Jason answered on the second ring, sounding as if he was speaking through a mouthful of doughnut. He cleared his throat, coughed, spluttered and eventually managed, ‘Sorry, boss, crumb got stuck in my throat.’
‘Sounded more like a boulder. Have we got anything back from the lab yet on the DNA from the camper van?’
‘Not a word, boss. I gave them a bell first thing, but they’re backed up to buggery. Half the lab staff are off with some kind of bug. Apparently they went on a stag do to Milan last weekend and they picked it up there.’
‘Milan? That’s not very rock and roll, is it?’
‘They got tickets for the football. Some big game.’
‘Ended up as a bit of an own goal.’ Karen sucked her teeth in irritation. ‘I’ll call Tamsin and see if she can rattle some cages. In the meantime, you need to hotfoot it down to the Borders and talk to Dani Gilmartin’s father. And get a DNA sample from him.’
There was a pause. ‘What do I say to him, boss? Do I let on that we think his lassie’s dead?’
It was a tough call. ‘I think you have to level with him. We have an unidentified body and we have reason to believe it might be Dani. It’s a hard thing to hear, but any kind of fudge could come back to bite us down the line. You’ll be fine, Jason. Just put yourself in his shoes and think about how you’d prefer to hear a message like that.’
‘I’d prefer never to hear a message like that, boss. Poor sod.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll do my best. Oh, and one other thing.’ He sounded brighter. ‘I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with anything, but you’ve always told me to look out for stuff that’s out of the ordinary. And I kind of think this is?’
Karen rolled her eyes. Her idea of ‘out of the ordinary’ was often very different from Jason’s. He had led a surprisingly sheltered life, all things considered. ‘What’s that, Jason?’
‘I was poking about online. The way you do. And I thought I didn’t really know very much about Mary Auld, because it was you that dealt with her when you did the case review, and this time it’s been the other team that talked to her. So I had a wee look to see what I could maybe find out about her. And you know what? Her house is on the market. All very discreet, there’s no board up and you have to dig past the flashy photos on the estate agent’s website. But it’s definitely there. It’s been up for sale since the New Year.’
He was definitely getting better at this. ‘Well done, Jason, that is interesting. Not least because this isn’t the best time of year to sell properties out towards the East Neuk. It’s way more sensible to wait till the spring when the tourists arrive and decide they need a place by the sea.’
‘So maybe she needs the money? Do you think she’ll inherit from the brother-in-law?’ He sounded eager now.
‘That’s something we’ll have to check out in Paris. It’s certainly a possible motive. And she’s right on the doorstep.’
‘Nobody ever thinks of women when it comes down to brute force, do they?’
Karen gave a dark chuckle. ‘I do, Jason. Trust me, I do. Now away down to the Borders while you’re still on a roll.’
Daisy looked up from her phone. ‘Sounds like you’re making some progress?’
Karen shrugged. ‘Not really. Just a loose thread.’ She stared into the middle distance, considering all Jason had told her. The DNA hold-up was a pain in the arse. They’d become so dependent on the quick and reliable answers the technology provided that they’d forgotten how to explore other possibilities. And, she reminded herself, there were other possibilities.
She keyed the shortcut for River into her phone and tutted when she was shunted on to voicemail. Karen got straight to the point. ‘There’s a delay on DNA at Gartcosh because half the team are off sick with some bug they picked up in Italy. In the meantime, I have two words for you: Buck Ruxton. We’ll talk later, I’m on my way to France.’
River finally escaped from the eager questions of her nine o’clock class and turned her phone on while she made her way through bustling corridors to her office. She had a terrifying mountain of work to get through; the long-running intermittent strike of university teachers had bitten chunks out of her schedule. This wasn’t a strike day, but even if she worked flat out there was still no chance of clearing her desk. Her partner, a senior police officer based in the Lake District, was bemused by her commitment to the strike. ‘We don’t even have the option of striking, we have to put up and shut up,’ he’d grumbled as she’d set off at the beginning of the week for her four days in Dundee.
