‘You still haven’t thanked me for finding Eddie Dunn,’ I pointed out, trying to buy a little time as I digested what I could see inside the tent.
‘Nothing but luck,’ he sniffed dismissively. ‘If you lose somebody it’s always likely you’ll find them in the river. We would have got to him eventually.’
They would have fixed the exact position of the corpse using satellite location, but someone had been old-fashioned enough or careful enough to outline Shoaz Ahmad in yellow paint on the trampled grass. Shoaz had been smaller than I imagined. The silhouetted arms were thrown wide but the legs were together so that the paint was almost in the shape of a cross.
‘Face down or face up?’
Dorward hesitated, torn between his reluctance to give me the information and the fact that I might genuinely be able to contribute something. ‘Face down.’
‘He wasn’t killed here, then.’ I still didn’t know how Shoaz died, but Dewar had said something was missing. A body part. A trophy. Trophies mean blood. If there were traces of blood in the tent, they were very faint. So the likelihood was he’d been killed somewhere else and brought here later.
‘Why should it be significant whether he was face down or face up?’ Dorward allowed his curiosity to get the better of him.
‘There isn’t much in the way of trophies on a human back, superintendent.’
Dorward’s face turned red and he glared towards Hastings, certain his subordinate must have supplied me with the information. He opened his mouth to speak and I knew I had one last chance.
‘Give me something he was close to, get me into his house, into his room, and I can make it happen.’ I saw the look in his eyes change from disdain to something close to contempt. ‘You must have found something on the body. I could . . .’
He shook his head with a bitter little half-smile. ‘The day I allow you to contaminate my evidence, Savage, is the day I hang up my hat.’ He waved towards the path. ‘You’ve got five minutes to get off my crime scene.’
I turned away with a mixture of anger and regret. Unbelievers like Dorward are just part of the challenge. I should have been able to give him something that would have persuaded him to let me stay. Glen Savage never just walks away. It’s what makes me who I am; the thing that carried me through the bombs and the bullets and the fear all the way up the rock and scree-scarred slopes of Tumbledown. I’m also not used to confusion. I deal in certainties and I didn’t like the blanket of uncertainty that had wrapped itself around me on top of that hill. Shoaz Ahmad’s physical presence had been removed and whatever was left wasn’t enough. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t expect Shoaz to give me the name and address of his killer. It doesn’t work like that. The messages I receive are at best indistinct and at worst indecipherable. Sometimes the clue is in the form they take or the visions that accompany them; the lightning flash that illuminates a house in the hills; a bridge, over a river, where a train passes every fifteen minutes. It might be no message at all, just the merest perception of a feeling, an experience the dead boy would never experience again. A sense sensed. But still it would provide me with just enough of the unique aura of his killer that I would know it again, the same way I can feel the malign thing that is killing Aelish as soon as I enter the room where she sits.
But up there among the ancient ruins I’d felt nothing. By the time I got to the bottom of the hill I was feeling as low as I’ve ever done.
Fortunately, what awaited me at the entrance to the temporary car park in the field brightened up my mood considerably.
Television crews are dangerous animals, and the most dangerous of them all are TV news crews. They don’t make them like they used to. Back when I started, they travelled in herds; cameraman, soundman, producer, presenter and a couple of gofers to lug the half a ton of equipment they needed to do the job. Nowadays it’s just the presenter and a cameraman who looks like he’s equipped to film a home movie. But still dangerous. The lens of a TV camera is curiously seductive. It draws you in and injects you with some kind of drug that makes you want to grin like an idiot no matter how serious the subject. Thankfully, over the years I’ve evolved an earnest, camera-proof mask that Aelish says reminds her of an Easter Island statue.
