by Paul Finch
He turned the television off and pushed his head back into the pillow. The lamp was still on, but he was too tired to get up and switch it off. And yet, despite this deep bone-weariness, sleep proved elusive. It had been an incredibly long, arduous day.
Tomorrow had to be easier. It had to.
Chapter 27
The northwest coast of Scotland didn’t always equate to wild winds and raging sea, but on this occasion Gemma had a definite feeling she’d arrived on the extreme fringes of Britain.
The last hour of the flight had been dramatic to say the least, a tableau of barren, rocky summits unfolding below them, the deep glens in between filled with pine trees or the mirror-flat surfaces of lochs burnished red by a sun setting in embers on the western horizon. Like all seas when viewed from height and distance, the North Atlantic, on their left, seemed almost benign: a vast expanse of misted blue, shot salmon-pink by the sunset, its myriad waves little more than ripples. Needless to say, once they got down to it things were different. It was dusk when they left the Eurocopter on the car park at Clashnessie police office, a squat, pebble-dashed building located just inland from Clashnessie village, and then had to travel another couple of hours to the coast in a Police Scotland Range Rover.
It was nearly midnight when they arrived there, and dark in a way that only Britain’s most remote hinterlands can be dark. In single file, they descended a teetering flight of steps cut through the granite of the shoreline cliffs, lit every dozen yards by fluorescent lights sealed in waterproof cases. Below them, breakers boomed with increasing volume. To avoid going dizzy, Gemma focused intently on the broad back of their chaperone, PC Kevin McKenzie, who, aside from his flat hat, was shrouded in a luminous, ankle-length slicker. When an ice-cold spray began spattering them, she wasn’t sure if this was rain or the ocean itself.
At the foot of the stair, they crossed a narrow steel bridge, still in single file. There was much turmoil beneath their feet, massive waves exploding on blade-edged rocks. The sea wind felt strong enough to hurl them into the abyss were they not clinging to tubular handrails fixed on either side. Ahead, on an island composed almost entirely of offshore crags, stood Clachtoll coastguard station. Though it was brightly lit, it wasn’t possible to gain an impression of the entire structure. Gemma glimpsed high mesh fencing surrounding a square, whitewashed building. A cluster of radio antennae and receptor dishes were visible on its roof; there was also apparently a helipad up there, but the weather conditions being what they were, their pilot had opted to put down in a sheltered location inland.
Once inside, they were shown to the crew room, and offered a hot cuppa, which Tasker declined on behalf of both of them because, as he said, they were in a rush. Gemma was irritated by that, but said nothing. They’d booked into a bed and breakfast at Clashnessie for the night, which was hardly ideal; she too felt an urge to rush back south and get on with stuff rather than ‘dawdle about up here at the top of the world’ (Tasker’s words, not hers), but Police Scotland had only one Eurocopter available and it had now been called to other duties. It would return for them first thing in the morning, which was eminently reasonable of their hosts. Until then, there was nothing else they could really do.
They were provided with the necessary paperwork, before the watch officer led them through to a small mortuary at the rear of the station. This was a temporary facility, normally reserved for the victims of maritime accidents, though at present it only contained the one corpse. A stark halogen light filled the small room, which was completely bare except for a central porcelain slab with runnels down either side connecting to a drainpipe underneath. A wall of freezer cabinets stood on the right.
The watch officer was a young Highlander; stocky, red-haired and freckled. ‘Hope you two haven’t got a dinner date due,’ he said.
‘It’s okay,’ Gemma replied, snapping on a pair of disposable gloves.
He opened the drawer, and lifted the opaque plastic sheet covering the figure on the tray, before discreetly withdrawing.
Both Tasker and Gemma had seen worse – though not often.
It was quickly evident that most of the damage they were viewing had been caused naturally: mainly by the rocks the unfortunate victim had been battered against as he’d rolled in the surf; probably also by the crabs that had scuttled all over him when he’d finally lodged in the crevice where he was later found.
