In Place of Death

by Craig Robertson

  The tent that the forensics had put up was near the fence but not right at it. So when the first two heads appeared over the rise, the area lit up by temporary floodlights, the whole crowd saw them at once. Two cops at the head of a stretcher, others coming in to help to make sure it got over the fence safely, another two holding it at the back. The body was on its side; he could see that under the paper blanket that covered it. Probably with his DNA all over it.

  There was a surge behind him as the crowd wanted closer and he let them slip past, a flood of the nosy bastards going by until he was at the back. All he could see above their heads was the gloved hands of the cops by the tape, telling them to stay where they were. Even if they hadn’t seen enough, he had.

  He turned away, collar up, weaving his way through some new arrivals. Back to the car, opening the door and slipping inside. He sat in the dark for another five minutes, wondering how he was going to explain to his old man how he was this late in making his dinner for him.

  His dad lived in a faded tenement in Adelaide Street, part of the East End’s changing landscape south of Duke Street and north of the Gallowgate. Like in many industrial cities, the East End of Glasgow was where the poor and the huddled masses traditionally lived, yearning to breathe free. Instead, they breathed in the pollution that blew in on the westerly wind from the factories and the yards in the city centre. It was their lot.

  A whole slew of Adelaide Street had disappeared over the past few years and there was more still to go, maybe all of it. Its problem, apart from rising damp and a lack of decent heating, was that it was on the battleground where the money men were looking to expand their borders, creeping east when they thought no one was watching.

  The East End was to become the new West End. That’s what they were trying to tell people. Remy took it to mean it was going to become too expensive to live in.

  They hadn’t actually come out and said they wanted to demolish the whole area and build new houses that only those with good jobs could afford to buy but nobody doubted that was what they were up to. Remy’s dad wasn’t for moving though. As far as Archie Feeks was concerned, the only way they’d be getting him out of there was in a box.

  There had been another letter from the company that owned the building, turning up the heat a few degrees as they pushed to get him out. Apparently, Mr Archibald Feeks was holding back the redevelopment of the entire East End and preventing his neighbours from enjoying the fruits of regeneration. Yeah, like his dad or his mates had any use for coffee shops or craft breweries or cafés that sold pulled pork served by bearded hipsters. Or rents that they couldn’t afford.

  Not that Remy understood his dad’s attachment to the place. For a start, the stairs weren’t ideal for someone with a chronic lung disease but then again, neither was breathing. It was just something that had to be done.

  He’d stopped at the Merchant Chippie on the High Street and picked up fish suppers for both of them. Cooking wasn’t an option now and this was the simplest thing. Anyway, some hot battered fish wrapped round Remy’s heart might just slow it down enough for him to talk.

  He knocked on the front door then let himself in. He was greeted by the sound of the television coming from the front room and shouted out to his dad, ‘It’s me. Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘In here.’

  His old man was sitting, as ever, in his favourite chair about five feet from the TV. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen as Remy came in the room but his nose twitched and his eyes slid over.

  ‘Here I was thinking that you’d fallen and broken your watch again. But you might be forgiven. That’s the smell offish and chips.’ He sniffed again. ‘Merchant Chippie, I’d say. And . . . wait a minute, there’s pickled eggs in there too.’

  ‘Brilliant, Dad. You should go on Britain’s Got Talent.’

  ‘Son, my lungs are worth tuppence ha’penny but there’s nothing wrong with my nose. Or my memory. It’s what you usually get. Come on, get them open. I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby-headed wean.’

  Remy’s dad was a big little man, the kind that Glasgow specialized in. He carried himself like he was six foot two and no one had dared to tell him he was really only five foot five. It was all about the size of the fight in the dog. The toes of the slippers on his feet were pointed as ever at the television, like they were praying to his own Mecca.

  Archie Feeks, former foreman and welder, built ships on the Clyde the same as his dad before him, but retired through ill health before he was sixty. The frustration of that was choking him but he wouldn’t let himself become a moaner. He knew the fault was his own. No one else had forced that cigarette smoke into his lungs.