Two matched pairs stood on the far side of the striped tape, one from each of the local networks. That made me think of Dewar. If there’d been an official announcement the place would be swarming with hard-eyed print journalists; guys who’d turned cynicism into an art form and who never believed a word you said until it had been confirmed by someone else. The two crews meant Dewar had made a couple of discreet calls that guaranteed me just enough exposure to get the Glen Savage bandwagon rolling again, but without leaving me open to the type of intense interrogation that could bring it to a grinding halt. They must have been waiting for quite a while, but they roused themselves the moment they spotted me. The two women picked up their microphones and the cameramen panned the lenses in my direction. I sensed the little high-tech eye focusing on me and the mask automatically slipped into place. They stood to the right of the gate, the cameramen jostling to get the best shot and the newsgirls waving their mikes to attract my attention with an air of desperation that told me hard information was in short supply.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Fiona Bowen, ITV News, can I . . .?’
‘Jessica Taylor, BBC Scotland, what are . . .?’
The names came at me like the discharge of a double-barrelled shotgun, and the rest of what they said was lost in a jumble of words. I raised my hand. ‘Look,’ I said reasonably, ‘I don’t mind talking to you, but I won’t be giving any individual interviews. So why don’t you take it one at a time and I’ll tell you what I can, which may not be as much as you want. Maybe we should take it in alphabetical order? Fiona first?’ I suggested helpfully.
She looked at her cameraman and he nodded to let her know the camera was rolling and her sound was good. ‘First, can I ask you your name, your title and your purpose in being here?’ Her voice was cool, professional, the accent posh Glasgow, but not quite public school.
‘Technically that’s three questions, but I’m sure Jessica won’t mind.’ Jessica’s face made it clear she minded quite a lot.
‘My name is Glen Savage.’ A flare of triumph lit Fiona’s blue eyes and I guessed she’d been well briefed by whoever Dewar had tipped off. I gave her a little more journalistic gold dust. ‘By profession I’m a psychic investigator and I’m here in a purely informal, advisory capacity.’
Fiona opened her mouth to ask a supplementary question, which would have been bending the rules, but Jessica gave her a perfectly timed nudge with her hip that left the BBC in pole position. ‘Can you tell us precisely what is happening on the hill, Mr Savage, and what part you are playing in the investigation?’
Two questions, but fair’s fair. ‘I don’t think it’s any secret that this is a crime scene, or that the crime is a murder.’ That wasn’t quite true. I was fairly certain Superintendent Dorward would have liked it to be a secret for a bit longer. ‘As to my part in the case, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the police that.’ The thought of Dorward trying to explain away my presence gave me an inner glow that wasn’t quite healthy.
‘But it would be fair to say that to have someone in your profession involved in a murder case at such an early stage is unusual?’ Fiona butted in, adding for good measure: ‘Can you confirm that the victim is a young Asian male?’
Obviously the concept of one thing at a time was alien to them, but she’d given me the opening I needed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on the individual aspects of the case. As for my involvement at this stage, well, I don’t think I’m giving anything away that a quick cuttings check wouldn’t confirm, when I say that I’m generally involved in cases which have certain – special – characteristics.’
The word ‘special’ took about a nanosecond to sink in before they both started talking over each other. ‘I’m sorry.’ I smiled. ‘That reall
y is all I’m able to say.’
I went back to the car and as I drove home my mind drifted over what I’d said to them and the one thing I hadn’t; the little nuggets of information I’d buried, the tantalising questions I’d left unanswered and the unshakeable scientific rule of cause and effect that would shape the outcome. First, and most important, I’d put Glen Savage slap bang at the centre of Superintendent Dorward’s murder inquiry. No matter how it went from here, he’d be asked to justify my involvement, or lack of it, every step of the way. If I was clever, I’d be credited for his successes and when he was getting nowhere the media would be demanding to know why I wasn’t more involved. Second, I’d elevated an otherwise routine murder to the top of the news schedules and given myself the ammunition to make certain it stayed there. Shoaz Ahmad’s death was special enough to need the services of a renowned psychic to help solve it. All it would take was a quick phone call with a helpful suggestion or a hint of doubt about Dorward’s progress and it would be back on the front pages. Why hadn’t I told them about Gurya Ali? That was stage two of Operation Resurrection. All I needed to do was make sure it was Glen Savage who found Shoaz Ahmad’s killer and pray that he led me to Gurya, alive or dead. For the moment, I had no idea how to do that, but I’m an optimist. In my line of work you have to be.
