by Max Hardy
‘Not all like him! What about the bloody paedophiles, what about the fucking Magdalene Nuns. It’s one atrocity after the next with you catholic scum and all the Pope and his cronies ever do is cover it up!’
I reach the edge of a line being pushed back by police officers and see through their cordon, to a crowd of Catholics outside the entrance to St Giles holding banners proclaiming ‘Jesus Forgives’, ‘In God we Trust’, ‘Faith Is Not Fear’, ‘Suicide is for Sinners’ amongst many others. A further line of police officers is attempting to hold back a smaller crowd of….they just look like tourists, yes, they are tourists. They hurl Starbucks Coffee cups, plastic Coke bottles, in fact anything they have to hand over the barrier they are trying to breach, the officers wrestling them to the ground as they rush their line.
‘How insensitive can you get? So bloody inappropriate. In the light of what’s happened, they are just wrong! It’s those Catholics you should be arresting.’ a man next to me shouts, barging in to the police officer in front of him.
I quickly look down the police line. He isn’t the only one trying to break through. I start to reverse out of the crowd as people behind me push forward, feeling anxious in the crush. I duck between them as they do, seeing the feet of the police line, seeing it being forced backwards. I manage to reach the kerb behind me, the crowd thinning, and push my back against the wall beside a small whiskey shop.
It is pandemonium on the Mile. For every tourist trying to get away from the small riot growing strength in the shadow of St Giles, another two are pushing towards it. In the distance I hear sirens blaring. The small contingent of officers start to get overwhelmed and over the frenetic heads of the crowd, I see the catholic banners being ripped to shreds, the poles that hoisted them being used as weapons as I see them thrashing up and down, as I hear the screams of those being beaten.
It’s interesting how experience changes your perspective on the world.
The world has just changed again.
Chapter 24
Blue lights start to flash and a siren screeches into life as another police van loaded with officers in riot gear heads out of the Headquarters car park, passing an incoming van laden with people arrested at the fracas in front of St Giles Cathedral. Another van is unloading people in front of the Headquarters entrance, Officers leading them into the reception to be processed.
The Duty Sergeant was screaming orders out over the incessant din of the ever growing line of people to be booked in, three other officers helping him with the processing. As well as the new arrivals, there was also a steady stream of those arrested the previous evening at Sodom & Gomorrah leaving. In amongst those arrested, many more police officers were mobilising and getting ready to head out to the centre of Edinburgh.
As most officers were heading towards the exit, a few were heading up the corridor towards the interview rooms, DI’s Purves and Gregory following them, deep in conversation. Ahead of them, the door to the Superintendent’s office opened and Cruickshank backed out of it, looking flustered.
‘Certainly Sir, we’ll get on to it right away.’ she said, closing the door as she turned into the corridor, seeing the Detectives.
‘Right boys and girls, how are the interviews with last night’s crowd coming along? We need to finish processing them as quickly as possible. There is a lot of pressure coming down on us to get any relevant information out of them quickly and get them bailed.’
Purves consulted the clipboard in her hand, taking a moment to gather the facts before answering. ‘We have ten left to finish interviewing Ma’am. All the rest have been either released without charge or bailed on sexual offences charges. At this point, no one is admitting to knowing Elvis Aarons or Tej Mann, our second suicide, not even with the sweetener of dropping all charges. To a man and woman, they all looked blank when we tried to get anything on the ‘Fallen Angels’.’
Cruickshank started striding down the corridor a few feet in front of them, spouting off orders to uniformed officers as she passed them.
‘Gilberts, clear the main incident room, Command and Control is going to be initiated very soon and Super wants it ready for Silver Command. Hodgson, have you cascaded the call in’s for standby yet?’
‘Yes Ma’am, half an hour ago. We have had responses from twenty who are on their way in.’
‘Good work. Purves, did forensics find anything at Tej Mann’s house?’
