old bollocks.’

  Jered immediately took a step forward, anger blazing in his dark eyes, but Danny wasn’t fazed for a second.

  ‘Cool your jets, son,’ he growled dismissively. ‘The grown-ups are talking. Listen and you might learn something.’

  Jered looked towards Baillie, who nodded quietly, and the younger man fell back against the caravan door, still bristling with resentment.

  ‘I think Jered was a bit perturbed by your rudeness, Mr Neilson. He’s not used to guests talking in such a manner. Explain yourself, please.’

  ‘My pleasure. We’ve gone out of our way to find out what your boy Sam has been up to. And what we’ve discovered is very interesting indeed.’

  Danny saw the looks that flashed between Baillie and Jered.

  ‘And it was our intention to pass this information on to you,’ he continued. ‘But now we learn you aren’t going to be keeping your side of the bargain – because you can’t. The girl who died wasn’t a runaway gypsy bride and there wasn’t any sort of honour killing.’

  ‘I never said there was,’ Baillie replied softly.

  ‘No, you didn’t, you devious old bugger. But you let us think there might have been.’

  Baillie puffed on his pipe and tilted his head to one side as if considering the suggestion.

  ‘Well, I suppose I can see how you might have got that impression, Mr Neilson. But a bargain, in our community, is a bargain.’

  ‘And in ours, a con is a con.’

  Danny let the impasse hang between them, sensing the impatient irritation of Jered and the calmer but still expectant air of Tommy Baillie.

  ‘So what are you proposing, Mr Neilson?’ Baillie enquired. ‘I’m keen to find out what young Sam is up to so that we can help him.’

  ‘I’m proposing another bargain.’

  ‘Oh? And what would that be?’

  ‘You want to find Sam Dunbar. And there’s someone we want to find.’

  ‘Not your murdered chavi?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘A former . . . what’s that word you used, Tony? . . . gajo, that’s it. A former gajo who married into the traveller community.’

  Jered and Baillie looked at each other again across the room but said nothing. Instead, Baillie puffed reflectively on his pipe again, taking an age before replying.

  ‘There’s a few of those around but not too many. Does he have a name, this gajo of yours?’

  ‘Bradley. Peter Bradley. He was sometimes known as Paddy.’

  Baillie smoked his pipe some more and Danny could see full well the old boy was playing him, trying to regain some of his lost advantage.

  ‘I know the name,’ Baillie told him at last.

  ‘You know the name,’ Danny repeated as if not believing a word Baillie said. ‘But do you know him?’

  ‘I may have known him,’ Baillie conceded.

  ‘Mr Baillie,’ Danny sighed. ‘This could take a while and we’re both getting far too old to be wasting time, don’t you think? I’ll ask you again. Do you know Peter Bradley?’

  Baillie worked his pipe, a playful look in his eye as he regarded Danny. A large puff of white smoke signalled a decision had been made.

  ‘I met Mr Bradley a couple of times, although it was many years ago. He wedded the daughter of a cousin of a cousin of mine. Caused a bit of a storm at the time but he’s settled now, or so I suppose. Bit of a lad, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘And do you know where he is now?’

  Baillie pursed his lips as he shook his head.

  ‘I do not. I haven’t heard mention of him in a long time. It’s the nature of our community, Mr Neilson, that we travel. We don’t go sending Christmas cards to the same address every year like your people do.’

  ‘But you could find out w
here he is.’

  ‘And I could also ask why you want to find him.’

  ‘You could but I wouldn’t have to tell you. Not given that you need to know where wee Sam is and what he’s been up to.’

  ‘But you, Mr Neilson, need to find wee Paddy Bradley. So I think that makes us even.’

  ‘Mr Baillie,’ Danny sighed. ‘You have dicked us about once already. I’m not going to be happy if you try to do it a second time. You understand me?’

  At that, Jered Dunbar sprang forward, his muscular frame heading straight at Danny until he was right in his face, their noses just inches apart.

  ‘You need to learn some respect! You don’t talk to Uncle like that.’

  Danny grinned and shoved his face forward so it was right up against Jered’s, his eyes challenging the younger man to make a move. He could smell sweat, testosterone and a faint whiff of apprehension.