‘I’m not striking for myself,’ she’d said, weary of the rerun conversation but still determined to make her case. ‘I’m striking for the River Wilde who’s just finished her doctorate and is trying to build a career. I walked straight into a proper job as a junior lecturer and moved steadily up the ladder. I had security and stability. If I was starting out now, I’d be lucky to get a ten-month contract. Then maybe six months at the other end of the country. Could you run a police force like that? No, I thought not.’ Point made yet again, she’d set off and spent half the train journey suffering a kind of heartburn. In all the years they’d been together, there had never been a bone of contention between them that had proved so stubborn.
She spotted the voicemail from Karen right away but waited till she was at her desk with the door closed before she listened to it. Momentarily, she frowned in puzzlement. Then her face cleared and she grinned. She immediately checked her email, and, as she’d hoped, she found a message from Karen with photographs attached. Then she was out of the door and headed for the mortuary.
She pulled on her protective gear then passed through the dissection room, pausing on the way to answer questions from students working on their assigned cadavers. At the door to the locked mortuary where she worked on police cases, she slowed and invited the four students at the nearest bench to join her. A teaching opportunity should never be wasted, after all.
They followed her in and waited while she flicked on the lights and set the video cameras running. Their excitement was palpable, as it always was when they were asked to watch River working on a live case. ‘You know the drill,’ River said. ‘Touch nothing. Eyes and ears only.’ They nodded, staring down at the skeletal remains on the table before them.
‘We have here the skeletal remains of a young woman. She has sustained a large depressed skull fracture which is the proximate cause of death, in my opinion. The problem we have is ID. There are two likely possibilities for the identity of the deceased. I’ve already extracted sufficient material from the skeleton to establish DNA, and that would normally resolve the matter.’ Heads nodded.
‘However. The issue we are faced with is that there is a delay at the DNA labs at the Gartcosh Campus. But even in cold cases, time can be of the essence.’ As she spoke, she turned to the computer that was connected to a large screen angled downwards on one wall. She brought up the photos Karen had sent her. ‘In the long run, we’ll have DNA evidence. But right now it would be helpful to have something that has investigative value, as opposed to probative. In other words, something to help the officers managing the case, rather than solid evidence to present in a courtroom. Any suggestions?’
‘We could do a facial reconstruction.’ From the student on the left, a gangly young man with a strong Glasgow accent.
‘We could. But that’s an expensive option for something that’s only being used for investigative purposes,’ River said.
‘Plus it takes quite a long time.’ This from a small, neat young woman from the south of England.
‘That’s right.’ River looked up at the photographs. ‘Who can tell me about the Buck Ruxton case?’ They were far enough into their courses; they should know the landmarks in forensic anatomy by now.
Samira, whose name River remembered because she was the brightest of the bunch, spoke up. ‘Buck Ruxton was a doctor in Lancaster in the 1930s. He murdered his wife and their maid. He dismembered them and removed any distinguishing features like finger
prints and teeth. Then he dumped the bits of their bodies in the Scottish Borders.’
‘Thanks, Samira. He made such a good job of it that the pathologist and the anatomist thought at first they were looking at a man and a woman, because Bella Ruxton had a strong jaw and features. Then a lab technician found three breasts among the remains. A bit of a giveaway … So how did they go about identifying the victims?’
Samira smirked. ‘Craniofacial photographic superimposition.’
‘Try saying that after a few pints,’ the Glasgow lad muttered. But his admiration shone through his apparent nonchalance.
‘That’s right. They had a good recent studio portrait of Bella Ruxton, a three-quarter profile. They arranged the skull in the same position and X-rayed it. They printed a copy of the photograph in the same scale and superimposed the X-ray on the photo. It was close enough to convince the detectives. It was an important brick in the wall of evidence that convicted Ruxton.’
‘So is that what you’re going to do?’ The Glaswegian again. ‘How reliable is that?’
‘That is what I’m going to do, yes. When we also use craniofacial morphanalysis, it’s over ninety per cent reliable.’
