by D C Macey
‘Well, I do like a wee dram,’ conceded Ali.
‘Good man. Come on. Have a quick one with us, hey? Teamwork! A good job done together,’ said Robertson, pulling out a bottle of Scotch from inside the stab jacket that bulged beneath his white forensic suit. He paused, fixed Ali with a conspiratorial stare and waved the bottle in his direction. ‘Not a word to anyone mind, this is strictly in the business, not for civilians.’
Ali nodded, guilt at breaking the rules overcome by the confidence drawn from his new-found police colleagues and the knowledge that no one would ever know. Except the lads on dayshift of course, as fellow professionals they would need to know.
Robertson poured the drinks, clicking the bottle on Ali’s mug. ‘Down the hatch then,’ he said.
A big measure of whisky had flooded Ali’s coffee and he was drinking it enthusiastically as smaller measures dripped into the other two mugs. Ali was on his second measure in moments and beginning to feel as though he had arrived in the real security world at last. He relaxed.
‘Have you got that new remote store video system installed here?’ asked the policewoman, as she looked at the security console standing in proud isolation in a raised section to the rear of the room.
Quickly downing his third whisky Ali rushed to explain. ‘The new hardware’s in but we haven’t got the system hooked up to the university’s main security server yet, they’ve had some problems with it. Off the record, it might not be sorted for a while yet,’ he confided to his new-found professional friends.
Robertson snorted. ‘IT guys, they never deliver a finished job.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Sharp. ‘There’s always one more bit to do, some new upgrade or other. I reckon they just spin things out to make a bit more overtime.’ The tone of her voice made it clear she did not rate IT people at all. Inside she was delighted; she would not even need to break into the university’s security server to sort the cameras. This job was becoming just too easy.
Ali stepped up on to the console platform, bent down and pointed under the console. ‘We have a new set of external cameras that cover the whole courtyard and archway but we are still recording onto that local hard drive. It holds about four weeks’ recordings, and then we record over them again. Hey, if there is no crime noticed in a month there was no crime to start with, right?’
His new police friends both nodded. ‘One for the road?’ asked Robertson, while pouring the guard more whisky without waiting for an answer. ‘Then we’d better get back to work.’
Ali’s natural caution had long gone; he smiled and knocked back the hefty shot of spirits. Draining the mug with a theatrical groan of pleasure, he grinned at Sharp and was suddenly overcome in a single swift movement from behind. Robertson’s big arms wrapped around him, pinning Ali’s arms to his sides. Ali was forced to his knees and then manoeuvred onto the floor.
Ali’s face rested on the stone step leading down from the console area to the main room, his body pressed flat by the weight of the giant policeman on top of him. ‘What the hell are you doing? Come on, the joke’s over. Let me up,’ protested Ali.
‘Shut up, not another word,’ said Robertson as he watched his colleague expertly access the camera system and switch off all the cameras around the entire building. She nodded confirmation of progress as she accessed the hard drive and began deleting the video records, and then set the drive to reformat.
Somewhere in the process it had dawned on Ali that this was a profoundly serious incident and he was in the middle of it. ‘Look, I don’t know what you lot are up to, but this could get really serious, let me go and I’ll keep quiet, right?’
‘I said be quiet, or you won’t have a choice,’ Robertson hissed into Ali’s ear. Ali was suddenly very frightened and very quiet.
Ali watched the policewoman stand up from the console and give a triumphant smile. ‘Looks like you’ve been a bit naughty Mr Guard,’ she said. ‘Who switched off the cameras so he could have a quiet drink, eh? Who got so drunk he ended up deleting the whole memory when he tried to sort the cameras out again?’
‘What the hell’s wrong with you people? You can’t do this, you’re mad.’ Ali stopped talking and gasped an objection as Robertson rolled over, dragging Ali round, turning him to face up to the ceiling. Sharp knelt down beside Ali, jabbing a cork into his open mouth. His tongue could not force it out against the strength of her fingers and with her other hand she began to pour from the whisky bottle. Ali’s cry of fear started to rise only to be drowned out in a gurgle of whisky flowing past the cork and down his throat. To avoid drowning, he swallowed and swallowed until the bottle was empty.