‘Nothing Ma’am. It was very similar to Elvis Aarons, very sparsely furnished, only a painting on the kitchen wall and a photograph of Imam Mann on the table in Military fatigues, having a drink with the same person who was on the O’Driscoll picture. They are LISF fatigues, the Libyan Islamic fighting Group. We have had nothing back from forensics about the identity of the other man in these two pictures.’
Cruickshank threw her arms into the air in exasperation, not turning to the Inspectors or breaking her stride as she spoke. ‘Bloody great. I’m sure you have impressed the urgency of this to them?’
‘Yes Ma’am.’
‘Gregory, have you passed all of your notes from the Scott and Bhalla investigations on to Tait? I need you focusing on finding out who the hell these ‘Fallen Angels’ are now.’
‘Yes Ma’am. She has all the notes and is prepping her interview questions for Bentley.’
‘Good. Did you find any religious link between the two of them?’
‘No link whatsoever. Bhalla is a Muslim and Scott was christened a Methodist although she wasn’t practising and hadn’t attended church since the day she was christened. Tait also has a list of women who loosely fit the profile of being physically abused and going missing. It’s a long list.’
‘I bet it is. Where is she?’
‘Interview room six.’
‘Thanks. Right, get to it and spread the word that briefing has been pulled forward half an hour to eleven.’
Cruickshank headed off down a narrow corridor at the rear of the interview rooms and tapped a code into a control pad next to a nondescript door. She strode into the interview control room, pulling the door closed behind her. There were two officers in the room sat in front of a bank of monitors on a bench running the length of the wall. The bench was in front of a number of one way mirrors set into the wall, each framing an image of the interviews taking place inside the rooms beyond. She looked to a mirror on the far right, where Bentley was sitting alone at the same table Liam O’Driscoll had been interviewed at. He was staring down at his fingers with a vacant expression, not even seeing that he was picking the nails from his grubby fat fingers and flicking them onto the table.
‘Have you got your questions prepped?’ Cruickshank asked Tait as she stood beside her, looking over her arm at the manila file she was holding.
‘Yes Ma’am, just going over them one more time.’ Tait answered nervously.
Cruickshank noticed the nerves. ‘You are alright about doing this? I know you have a soft spot for Bentley, but this isn’t a time for misplaced loyalty. You need to ask the tough questions.’
‘Totally Ma’am. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel a little sorry for him, but I won’t let that sway my judgement.’ Tait answered with a little more authority in her tone.
‘Good, now get in there and give him hell. We know we have no concrete evidence against him or his family at the moment, it is all just circumstantial. But something is going on and you need to press the right buttons to find out what.’
Tait nodded and grabbed a hot coffee in a Celtic mug from a table at the back of the room as she left. A few seconds later Cruickshank saw her opening the door to the interview room and watched as she sat down opposite Bentley and passed him over the coffee. She watched her smile at him as she put the manila folder down and then mimic his hand gestures, scraping fingers down her own nails.
‘Good body language Tait, show a little empathy to get a rapport going. Don’t go overboard though.’ Cruickshank mumbled to herself as she stood watching.
Bentley picked up the mug o
f coffee and took a long lingering gulp of the heady brown liquid, a modicum of life entering his eyes as he looked at Tait, then over to the mirror on the wall.
‘You poor, poor bastard. Shankers has really done for you. I can think of a thousand and one things on this case that would speed up your career other than interviewing a waste of space tosser like me. I think I did warn you against raiding the club. No one is ever going to talk. And here’s your reward. Demoted to harangue me. Poor, poor bastard.’
‘DC Annie Tait interviewing DI Fenny Bentley. Time is 11:10 am.’ Tait announced, ignoring Bentley’s comments as she opened the file in front of her and calmly picked the top sheet of paper from within, laying it down in front of Bentley.
