Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  Mrs Guilfoyle blinked a couple of times before breaking into a smile that was too perfect white to be natural. ‘Och, you know her. Well, of course you do. She’d be a fair bit older’n you, mind, but you’ll have worked together, maybe?’

  ‘I did indeed work with Detective Superintendent Ramsay when I was a junior officer. I have . . . memories of her.’

  ‘Such a lovely lady. Not been the same round here since she left. You only ever see the other folk at the weekends. Everyone works so hard.’

  ‘It’s the curse of modern living, I’m afraid. And none of us are exempt. You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Guilfoyle, but we have to be getting on.’ McLean stood up, placing his still half-full mug on the tray. Well trained, DC Harrison did likewise, although she’d managed to finish hers.

  ‘There was one thing, sir. Before we go?’

  McLean thought for a moment Harrison was going to ask for the bathroom. Her actual question to Mrs Guilfoyle was much more helpful.

  ‘You said that the house was mostly looked after by the gardener. Bill, I think?’

  ‘That’s right, dearie. Bill Bradford. He does a lot of work around here.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have his number, by any chance?’

  7

  ‘That was a good call, Constable. I’d forgotten about the gardener.’

  McLean sat in the driver’s seat of his Alfa, the window wound down to let the breeze through. Mid-afternoon sun baked the leather interior, and he was tempted to start the engine, switch on the air conditioning. That would be a waste of petrol though, even if he could hardly say the car was environmentally friendly in the first place. All 2.9 litres and 500-plus horsepower of it. Should really get himself something electric.

  ‘Easier than breaking down the door, if he’s got a key. You were planning on having a look inside, right?’

  ‘Makes sense, since we’re here. He say how long he’d be?’

  Harrison had phoned the gardener as soon as Mrs Guilfoyle had handed her the card that had been pinned to the note board above her hall telephone. Fortunately for them both, Bill Bradford was working in the area and agreed to come right over. That had been twenty minutes ago, and McLean was beginning to feel the tug of guilt from those distant piles of paperwork back at the station. On the other hand, there was something strange going on here, and he wanted as much information as possible before going back to the other senior officers. After the ultimatum he’d been given by the DCC, he wasn’t about to take any chances.

  ‘I didn’t know Anya’s mum was a detective super, sir,’ Harrison said after the silence had stretched beyond her threshold.

  ‘I didn’t either, which says something, I guess. A lot of things really.’

  ‘But you know her?’

  ‘Knew would be more accurate. Detective Superintendent Ramsay retired about two years after I made plain clothes. She was never much of a one for rubbing shoulders with the junior detectives, and when she did . . .’ He paused a moment, partly because it had all been such a long time ago, and partly because he’d been raised to say nothing about a person if there was nothing good to say. ‘Let’s just say her management style was of its time.’

  ‘Must have been tough as old nails, to make it to detective super back then.’ Harrison’s words carried a tone of awe and respect in them that didn’t quite square with the woman McLean remembered.

  ‘I’m not that old, Constable.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Movement in the rear-view mirror stopped the conversation from descending into petty insults. McLean saw a van turn into the cul-de-sac, then park outside Mrs Guilfoyle’s bungalow. A tall, wiry man climbed out and scanned the area as if searching for someone.

  ‘Looks like our gardener is here.’

  McLean opened his own door and swung out, enjoying a fuller breeze on his face as he stood up. ‘Mr Bradford?’

  The wiry man turned to face them, looked McLean up and down, but barely seemed to register Harrison. ‘Aye. You’d be the polis then.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector McLean. This is my colleague Detective Constable Harrison. She’s the one you spoke to.’

  ‘An’ you’re wanting into the Ramsay place? That right?’

  ‘Miss Renfrew has gone missing. We’re trying to find her. When was the last time you saw her?’

  Bradford screwed his face up with the effort of recalling. His skin was tanned with the dark hue of a man who spent most of his time outdoors, the wrinkles deep like caverns. He crossed the short distance from his van to McLean’s Alfa, then did another double-take.

  ‘Giulia Quadrifoglio.’ He let out a low whistle. ‘Don’t see many of them about. I bet she goes like stink, aye?’

  ‘Anya Renfrew, Mr Bradford. You were telling us the last time you saw her.’

  ‘Oh, aye. What’s it the day? Monday, aye, Monday. Would’ve been last week some time. Wednesday evening mebbe?’

  ‘And that was here?’

  ‘Aye. No’ much mowing going on what wi’ this dry weather, but I tidied up out back a bit. Usually spend a couple hours each Wednesday sorting out the gardens here. Old Mrs Guilfoyle’s place as well as Miss Renfrew.’

  ‘And you have a key?’

