The Man with No Face

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Edinburgh family, used-car dealers.’

  ‘That’s the one, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it well. Didn’t give the police anything to go on, nothing they could follow up.’

  ‘Again, yes.’

  ‘Well, if you want me to do so, I’m happy to remove the lower jaw so that her lower teeth can be checked against her dental records, because, as always, the mouth is a goldmine of information, but I can confirm that the deceased is human female, natural blonde, as you see. In life she would have stood…’ Reynolds took a tape measure and measured the length of the spine of the deceased. ‘As a rule of thumb, the height of the deceased can be approximated by measuring the spine and other specific long bones, but we must be aware that in death the skeleton can be as much as one inch shorter than the same skeleton in life, due to postmortem shrinkage of the cartilages which tend to pull the bones together.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The spine is believed to be thirty-five per cent the length of a person’s full height. The spine of the deceased is twenty-two and a half inches in length. How’s your arithmetic, Mr Donoghue?’

  ‘Poor.’

  ‘Yours, Mr Millard?’

  Millard, the mortuary assistant with slicked-back hair and white smock, shook his head but continued to stare with fascination, which unnerved Donoghue; at the skeletal remains on the stainless-steel table.

  ‘Five feet four inches,’ Reynolds announced triumphantly. ‘And I did that in my head. The humerus, about twenty per cent of the height in life’—Reynolds stretched the tape measure along the arm of the deceased—‘is twelve, nearly thirteen inches. Going to need a calculator soon…twenty per cent…sixty-three to four inches, five feet four or five or six…long arms are not unknown, and tend to be prized as a sign of grace among women, as are long legs…the tibia is twenty-two per cent of the subject’s height in life, and here, the tibia I measure at…fourteen inches…which…come on, think, Reynolds, boy…five feet five inches…perhaps less…the femur…the thigh bone, is normally twenty-seven per cent of the deceased’s total height and here the observed length is…seventeen and a half inches…You don’t mind if I adhere to the imperial measurements, Mr Donoghue?’

  ‘Makes me feel at home, sir.’ Donoghue, who had been doing some mental arithmetic, and as such, felt that he had used part of his brain which he hadn’t used since primary school in Possilpark, offered, ‘Five feet four inches, sir.’

  ‘So, in life the deceased would have been about five feet four or five inches and all in proportion. No overly long arms or very short legs. The leather belt round her waist was looped at twenty-five inches…the skull shows no disfigurement, the sutures are not knitted fully so she was a young adult when she died. I don’t think that she would have been at all displeased with her appearance. Certainly, her figure would have been the envy of many women. The blonde hair means she was Caucasian.’

  ‘All that fits with the known appearance of Miss Oakley, sir. I can also allow the parents to view the watch and bracelet and the belt, it has a very distinct brass buckle. If they can identify them…’ Donoghue cleared his throat as the scent of the disinfectant of the pathology laboratory caused him irritation. ‘That may be sufficient to determine identification to the satisfaction of the court.’

  ‘I confess I’ve known the High Court to settle for less. I can also confirm that the rate of decomposition would be appropriate to the length of time that her body had been buried in the damp soil in which it was found. If she was buried at about the time she was abducted. This’—Reynolds extended two open palms towards the corpse -‘is a classic, ten years buried in wet soil, plus or minus three years. She was not kept alive for a long period after she was abducted.’

  ‘That may be of some comfort to her parents, sir.’

  ‘Well, if I can offer more comfort I can note the presence of clothing and the lack of semen deposits, which would be evident…semen is very hardy stuff. I once conducted a PM on a young woman who had been raped and strangled and whose body had remained undetected for years, so that it was skeletal when found. The semen was still visible to the naked eye, resting on the bone of the lower vertebrae. You see, the body tissue had decomposed but the semen had retained its chemical integrity, and had fallen slowly due to gravity, until it had come to rest on the bones of the vertebrae. It really is amazing stuff, but I can confirm that it is absent in this case. I would say that the presence of clothing and lack of semen deposits probably indicate that whatever else may have happened to Miss Oakley, sexual violation was not one of them. That may be another crumb of comfort.’