‘Heather Scott. A known victim of domestic abuse. One of your very first cases as a DC. Her body was never found although the large quantities of blood and part of her ear at the marital home were enough to convict her husband. Your dog’s DNA was found in a sealed bag which had the name of Heather Scott on it.’
‘Aye, facts we found out two fucking days ago.’ Bentley sounded off, agitatedly, rubbing his chest uncomfortably as he did.
Tait carried on, unperturbed, taking another sheet of paper and laying it on the table.
‘Sunni Bhalla, aged twenty six. Went missing in two thousand and four. We have a history of domestic violence recorded on file allegedly perpetrated by her boyfriend. While he was questioned about her disappearance, there was no evidence to suggest that anything untoward had happened. Your sister’s DNA was found in a sealed bag along with that of Sunni Bhalla.’
‘You are storming this lass. Another friggin blinder we all know!’ Bentley shouted in frustration, grabbing the Celtic mug and taking another swig of coffee. ‘It’s not helping anyone this! Did anyone see your fucking interview strategy before you came in here?’ he finished, grimacing.
‘Are you all right Bentley, you look a little flustered. Is your chest alright?’ Tait enquired, concern in her tone.
‘Just fucking annoyed at the stupid bloody questions?’ Bentley blasted, flapping his hand at her, dismissing the concern.
Tait looked straight into his eyes, her gaze calm and measured, not flustered at all by his outbursts. She took a third sheet of paper from the file and placed it in front of Bentley, watching him intently as he looked down at the page. Watching the agitation ebb from his body. Watching his ruddy complexion turn pallid. Watching his large broad frame sag. Watching a shaking hand reach out to the paper. Watching a quavering stubby forefinger trace a line over the name on the page.
‘Abigail Bentley. Known victim of domestic abuse. Went missing in nineteen seventy three. You were thirteen at the time. Her husband, your father, Edward Bentley was questioned at the time about her disappearance. It was discovered that she had been having an affair and that the abuse by your father was as a result of that affair. At the time, it was assumed that your mother had run away with her lover. No trace of her has ever been found. Your father was dismissed from the force after admitting to beating your mother.’
Bentley stared at the page, not looking up, not acknowledging the facts Tait was relaying.
‘Three women DI Bentley. Three woman who were victims of domestic violence and linked to your family. Someone may be trying to set you up DI Bentley, it is very possible. But the other possibility is that someone is trying to tell us something.’ Tait paused for a second as Bentley stared at the picture of his mother on the sheet, watching his bottom lip quivering. Just for a second: before she lifted another piece of paper from the file and slapped it down on top of the sheet he was staring at, startling him.
‘This is a list of another twenty three women from the surrounding areas who have gone missing in the past forty years. All of them were victims of domestic abuse. In eight of the cases a conviction was made in lieu of a body due to overwhelming forensic evidence. Blood and body parts. You were involved in seven of those cases. Look at that list DI Bentley, look long and hard at that list of women who have disappeared from the face of the earth. And then please try and explain to me why on earth you have a hidden room carved out of rock under your garage that has recently been hosed down with bleach.’
Bentley looked emotionally drained, his eyes staring through the names on the sheet before slowly rising to look at Tait, reflecting inner conflagration. His lips moved slightly, almost speaking, but then stopped as he picked up the Celtic mug and took another gulp of coffee, holding the liquid in his mouth and swirling it around, his gaze still firmly on Tait, trying to read her eyes, trying to read her intent.
‘I think I told you last night that Dessie loves the Sound of Fucking Music and thinks she’s a nun. She likes stories. She likes to play. She likes dolls and she likes secret places. It’s her place, her hidey hole. She goes there to be alone, to get away from us old cantankerous blokes. She also uses it as a home for any waif and stray animal she finds. Father won’t let her have them in the house. Last one was a fucking mental rabbit with myxomatosis. I tried telling her it was diseased but would she listen, no bloody way. She was heartbroken when it died. We bleached the place to get rid of the virus.’