  Remy grabbed a couple of plates from the kitchen and set the fish suppers on them, handing one to his dad and sitting in a chair with the other. He was hoping the food would occupy his dad’s mouth enough that he wouldn’t have to answer any questions. He should have known better.

  ‘How come you’re so late? You been seeing that wee lassie of yours?’

  ‘She’s not my . . . No, I haven’t been seeing her. I was just in town with a couple of pals. Lost track of time.’

  His dad’s head slowly turned, eyes narrowed. He’d always been able to tell when Remy was lying and he’d obviously not lost the knack. It was probably because Remy was so bad at it. He looked at him for a bit then glanced down, seeing that he hadn’t eaten any of the fish supper.

  ‘Not hungry, son?’

  He was. He was starving but he just couldn’t touch it. He’d gone into the toilets in the Star & Garter and washed his hands before going for the chips but it still didn’t feel right. He wasn’t sure it would ever feel right again. He stood up.

  ‘Yes, they’re just a bit hot. I’ll give them a minute. Forgot to wash my hands.’

  His old man looked doubtful. ‘Okay . . .’

  Remy walked into the kitchen and turned on the hot tap, letting the water nearly scald him. He fired soap onto his hands, washing-up liquid too, and slathered them together. He stood in front of the sink with his eyes closed, screwed tight shut, and wished it all away. He dried his hands on a tea towel and took a fork out of the drawer.

  Of course, his dad was all over the fork like an interrogation officer as soon as he saw it.

  ‘A fork. You become posh or something? Hands not good enough for you?’

  ‘I told you, they’re too hot.’

  ‘Too hot to touch but not too hot to eat?’

  ‘’Sake, Dad. Can I just eat it, please?’

  They watched the news, Remy in silence barely noticing it, and his dad providing a running commentary.

  ‘What’s the world coming to, son? Killing kids with missiles? They should be ashamed of themselves and so should anyone that’s not stopping them. And how can kids still be dying in Africa just because of a drought? We should be sending our money over there, not arming people to bomb weans. Who said they could sell off the NHS? Tell me, who? Flogging it off to their mates so they can have even more money. It’s disgusting. Wouldn’t have happened if we’d voted Yes.’

  He liked hearing his dad rant, showed there was still plenty of fight left in him, but the normality of it freaked him out. It was like nothing else had happened that night. How could the world just turn the same?

  There was nothing on the news about Glasgow though, not that he expected there to be. Not quite yet and not on the national programme. Maybe on the regional news.

  When it came, it mentioned the closure of a factory that had been making baths for a hundred years, sparking another rant from his dad.

  ‘We used to make things here, son. Ships, trains, carpets, engines. Now we just eat things, use things, buy and sell things and throw them away. Same with people. Use them up and throw them away.’

  And finally, news just in. Police say the body of a man has been found in the Molendinar Tunnel which runs underground through the East End of Glasgow. Police are still at the scene and the area has been cordoned off while investiga
tions continue. The man, thought to be in his early thirties, was found earlier this evening. It is not yet known whether his death was suspicious. Now here’s Eleanor with the weather . . .

  That’s it? That’s all they’ve got? Didn’t know if his death was suspicious. Yeah, right. They knew. They would know much more than they were saying.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday morning

  ‘So, tell me about this guy, Rachel. Mr RH.’

  DCI Derek Addison had his long legs stretched up on his desk, an oversized sandwich in his hands and heading for his mouth. Hearing about a month-old corpse with a slit throat was no barrier to his ever-healthy appetite.

  ‘Well for a start, we don’t know that he is Mr RH. I’m working on the fact that he might be but the key ring might not have been his. It could have been left there at some other time or it could belong to someone else. It could belong to whoever cut his throat.’

  ‘Now wouldn’t that be nice.’

  She nodded. ‘It would but how often do we get that lucky? Anyway, I can tell you more or less what our man had for his last meal but I’m not sure that vegetables and beef are going to get us that far.’

