by D C Macey
James Curry smiled thinly and let his hand drop from John’s. ‘It’s all for the common good, John,’ he said, looking round at the others, appealing for the support of reasonable people and receiving a round of nods in agreement. ‘Perhaps we should get together again soon, John? You know my role, always happy to help a parish, to help the wider community. Keeping the Church safe, keeping everyone safe.’
‘Always willing to have a chat about the common good, you know that, James. Give me a call sometime, let’s see if we can fix up a meeting,’ said John.
Helen felt the lack of sincerity, the taught atmosphere between the two men, it could be cut with a knife, but she could not understand the cause. Meanwhile, the missionaries focused more intently on James Curry, not wanting to miss an opportunity that this senior cleric might be able to make introductions to the Moderator and possible funding opportunities. Taking advantage of the moment, Helen stepped slightly across John and whispered at him. ‘You’re not being very friendly. You said we were here so I could meet people, make contacts for the future.’ She fixed him with a short glare before turning back to the others just as James Curry wished them well and moved on round the room.
Curry made a mental note that now at last was the time to drag the covers off John Dearly and his cosy existence.
The contract photographer wandered round the edge of the hall unnoticed by the throng of buzzing, networking partygoers. Fiona Sharp snapped away, producing the publicity shots specified by the PR people at ‘121’, the familiar name for the Church of Scotland Headquarters, based at 121 George Street - as it happened, just a stone’s throw from her base in Cassiter’s offices. Her zoom lens also made sure that all those engaging with John Dearly were recorded. No audio, unfortunately. She was careful to get clear face shots of those in Dearly’s group. Cassiter would certainly be using a face recognition system to find links and common threads for investigation.
• • •
Back from the Moderator’s Reception in one piece, Helen lent against the manse’s kitchen worktop watching John pour coffee into two mugs. Knowing she took milk, he added it without asking and crossed the room carrying both mugs, handing her one.
‘Thanks,’ said Helen, taking a sip. ‘I need to be heading home soon. Sam’s coming over to hear all about the reception. But tell me, I don’t understand what the needle was between you and James. He seemed a genuine guy. What was going on?’
John gave a wave of his now empty hand. ‘Oh, we have a bit of a problem. You know what administrators can be like. He just likes a bit of a niggle, sticks his nose where it’s not welcome, nothing important.’
‘It seemed like it was important to him, what did you do to upset him?’ She tried to keep the tone of her voice light but was intrigued to know why John, who did not seem to have an enemy in the world, was locking horns with such a senior man.
‘Curry’s just being a nuisance. Thinks we’ve got some secret stash of money and there’s something underhand going on,’ he laughed as he led Helen out through the kitchen door into the hall, making for the comfort of the lounge.
‘Have you got a secret stash?’ asked Helen.
John laughed out loud again as she followed him.
• • •
The late news was playing on the radio as Sam and Helen slumped together on the sofa in her living room. Sam was not pleased with the broadcast. ‘I knew he’d get himself some news coverage, he’s such a media tart, can’t help himself.’
‘Isn’t that what a good department head should do? Get publicity for the university, attract more money?’ asked Helen, trying to find something positive in MacPherson’s interview.
‘Of course,’ said Sam, knowing he should not let himself get riled. MacPherson had acted exactly as he had expected. ‘But give credit where it’s due. Let the department have the recognition. What about the students who dug up the dagger and other artefacts? They deserve some credit too. Listening to that nonsense, you’d think he found the stuff himself. In fact, you’d think it was a one-man dig. I’m surprised that idiot hasn’t got a Templar outfit on for the interview. Hmm, perhaps he has.’
They both listened in silence for a moment more until Sam stretched out and switched the radio off. ‘God save us from such complete idiots. How did he ever land that job?’
Helen stretched her arm round and gently poked him in the ribs with a pointy finger. ‘So now you need God? I see religion’s fine when it suits you. Part-timer!’
‘When it comes to MacPherson, I need all the help I can get.’
They settled down again and Helen looked absently at the silent radio for a few moments, suddenly transported back to the Fife dunes. ‘You know, I’m not sure what it is, but there is still something familiar about that dagger, I can’t put my finger on it. Just feel as though I know it somehow, it’s weird.’
Sam nodded. ‘Yes, daggers can look quite alike, especially that one. It had such a simple, elegant line, sort of an every-dagger. I think it’s probably easy for people to mix it up.’
‘Hey you, how many daggers do you think I’m familiar with?’ protested Helen. ‘I don’t know how, it’s a bit weird, it just seems familiar.’
Sam thought for a moment. ‘Now you mention it, remember the two students from Hong Kong? Up on the dig? Yesterday they were over visiting the National Museum of Scotland, brushing up on local cultural stuff before their families visit them over the summer. They left me a message yesterday, convinced an identical dagger is included as part of the weapons collection at the museum. Clearly, it can’t be the dunes dagger. I don’t know, maybe they have just got themselves confused. That every dagger thing of yours, you know? But now I think about it, imagine if there was a pair. What a stir it would cause. I’ll call into the museum when I’m passing, if only to rule it out.’