Being held on the floor by a large policeman was inconvenient, but at least nobody was hurting him, and now under the influence of twenty more shots of whisky, things seemed less and less worrying. He could not understand what was going on, but the way he was beginning to feel, right now he was not really quite so bothered anymore.
As Ali’s resistance lowered a little, Sharp leant over him and delved inside the policeman’s stab jacket, she pulled out a bottle of vodka. Opening the bottle, she began trickling the liquor over the cork and into Ali’s mouth, letting some spill out of his mouth and soak into his uniform top.
He moaned a little. ‘I don’t like vodka, man, no more eh?’ The fight had gone from his voice, his words distorted by the presence of the cork in his mouth. It was the pleading of a reluctant little child compelled to do the adult’s bidding, plaintive and distressed. ‘I’ve had my whack, man, let me go now. Please. Please, joke’s over, eh?’ his words lisped around the cork and he gagged a little as the vodka continued to flow, she paused, allowing him to compose himself for a moment, then resumed pouring until the bottle was empty. Then a small bottle of Absinthe completed the delivery.
Sharp got up and carefully moved around the room. She cleaned two of the mugs, wiped surfaces and the edges of the building plan Robertson had handled earlier. Then she rolled the now empty spirit bottles in Ali’s compliant hands, fixing his fingerprints on them. She retrieved the cork from the guard's mouth.
So much spirits in less than ten minutes might kill some men, and might wipe the memory of most. Unfortunately for Ali, might was not an option. Semiconscious, he lolled in Robertson’s great bearlike arms as he was lifted to his feet. There was no bruising on the arms or chest where he had been constrained. The breadth of the constraining arms had spread the contact pressure, while the thickness of their respective jackets had cushioned the constraint.
‘All set?’ asked Robertson.
Sharp nodded, everything was as it needed to be. She thrust her still gloved hand into Ali’s pocket and pulled out his keys, then quickly stepped out through the door into the archway to unlock the pedestrian gate. Leaving it ajar, she returned to throw the keys into the office. She waited outside, enjoying the cool fresh air that funnelled through the archway. The sound of a sickening crack echoed out from the gatehouse door, then a slight gasp and a groan and then silence.
Inside, a very drunken Ali had taken a nasty tumble; perhaps he had tripped on the flagstone step leading up to the camera console area and fallen. A skull travelling downwards from nearly six feet above the ground, falling at full speed and without the protection of sober hands can receive real damage. Particularly if it cracks onto the edge of a solid stone step. This skull did just that with the extra propulsion and assistance offered by two hundred and fifty pounds of human bear. The skull broke like a dropped egg.
Outside the porters’ office, the two stripped off and bagged their forensic suits and police officer uniforms, revealing smart casual wear underneath. Having checked the coast was clear, they stepped out through the pedestrian gate, pulling it shut and locked behind them. They slipped unnoticed and untraceable into the night.
CHAPTER 9 - MONDAY 3rd JUNE
Sam and Helen settled down amongst a straggle of other late afternoon visitors to the museum’s brasserie. As the waitress approached with their coffee orde
r, Sam shifted slightly in his comfortably upholstered seat and stared through the glass partition that separated them from the museum’s entrance hall. A long vaulted space, it mirrored the length of the main exhibition hall on the floor above. From his vantage point, he could see the entrance hall’s full length.
Immediately beyond the glass and to his left hand were the doors through which visitors channelled in and out of Chambers Street. Beyond that were public toilets and then the reception and enquiry desk, a long stretch of service counter that would not have been out of place in an airport, its sleek line both stylish and functional if slightly out of character with the environment. Behind it stood a receptionist, eager to help the public but not really needed as the museum wound down for the day. Beyond her, a little cluster of attendants stood ready to respond if called on. At the far end of the hall were the bright lights of a museum shop twinkling back at him through their own glass partition.