Nothing remained of his face. It was scrunched inward like a decayed football. One pulverised eye-socket was just about visible, though strands of shredded nerve tissue hung where the eyeball should be. Only flesh held the rest of the skull together, though this too was crushed, gaps in the matted, blood-gluey hair revealing jagged bone and deep fissures. The remainder of the body was equally mutilated; throat hollowed out, ribcage flattened, limbs rent, torn and twisted.
‘Do we have a death certificate yet?’ Tasker asked.
‘Yes sir,’ replied PC McKenzie, who, having removed his slicker and taken advantage of the tea offered on their arrival, now entered the mortuary behind them. He was an older man with a white beard and a thatch of bristly white hair. ‘It was signed by Doctor Baltillie. He’s our local practitioner. It’s in with the paperwork, I believe.’
Tasker flipped through the documents. They included photographs of the body as it was found on the rocks, which were even more revolting than the sight before them.
‘Do you get suicides here often?’ Gemma asked. ‘I mean … there are high cliffs all along this coast. Are they bad for jumpers?’
‘Not so many as you might think, ma’am,’ McKenzie said. ‘This is a lightly populated region. We do get bodies washed up. Usually after boating accidents. The Minch can be a real bugger.’
‘How was Bishop Docherty identified?’ Tasker asked.
‘His height, sir – six foot, two and a half inches. His cleft chin – what there is left of it. His proximity to his abandoned vehicle, and his clothing. That’s awaiting inspection in the drawer on the right.’
Despite all, it was relatively easy to spot the lacerations in the wrinkled flaps of salt-eroded flesh still covering the body’s mangled ribcage, though the writing itself was only partially visible:
BDE
But it was evident what it was; the entirety of the inscription would have been clearly visible before the victim went over the cliff top.
‘Anything else to suggest this guy is one of ours?’ Tasker wondered idly.
‘Accusations of sexually inappropriate behaviour dating back to the 1990s,’ Gemma said. ‘Most of them from nuns. Plus some stories three or four years ago that he’d misused Church funds. There was a significant hole in the bishop’s accounts, which he never explained. Something like eighty thousand pounds. The Vatican probed that one, but got nowhere.’
‘They might have got nowhere, ma’am,’ PC McKenzie spoke up, ‘but Bishop Docherty was suspended from office and resigned shortly afterwards.’
Tasker remained po-faced. ‘Before he was sacked, you mean?’
‘That’s correct, sir. He went off to live in obscurity, which perhaps was better than he deserved. But there wasn’t much publicity and no one’s been harassing him to my knowledge. So if you’re still thinking suicide …’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Gemma said. ‘As of now, this is officially a murder enquiry.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Tasker eyed the local bobby. ‘You didn’t much care for the bishop?’
‘The ex-bishop, sir. No, I can’t say I did. I was born and raised a Roman Catholic … like many here in the North Highlands. But men like him have their way, and all Catholics must answer for it.’
‘But if he was never convicted of anything …?’
McKenzie merely replied with that thin smile typical of time-served coppers the world over when asked to judge a man purely on his official record.
‘There were sus circs leading up to his death, I understand?’ Gemma said.
‘That’s correct, ma’am.’ McKenzie
opened his notebook. ‘Apparently the bishop was seen driving his car along a coastal track yesterday evening at around seven-thirty.’
‘Who saw him?’
‘Pair of American students here on a hiking holiday. I took full statements from both.’
Tasker leafed into the paperwork again.
‘They reported the bishop driving slowly and carefully,’ McKenzie added. ‘A bit too carefully, they thought … seeing as the road was empty.’
‘They mention a second vehicle?’ Tasker said, speed-reading the statements.
‘Apparently it was following the bishop’s Volkswagen Beetle at a distance of about four hundred yards, sir.’
Tasker grunted irritably. ‘They noted the Beetle, but can’t remember what the second vehicle was … or spotted its VRM.’