  ‘And you’re going to be the one to teach me some respect, are you? Bigger men than you have tried in the past.’

  ‘Aye, well you’re not as young as you used to be, old man,’ Jered snarled.

  Danny pulled his head back and butted Jered square and hard on the forehead and the bridge of his nose, causing him to crumple immediately and fall to the floor. Blood poured from Jered’s nose and he threw a hand up to it to stop the flow. His eyes glared furiously at Danny but he made no attempt to get to his feet.

  ‘Now that,’ Danny said genially, ‘is a lesson in irony. You accuse me of lacking respect for your elders and then insult me and call me an old man. The irony of that would have been lost on you if I hadn’t made my point. So there you go, lesson learned and no hard feelings, eh?’

  What seemed like a small laugh escaped from Tommy Baillie but it was quickly covered by a cough. Jered’s eyes flew to Baillie and, whatever he saw, it convinced him to stay where he was.

  ‘I think we’ve all learned something here today, Mr Neilson,’ Baillie said quietly. ‘When it comes to matters of trust and respect, they have to be earned. I’ll find Paddy Bradley for you if you bring Sam Dunbar to me. Now, do we trust each other to do that?’

  Danny smiled at the old man. ‘I think we have to, don’t you?’

  Baillie nodded.

  ‘How’s your head?’ Tony asked Danny as the caravan door closed behind them and they were immediately hit by a freezing gust of wind.

  ‘Ach, it’s fine. Nothing in there to damage anyhow.’

  ‘I’m beginning to agree with you,’ Winter smiled. ‘About your new deal . . . will he do it?’

  ‘I think so. The notion of a bargain means something to him – a matter of honour, if you like. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re right. But either way, we can’t hang about waiting for him to come through with his side of it. We need to sort Dunbar out and quickly.’

  ‘Correct,’ Danny agreed. ‘Because if we don’t get Dunbar off the streets before he kills someone, then we’re fucked. He’s cut a dog in two and sliced the hands off some drug dealers. That we can work around. But if he murders some fucker with that sword of his, then we can’t hand him over to Baillie. He’s DI Aaron Sutton’s if that happens.’

  ‘And if Sutton gets Dunbar, then we don’t get Peter Bradley.’

  ‘Right. And if we don’t get Bradley, then your girlfriend is in big trouble. Because this whole thing is going to blow up in her face.’

  CHAPTER 43

  Friday 21 December. 6.30 a.m.

  ‘Why can’t they fucking dig people up in the summer? The ground is rock hard and I’m bastarding freezing.’

  ‘And why the hell are we doing this anyway? I heard it was some bint from Strathclyde was behind this. Why aren’t the Weegies through here doing their own dirty work? Too high and mighty to get their hands dirty?’

  ‘Dirty and frozen. This is fucking ridiculous.’

  A voice from behind them, low but firm, pulled the two boiler-suited constables back into line.

  ‘Harrison. McLaughlin. Shut your mouths and show a bit of respect. Remember where you are. I know this isn’t much fun for anyone but I don’t want to hear you two bitching. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Now get on with it. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get out of here.’

  Winter watched the two cops submit to Marty Croy’s bollocking, then turn and head silently towards the large white tent that stood in a corner of the otherwise desolate terrain of Brig o’ Turk cemetery. It was just minutes after the agreed 6.30 a.m. start and a low mist hung over the old graveyard, thick in the cold grey light of a frozen morning. It was dawn in name only; the night still clung on, reluctant to give up its grip to such an imposter as this poor excuse for daylight.

  The ground lay thick with crisp snow and was disturbed only by the rough-hewn upright headstones that poked their way through, all wearing thick caps of white above their grey suits. Bumps in the surface of the snow hinted at the flat slabs of stone that lay beneath, markers to the long-since departed. Winter watched Rachel flinch as an icy wind whipped across the exposed cemetery. The nearest trees, standing petrified and distant, offered precious little protection from the devil’s glacial breath. It made every person dotted around the cemetery shiver as if it were their own grave someone was walking over.

