by Alex Walters
‘Just in time to pick up the bill,’ McKay agreed. ‘Story of my fucking life. So what’s the story?’
‘Young girl. I’d say early to mid twenties, but the doc will no doubt confirm. No obvious signs of physical trauma, but I’d say she’d been asphyxiated. Suffocated, maybe. Dark hair. Five three. Slim built to the point of being skinny. Couple of tattoos which might be of use to you, though they look like fairly off-the-shelf designs to me. A dove and some sort of butterfly design.’
‘Any other ID?’
‘Nothing. She was naked. No other possessions as far as we can find. We’ll have to see if her fingerprints or DNA are on the database.’
‘How long you reckon she’d been here?’
‘Not long, I’d say. Few days. There were some signs of decomposition, but not a great deal. Mind you, the weather’s been bloody chilly at night, so you’ll have to wait on the doc for a definite view.’
‘What about these candles and roses, then?’
‘Christ knows. There are some funny bastards about, right enough. We’ve bagged them up and stuck them in the van as evidence. God knows what we’ll get from them.’
‘Greenfly, probably. Still, you can take a bunch home to the missus, Jock. Save having to stop off at the petrol station next time you fuck up.’
‘You’re still as funny as a turd in a single malt, Alec. But we love you that way.’
‘Aye, so I understand. How long for the report?’
‘As soon as possible, Alec. You know that.’
‘Quicker than that, Jock. You know me.’
Henderson gave a mock bow. ‘Your wish is my command, oh mighty one. Now piss off and let me get on.’
McKay laughed and continued past Henderson up the track towards the woodland, Horton following behind. A few moments later, they reached the spot where the body had been found. It was a clearing, with relatively thick woodland surrounding it. The turf had been lifted and piled in one corner, and the hollow of the burial place was exposed.
‘What do you reckon?’ McKay asked without turning round.
‘It’s remote enough, I suppose,’ Horton said. ‘Can’t imagine there’d be much risk of being disturbed here overnight. Would have taken a while to remove the turf, but not that long to dig the grave itself.’ She crouched down by the hollow, running a trickle of earth through her fingers. ‘Ground’s dry and pretty loose. Wouldn’t have taken long to dig this out. Take it from a gardener.’
‘I’ll bow to your superior knowledge.’ He looked around. ‘Assume the killer wanted the body to be found?’
‘The roses suggest it wasn’t intended to be hidden for long, anyway,’ she said. ‘Plenty of people go walking round here. It was likely that someone would spot it. Although it would have been less conspicuous once the roses died.’
‘And why here? It all looks very carefully planned. Just a conveniently remote spot, or does it have some significance?’
‘I saw the strips of cloth as we drove in,’ Horton said. ‘Weird.’
‘Very weird,’ McKay agreed. ‘But it’s just superstition. And if people are desperate enough—if their loved ones are ill or dying—they’ll give anything a shot.’
‘Careful, Alec,’ she said. ‘You’re in danger of sounding human again.’
‘Aye, you’re right. The place must be getting to me. Let’s go back and have a blether with those two youngsters instead.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘I’ve really got to go soon,’ Jo said, conscious she was already struggling to form the words.
‘You can’t go yet,’ Dave—or was it Pete?—said. ‘Thought we were set to make a night of it.’ He looked genuinely downcast, but she knew that was because he’d had more on his mind than just heading off to a nightclub. She wondered momentarily whether she should invite him back with her now, just to put him out of his misery. But, drunk as she was, she took another look at his doughy overweight face and rejected the idea as quickly as it had entered her head. She didn’t even fancy him. He was just a bit of company, part of a group she’d latched on to, the way she often did when she was out on the town these days. She’d fancied Pete—or was it Dave?—more, but Jade had copped off with him, so she was sitting here with the leftovers.
The pub was open till midnight and had become busier than ever in the last half-hour. The punters were young enough to make her feel old, and most looked more successful than she’d ever be. Not just wealthier—though they were probably that—but more settled, more relaxed, with partners or groups of friends. Like they might have real homes to go back to.