‘They didn’t think anything of it at the time,’ McKenzie explained. ‘The witnesses only came forward this morning, when the news broke that the bishop was missing and his Beetle abandoned on the cliff top.’
‘And this nondescript second vehicle contained a group of men?’ Tasker said. ‘An uncertain number … but no less than three?’
‘That’s my understanding, sir.’
‘And again … no descriptions?’
‘I did press the students on that, sir, but as I say, they didn’t realise they were witnessing a criminal event.’
‘Where are the two hikers now?’ Gemma asked.
‘A hostel at Inverkirkaig, ma’am. They’ve agreed to stay in the area an extra week.’
‘Okay, good.’
‘Thank you, constable,’ Tasker said.
McKenzie nodded and backed out of the mortuary.
Tasker gave a deep sigh. ‘This is getting out of hand.’
‘Heck said they were enjoying themselves,’ Gemma replied. ‘Running us all over the country, revelling in it.’
‘Heck!’ Tasker snorted. ‘Jesus, all we need now is for him to show up and the party’s complete.’
‘I think we’re even out of Heck’s range up here, sir.’ Gemma tried not to sound as irked as Tasker was making her feel. He was tired and disgruntled – she understood that. But he’d supposedly absolved her of all responsibility for Heck’s break-out of custody – illegal custody, she reminded herself – and yet whenever the subject arose, his tone seemed to imply annoyance with all those around him, especially her.
‘The main thing now is that we speak to those two hikers,’ she said. ‘See if we can get a bit more out of them. They might actually have seen the Nice Guys.’
‘Yeah … great. Unfortunately, they can’t remember what they looked like.’
‘We’ll take new statements, have some e-fits made. If we get someone in custody later, we can put them on an ID parade.’
‘That’ll be next to no use in court, Gemma. These aren’t private roads. Anyone can use them for any kind of legitimate reason.’
‘It’s still a new lead.’
‘Not to mention a new layer of bureaucracy.’ He grimaced. ‘I know we were half-expecting it, but now we’re going to have to liaise with Police Scotland.’
‘They’ve been pretty helpful so far.’
‘We’ll need them to be a lot more helpful from here on.’
‘I’m sure the local MIT will assist,’ she said, referring to the Police Service of Scotland’s ultra-efficient Major Investigation Team, at least one division of which was permanently allocated to its North Command. ‘If we ask them nicely, that is.’
‘We’ll visit their HQ in person. A phone call won’t cut it.’
Gemma nodded, glancing again at the corpse. ‘Talk about your sins will find you out. Wherever you try to hide … Scotland, Yorkshire, Oxford, East London.’
‘Yeah.’ Tasker chuckled without humour. ‘Turning into a bit of a travelogue, this, isn’t it? I wonder who’s paying the Nice Guys’ expenses?’
‘Who do you think?’ she said. ‘The poor sods they’re doing this to. Gotta be the last word in irony.’
Chapter 28
It was after three in the morning when Jerry Farthing prepared to descend the stairs. He hadn’t set the alarm clock because he hadn’t been asleep. Instead, he’d sat upright for the last three hours, fully clothed, gazing at the yellow-lit square of curtain over his bedroom window.
For some time he’d sweated, icy globules clustering on his brow.
As so often in his life, it briefly seemed that he hadn’t thought this through properly. He’d reached the decision to turn Heck in at an early stage. It would be a tad disloyal, given the guy’s selfless antics at the derelict factory in Hendon, but getting involved in this mindless fight with the Nice Guys was totally out of the question. The problem was, Farthing now lacked the means to this end.