‘What’s “craniofacial morphanalysis?”’ Samira asked.
‘It’s a set of algorithms that apply an anthroposcopic method to evaluate the shape correlations between the skull and the photograph. Basically, it assigns probabilities to the apparent congruences.’ River grinned. ‘It’s one of the many ways we get to confuse investigators whose only knowledge of statistics is vital ones. So, we’ve got photographs here of the two potential victims. I’d like you each to take one of the four images and set up the skull in the appropriate position, X-ray it, scale the photos to match the X-ray size and deliver your findings to me by the end of the day. I’ll get one of the technicians to bring in the mobile X-ray machine.’
They exchanged looks. ‘What? Work on a real case?’ the Englishwoman asked, nervous.
‘It’s not going to end up in court,’ River said. ‘Remember what I said? Investigative, not probative.’ She smiled. ‘Now demonstrate that I’ve not been wasting my time. Show me what you can do.’
20
Jason had driven through Whitbridge and out the far side before he’d actually registered he was there. He’d shot past a huddle of cottages and a farm vehicle showroom, expecting to arrive at something he thought of as a village, and it took him a moment to realise he’d blinked and missed it. He turned round in a farm gateway and headed back, paying more attention to his satnav this time.
There was no place to park outside the row of low-slung dark red sandstone houses so he drove on to the grass verge outside Ettrick Cottage, the home of Thomas Gilmartin. He’d anticipated something much grander. This cramped wee cottage with its tiny windows and a porch the size of a sentry box didn’t look like the home of a man who could afford to send his daughter on a silversmithing course. The house was neat enough, but it was Jason’s idea of hell. Where was the nearest takeaway? How far did you have to go to get a pint of milk, never mind a pint? What did people do out here in the back of beyond?
The path was three short strides from road to doorstep. No doorbell, just an ugly iron knocker. He lifted it and let it fall. No response. He tried again, and this time, from somewhere on his left, he heard a squeak of a voice. ‘Are you looking for Tam?’
Jason stepped back, turning to find himself looking over a low wall at an elderly woman stooped over a walking frame, a hand-knitted tam-o’-shanter in rainbow stripes sitting jaunty on her short silver hair. He couldn’t believe how fast she’d made it out the door.
‘I saw you pull up in the car,’ the woman said, peering at him through surprisingly fashionable glasses with heavy black rims.
‘I’m looking for Mr Gilmartin,’ he said.
‘Are you needing some work done? He’s awfu’ busy at the moment. It’s aye the same in the winter. The weather finds a house’s weakness every time.’
‘No, I just need to talk to him. Do you know where he works?’
She cocked her head, suspicious now. ‘How come you need to talk to him and you don’t know where he works?’
Reluctantly, Jason fished out his ID. He couldn’t help thinking Karen would have got all the information she needed without resorting to showing her hand. ‘I’m a police officer.’
She peered at his Police Scotland warrant card. ‘There must be some mistake. Tam Gilmartin’s a good man. A good neighbour and an honest tradesman. You lot are always down on the working man.’
‘He’s not in any trouble. I need to talk to him, that’s all.’ Jason tried to keep his voice level. What was it about old people? His gran was the same. Every simple question turned into an interrogation.
‘He’ll be at his work.’
‘And where might that be?’
She shrugged, a movement that rippled from one shoulder to the other. ‘Could be any place. He’s a joiner, he goes where the work is,’ she said, as if explaining to a small child.
‘Do you have a number for him? A mobile?’
‘I’ve got it written down in the house. But you can look it up yourself on your clever wee phone. T. Gilmartin, joiner.’
Jason squeezed out a smile. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ Her look told him she knew she hadn’t, and didn’t care. Back at the car, he struggled with one bar of signal and eventually found Thomas Gilmartin’s number. He had to drive three miles down the road before he had enough reception to make a voice call. Rubbish like this never happened to the boss, he thought bitterly as he waited for Gilmartin to answer. She’d have had that torn-faced crone wrapped around her little finger in no time flat.