That was one reason she hated coming into Manchester. She preferred just hanging around her local in Brinnington. It didn’t have much to recommend it, but it was friendly and the clientele was old enough to make her feel like a teenager. She knew a few people—not exactly friends, but people she could spend an evening getting pissed with. Most of them were in the same boat, one way or another. Divorced, unmarried, or saddoes who’d never had a real relationship in their lives. Some had kids they wanted to get away from, some just had empty bedsits they didn’t want to go back to. Most, unlike Jo, were locals who’d spent their lives in this nondescript suburb. She could understand pretty much everything else, but not that. Why would you want to stay there? For that matter, why would you want to stay anywhere without a good reason?
‘Go on,’ Dave said. She was pretty sure this one was Dave. ‘Just a bit longer. Have another drink.’ He was a brickie, she thought, or a plasterer. Something like that. He’d told her earlier. They were southerners—real southerners, that was, from Surrey or Sussex or somewhere, up here working on a job. She’d thought all southerners were rolling in money, and there were jobs down there for the asking. Dave had said no, it wasn’t like that, not any more. ‘First it was the recession, then it was the bloody immigrants. Bloody Poles and Czechs and Romanians, undercutting us and taking all the work—’ He’d stopped, conscious of the way she was looking at him. She didn’t like that talk. People should be able to go where they liked, work where they wanted, that was what she thought. If the likes of Dave weren’t good enough to compete, well, that was their tough luck, wasn’t it?
‘Anyway,’ Dave had gone on, ‘if you want to make decent money, you’ve got to go where the work is, haven’t you? That’s why we’re up here. Loads of new builds, and we can get a good rate. I mean, that must be why you’re down here, isn’t it?’ He didn’t appear to see any contradiction between this and what he’d been saying about immigrants, but Jo couldn’t be bothered to point it out. She knew Dave’s type well enough. If he was working up here, it was because no-one down south would have him.
Dave and his mates had latched on to her and Jade as soon as they’d walked in the pub. It had been all right at first—they were a lively enough bunch—but as the evening wore on most of them had peeled off for one reason or other, mostly in pursuit of another bunch of females. Now she was sitting here, in this noisy pub, stuck with builder Dave and his fascinating array of small-talk. Once he’d got beyond ‘fucking Mancs’ and ‘fucking Scousers’, along with a related set of negative views about the local football clubs, there wasn’t a lot left.
‘Just one more,’ he insisted again. ‘What can I get you?’
She shook her head. ‘Really can’t—’ She’d almost called him Dave, but she still wasn’t sure this actually was Dave, so she hurried on. ‘Need to go now so I can get the last train.’
‘Can’t be time for the last train yet. Just another glass of wine.’
Jo shook her head, more insistently this time. ‘I’ve got to walk up to Piccadilly,’ she said. ‘I’ll be OK if I go now, but I’ll only just make it.’
‘What about your mate there?’ Dave pointed out. ‘She doesn’t look like she’s ready to leave.’
‘She looks like she’s ready for something,’ Jo said. ‘I’m sure I can leave her in your friend’s safe hands.’
‘Look, just stay a bit longer. Tell me about yourself.’ T
his was a desperate ploy. Dave had shown no previous interest in finding out anything about her.
She shrugged. ‘I’m from Scotland. It’s a dump. That’s why I left. All you need to know.’ She pushed herself to her feet. ‘And now I’m going. Been nice to meet you, Dave. Till the next time.’ She grabbed her coat and, with an unacknowledged wave in Jade’s direction, stumbled towards the door. Behind her, she heard: ‘For Christ’s sake, I’m Pete. That’s Dave. Stupid fucking cow—’ but she was already out of the door and into the chill night air.
It was supposed to be summer, but the last few days had offered nothing but heavy cloud and showers. Tonight, while she’d been in the pub, a fine drizzle had set in. She was hardly dressed for a wet night, but she’d lived in Manchester long enough to come prepared. She fumbled in her shoulder-bag for her foldaway umbrella, then, brandishing it in front of her to keep off the worst of the rain, she began to make her way back through to Portland Street.