‘Well I’m not confused.’ For the second time that evening, Helen dug him in the ribs. ‘Come on, let’s go out for a stroll, the night-time air is lovely and warm. Maybe stop for a late drink on the way back? Where do you fancy?’ They headed out into the evening while Sam began to mull over his twin dagger theory.
• • •
Cassiter switched off the radio and leant back in his chair, silently assessing the range of possibilities thrown up by the radio news broadcast. Another Templar dagger? Coincidence? It may be unconnected, or perhaps the Edinburgh parish was a red herring. Were his team following the wrong scent? There was only one way to find out for sure, he would set his team to work on it. After careful thought he reached for the phone, Parsol would want to know about this new development. It appeared that the university’s archaeology department and this Professor MacPherson might be in need of some attention.
He paused to review his computer screen. A transcript of recent conversations in the manse had just been flashed across to him. Nothing of real interest. The conversations showed no guilt or knowledge on the part of either Dearly or the young woman. But what was this mystery stash of money? Cassiter wondered if it might be an indicator of something, but of what? He filed the thought for the time being.
CHAPTER 8 - SUNDAY 2nd JUNE
Confusingly, the Department of Field Archaeology was housed within the Old Medical School. An imposing building, it linked together with the University’s equally impressive McEwan Hall to dominate the south side of Teviot Place. The Old Medical School was a great rectangle of stone that hid a fully enclosed courtyard at its heart. Massive gates gave access from the main street to a deep archway that burrowed through the side of the building to open out into the courtyard.
At some point in history it had been a cutting edge building, designed to meet the needs of the best, most modern medical practitioners of the day. That time was past and some aspects of medical teaching had long since been obliged to move, following the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh and its supply of patients out to the hospital’s new buildings on the city’s outskirts: leaving space behind them. The Department of Field Archaeology, being less demanding,
had found a comfortable niche in a vacated corner of the old building.
Insurance policies demanded that night security was always tight, but the strongest defence was the building itself. Intimidating scale, confusing internal architecture and few accessible external windows, it seemed a thief’s worst nightmare. The security department was aware of that and so were perhaps less concerned than they ought to be. No need to worry, the building was almost certainly impenetrable once the great gates were shut. Set beside the main gate was a small pedestrian access gate; it too was securely locked at night. Nobody had tried to force entry in years.
Ali Brown was the nightshift security guard. A dozen years enthusiastic service in the infantry had been followed abruptly by redundancy. A betrayal that cut him deeply. The following years had passed in a blur as his life had hit the buffers. Struggling from one temporary job to the next, each successive pay-off reopening the old wound of betrayal. Throughout it all, Ali strove to maintain his dignity, to maintain his family. Finally, he got a break that put the years of worry and strife behind him; the university gave him a permanent security position. Life had finally settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Ali was based in the porters’ office. A suite of rooms accessed through a doorway leading directly off the archway and set a few feet back from the pedestrian access gate. Like most such places, it was warm and comfortable. But for the electronic scan points dotted around the building, he would probably never have left his cosy base during the dead hours of the night. Sadly, a slave to technology, he was regularly obliged to pad his way round, scanning at electronic checkpoints as he went, all the while thinking about the sandwich pack he would eat once he got back to base.
Rounds complete, Ali settled down to his sandwich just as the electronic buzzer announced a visitor at the pedestrian gate. Slightly peeved at the unexpected disruption to his routine, he stepped out into the archway and peered through the gates into the city street beyond. A policewoman was standing looking in.
She called through the gates. ‘Someone’s reported seeing a man scaling the building, have you seen or heard anything? The dog handlers are on their way.’
Ali had not heard anything, but was more than happy for the police to do the checking. He hurried across and unlocked the pedestrian gate, swinging it open to allow the policewoman entry. Fiona Sharp slipped quickly through the little gate. Her perfectly fitted uniform marked her as every inch the efficient policewoman. She smiled at the guard and laughed as she entered. ‘I’m not sure my partner will fit through that,’ she said, ‘he’s a big monster.’
Ali laughed back. ‘Tell him to breathe in, that’ll work.’
She looked back through the gate. ‘He’s just coming, has to park the car properly, even we can’t be too careful these days.’ She turned back to Ali. ‘Have you got a building plan that we can have a look at before we get started?’
Robertson, a big man in police uniform, suddenly filled the pedestrian gate. He nodded towards Ali. ‘All right there? Got plans for us?’
Enthusiasm to be part of a real law enforcement team was growing in Ali. ‘Come into the office, I’ve got plans for the whole building. Though you won’t need them, I’ll take you round.’ He slammed shut the pedestrian gate to trigger its night latch mechanism, it instantly locked. Now full of importance he led the police to the porters’ office. They looked in from the doorway, watching him pull open a drawer full of building plans. ‘This is the one you’ll need.’
‘Great, let’s have a quick look, and then we’d better make a start,’ said Robertson, holding his hand out for the plan. ‘You’d better stand by here; the dog handlers should be along in a while and will need you to let them in.’