  ‘It wouldn’t get me far,’ Addison agreed, his mouth full of pastrami and cheese. ‘But maybe it tells us that he last ate in the afternoon. That doesn’t sound like a breakfast or an evening meal. What else do we have?’

  ‘Not much at all. He was five foot eleven, reddishfair-haired, probably weighed a little over twelve stone. No tattoos, no scarring, no sign of any major operation. Tox report came back clean so no alcohol or drugs in his system. Clothes were mainly regular high street, bought in their thousands. No identification in his pockets. Fingerprints were intact but they match nothing on the system.’

  Addison sighed. ‘You’ve got some good news that you’re saving for me, right?’

  ‘Wish I had. The post mortem drew a blank other than estimating death at five to six weeks ago. The killer was probably right-handed but because of the low ceiling we can’t make a guess on his stature. The angle of the cut tells us nothing because everyone would have crouched down to the same height.’

  Addison swallowed down another mouthful. ‘You’re trying to get DNA from the key ring, I take it? Make a match to him?’

  ‘We’re trying. Sam Guthrie says she’ll have something for me by the end of the day.’

  Addison nodded and Narey enjoyed the discomfort that the mention of Guthrie’s name caused him. He and the forensic chemist had dated more than a few times but she played the game by rules that he just wasn’t used to. She was in charge and Addison couldn’t quite handle that and he couldn’t quite walk away from it.

  ‘Yeah well, we’ll see what she comes up with. Okay, so where are you going to go with this from here?’

  It was Narey’s turn to sigh. ‘I’m going to slog it out. No one has been reported missing in the time frame that would fit the description so he maybe lived alone or is from overseas. Maybe he is someone that goes off the radar for long periods so no one’s too concerned. I’m going to run a search for anything remotely similar, if there is such a thing. We’ve got as big a team on the ground as I could muster and they’re doing door-to-door in the area. And I’m also going to keep spinning the plates on all the other cases that I have on the go.’

  ‘I hope that’s not you moaning about workload, DI Narey.’

  ‘As if, sir. I’m just grateful that a wee lassie like me even gets to play at cops and robbers in the first place.’

  ‘Quite right and don’t forget it. Okay, so here’s the obvious question. What the hell was this guy doing getting himself killed in some stupid underground tunnel that no one knew existed? Why was he there?’

  Narey exhaled wearily. ‘Funnily enough, I did wonder that. The same goes for the guy that phoned in the 999.’

  ‘Assuming he wasn’t the killer.’

  ‘Yes, assuming that but it doesn’t seem likely. Why phone it in weeks later and leave a recording of your voice when all you had to do was walk away and the body would probably never have been found. Doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No but I’d still to want to interview this nutter, whoever he is.’

  ‘Me too. I’m on it.’

  ‘Okay, keep me up to date and I’ll weigh in when I can. What else are you working on that I need to know about?’

  She held up a clenched right fist and began releasing fingers one by one as she reeled cases off. ‘A serious assault on an asylum seeker in Sighthill. The victim’s still in intensive care. A rape and beating in Renfrew Lane. An attempted murder on Garscube Road. A gang fight in—’

  ‘Jesus, Rachel,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s like when someone asks you how you are. They don’t really want to know, they’re just being polite. I meant what do I need to know about.’

  She smiled. ‘Just so you know I’m not slacking.’

  ‘Ha. Sometimes I wish you’d slack. You make everybody else look bad. Now piss off and let me eat.’

  Narey was halfway to the door when Addison spoke again.

  ‘Rachel, I meant to ask. How’s your dad doing?’

  She turned and he saw the energy seep out of her, her face telling him all he needed to know.

  Her father, former Detective Chief Inspector Alan Narey, had Alzheimer’s. He’d moved into a care home three years earlier. Her mother had died a few years before that.