The whole length of the entrance hall was illuminated by soft golden uplighters that threw light across the vaulted ceiling where it bounced back down onto the dark flagstone floor. Sam felt he was looking out on to an old Edinburgh street at twilight. The impression was consolidated for just a moment as a little group of visitors emerged from the stairway to his right, pedestrian-like, they wandered across his line of vision towards the main doors and the daylight beyond. His romanticised impression fled as the group paused to examine an ancient Egyptian mummy case, a feature not normally associated with Edinburgh street furniture.
Helen and Sam considered what they had just seen in the museum’s gallery and had to agree with the two Hong Kong students’ view.
‘You know, those boys were sharp, I don’t think I’d have noticed it amongst the other blades unless I’d known to look,’ said Sam, impressed by the students’ observation skills. He was thrilled, almost agitated by all the possible implications, and he was desperate to start investigating.
‘I know, but how do you think it got there?’ Helen asked, equally excited by the puzzle.
‘I don’t have a clue. I need to get a closer look at that dagger, find out where it came from and get its background. That should tell us more about our dunes dagger too. If they really are the same, they will share parts of a common story.’
Helen finished her coffee. ‘Come on then, who do we ask?’
‘No, no, there are procedures to follow. They won’t just open a display case for us,’ said Sam, shaking his head a little ruefully.
‘Why not? You’re an archaeology lecturer at the university. Sam, you’re in the business! Let’s go try.’
Sam put a hand onto her arm and stopped her from rushing off to the enquiry desk. ‘I’ll have to go back to the office and see who’s in charge of that part of the collection. Then I’ll write them an e-mail and then I’ll phone them. Get in touch through official channels. Then we should have no problem getting access.’
‘Everything by the book, you’re all drowning under your own paper mountain, no wonder you guys lost your empire.’ She threw her hands up and sighed. ‘Oh, for somebody’s sake, we just want a quick look at the thing, Sam.’ Helen was a little frustrated, not just because she wanted to make the link between the two daggers, but she had once again felt that same sense of familiarity. She felt she knew the dagger, just could not think where from.
‘Well we can’t just barge in and demand access to an artefact, and that’s final. Let’s get back to the university and I’ll get the ball rolling from there. Then we can try to get hold of MacPherson. I want a closer look at our dunes dagger too - getting access to that should be easier. Do you want to come?’ Sam rose and held an arm out to guide or perhaps more to marshal Helen towards the exit, ensuring she made no attempt to shortcut the process by engaging with the curatorial staff directly. A little reluctantly, she followed his lead and they left the museum without drawing any attention to themselves or the dagger.
• • •
Cassiter sat at his desk. On it were two computer screens, one linked to his office computer system, the other linked to another quite separate system, used for the most private of work. He could have put all his work through the private system, but he knew his team’s activity at the margins of life attracted interest from all sorts of places. It made sense to let such searchers find something to fixate on. While they were busy failing to break into his apparent main system they were not searching for the real core files.
Right now Cassiter was not looking at either computer screen. Fixed to the wall beyond his desk was a large flat screen television. The picture was frozen on a local BBC news programme. It showed a triumphant looking professor and projected up behind him was an image featuring a golden chain and signet ring. The picture had remained on screen all afternoon. Cassiter glowered at the screen. The television strapline seemed to taunt him:
University finds ancient treasures in Fife dunes
On the desk, beneath Cassiter’s hands, was a brief report from Fiona Sharp. They had done a good job at the Old Medical School, cleaned up, removed evidence and left no trail. By killing himself through excessive drinking on duty, the security guard had made sufficient waves that nobody on campus was even thinking about accidentally wiped hard drives or the odd missing picture. The officials were concentrating hard on explaining how their system had allowed a drunk to be placed in charge of such an important building.
Cassiter was not happy in spite of his team’s efficient work. He continued to stare at the television screen. ‘Where is this dagger, professor? Where have you put it?’ he said to the empty room.