Ali had been about to object at being marginalised on his own patch, but then recognised he now had a specific job to do. Now he was part of the team. Only a visit by the armed response unit could have been more prestigious, more newsworthy. ‘Right, I’ll wait here and let them in as soon as they arrive,’ he said. Content, he looked forward to the morning shift when he would regale them all with his participation in a search with the police dog handlers. The lads would be green with envy.
The police left Ali with a final warning that the intruder could be dangerous, so he must be careful to watch his back, maybe best to keep his door locked. Turning away from the entrance to the porters’ office, they set off through the archway for the quadrangle. Behind them, they heard the bolts inside the porters’ office door slide shut. Suddenly feeling quite alone, no longer the fit young man of yesterday, Ali had become careful.
Fiona Sharp smiled to herself. They would not be disturbed and now they were equipped with keys, plans and swipe cards. Each swipe card had its associated internal alarm code printed neatly on the back. They entered the main building from the quadrangle and pushed the heavy door tight shut behind them. There they pulled on the forensic suits, gloves and bootees that ensured they would not contaminate the crime scene.
Methodically, Robertson swept through the building, switching lights on and off in each office. If the guard did decide to venture out into the quad he could follow the switching lights to track their progress around the building. Meanwhile, Sharp concentrated on Professor MacPherson’s office. Cassiter needed to know what MacPherson knew, wanted what he had.
It took a little while for her to brute force break MacPherson’s computer password, but she got in without any trouble and began to search his files, reviewing them, copying each one relating to the Fife dig. There was very little, nothing of much relevance, just the humdrum of administration. He had not got round to writing up a report yet, and fortunately had not put any photographs on the network drive either, otherwise she would have had to track down and break into the network backups too and that was always a nuisance. She scanned his email account and found an interesting message from the department’s photographic technician; she noted his name.
Leaving MacPherson’s networked files in place; she logged out from his network account and turned her attention to his computer’s local hard drive. On the local desktop was a folder full of pictures that she quickly transferred to a flash drive and having carefully reviewed the computer’s local document folders, started to transfer a full copy.
While the transfer was underway, she checked his drawers and files for any hard copy photo prints of the dagger. She bagged them together with a cluster of USB sticks and a camera card. Then, with the full contents of MacPherson’s computer safely copied, she deleted all the files on the local hard drive and fed in a neat little virus. The virus started work, overwriting the drive with gibberish. She walked away, knowing that once the drive was full of gibberish the virus’ final act was a complete disc reformat, wiping all the information stored on his local workstation.
She continued on her prowl round the offices. Once she found the photo technician’s desk, she repeated the careful search and delete process.
Communicating by click code on their walkie-talkie radios, the two searchers had kept in close touch, eventually meeting in the basement, at the secure room. Here items of high value were housed temporarily while they were the subject of research and investigation. Thereafter they would be transferred back to museums, private owners or the university’s own long-term secure unit. Happily, the guard’s key ring included the right keys together with the alarm security code on a plastic fob.
It took little more than five minutes to establish that the dagger was not there. Taking care to leave everything as they had found it, they left the secure room, locked the door and reset the alarm.
The pair kept their forensic suits on as they left the main building. They pulled the heavy door shut behind them and locked it before heading back to the porters’ office. Ali had been watching the CCTV monitor in the porters’ office and spotted them crossing the quadrangle. He quickly opened the door and stepped out just in time to hear the policewoman cancelling the dog handler on her radio.
‘See anything?’ he asked, and t
hen looked quizzically at their forensic suits. ‘What’s all the space gear about?’
Robertson shrugged. ‘New directive from up high, load of mince, but hey, they pay the wages.’
Sharp chipped in. ‘We just do what we’re told. Apparently they lost some big case because of contamination, so now we have to protect from the outset.’
Ali looked unconvinced. ‘I’ve never heard of that before.’
‘Like I say, it’s just a new thing. Costing a fortune in suits. They’ll probably let it fade away in a few weeks’ time,’ she said.
Robertson grinned at him. ‘Look, we’re just going to walk around inside the quadrangle, check the boy’s not sneaked right over into the courtyard. How about sticking the kettle on and we’ll get a cuppa? We’re due a break and you’ve had your work cut out too.’
‘I’ll get it on now,’ said Ali, pleased that there was probably no intruder and he was now getting a chance to mix socially with the police. The day shift would be totally sick.
A few minutes later the three of them were all standing around the porters’ reception desk, holding their mugs and discussing how tough it was as a night security guard these days. ‘Tell you what,’ said Robertson, ‘what about a quick snifter, for a job well done?’
‘Great idea,’ agreed Sharp, ‘but just a small one for you, you’re driver tonight.’
Ali looked very doubtful. ‘It’s against our rules,’ he said. ‘If I’m caught I’ll be out the door.’ He was struggling to come to terms with police drinking on duty.
‘Come on,’ urged Robertson, ‘who’s going to catch you? Us?’ He laughed. ‘Well, what are you, a whisky or a vodka man?’