In an effort to cut himself off these last few days, he’d allowed his mobile phone’s battery to run dry – so he couldn’t make a call from the privacy of his bedroom. The only alternative was to sneak back down and take the landline through into the kitchen. Its cable would extend that far; but he’d then have to hold the entire conversation within a few yards of his snoozing target. The mere thought of that had set his few remaining hairs on end, but he’d continued to think it through, and it had gradually seemed less risky. Heck was beat and would surely be out for the count. And in truth, all Farthing really had to do was get in touch with the duty officer at Gillbridge Avenue, and tell him he had an armed fugitive at his home. Once the cavalry had arrived and Heck was in custody, he could give them the rest of the story.
He took his slippers off before descending. The stairs were old and creaky, but he knew the treads that were particularly bad and stepped over them. When he reached the bottom, he glanced into the lounge. The sideboard lamp was still on, but his guest had flopped in the armchair; head slumped, arms draped to either side – like a life-size ragdoll. His breathing was slow, shallow and regular.
Reassured, Farthing trod stealthily to the sideboard. He picked the phone up and turned towards the open kitchen door.
‘You’ve got to ask yourself one question, Jerry … if you grass me up now, who will you actually be helping?’
Farthing froze, heart pounding. He risked a sideways glance, and spotted the Glock still lying on the sideboard. Relieved by that at least, he turned the rest of the way around. ‘And how about you?’ he said boldly. ‘Because from what I’ve heard about these Nice Guys, you go after them on your own, and you won’t last five minutes.’
Heck looked grizzled and sallow-faced, but his eyes were wide open. ‘I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?’
‘God’s sake, man, this is madness. Not only that, it’s illegal, and I’m …’ Farthing shook his head, ‘… I’m not being part of it.’
‘You don’t have to be.’
‘It’s a bit late for that …’
‘No it isn’t.’ Heck shrugged. ‘I’ve got a gun. So you’re only doing this because you’re under duress. What more do you want … you’re covered.’
Farthing shook his head. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘This isn’t something I want to do, Jerry. It’s been forced on me. But don’t worry. I’m not totally bonkers. I’m not going to try and tackle this crew alone … I just want to know where they are. Pinpoint their position, and then make the call.’
‘Then why not do it through the correct channels?’
‘For some reason I can’t yet fathom, those channels are closed to me.’ Heck sat up. ‘The investigating team have gone out of their way to shove me aside … but this was my original case, and it’s gonna be my collar.’
‘Oh … so you’ve actually got no good reason for this? It’s like a totally selfish motive?’
‘And why, pray, would you be grassing me up? Let’s see … you’re bad with your nerves, so dobbing me in might improve your situation. Might secure you an inside job for the rest of your service … maybe grease the wheels towards an early finish?’
Farthing regarded Heck balefully, but saw no point
in denying the obvious.
Heck smirked. ‘Yeah, Jerry … we’re neither of us white knights.’
‘Okay … I’m lazy and scared. But I wouldn’t trade that for what you’re doing.’
‘I only need a couple of days,’ Heck said. ‘You don’t even have to come with me. Just point me in the right direction and turn a blind eye.’
‘But why are you doing this … why not just let them go?’
At first Heck thought he’d misheard. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What was it you said … if they don’t have a pop at your boss, which won’t be easy if she’s flying all over the country, they’re going to go home, yeah?’
‘Probably.’
‘So let them. Then they’re out of our hair.’
‘Let them go? Seriously? Do you know how many they’ve killed?’ Heck got to his feet, straightening out the crick in his back. ‘Anyway, like I say … this has been my case for ages, so it’s damn well going to be my collar.’
‘Heck, you think saying that over and over makes you sound any less a maniac? Especially when both you and I know there isn’t going to be any collar! I may not be the smartest bobby, but even I can tell this isn’t going to end in a neat little line of arrests.’
‘You haven’t got a bloody clue, have you?’
‘Neither have you, and you’d realise that if you stopped and thought about this.’
‘I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Jerry.’ Heck was now pacing the room. ‘All the pain and misery I could have prevented in my career … if I’d put a bullet through the head of every criminal I’ve ever met, instead of locking him up so he could eventually get released and inflict his misery all over again. Arrest is too good for scrotes like these.’
