by T F Muir
Although the boot and interior of the Focus had been scrubbed and vacuumed, a couple of fibres were identified as being from an M&S Egyptian cotton bath towel, identical to the set Amy McCulloch had purchased a fortnight earlier. The assumption was that Amy’s body parts were transferred from her home to the Meating Room in the towel. More damning evidence was a hair recovered from the weave of the boot carpet, which matched Amy’s DNA.
A brazier was found in one corner of the barn, with a connection for a propane gas bottle on its underside. Although the bottom grating had been scrubbed with a metal brush, Forensics managed to confirm that traces of ash were fabric remnants. Scrapes on the floor of the first anteroom, along with soot and scorch marks on the walls and ceiling, confirmed that all traceable evidence – bloodied bath towels, clothes, shoes – had been incinerated there.
A search through the cottage’s domestic bins for evidence of ash from the brazier uncovered nothing more, and it was concluded that Purvis had bagged and removed the ash off site. CCTV teams were instructed to review recordings from Thursday morning through Sunday afternoon for activity related to the Ford Focus, to find out where Purvis might have dumped the bags.
The BMW in the barn was positively identified from the position and angle of the tax disc on the front windscreen. A minute stonechip on the paintwork next to the offside headlight further confirmed it was the vehicle captured on CCTV driving through Anstruther on the night of Janice Meechan’s fatal hit-and-run. Finally, traces of Janice’s blood were recovered from the damaged nearside wing, which removed any lingering doubt about the car’s involvement in her murder.
James Watson – the registered owner of Purvis’s Remington 700 bolt-action rifle and the Holland & Holland Royal and Purdey James Field twelve-bore shotguns – proved to be fictitious. The Purdey was traced to a Mr Peter Cuthbertson, a Lancashire sheep farmer, who identified Purvis from a photograph and confirmed he had sold him the gun for cash about seven years earlier. Prior owners of the Remington and the Holland & Holland had not yet been identified, but it was only a matter of time.
Amy McCulloch’s head, heart, lungs, stomach and some seven feet of her intestines were found in a tub of formaldehyde solution in one of eight sarcophagal chambers in the Meating Room. Strips of her skin – including her finger- and toenails – were found on wire-mesh frames in the shapes of arms, legs and torso, like a dismantled tailor’s dummy.
Seven complete female human sculptures were found in the other chambers. One had already been identified as a thirty-one-year-old mother of two who vanished three years earlier while driving from her home in Airth to Falkirk; another as a twenty-year-old shop assistant from Alloa who disappeared while walking her dog the previous March; and three as the Stirling University students who had gone missing during a camping trip in the Cairngorms back at the start of the century. DNA tests on the remaining two flagged up nothing on the Police National Computer, and Fife Constabulary widened their search by requesting the assistance of Scotland Yard and Interpol.
Brenda McAllister, the Procurator Fiscal, insisted on having round-the-clock forensic examination of the Cauldwood Cottage properties, and was granted extended search warrants to include Stratheden Enterprise’s offices, and Magner’s private residences in Edinburgh, London and Marbella.
Chief Constable Ramsay was interviewed by a team from the Scottish Crime Squad, who presented him with photographs of his alleged participation in a number of swinger parties in the 1980s. Through his solicitor, Ramsay stated that, although the person in the pictures bore a slight resemblance to him as a younger man, it was not him, and he had never been in the company of either Magner or Purvis, nor had any dealings with them privately or otherwise. Within two days of the story breaking, he took himself and his wife on a four-week holiday to an unknown destination in the Caribbean.
Ramsay’s story verged on the plausible, frustratingly strengthened by the fact that no photographs of his first wife, Jean, seemed to exist. But Gilchrist suggested they investigate the death of Magner’s first wife, Sheila Ramsay, only to discover that she was Chief Constable Ramsay’s sister. With a personal link to Magner irrefutably confirmed, Ramsay’s lies were exposed. Two detectives from the Scottish Crime Squad tracked him to St Lucia, and flew over to arrest him, only to be informed by the Royal St Lucia Police Force that his wife had filed a missing persons report with Port Castries Police Station that morning. Her husband had left their holiday villa before midnight, claiming that he needed to walk some thoughts through, and had not returned. A few hours later, Chief Constable Ramsay’s fully clothed body washed up on the shores of Rodney Bay.
Martin Craig MEP resigned from his post two days after the story broke and flew to New Zealand with his secretary. It then emerged that they’d been having an affair for the last four years. The Bureau of Investigative Journalism latched on to the story, and by the end of the week had persuaded the European Parliament to initiate an internal audit into Craig’s office.
All computer equipment had been removed from Stratheden Enterprises, and forensic specialists were contracted to search all files. Although early days, one file provided a link to an RBS account in the Channel Islands, from which BACS transfers to a number of personal bank accounts in Scotland and England were exposed, varying in size from £200 to a staggering £420,000.
Jessie had been willing to put a bet on with Gilchrist that they would uncover a payment trail that would lead them straight to Martin Craig. ‘Have you seen the house Craig lives in?’ she said. ‘You couldn’t afford that on a normal salary.’
