by Toni Parks
Emma thought, before saying, “When can I see her then? I know from experience that you usually have to be banged up for ages before you can have visitors.” She also knew why Jessica had remained clammed up and felt there was no way that it was her responsibility to make a confession on her sister’s behalf.
“With her being a new arrival I’ve been able to arrange a visit for tomorrow. Being as I’m her solicitor I can see her anytime, at her or my request, and I’ve obtained permission for you to attend too stating that it could be beneficial to my client’s case. Can you make that? Any prior engagements you need to change? It will be at 14.15.”
“No, I don’t think I have anything pressing for tomorrow,” replied Emma as she contemplated another early rise and depart after her usual stomach problems, which she blamed on all the stress she was under. “Tomorrow’s fine. What time and where do you want to meet?”
“Can I meet you in Edinburgh at Police Scotland at about 12.30? It’s the one on Chambers Street. Do you know it, just behind Cowgate?”
“Yes, I’ve probably paid it the odd visit in my past,” replied Emma as she searched unsuccessfully through her memory.
Misconstruing Emma’s flippancy Amy said, “Good. I have to finish a review there and then go on to the prison to inform Jessica of a few more of her rights and update some details on her paperwork, now that’s she’s in detention. So I’ll pick you up there and we can go together.”
“That will be great, thanks. I’ve got a bit of paperwork of my own that I need to pass by Jessica. Knowing a little of how prisons operate I was kind of wondering whether you’d take it in for me? It’s nothing illegal or anything; in fact it’s good news really. Although I’m sure Jess won’t see it like that, with her situation and everything. She just needs to see the documents and sign them. That’s all.”
“OK. OK, I’ll have a look at them tomorrow and let you know. Don’t forget. 12.30, Chambers Street. Don’t be late because if we’re not in good time at the prison you won’t get to see her. They are sticklers for punctuality.”
“Mm, strange that really, when you’d think everyone would have all the time in the world, being as nobody is going anywhere. But I’ll be there and on time. OK. Bye,” said Emma as a shiver ran down her spine at the thought of the word, prison.
CHAPTER SIX Yetholm, in the county of Roxburghshire is almost within spitting distance of the English border. Its geographical position is 55.5480° N, 2.2873° W, dependent on where you locate yourself in the village. A sprawling village at that, straddling both sides of the River Bowmont with the B6352 cutting through its heart and offering up the lifeblood of larger towns to the north and west. A village positioned with the majestic backdrop of The Cheviot Hills acting as either a shelter from the fierce south-easterlies or as a shelter from which bandits could spring a surprise attack. And even though not renowned for being the geographical centre of the universe, historically it had been an important intersection. It shares that history along with many other villages kissing the English border, as having the distinction at one time or another of being faced with the threat of pillage and destruction from the marauding reivers. Reivers, usually mistaken solely as renegades from England when in fact more often than not they were both English and Scottish families taking advantage of their weaker neighbours; principally opportunists after livestock, coins and silver. But if fortune was totally running against those being attacked then they could be faced with the full might of the English army raining down on them.
Its full name is Town Yetholm although it was never much of a town and even now only has a population of around 600 and that includes the residents of Kirk Yetholm too; boasting a beautiful Gothic church, built in 1837 from local whinstone with cream sandstone dressings, hence the word ‘Kirk’ in its name. Census records show that in the mid nineteenth century over 1300 people resided, with part of that number being made up by the Gypsy or Faa community who had taken up permanent residence around that time. Their own chequered history being riddled with violent murders, by their own and to their own, especially after escalating friction at country fair gatherings and usually following the consumption of excessive alcohol. These alone created severe feuds and rivalry, fuelling a deep spirit of revenge and other ‘seeing’ superstitions. Their reputations preceded them as they travelled the borders buying, selling, stealing: a blight of human locusts taking all before them: animal, vegetable and inanimate. Turning their hands to sewing crops in the Spring, reaping in the Summer, manual farm work in the Autumn and reaping whatever they could find in the Winter, whilst undertaking the back breaking job of to’ing and fro’ing with carts of coal to Jedburgh, and in all weathers. But eventually they came and settled in Kirk Yetholm, grazed their donkeys and ponies on the common land, and integrated as far as they and their neighbours were prepared to allow. The census shows that they boosted the workforce and village numbers, and what Yetholm today lacks in headcount it makes up for in tradition, and in spades.
One of their cherished annual rituals is the choosing of the Best Boy or Bari Gadgi, a name derived from the gypsy language and steeped in folklore. An upright, clean living young man nominated to ride horse amongst men and represent the village in an ambassadorial role. A number of towns in the Borders choose their own equivalents: the Jed Callant, Hawick Cornet and Kelsae Laddie; all young men and true, epitomising what is good in the youth of their hometowns, and all without doubt thoroughly local; born and bred. Yetholm is not only unusual in the use of a gypsy term, but in that they also elect a Bari Manushi or Best Girl too; even though as reflected by the other towns their male counterparts’ roles are more prominent and prestigious. Being chosen is not only a significant privilege for the winner but it also reflects well on the family in general. So it came to Seth Macleod, that having congratulated the Bari Gadgi and their families in yesteryear, he knew that he now stood close to the pinnacle of pride with having been given the nod that his own son’s opportunity to shine was imminent.