‘Tam Gilmartin.’ At least this one sounded cheerful.
‘This is Detective Constable Jason Murray of Police Scotland,’ he said. ‘I need to speak to you about a case I’m working on. Can I come and meet you?’
A moment’s pause. ‘Polis? Am in trouble?’
‘You’re not in any trouble, Mr Gilmartin. I just need to clear something up that I think you can help me with.’
‘Oh Christ,’ he sighed, all the cheer gone. ‘This is Dani, isn’t it? What’s she gone and done now?’
‘If we could just meet?’
‘Bairns, eh. Nothing but trouble. I’m in Hawick, fitting out a shop. You can’t miss it, it’s right opposite Lidl car park.’
The shop in question was a low brick building with boarded-up windows. It didn’t look much like a shop to Jason, but the door was open and the sound of a power tool shredded the nerves of anyone passing by. He stepped inside and found a stocky man in dark blue overalls and a tweed flat cap cutting a sheet of plywood. When the saw stopped, he said, ‘Mr Gilmartin?’
The man looked up. ‘You the polis?’ His face was creased and lined from years of frowning at timber and tools.
Jason nodded. ‘I spoke to you on the phone.’
‘What’s the matter, then, son?’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’ Apart from piles of building material and a sawhorse, there was nowhere obvious.
‘Whatever you’ve got to say, I can hear it standing up. Nothing Dani could get up to would shock me any more. I take it that it’s Dani that brings you to my door?’ He stepped towards the street, taking a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He took one out and cupped his hands round the flame of a plastic lighter. He looked up. ‘I know it’s against the law to smoke at your work, but I don’t think you’re going to arrest me, right?’
‘Right. Mr Gilmartin, what I have to tell you isn’t easy to explain. We’ve discovered human remains that we think might be your daughter.’
His mouth fell open, spilling smoke. All his confidence went with it. ‘No,’ he breathed. Then, ‘No!’ he shouted.
The pub was a barn of a place, the sort of dive that was jumping late at night thanks to cheap beer and a range of activities from karaoke to quiz nights based round TV shows. But at this hour of the day, it felt like the
zombie apocalypse had arrived. A few shrunken old men lurked on bar stools and the indifferent barmaid restocked the fridges. Jason and Tam Gilmartin huddled over a chipped table in the far corner, Jason with a Coke and Gilmartin with a whisky. His face had fallen in on itself, his eyes like blue stones polished with unshed tears.
‘It’s not definite, Mr Gilmartin. Like I said, we believe the remains are either those of your daughter or of the friend she was travelling with.’
‘Girlfriend,’ Gilmartin corrected Jason. ‘It’d be a girlfriend. She was never without admirers. She was bonny, but she was wild with it. It’s a combination that’s hard to resist. I know because her mother was the same.’ He sighed. ‘You know what they say? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them? That was Lizzie. I was besotted with her, right from the get-go. But she near drove me demented. She loved company. She loved dancing, drinking, taking drugs, taking chances. It was like she couldn’t get enough of anything. She was a useless mother. She’d disappear for days at a time, leaving me with the bairn.’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I had to work, to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table. I used to leave Dani with whoever could take her – my mother, my cousin, the next-door neighbour. And Dani blamed me for Lizzie not being there.’ He shook his head and sipped at his drink.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jason said. ‘That must have been hard.’
‘It cut me to the bone, son. Soon as she was able, Dani started to run wild like her mother. She’d stay out late, sometimes all night. She announced she was a lesbian and all men were rapists. That didn’t go down well in a wee town. We were living in Galashiels back then and some nights I’d walk the streets looking for houses with lights on, just on the off-chance I might see her. It was round about then that Lizzie got sectioned. She’d finally tipped over the edge with the drugs. Got hooked on something that turned a corner in her head and left her in a place where she didn’t recognise herself any more, never mind the rest of us.’ He dashed his hand across his eyes perfunctorily then drank some more.
Still Life - Karen Pirie Series 06 (2020) Page 12