Eugene Parsol was intending to visit Edinburgh next week. It was unheard of for a client to encroach into his working zone, and anyone other than Parsol would have been dumped on the spot. Cassiter did not know what was so important about the dagger. He knew roughly of its time period and origins, but had not needed to know details of why the quest was being undertaken. A lost and obscure dagger might be just what a rich man would focus on. As originally instructed, Cassiter had made no effort to find out more than he was briefed. His job was just to find the artefact, not to become an expert on its history. Cassiter got big, well-paid tasks because clients could always trust him to follow their rules.
Until a day or so ago, he had imagined that Eugene Parsol was after a single dagger, which they now believed was hidden somewhere in Dearly’s church, St Bernard’s; it seemed now to have expanded into a multiple quest. Cassiter had forwarded the original audio news clip, wondering if it was of some passing interest, perhaps even indicating that their local church idea was wrong. Then, suddenly, the world had exploded in a fit of activity, with Parsol now demanding this dagger from the dunes of Fife be retrieved, in addition to continuing the hunt at St Bernard’s. But they had not got the dunes dagger; it was nowhere to be found on campus.
For Cassiter and the world he inhabited there were no shades of grey, no partial successes. Clients wanted results. No daggers equalled no results.
Events were throwing up some issues. How many blades were there? For the first time he allowed himself to wonder about their real purpose or value, but most of all he focused on the need to take personal control of their retrieval. And there must be no trace left of either dagger by the end of the job, so the BBC archive would need to be cleaned too, at least that would be routine. Big institutions with their ponderous, ironclad security systems and multiple access points were often the easiest to work around, he’d put one of the team on that. Parsol would not expect anything else. And it would need to be done now. He reached for the phone and began making the necessary calls.
• • •
Sam drove through the Old Medical School’s great archway and into the quadrangle beyond. From the front passenger seat, Helen pointed out the university’s chief of security who was standing in a small doorway watching their progress. Sam steered to a halt beside the man. Emerging from the doorway, the chief stepped round to the driver’s side and nodded recognition in response to Sam’
s half-raised hand of greeting. In a brusque voice, he told them the site was closed to all staff until the police had concluded their investigations.
On the face of it, there was little to investigate. But the guard had been known as reliable and had never drunk on duty before. Furthermore, his wife insisted he never touched vodka or Absinthe, and they didn’t have a penny to spare anyway, so where would he have got money for bottles of spirits? There was something not quite right about the circumstances, and now classes had finished for the summer there was little pressure on the police to sign off quickly. They were taking the time to review things carefully and nobody was getting in the building for now.
However, the chief had always liked Sam’s considerate approach to his staff, particularly that Sam took time to acknowledge the porters and guards as part of the university team; unlike some of the academics who did not seem to notice his staff were even there and certainly would not have passed the time of day with them. So the chief took the time to answer Sam’s question, assuring him that Professor MacPherson had not been on site all day. What’s more, the chief would personally be locking the gates in a moment and, under the circumstances, no one would now be getting in until morning at the earliest.
Then the chief leant forward a little towards Sam’s open car window and tipped them off in a conspiratorial half whisper. ‘There was some problem with broken CCTV.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a knowing finger.
Sam did not really know what he meant by the sign but gave a sage nod in response. The chief of security was either in the know and was not saying or he did not know and was not about to let Sam realise it. Sam suspected it was the latter. The chief straightened up and waved Sam and his pretty redheaded passenger away. Helen flashed him a sympathetic smile and Sam gave a wave of thanks as he obeyed the direction to drive back out through the great archway.
• • •
An hour later, pebbles scrunched under the wheels of Sam’s car as it pulled into the driveway of Professor MacPherson’s house. It was an impressive old sandstone villa of the type found scattered throughout the older and more affluent suburbs. Many similar properties had now been divided to create flats: smaller, more practical spaces for modern living. MacPherson’s house had not been subdivided and it retained its impressive driveway and grand façade, which presented in exactly the style conceived two-hundred years earlier. It impressed just as much today as it had done when new. This was the property of people who did not have to concern themselves with worries over balancing the monthly budget.