However, Seth never took anything for granted, he had no chickens to count. He was nothing if not a stickler for ritual and procedural accuracy himself, and a firm believer that everything came to those who waited. Meredith, his wife of 40 years and he had both typified the very embodiment of Town Yetholm village life. Seth was proud to represent the fourth generation of carpenters to own and operate the Riverside Sawmill, nestling in the valley bottom beside the River Bowmont and equidistant twixt Kirk- and Town Yetholm. He was contented in his work, with his knowledge of the intricate exacting skills of the carpentry craft having been gleaned and passed down through genetics from both his father and grandfather, whereas his life skills and sanguinity were very much devolved from the hand of his mother. Even though all the family’s personal documentations had been consumed in a house fire when he was a small boy, his mother had encouraged him to be both practical and resourceful. She taught that the town itself held all the family’s historical information he would ever need to know. She had encouraged him to pop into the church and study the register for his birth details and advised him that the town hall would answer any matters appertaining to the laws on public official matters. And this simplicity he relied on to the present day; and with never a hankering to see the world he had no need of a passport, and with marrying a local lass it meant that he would more than likely never leave the Scottish Borders at all. And as for anything by way of formal rules and regulations they were readily to hand, too.
That was the simple way they led their lives, with time and tradition eventually revolving full circle. Just as his forefather had been positively distracted by the introduction of electricity to power the belts and so make the water wheel redundant, he now let nostalgia reign and laboriously repaired and made good the said wheel with hours of his own painstaking sweat and labour. This, in turn, mirrored his customers’ wishes and fads for hand crafted goods by constantly harking back to the past. But even though work was not an anathema to him as his health and strength enabl
ed him alone to undertake the most arduous tasks, he did crave that additional assistance more so for company than to share the burden. This became his one nagging regret in an otherwise perfect life; spending the first 20 years of his married life thinking that his name, his business and his tradition would be buried with him. What use a carpenter with three daughters, who although beautiful and clever in their own rights, were never going to follow in his historical footsteps. Female emancipation had been a given, necessary to balance and equalise society but physically demanding work was certainly not every young lady’s cup of tea.
He never broached the subject, but for the first ten years of their married life they had procreated three times and on each occasion Meredith had seen the imperceptible and underlying disappointment displayed with the female bundle of joy’s arrival. After that there had been ten fallow years where he tortured himself for being so unthankful that all three births had been without problems and all three children were healthy. Meredith knew that most husbands would be at least content if not delighted, at how their daughters were maturing into young women, but felt Seth’s pain nevertheless. A boy had always been his dream and she was not about to deny him that nor miss on the pleasure in trying to fulfil it, either. Even so, the guilt of his ungratefulness manifested itself as depression, which led him to think God was punishing him by ensuring that his wife would never conceive a boy; but that all changed with the arrival of Joseph. And ironically enough his dearly beloved girls became more loved after that. On the occasion of the stork’s arrival his eldest daughter, Aileen had left school and was preparing to study medicine at Edinburgh University. The middle one, Sorcha finished school too but rather than further education she began working in a ladies clothing shop in the village with a view to designing her own clothes. And the youngest one Elspeth, although bright at school was still undecided, she considered joining the police or maybe plumping for law school instead. But suffice it to say that the nearest any got to rustic, rural life was playing with ‘My Little Pony’.
At times Seth could be authoritative, hard-hearted, unemotional and detached but Meredith reconciled this with the pressure of preserving the continuance of the family name. So to him Joseph appeared as a Godsend. And as much as he loved his daughters dearly, Seth only had aspirations for his son and so drilled into him the importance of leaving a legacy from an early age, in such a way that history would continue to repeat itself. Fortunately for Meredith her task was not made any the harder either with the three girls, as Aileen and Elspeth were avid readers and academically astute, just leaving the middle one Sorcha to feel the pressure of towing the line. This was not always achievable or successful as she befriended and became tight with one of the local gypsy girls. A dark eyed minx of a gypsy by the name of Rawnie Tait, whose very glance appeared to cast a spell on first meeting. She had become familiar with the sawmill surroundings by virtue of children’s attraction to water and the river running past the mill itself. Sorcha and Rawnie had been discovered undertaking various petty thefts of fruit, vegetables and minor chattels. Neither girl was severely reprimanded nor punished; as both the village and gypsy contingencies were affected equally by the acts, and the true value of their combined actions was insignificant. However the Gypsy Leader and Parish Councillor agreed that both girls should work voluntarily for the opposite community, resulting in Seth taking Rawnie for a four-week period. This proved beneficial to both as she was a strong girl and being a willing worker she expressed a wider interest and understanding in wood other than just producing pegs.