  The car’s dashboard had suggested it was minus twelve degrees and the temperature showed no sign of rising any time soon. The cops who were there to bring Barbie back into the world were bulky under their overalls, suggesting multiple layers of clothing in a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay. Even Winter, as cold-blooded as his name, felt the frost invade his bones and he had to fight to keep his teeth from chattering.

  Brig o’ Turk was about seven miles from the Lake of Menteith as the crow flies. However, the crow would have to fly across the Menteith Hills and Loch Venacher, so it was about twice that distance by road via Callander. In 1994 it had been decided not to bury Barbie in the little cemetery at Port of Menteith as they were keen not to encourage tourist ghouls. Instead, her body was spirited away to Brig o’ Turk and, after a brief ceremony at the local church, was laid to rest in the dead of night. Winter had seen the church in the first light of that morning, spectacularly perched on the edge of Loch Achray, only three frozen and threadbare trees between it and the iced surface of the loch.

  Now he watched men emerge from cars and vans, eerie figures in white suits, white masks across their faces, gliding across the white landscape, all armed with picks and shovels they knew were unlikely to be up to the task of breaking the ground that held Barbie’s remains. That was why the heavy artillery was also getting wheeled in. Two big cops were hauling a pneumatic drill through the mist, their breath exploding and freezing before them with the effort of crossing the graveyard. Behind them, two uniformed constables, the only ones not in boiler suits, stood guard at the cemetery gate to deter any locals awakened by the noise that was about to disturb them at that ungodly time of the morning.

  For the moment, after Croy’s censorship of the two moaning cops, all was silent but for the sound of feet crunching on snow and the quiet whirr of a camera shutter. Winter knew that all he was getting were overexposed shots of white on white as mist enveloped grey light but he loved every frame. Sometimes the burly men traipsing in and out of the graveyard would look at him suspiciously, others would glare but mostly they had their heads down and their minds on the grim task ahead.

  It was a bizarre scene being played out under the dis approving frown of the rugged cliffs that had glowered over Brig o’ Turk since the hamlet first emerged. Also watching, from the other side of a wall, were two bemused but unconcerned deer. It was unlikely that either the cliffs or the deer had ever witnessed anything like this reluctant resurrection.

  The gang was all here: Rachel; Croy, the Stirling DI; the local coroner and Procurator Fiscal; a small gaggle of press tipped off, no doubt, by the local cops; and Addison. He stood alone to the side, his face mask
hanging loose below his chin to accommodate the cigarette in his mouth. Addison’s enforced sabbatical from front-line duty had come with dire warnings from his doctor about not overdoing it, cutting down his alcohol intake and certainly not smoking. Typically perverse, Addison had reacted by taking up fags again for the first time in nine years.

  The trail of smoke that was disappearing into the mist above Addison’s head was joined by puffs of breath as he muttered away to himself. Addison had insisted on getting out of the office to witness the exhumation but that obviously wasn’t stopping him from grouching. The rest of the cast, the two sentry constables apart, were inside the tent and Winter strolled over to join his mate on the periphery of the graveyard.

  ‘Colder than a witch’s tit,’ Addison grumbled. ‘But you’ll be loving this, of course, you sick fucker. All this digging up the dead will be right up your street.’

  ‘I’m just an impartial observer. Just doing my job.’

  ‘Ach, don’t give me your shit, wee man. I know you.’

  Winter didn’t bother denying it a second time and the two men stood and looked around them. The tent that covered the would-be graverobbers looked as if it had landed from Mars, absurdly inappropriate against the rural backdrop, serving only to highlight the affront against nature that was about to take place.

  ‘Going in?’ Winter asked him.

  ‘Aye, in a minute. I was just letting the eager beavers in first but there’s no show without Punch.’

  ‘So, what? You’re just staying out here to piss off the locals because they can’t start without you?’

  ‘Something like that, wee man. The yokels need to know who’s really in charge here. Okay, let’s go.’

  Addison squeezed the end of his cigarette and threw it on the ground, pulling the protective mask over his face.

  They didn’t say another word as they made their way across the snow. All they could hear was their own footsteps and the wind that whistled through the cemetery and froze their ears. Not another sound until they reached the tent and Addison turned to face Winter and winked at him.