‘Have you seen the house his family lives in,’ Gilchrist replied, reminding her that Craig had done a runner with his secretary, and was an MEP no longer.
‘Minor detail,’ she said. ‘How about twenty quid, then?’
‘I’m not a betting man. But if I was, I’d be betting with you, not against you.’
‘Coward.’
‘Just canny.’
And the canny Gilchrist verified through Stratheden Enterprises’ records that Magner attended conferences in Edinburgh, Stirling and Glasgow on each of the days the three Stirling University students and the women from Airth and Alloa went missing. In a bid to identify the last two victims, he suggested that they concentrate on searching for women reported missing on days when Magner had attended other conferences. Twenty-three separate conferences over a period of eight years provided key dates, and although no positive IDs had yet been made, Gilchrist felt confident that it was only a matter of time.
Forensic accountants were hired to examine Stratheden’s books, but by the end of the first week a preliminary audit uncovered nothing of interest. The PF’s office terminated the auditors’ contract with immediate effect and initiated a selection process for another firm. Brenda McAllister, it seemed, was determined to bring down the whole empire.
A search of the Land Registry confirmed that the Department of Agriculture had owned both Cauldwood Cottage and the property across the road in the mid-1930s, and that plans for a communal bomb shelter and interconnecting tunnels had been approved during World War Two. Construction had begun under a veil of government secrecy – ‘Department of Agriculture, my arse,’ said Jessie – but was abandoned a year later, amid proposals for a new project that eventually became the Secret Bunker. Rather than demolish the shelters and return the property to its original condition, the land was sold to a Mr John Purvis – Jason Purvis’s grandfather. Purvis inherited the properties when his own parents passed away.
Disturbingly, a number of unmarked graves were discovered on the other side of the road from Cauldwood Cottage, adjacent to the barn where Purvis had taken Mhairi. Cooper was working with CAHID – the University of Dundee’s Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification – to identify the remains. Whether these bodies were related to the Butchers’ killings had yet to be confirmed, but Gilchrist was sure another hit was about to be registered.
CHAPTER 45
Stan’s funeral was held on
the Saturday. As a mark of respect, all forensic work on the investigation was halted for the weekend.
A church service was held in St Leonard’s Parish Church, where Tom Greaves surprisingly revealed a compassionate side with a poignant speech. Later, at the burial service in Western Cemetery, Gilchrist recognised Stan’s parents, Bill and Rita, who seemed to have aged twenty years since he had last met them eighteen months ago. Stan’s sister, Janet, was there too, looking broken and frail, as if she had given up on life altogether. With the graveside service over, all three departed without a word or backward glance, as if they wanted nothing more to do with Fife Constabulary.
Gilchrist could not shift the heart-rending thought that while the Constabulary was not at fault for Stan’s death, he was. Even so, he tried to reach the family before their limo drove off – to offer his condolences, and maybe even arrange to visit them some time. But he was too late. As the car brushed past him, he caught a tearful glance from Janet who, for just that pained and fleeting moment, could have been Stan’s double.
Only when the crowd started to disperse from the cemetery grounds did Gilchrist notice Cooper. She was dressed in black, with her hair tied back in a swollen bun that seemed to accentuate her features and only add to her radiance. By all accounts, she should have been exhausted. She and her team had put in long hours in the Bell Street Mortuary, in addition to working with forensic experts from CAHID first on the sarcophagal sculptures – ‘the devil’s artwork’, as one paper had dubbed them – then on the remains of six more bodies found in the garden across the road. On top of that, of course, she was pregnant. Throughout the week, she had reported to Billy Whyte, and so avoided all direct contact with Gilchrist.
Although not openly admitted, the worry was that more bodies would be uncovered. No one knew, or even dared to guess, just how many women Magner and Purvis had killed together.
Gilchrist noted Cooper’s Range Rover at the edge of the car park, as if she had not wanted anyone to notice her attendance. She seemed to be alone, although as he walked towards her he found himself searching for Mr Cooper, just to be sure.
The Range Rover’s lights flashed as she beeped her fob.
‘Weddings and funerals,’ he said to her.
Cooper paused, the driver’s door half-open, and looked at him in silence.
‘It’s where people our age always seem to meet,’ he explained. ‘If they haven’t seen each other for a while. At weddings and funerals.’ He felt as if he was gabbling.
She gave a tight grin. ‘I got it first time.’
Gilchrist was struck by two things: one, that she looked more beautiful than he ever remembered her to be – her blue eyes, flawless skin, sculpted face and strawberry-blonde hair could be the envy of any model; and two, that she seemed painfully distant, as if she was disappointed to see him.
‘So, how are you?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘You?’
He knew from the way she held on to the door handle, from the angle of her body, from her refusal to turn and face him, that she wanted to step into the Range Rover and drive away. But he had to ask the question.
‘What I meant was: how’s your pregnancy?’
‘No morning sickness yet, if that’s what you mean.’