A strength started to return to Bentley’s words as he spoke, his body imperceptibly straightening from its slouch as he leaned over slightly towards Tait.
‘I know how this looks, and trust me, I know it looks bad. I’d be asking the same questions if the shoe was on the other foot. But I have absolutely no idea why someone would be trying to show a link between these different cases. And being involved in seven missing person’s cases over a thirty year career really isn’t that many.’ he said, the words soft and considered.
Tait held his gaze with a steely resolve, not letting Bentley’s cajoling demeanour distract her.
‘Earlier you told us that your sister was on a trip over to Ireland, is that correct?’ she asked.
Frustration flashed over Bentley features once again and he sat back in his seat, flabbergasted.
‘For fuck sake! Are we back on Noddy Time now, bloody PC Plod questioning.’
‘Could you answer the question please DI Bentley.’
‘Jesus, yes she is over in Ireland.’
‘And was that leaving from Edinburgh airport yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yes it was leaving from Edinburgh airport yesterday afternoon.’ Bentley parroted sarcastically.
‘And just to confirm, your sister is called Desiderata Bentley, no other names?’
‘Yes she is called Desiderata Bentley, no other names.’ he replied, mimicking her voice.
‘That’s a problem then DI Bentley.’ Tait said calmly, paying no attention to his parroting.
Bentley’s countenance turned pensive again as he leaned over the table once more and spoke at Tait.
‘And why would my sister going to Ireland be a problem.’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem DI Bentley. This problem is this. We have checked with every airline running flights from Edinburgh to Ireland. Just to be safe, we checked with Newcastle and Glasgow airports too, on their manifests to Ireland, in case you had mistaken the airport. And just to make absolutely sure, we asked every airline in the country who had flights to Ireland yesterday afternoon to check their manifests for us. The problem is DI Bentley, your sister did not take a flight to Ireland yesterday afternoon. So I have one simple question: Where is she?’
Chapter 25
Life goes on. Less than an hour ago there was a mini riot in the middle of one of the busiest streets in the City and now…
Now I am sitting in the corner of a little café on the ground floor of the biggest department store in town and everyone is going about their business with a normality which astounds me. The only token gesture to even recognising the significance of what is happening in the city is the sound turned up slightly on the TV showing the Sky News Channel in the opposite corner of the room.
They have a ten minute loop going. First minute is on Archbishop O’Driscoll, focusing on the s
candal that it is causing in the Roman Catholic Church. Half a minute given up to his victims. Another minute is spent on Imam Mann with the usual slant towards Islamic fundamentalism. Half a minute on victims. One minute replaying what they call ‘Highlights’ of the two suicides and then three minutes of speculation as to who the ‘Fallen Angels’ are. No fact. Lots of religious references from the Bible and from the Koran, but all wild speculation. No mention at all of the video I saw yesterday from Madame Evangeline. The last three minutes are given over to the mini riot that happened earlier, with amateur footage of the skirmish. In between the loop they are talking to so called ‘experts’ in the studio, even more speculation with no substance.
Harry is late. It’s almost quarter to one now. I look out of the window for the umpteenth time and see a procession of buses passing. One breaks suddenly, the others following suit. People on the pavement outside stop and look into the road. I lean over and look as well. Coming down the middle of the road, oblivious to the mayhem they are causing are a large group of Hare Krishna, the ones on the outside of the procession holding placards advertising a show. I can hear them singing ‘My Sweet Lord’ through the window.
I see Harry approaching from the main shop, looking out of the window, watching them too, his expression as bemused as the other onlookers. He shakes his head as he spots me in the corner and approaches.
‘There’s never a policeman when you want one, is there DI Saul. They are causing havoc out there!’ he says playfully, emphasising the ‘DI’.
‘I’ve been told in no uncertain terms not to get involved in any kind of police work in the City. On pain of arrest. I think the main focus of the police at the minute is over on the Royal Mile. Did you hear about that?’