CHAPTER 12
I’d missed the early evening news, but BBC Scotland broadcast a late bulletin and I switched on hoping to catch it. I was a little early. A young reporter, looking strained and nervous in a blue flak jacket, stood among the wreckage of what had once been a market in one of the poorer Shia districts of Baghdad. I knew it was a market because pieces of fruit lay among the pools of blood and the burned-out cars and motorbikes. The reporter didn’t seem certain whether the damage had been caused by a car bomb or a stray American rocket. Someone had found a piece of metal with a serial number on it, but the Yanks denied it was one of theirs. If it was a car bomb, no one would bother to claim it or deny it. Something like this was all in a day’s work for al-Qaeda or one of those Sunni outfits who still thought Saddam was god. My mind grew detached as he described the scene around him. I’ve seen people recoil in shock at the on-screen aftermath of a plane crash in Russia or a suicide attack on an Israeli bus queue, but there are some things TV doesn’t show you. Not because they don’t want you to see them – the ratings would probably soar – but because they’re not allowed to. I’ve seen those things, and to the reporter’s left, almost out of shot, I recognised the charred log that was a limbless, headless human body. From the twisted metallic remains of a market stall fluttered what looked like ribbons of tattered cloth, but which was actually part of someone’s digestive system. I reached for the remote, but before I could turn it off, a hectoring burst of music announced we were going to ‘all the news from your local area’.
Shoaz Ahmad was the top story and I listened as Jessica, looking a little less windswept than when I’d last seen her, described his disappearance from the very street where she was standing. It was a typical East End, Clydeside thoroughfare. Close-ranked tenements of smoke-blackened grey stone rose three storeys high on one side of the road, while the river flowed, flat, swirling and oily on the other. Most of the tenements had seen better days, but a few showed signs of recent repair or upgrading. A row of derelict shops took up the lower storey to the right of where Jessica stood, watched by a group of wary middle-aged men with a collective resistance to razors – at least of the shaving variety – while two young Asian boys capered around for the benefit of the cameras. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Shoaz was last seen by the kids he’d been bunking with in the nearby hostel. When he didn’t come home they thought he’d gone back to his mum and dad. The locals were shocked, but no one had seen anything unusual. The scene switched abruptly to another street, where the houses were larger and semi-detached, with tree-shaded front gardens. Jessica at the door of one of them, a glimpse of a dark face and white, frightened eyes, a shake of the head. Shoaz Ahmad’s parents wanted to be left alone with their grief. Suddenly Dorward’s face filled the screen and I turned the volume up.
‘We are following a number of lines of inquiry and we will do everything in our power to see the killer, or killers, of Shoaz Ahmad brought to justice. No, we do not have any suspects at the moment, but we are sifting through a substantial amount of forensic evidence.’
Jessica helpfully asked him if there was a possible racial element to the murder. I was impressed by the way he kept his composure when he clearly wanted to add her to his list of unexplained disappearances. ‘We have no suggestion that race is a motive, at this time,’ he said.
The camera pulled back from Dorward’s face and I saw the grassy slope I’d climbed rising in the background. ‘We understand that Shoaz Ahmad’s body was discovered somewhere in the ruins of Roxburgh Castle behind you?’
Dorward nodded. ‘I can confirm that.’
‘We also understand that you have called in a psychic investigator to help you with the case. Why would you do that when you’d already found the body?’
Her voice was honey, but the words were as sharp as an assassin’s ice pick. Dorward looked like a man who’d just sunk his teeth into a lemon, and the film cut to earlier in the day and the said psychic investigator exiting the murder scene. I listened with the out-of-body feeling you get when you watch yourself on TV. Not bad, not bad at all. Serious, but not too sentimental, and giving away just enough to start a tabloid feeding frenzy. I wondered how Dorward would talk his way out of that one. When the film cut back to him, the sour expression was still frozen on his face, but at least his power of speech had returned. He confirmed my presence through gritted teeth. ‘Mr Glen Savage was here in a purely informal capacity. He volunteered certain information and offered his help, but that help was not required.’