  ‘I’ll let the Oakleys know that, sir.’

  The tall, silver-haired pathologist nodded and then said, ‘As was her cause of death.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If we are satisfied that this is the body of “Annie” Oakley, then it remains only for us, for myself in particular, to identify the cause of death if I can. And I think I can. Would you care to look at this?’

  Donoghue padded silently across the thick linoleum and stood next to Reynolds.

  ‘I’ll shave the skull. Mr Millard, could you prepare a razor, please…Here.’ Reynolds parted the remnants of hair just above the left ear.

  ‘Gunshot.’

  ‘Small calibre. I’d say a point-twenty-two. But it’s oddly a little elongated. Two bullets, one to do the job and one when she was lying still, probably deceased, fired into the same hole to make sure. That would be my guess. Had we discovered her body shortly after these shots were fired and before she was buried, there would be significant traces of gunpowder around this entrance wound. It’s a clean wound, so it’s definitely a bullet hole rather than the point of an ice pick, for example…and’—Reynolds bent down and looked up at the underside of the skull, parting the hair with his hands encased in surgical gloves—‘no exit wounds. The bullet or bullets are still in there.’ Reynolds stood. ‘I’ll extract the brain, or what remains of it after this length of time, then we’ll slice it thinly. At some point we’ll come across a bullet or two, or three. I can’t do that today, the equipment I need is booked for teaching purposes this afternoon. First thing tomorrow soon enough?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any time pressure now; whenever you can do it would suit.’ Donoghue held eye contact with Reynolds. ‘We’ve now got enough to start serving a warrant or two, or three.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Can I sign for the watch, bracelet and belt buckle? I’d like to take them to Edinburgh. I’ll do this myself.’

  Donoghue left the GRI and drove the short distance to Charing Cross and P Division Police Station, forging his Rover through the beginning of the rush-hour traffic. He went to his office, hung up his hat and coat and went to the DCs’ room. There he found Abernethy, King and Montgomerie. Half sitting on a desk, he cradled the offered mug of coffee and listened.

  He listened whilst Abernethy told him about the carpet fibres being identical as coming from a batch which was sold to only two customers, one a football club and the other to Mary Carberrie.

  He listened whilst King told him about Westwater, Carberrie and Mooney being known to be a group of three by members of the gun club where they met. He listened whilst King told him about Westwater arriving in Perth needlessly early and being seen on what by all accounts was a money-laundering venture, and soon after handing Mary Carberrie a bag full of notes and loose change, and yes, there was a mention of a violently red carpet at Mary Carberrie’s house, and a small guy running around for her.

  Then Donoghue related the postmortem findings and showed the CID officers the contents of the productions bag he had brought with him from the GRI. Tm driving to the Oakleys’ house now. I’ll show them these. I think they’ll ID them. Even if they don’t, I think it’s time to talk to Mr Westwater and his two lady friends. We’ll do that tomorrow morning.’

  ‘A seven o’clock knock, sir?’ King asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. They’re appare
ntly very leisured people. They’ll still be at home at nine a.m. So we’ll do it then. King and Montgomerie, I want you to come in for this. I know you’re on the back shift this week, but it’s a case of needs must.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ King nodded.

  Montgomerie, Donoghue noted, remained mute.

  ‘I’d like warrants drawn up this evening. You can do that, Montgomerie.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘So they’re in respect of Gary Westwater, Margaret Mooney and Mary Carberrie, addresses in the file, arrest in connection with the murder of Ronnie Grenn on…what date was Monday?’

  ‘Twenty-fourth of October, sir.’

  ‘Right, on or about that date…don’t mention Ann Oakley or the Bath Street insurance scam. We’ll add those to the charge sheet in due course. We’ve got enough forensics to convict, but a cough would be nice. We also want search warrants for the addresses of each arrestee. That’s you as well, Montgomerie.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘We’ll talk about the search tomorrow, but we’re looking specifically for a point-twenty-two firearm. With luck, Dr Reynolds may be able to provide bullets with striations to match a barrel signature. So we all know what’s happening?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In here at eight-thirty a.m. sharp. Somebody tell the uniformed branch.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir.’