  ‘Good days and bad days. Well . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Bad days and some not so bad. He only recognizes me maybe one visit in four. The worst is watching him disappear, like watching a rowing boat going out to sea and not being able to stop it. You know, some days are actually good and they’re something special. I’m going to visit him later.’

  ‘Tell him I was asking . . . Just look after yourself, Rachel. And him.’

  ‘Are you . . . are you being nice, sir?’

  ‘I’ll deny it if you ever repeat it. Now piss off.’

  Winter was waiting impatiently in the office of Campbell ‘Two Soups’ Baxter, the scenes of crime manager, one of many people who were his boss. Baxter was one of those least happy to be in that position and yet one of the happiest to order Winter around. As far as Two Soups was concerned, Winter was an unnecessary anomaly. Baxter often loudly declared that his photographic skills weren’t needed when the scene examiners did the job just as well.

  It was true and it wasn’t.

  Winter was an anomaly all right. In more ways than one if he was being honest. He was a throwback to the days when the job was done properly, when police photographers used film and their brains and had limited chances to get things right. When skill was needed, not just a speedy trigger finger and an HNC. A previous Chief Constable of the old Strathclyde force, Sir Ed Walker, had kept Winter on, much to the irritation of the likes of Baxter. Neither a change of chief nor the unification of the country’s eight forces into Police Scotland in 2013 had changed the situation. Not yet, anyway.

  But what wasn’t true was that the examiners did the job as well as he did. They did it more cheaply and, as far as the bean counters were concerned, more efficiently. They didn’t do it as well though. It was his job. They were proficient photographers, he was an expert. He was a specialist.

  They had to be chemists and biologists, detectives and administrators, more than jacks of all trades. They had to keep up with scientific developments that were changing daily as more and more tools became available to them. Tools that they had to master immediately before those tools were out of date and replaced by something better. They had to do all that while he had the luxury of concentrating on one thing and doing it right.

  His self-congratulations were interrupted by the door opening behind him and Baxter storming through it. Two Soups was a man who did not get his name by dining on soup. He weighed in at a very round twenty-stone-plus on a frame that didn’t seem engineered for it. He was only five foot seven with incongruously slim legs. Winter always thought of him as a dancing hippo, albeit one with a thick
salt-and-pepper beard and a permanently crotchety nature.

  Baxter fell heavily into the chair behind his desk, throwing a folder onto the wooden surface as he did so. Winter wasn’t overly happy to see that it contained prints from the Molendinar crime scene.

  Two Soups sat there and stared at him, clearly enjoying the moment. Men of little joy take what pleasure they can in being a pain in the arse to others. Power is of no use to them if it can’t be abused.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  Baxter bristled and reddened, the fury of the righteously indignant rising within him. ‘These.’ He dismissively waved a hand at the folder. ‘What have you got to say about these?’

  Taking a breath to stop himself from biting back, Winter reached for the folder, took the prints out and let them fan onto the desk. The half-eaten victim of the burn looked back up at them and the blistered, festering cut to his throat smiled blackly. Winter again got a flash of familiarity.

  He counted to ten. Then did so again. ‘The photographs. What about them?’

  Baxter shook his head slowly, a schoolteacher having to admonish a particularly stupid child. ‘These . . . these are the work of a specialist, are they?’ He spat out the word as if it were poisoning him.

  When Winter did nothing except set his face harder, Baxter smirked and carried on. ‘They are not exactly good, are they? Badly lit. Poorly structured. Oddly angled. Am I really expected to serve these up to the Procurator Fiscal and have him present them as evidence in court?’

  ‘Badly lit?

  ‘They are dark.’

  ‘It was in a tunnel. Without daylight.’

  Two Soups sneered and waved his hand at another print. ‘And that. What is that supposed to be?’

  It was a head-on shot of the victim, catching the man’s full thousand-yard stare into the void. A stare that went all the further for the lack of eyes. The composition was less than square, a slight tilt from left to right as it framed the man’s face. Baxter twisted his head as he looked down at it, exaggerating the effect. ‘You think that is . . . adequate?’