Not a bad attempt to get her to move on from the topic of me, but you don’t get to be a TV news journalist without learning to be dogged, and little Jessica was a Rottweiler in disguise. ‘Yet you did invite him onto your crime scene, superintendent. Can you tell us what information he volunteered? Did it materially aid your investigation? And, finally, what was so special about this case that you invited Mr Savage to view the place where Shoaz Ahmad’s body was found?’
‘I’m sorry, but this interview is at an end.’ Dorward turned away and the camera followed his retreating back. I almost felt sorry for him.
We had the latest bird flu update – a few dead swans somewhere down south – and I switched off the TV and sat in the dark for a while. Stones in pools. Stirring up trouble. It was nice to know I was still good at something.
It wasn’t late, but I fancied an early night and the phone’s ring took me by surprise. I thought it might be Dewar to congratulate me on my TV appearance.
‘Savage,’ I answered.
‘Hello, Glen.’
The smile froze on my face when I recognised the voice. Duncan Murray served with me in the Scots Guards, but when he left the regiment he trained as a Presbyterian minister. Just because I once turned up at his manse intending to kill him he’d decided to make himself responsible for the welfare of my soul. I’ve tried to tell him I don’t have one, but like most men of the cloth he’s persistent to the point of annoyance.
‘What can I do for you, Duncan? Don’t you have someone more worthwhile to save today?’
I felt him smile at the other end of the line.
‘God suggested I take the day off, so I thought I’d give the black sheep of the flock a call. How are you bearing up?’
‘Why should I need to bear up?’ I said suspiciously.
‘I saw you on TV tonight. I thought you looked a little strained.’
I bit back my automatic response. I was brought up not to swear at ministers. ‘I thought I didn’t look too bad, Duncan, but you didn’t call to compliment me on my looks.’
‘No, I didn’t. I wondered if you’d like to join us for the trip down to London.’
London meant the big Falklands twenty-fifth anniversary march down Horse Guards Parade. It also meant confronting my demons. I prefer to keep my demons in a box in the attic with my medals. Just for a moment I was somewhere else and my legs felt a little weak.
‘Glen?’
‘Yes, Duncan.’
‘I said would you like to join us on the trip to London.’
‘I think I’m washing my hair that day, Duncan.’
‘You can’t pretend it didn’t happen, Glen,’ he said gently. ‘This could be the last chance to see some of the guys we served with, and if that’s not a good enough reason, then how about just to remember the people who didn’t make it back?’
I remembered them every day, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. ‘I prefer to remember them as they were, and I don’t fancy spending the afternoon with a bunch of middle-aged drunks talking rubbish and weeping into their beer. The last time I marched was on the day I got my discharge papers and that’s the way I like to keep it.’
He gave a sad little sigh that was meant to make me feel bad, and succeeded.
‘Well, if you happen to change your mind, we’re flying down on the sixteenth. I’ll keep you a seat . . .’
‘I won’t be changing my mind, and you know it, but, Duncan . . .’
‘Yes, Glen.’
‘Thanks for asking.’
When I went to bed I fell asleep with the image of Aelish’s face imprinted on my mind; a healthy Aelish unravaged by the disease that had been destroying her from inside for the last five years. I wondered which Aelish I would find when I picked her up the next morning.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday, 9 June 2007
The hospital treating my wife is one of those private ones hidden discreetly away in a side street in Ravelston, an exclusive enclave where three-car families are only impressive if the third car is a Ferrari or, preferably, a Bentley. Mature sycamore trees lined the entryway to a large, red sandstone Victorian mansion that had been desecrated in more recent times by a charmless extension of stainless steel and dark glass. When I pushed open the front door the breath caught in my chest. Think of an angel in blue jeans and a cream cashmere sweater; dark, almond-shaped eyes so deep you could drown in them and high cheekbones with a touch of the Orient. Her hair caught the sunlight like a helmet of spun gold. Aelish smiled and held out her arms to be hugged. ‘About time.’
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