This slight on the Macleod’s family reputation and standing in the village lasted only as long as the four weeks community service and it proved that the gypsies were generous in their forgiveness more so than the village folk. By the time the designated period had expired Sorcha’s misdemeanours were forgotten, whereas Rawnie continued to carry around the burden of her notoriety. Whilst Sorcha learnt her lesson and became an active member of village life as a dress shop assistant, Rawnie lived up to her badge of dishonour, to the extent that eventually she was chased out of the village and by her own clan.
Family life settled back down for Seth and his wife and over time their boy grew into a man. A man whom Seth had found became a true friend and having reached his 21 years of age, a man who was now also a full-fledged carpenter, too. Originally Seth had reconciled the fact that his generation of Macleods was to be the final one. But not to disappoint, Joseph on being born, proved to be the boy of his dreams and the nightmare of his schoolmasters. He was definitely not carved out as university material. Instead of expressing concern, this was music to Seth’s hammer and saw, and so completed his circle; three girls holding senior positions in what used to be termed a man’s world and a young, strong, athletic boy who still found the practical more rewarding than the theoretical. Brawn ruled with brain having to settle for second spot.
In Seth’s eyes this left only one hurdle remaining and that looked as if it would be cleared at the first attempt, if you’ll pardon the pun. But horse riding wasn’t Joe’s sport of choice, as he felt more at home on a mountain bike rather than on a horse. But at least both were outdoor pursuits and both left you saddle sore, the stopping part making the only significant difference. So if there’s any truth in the expression ‘just like riding a bike,’ then climbing on a horse’s back should have been ‘a walk in the park’. But, as well as turning Joe into a carpenter, his father’s other ambition was to one day see him appointed as Bari Gadgi and now that one day was fast approaching. He had witnessed the joy of various friends, peers and associates in the village whose pride had swelled on seeing their boys become young men by achieving their right of passage to ride out and touch Stob Stanes with the fearsome task, theoretically at least, of repelling the reivers. Marauders,who had so much potential to do damage to the villagers’ lives and livestock. Yet in reality he couldn’t help feeling that this history was all so long ago and even in this sleepy frozen-in-time town, time and technology had moved on, almost despite them.
CHAPTER SEVEN “What’s with these people in Scotland? Why do we now have a serial fortune-teller on our hands as well? Is it not enough that the Scottish Borders had bodies strewn about; and now we’ve got to play copycat. First up we’ve had the dunking man video, which turns out to be a smash and achieves more hits than The Beatles in its first twenty-four hours and now we find a body that wouldn’t look out of place in a freak show at the circus,” surmised DI Barbour.
“Yes, but in this case ma’am, the freak’s fortune was read too late to save him,” commented DC Brownlee, in a nasally sounding voice.
“Phew, I hadn’t got that stench before. Wow, must have lost control at some point in the torture,” replied the DI, instantly wrinkling her nose and covering her mouth with several tissues. “So what’s this Tarot card mean? A seated majestic figure wearing a crown and holding an upright sword in his right hand and balancing scales of justice in his left. What’s that all about, apart from presumably a judge who’s offering unbiased justice?”
“Don’t exactly know ma’am. But we’ll find someone who does?”
“Right, everyone. Listen up. Why’s my gut feeling now definitely telling me that we’ve got a ‘like for like’ carry on here? I mean the video thing is huge with shock value and this little number, when it gets out, will certainly give Hammer Horrors a run for its money too. And what are the chances of two murders as obtuse as these cropping up two days running? Talk about buses! But we’ve got to find the link and find it quick. And don’t go trampling all over the clues unless forensics tells you it’s safe to do so. Check surrounding buildings for CCTV. Get on to Aberdeenshire and Moray traffic cameras’ division; we need to see what the nearest road camera to these warehouses has recorded. We may get lucky with a vehicle’s coming and going. And while you’re about it, check the missing persons file. It would be embarrassing if we had the poor guy’s name all along, now wouldn’t it? And whatever you do, do it subtly. One worldwid
e murder is one too many, let’s not make it two, just yet. And talking about a worldwide murder, get me some good news on the scaffolding killing while you’re about it.”
Forensics photographed the body, its position, the surrounding scene, and then cordoned off the whole warehouse, both inside and out, in the hope of turning up tyre markings, oil drips, any discarded materials and shoe or boot prints. But surprisingly, they vacated the vicinity without turning up anything. The area leading up to the warehouse entrance had been swept spotless and now there was not a crushed beer can, empty fag packet or used condom within fifty square metres. “These guys certainly know their job,” commented the lead forensics’ investigating officer, Mike Dolan.
“Yeh, must have been watching too many old black and white cowboy movies, where the Indians sweep behind the horses with tree branches to hide their trail,” replied a colleague.
“Well, however they’ve done it, either using 21st century effects or those of the fifties, we’re going to have to hold our hands up to having an evidence bag, full of nothing! Two murders in as many days and not a lot to show for either,” came back the lead officer.
“Oh, come on boss, we’ve got that Tarot card to work on. That should tell us something.”
“It’ll probably tell us about as much as a visit to Gypsy Rose Lee at the seaside. But we can live in hope,” came the resigned reply.