The damp air had partially sobered her up, and all she wanted now was to reach the shelter of the station. She always found the layout of the city centre confusing, and it took her a few seconds to work out which way to turn at the next junction. Despite the rain, the streets were busy with revellers, many of them even drunker than Jo.
She was walking past the southern edge of Chinatown, the ornate archway looming to her left, when she heard the voice calling. ‘Jo? It is Jo, isn’t it?’
She turned, startled, assuming the speaker was calling to some other Jo in the street behind her. There was a figure in a heavy-looking anorak, head bowed against the drizzle, peering at her. ‘Christ, it is you, isn’t it? How about that?’
Baffled, Jo took another step towards the figure. ‘Sorry, pal. I think you must have the wrong person—’
The figure suddenly threw back the hood. ‘Jo, it’s me. Don’t you remember? I mean, what are the chances?’
It took her a few seconds. The figure was partially silhouetted against the smeared neon of the rows of Chinese restaurants. The face was a little older and not a face she’d ever have expected to see here. But there was no doubt.
‘Jesus,’ Jo said, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long story. You in a hurry?’
Jo glanced at her watch. ‘I’m heading home. Last train. Shit, I’m already cutting it fine.’
‘We should catch up. Look, do you want a lift? I’m parked just round the corner.’
‘To the station? That would be great.’ She could feel the cold rain dripping down her neck.
‘No problem. We can arrange to meet up properly sometime. Have a good catch-up.’
‘You living down here, then?’ She followed the hunched figure down one of the side-streets, past vehicles parked on ignored double-yellows.
‘Another long story, but I’m around for a couple of weeks, so, yeah, let’s get together. This is me.’ It was a battered-looking van. ‘A bit clapped out, but it should get us up to Piccadilly safe and sound.’
‘Better than walking.’ Jo pulled open the passenger door and climbed inside. The interior of the van was a bit of a mess—empty Coke bottles, discarded parking tickets—but at least it was dry.
‘Seat belt’s a bit dodgy. Here, let me—’ The hand reached into the van as if to pull on the seat belt. Then, unexpectedly, it was in front of her face, and she was trying to identify the piercing scent burning the back of her throat.
The wet cloth was clamped across her mouth, and she realised she was struggling to breathe. She kicked out furiously, trying to free herself from the confined space of the van, but the hand pressed more firmly. She felt dizziness, the throbbing of a headache behind her eyes, a burning on her skin, the taste of raw acid. She clutched at the wrist pressing hard against her mouth, desperately trying to loosen its pressure. But she was already losing control of her senses, the evening’s alcohol combining with whatever she was inhaling. Her grip loosening, she looked up, terrified, to see that familiar face looming down towards her. It seemed to remain there for long minutes, staring down at her. And then, almost as a relief, she felt and saw nothing more.
Two minutes later, the van pulled out, completed a rapid U-turn, and wound its way through the one-way system towards Salford and the motorway.
CHAPTER SIX
‘So what do we know now?’ Helena Grant said. She wasn’t keen on inviting McKay to her office because he tended to wander round the room, poking his nose into files that were none of his business and sniffing disapprovingly at what he found there. She knew he did it only to wind her up, but that didn’t stop her being wound up. On the whole, it was easier to deal with McKay on his own territory, but she had the comms team on her back wanting a line on the Clootie Well killing, as the local media had inevitably dubbed it.
‘A few things,’ McKay said. ‘We’ve got the path report. Seems there’s evidence of poisoning by inhalation. Good old fashioned chloroform, would you believe?’
‘I thought chloroform didn’t work,’ Grant said. ‘All those old whodunits where the villain holds a handkerchief to the victim’s mouth and the poor wee thing drifts off into la-la land.’
‘According to Doc Green, it certainly doesn’t work like that,’ McKay said. Dr Jacquie Green was the senior forensic pathologist the local force used for its post-mortems. ‘Bloody nasty stuff. You’re more likely to kill the victim than just knock them out. Liver damage, the lot.’