  ‘Good man, King.’

  ‘Latched on to me at the gun club.’

  ‘Latched?’

  ‘Women do, found out who I was, what I was worth and got hold of my shirt-tail.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, modest in the extreme.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The man inclined his head and smiled. ‘But she was useful. See her, dangle a pound note on a stick in front of her eyes and it’s like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey.’

  ‘So I noticed.’ The woman paused. ‘I want to know…before I came on the scene…did you and her ever

  ‘No. She came on really strong, but no…I mean, those teeth.’

  ‘She frightened of dentists?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She just refuses to see them. She’s convinced of her own beauty.’

  There was a lull in the conversation. Above the house an aircraft droned in a descent towards the airport.

  ‘Do you think they’ll come tonight?’

  ‘Probably. I’m going to stay up. Last night of freedom. I want to savour it.’

  ‘You’re calm.’

  ‘Calm and modest.’

  ‘Annoyingly so.’

  ‘What can I do? What can we do? If I could hide I would. But I’m not going to run.’

  ‘You’re looking at two life sentences.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘A man in his fifties going down for the first time.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding.’

  ‘Coming from this lifestyle.’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You didn’t control her. If you had controlled her…’

  ‘If, if, if…forget “if”.’

  ‘You planned it all, from day one.’

  ‘As soon as I met Oakley. It all came together. I had you, I had her and I had a phase-one victim.’

  ‘A phase-one victim?’

  ‘To take the operation to phase two. Forward planning. The secret of good business.’

  ‘What other direction can you plan in? Can hardly plan backwards.’

  But the man just smiled. ‘It worked. We cleaned up. Four million pounds. About.’

  ‘There is one thing you could do. I’d do it. If I were you I’d do it. You’re too spineless to do it without a stiffener. But given the alternative, if they came tomorrow. I’ll stay up with you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Cried like an infant.’ Donoghue gazed into the hissing flames of the gas fire. ‘I get the impression that he hadn’t done that…not ever, not really, it’s so important to do that.’

  ‘God help us if we should ever have to go through that.’ Mrs Donoghue glanced to the door of the living room, beyond which, down the corridor, their children were sleeping.

  ‘Indeed, but that’s probably sufficient for the court to deem positive identification. If not her dental records will be needed for that. Easy enough to get hold of those, though.’

  ‘Poor souls…where do they live?’

  ‘Barnton Avenue, rambling mansion of a house, they let it go when their daughter was abducted, it’s a bit ramshackle and overgrown now, but it could be rescued.’

  The Barntons

  ‘Well, you’ll not kidnap a lassie from the Pilton and expect her parents to come up with a million pounds.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘He’s a second-hand car dealer. Not a way I’d like to make a living, even if it does mean a house in Barnton Avenue.’

  ‘Happy in our wee bungalow in Craiglockhart, eh?’

  ‘Aye…well, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh…Fabian, what’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s about yesterday morning, you remember when I was late leaving because I had a meeting in Edinburgh…I hung around a bit? I don’t know if you were aware of it but you were very difficult to be with…I found you difficult. Very tetchy. Later I had a chat with Chief Super Findlater and he told me that he and his wife are going on pre-retirement courses…apparently a wife who has been used to having the house to herself for the whole working day may find it difficult to suddenly have hubby around the place all the time. I was wondering if that’s what annoyed you, I wasn’t out of the way quickly enough?’ He saw his wife put her hand to her head. He continued, ‘I mean, I’m not due to retire, but equally I’m nearer the end of my working life than the beginning and if we’ve got a problem here…and it is my house as well…’

  ‘Oh, Fabian.’ She crossed the carpet and sat next to him, leaning against him, taking his hand in both of hers. ‘That’s it…that’s it. I’m so sorry…I knew I was irritated yesterday but I couldn’t see why, there seemed to be no reason…but that’s it.’