No, that was not what he meant. And she knew it. But in the three short months of their intimate relationship, he had learned that Cooper could be the devil herself when she put her mind to it. He had no option but to go straight to the heart of it.
‘Have you made a decision?’ he asked.
She seemed to give the question some thought, then said, ‘About my pregnancy?’
He said nothing, just waited for her to continue, refusing to be toyed with in whatever game she thought she was playing.
‘Don’t you think you’re being presumptuous?’ she said.
Now it was his turn to look dumb. ‘Presumptuous?’
‘My personal choices are none of your business.’
Her comment stunned him, but he said, ‘I think you being pregnant is my business. After all, I’m the—’
‘No, Andy. You’re not.’
He might have said What? But he could not be sure, and had to close his mouth while his mind fired through the rationale. Even though he knew the answer was wrong, he found he still had to say it. ‘Mr Cooper?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered.
Well, there he had it. Cuckolded once again. He thought of asking who she had been seeing behind his back, but thankfully remembered he had been seeing Cooper behind Mr Cooper’s back. He had believed Cooper to be a one-man woman – well, a one man at a time woman. How wrong could he be? What goes around comes around seemed to be the order of the day. Silent, he took a step back as she pulled the Range Rover’s door wide open and climbed in.
Even when the door closed and the engine fired up and the gearbox slotted into Drive with a hard metallic click and the Range Rover pulled away from the parking space, engine burbling, exhaust laying down a trail of white as if enticing him to follow, he found he could say nothing. Not until the sound of the Range Rover’s engine faded into the March chill did he realise that he was standing in the middle of the travel lane.
He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, and walked back to his car.
He thought by now that he should have become inured to the pain of jealousy. But it hurt, burrowing deep into his heart, twisting his gut, the pain sharp and blunt at the same time, as if his body could not work out how best to attack him.
He had told her he loved her. Well, he had, he did. He did love her.
Had he said that only two weeks ago? When had he last uttered these words to another woman? He could not remember. Not even when he had last told Gail he loved her. How many years ago had that been?
Ten? Twenty?
Surely no more.
And Cooper had reciprocated – ‘I love you, too, Andy.’
It seemed to seal their relationship.
Had none of it meant anything? Had she just said that to keep him contented?
He thought he had known Cooper, thought he had understood her, had known when to press, when to hold back, when to tease, and when not. He had known her better than anyone else with whom he had been intimate, known her better than he had known his own wife.
He had known Cooper better . . .
Better than anyone else . . .
Then he thought he understood.
He reached his car, turned his head to the end of the car park. Another cortège was entering the cemetery grounds, a hearse leading three sparkling black limousines, trailed by carloads of mourners.
He slipped out his new mobile, and dialled her number.
She picked up on the second ring, but said nothing.
He pressed the mobile to his ear, but could not hear any background noise.
‘You’ve parked,’ he said.
‘Talking on the phone while driving is against the law.’
She had been waiting for him to call, he thought he understood that much. Because he knew her better than he had known anyone else. And she knew him, too.
‘You’re going through with the termination.’
A pause of one beat, two beats, then a sad, ‘Yes. I am.’
He took a deep breath and stared at the grey-brown branches of the trees. Starlings flocked and fluttered in a flurry of wings, then swooped to the ground in feathered unison. In the far distance, a skein of geese pierced the sky in a perfect arrowhead. Life is all around, he thought. And life goes on. No matter what.
‘I’m the father,’ he said at length.
‘You are,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you.’
‘You didn’t want me to interfere in your decision,’ he said. ‘You thought I would walk away.’
‘Isn’t that what men are good at? Isn’t that what they always do?’
He had no answer to that. Was that not what he had been prepared to accept moments earlier? He had justifiable
reasons for doing so, of course, but even so . . .
Neither spoke for what felt like thirty seconds, until Cooper said, ‘I have to make my own decision.’
He could tell she was crying. What mother-to-be would not in these circumstances? She had no children of her own through her marriage to Mr Cooper, and now she was pregnant by Gilchrist. No doubt she had lain awake at night torturing herself over the unfairness of life. If she’d had a child by her husband, would they have remained married? Well, if Mr Cooper had been allowed to continue to spread his seed to all and sundry then maybe he would have been happy to continue with the status quo. But Gilchrist knew that for Cooper it was not about just being married, but about commitment, trust and, above all else, love.
Which seemed to bring him full circle.
‘I’ll help in any way I can,’ he offered.
She sniffed, but said nothing.
‘You don’t have to do this, Becky. Go through with it, I mean. We can—’
‘There’s no we in this, Andy. I thought you understood that.’ She sniffed again, cleared her throat, as if regaining her strength. ‘I have to do this by myself.’
‘You don’t have to do anything by yourself any more. I’m here for you.’ He expected her to snap back at him, but her silence told him that she was not ruling it out. At least for the time being. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Not far.’
‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes,’ he said, and opened the Merc’s door.
The connection died.
He slid behind the steering wheel and fired the ignition.
Then drove off to meet her.