‘And in this case?’
‘She thinks the dosage might have been fatal in itself. But looks like the killer also made a point of suffocating the presumably unconscious victim, just to make sure. Kept the chloroform-soaked cloth, or whatever it was, pressed over the poor lassie’s mouth for as long as it took. There’s burning to the skin around the mouth. Jockie Henderson missed that.’ The last said with some degree of satisfaction.
‘So what’s this telling us?’
‘We’re dealing with a killer. Chloroform suggests pre-meditation and serious intent. If the aim was just to render the victim unconscious, there are easier and less risky ways of doing that.’
‘What else do we have?’
‘Doc reckons the body had been in the ground for maybe four or five days before it was found. Death probably occurred within the forty-eight hours before that. So the time of death in within the last week or so. She can’t be much more precise than that. The body was moved after death, but that doesn’t tell us much, given we know she wasn’t killed where she was found. Could have been moved one mile or several hundred.’
‘No ID yet?’ Grant asked.
‘Not yet. There are no recent local missing persons that fit the bill. We identified a couple of other recent possibles in Scotland, but neither panned out. There are a few other UK cases we’re following up, but nothing very promising. We’re still waiting on fingerprints and DNA.’
‘What about the flowers and candles?’
‘Nothing much. None of the local florists has any recollection of any unusual purchases, so it looks like they were just bought piecemeal from supermarkets and the like, as we thought. The vases are a bog-standard cheap model sold by various garden centres and DIY stores. Same with the candles and candlesticks.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ McKay said, gloomily. ‘We’ve considered the tattoos, but again they’re just standard off-the-shelf designs. We’ve checked with a couple of the local tattoo parlours and they reckon they could have been done anywhere. There’s nothing traceable.’
‘OK,’ Grant said, ‘so where from here?’
‘If the DNA and fingerprints can’t help us, I reckon we need a media appeal. Unless we know who the victim is, we can’t make much progress.’
‘The other question,’ Grant said, ‘is why the Clootie Well. Did it have some significance? And if the killer’s not local, how did they know about it?’
‘That place attracts nutters,’ McKay said, ‘like crap attracts journalists. But, aye, you’re right. The pl
ace isn’t exactly world famous. Suggests some local knowledge. But could just be someone who’s been up here on holiday. I’ve heard tell there are people who do that.’
‘OK, I’ll agree some sort of holding line with comms. There’s a lot of media interest in this, so we need to give them something soon. Let’s hope we can get an ID.’
McKay nodded. ‘Aye. Ideally one that means we can throw the whole case in some other bastard’s direction.’
‘You don’t fool me, McKay,’ Grant said. ‘That’s the last bloody thing you want.’
***
Ginny Horton slowed to a halt and took a deep breath. Not bad, she thought. A good five miles at a decent pace, and she was barely short of breath. She was never going to break any speed records, but she had the endurance and tenacity to keep going for as long as it took. Story of her life, really. Lately, she’d been upping the pace on these shorter runs. At first, she’d been surprised by how much it took out of her. Now, after a few months’ practice, she was getting to the point where she could combine speed and a reasonable distance without undue effort.
It was a glorious early summer’s evening, the sky clear, the waters of the Moray Firth a rare deep blue. She had no great expectations of the weather up here, which seemed to operate to its own, unique meteorological laws, but she tried to make the most of whatever decent weather they did get. Last summer hadn’t been too bad. Maybe they’d be lucky again.
She walked over to one of the benches on the shoreline, and sat down to watch the play of the water on the rocks below. She’d been adamant, when they’d decided to move up here, that she wanted to live near the sea. They’d ended up here in Ardersier on the southern side of the Moray Firth. It was convenient for them both in terms of getting into Inverness, and handy for the airport when Isla had to make one of her frequent work trips south. It was a pretty enough little village with its mix of stone and white-rendered cottages. Their own house was small but comfortable, exactly the kind of place that Ginny had dreamed of living during her painful adolescence in red-brick Surrey suburbia.