  He put his arm round her and held her and said that a trouble identified was half solved. That evening they went to their bedroom much, much earlier than was usual and they were as passionate as when they were newly lovers.

  FRIDAY

  8.05 hrs

  Mean spirited. It was the only way to describe it.

  Mean beyond meanness.

  Donoghue sat at his desk. His jaw was clenched. He held a pencil in his hands and snapped it in two.

  He flung the two bits of pencil into the wastebin beside his chair.

  Mean. The meanness of the man. He thought he knew Findlater. He didn’t think Findlater would do such a thing.

  Just shows, he thought, just shows. Just goes to show how you can work with a guy for years and think you know him and then you find out that you don’t. You find out you don’t know him at all. A man’s personality is a loch, and each man has a kraken hidden in his depths, so Donoghue believed; with some their kraken never surfaces, in others it surfaces rarely and offers a fleeting glimpse of something dark within, in yet others it’s always there, on the surface. So now he had seen Findlater’s kraken.

  Donoghue had arrived at 8.00 a.m. He had signed in after exchanging pleasantries with the uniform-bar duty constable and had then gone up to the CID corridor. He had turned to walk to his office and had seen Ray Sussock walk out of Findlater’s office, clearly crestfallen, and walk into his own room.

  Donoghue had realized that Findlater must have left a note for Sussock to see him. But Sussock was on the graveyard shift. He is supposed to finish at 06.00. Findlater had asked him to wait on for two hours so he could speak to him. The only thing that Findlater could have to say to Ray Sussock that would make him leave the office looking so crestfallen, was to tell him that he’d fouled up the Bath Street burglary and fire investigation four years ago.

  Findlater did that. Not only had he kept Ray Sussock back for two hours
to tell him that, but he’d given him that to take into retirement with him. Findlater himself had not long to go before he could devote his days to fly fishing and caring for his giant plant. He, of all people, should be aware that the last thing anybody wants to do is to go into retirement feeling gauche, knowing regret for a monumental error.

  So Chief Super Findlater, late of Elgin, now of the city of Glasgow, has a kraken. And what a nasty piece of work it is.

  Donoghue stood. He went to Ray Sussock’s room and found him clambering into a battered raincoat with a felt trilby resting unevenly on his head. ‘Ray.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ray, I know you’re tired, but we’re going to arrest Carberrie, Westwater and Mooney this morning. We’ll be quizzing them about the abduction and murder of “Annie” Oakley and the insurance claim for the Bath Street fire…there’s no compulsion, Ray, please feel free to get off if you want, but I thought you might want to be in at the end seeing as you’re…’

  ‘You’re giving me a chance to get it right, are you, sir?’

  ‘Ray, you know I don’t mean that, but it would round things off neatly for you. Would it not?’

  Ray Sussock smiled. Donoghue knew it was a forced smile. He knew that inside Ray Sussock must be hurting very badly. Very badly indeed.

  ‘Yes.’ Sussock peeled off his raincoat and took his hat from his head and Donoghue again saw the tiredness in the man’s face and eyes. If ever a man deserved his retirement it was Ray Sussock. ‘Yes, thanks, sir. I’d like that.’

  ‘Good. Would you like to come along to the CID room? You can go with young Abernethy to pull Westwater. I think that’s the way to play it. Montgomerie can use his charms on Margaret Mooney and Richard King can fondle the collar of the Carberrie woman. Bring them in, put them in separate rooms and quiz them. With any luck they’ll cough and implicate each other. Arrest them in connection with the murder of Ronnie Grenn in the first instance, I think, don’t you?’

  220

  ‘Whatever you think, sir.’

  ‘No, Ray, it’s whatever you think as well. But I think we keep our suspicions about the Bath Street insurance scam and “Annie” Oakley’s abduction up our sleeve. We’ll do it that way. Pull them for the murder of Ronnie Grenn.’