  ‘That I do.’ Bradford shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a large ring with at least a dozen smaller ones on it. He fumbled through them for a moment, then carefully unclipped a couple of latch keys and a larger mortice key. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting in then?’

  ‘Should I, you know, be asking for a warrant or something?’ Bradford asked as he stood by the now-open door. McLean had the distinct impression it had only just occurred to the man.

  ‘Miss Renfrew works for the police,’ he said by way of a non-answer. They were treading on dodgy ground here, but he didn’t think she would object. It seemed to have the desired effect on the gardener, who simply nodded.

  ‘I’ll leave you wi’ the keys then. Need to get back to the job I was working on. You can give them to Miss Renfrew when you see her, aye?’

  Had he not already spent some time in Bradford’s company, McLean might have thought the man was joking. He seemed to view the world in a very simple and straightforward manner though. One in which Anya Renfrew was simply another client he would see again soon. The fact that two police officers were here searching her house, that she was missing, hadn’t yet dislodged that conviction from his mind. McLean had met gardeners who had encyclopaedic knowledge, business acumen and a work ethic that put him to shame. One of them looked after the grounds around his own house. William Bradford was clearly cut from lesser cloth.

  ‘I’ll make sure she gets them, Mr Bradford. Thank you.’ McLean patted the gardener on the shoulder, which seemed the right thing to do. Bradford nodded, then walked away back to his car, leaving him and Harrison alone to look over the bungalow. He followed her inside, closing the door behind him.

  Beyond a narrow porch, the hallway was remarkably similar to the one in Mrs Guilfoyle’s house. The furniture might have been more eighties than seventies, but it was laid out in much the same way. A narrow table held an old landline phone, no sign of an answering machine anywhere nearby. Above it, a cork note board held a couple of takeaway menus not unlike the ones in McLean’s kitchen on the other side of the city. In one corner, a faded square of paper listed a half dozen phone numbers, including the one Harrison had dialled to summon Mr Bradford. Anya’s was there too. McLean pulled out his phone and took a photograph. Chasing down those numbers would be just one of many actions he could see beginning to stack up for when they returned to the station.

  ‘Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?’ Harrison stood at the far end of the hall, where a partially open door revealed a bathroom beyond.

  ‘Signs that Renfrew actually lived here would be a good start.’ He pushed the door fully open and stepped into a small ba
throom. The mirror-fronted cabinet above the basin was empty, and there were no toothbrushes or toothpaste anywhere to be seen. The bar of soap sitting between the taps was cracked and dry with age. ‘Not looking good in here.’

  While Harrison checked the front rooms, McLean went first to the kitchen. The cupboards were stocked with dried goods and tins, some of which had been around a while, if their use-by dates were anything to go by. The fridge was on though and contained a few relatively fresh vegetables, some cheese that wasn’t mouldy and a tub of spreadable butter. No milk, and no alcohol either, but it was at least evidence that Renfrew had been there.

  A small utility room led to the back door, and here he found a few more signs of recent use. A tub of washing powder stood on the countertop above the washing machine as if it had been hastily brought out and not put away again. Pulling out the little drawer, he dabbed his finger in the powder tray and it came away wet. This had been used fairly recently, although there was no evidence of what might have been washed.

  ‘Living room looks like something from an eighties sitcom. Don’t think anyone’s been in there in years. The telly’s like, half a metre thick.’

  For a moment McLean couldn’t work out what Harrison was talking about, but then it occurred to him she might not remember the old cathode ray tube televisions he’d grown up with.

  ‘What about the bedrooms?’

  ‘Front one’s empty. No bed, nothing in the cupboards. Looks like she uses the back one when she’s here. There’s a few clothes in the wardrobe, could be Anya’s, could be her mum’s.’

  McLean followed Harrison into the room in question. Its window looked out over the garden, and it was a decent size given how small the whole bungalow was. The queen-sized bed had only one bedside table, an old alarm clock radio showing the time in bright red LED lights, a lamp with just a bare bulb and no shade, and a dog-eared copy of Persuasion by Jane Austen. He picked up the book, flicked to the front page. Scrawled inside the cover were the words ‘Anya Renfrew, Year 6’ and a doodled love heart with AR and LB written either side of it.

  ‘LB?’ Harrison asked, peering around his arm.

  ‘Schoolgirl crush, at a guess. I don’t think it’s the clue that will tell us where she’s gone. Or what her game is.’

  ‘It is odd. This is definitely the address on her personnel file.’ Harrison pulled out her mobile phone, tapped at the screen. Moments later the telephone in the hall started to ring. ‘And that’s the phone number too.’

  McLean walked out to the hall and picked up the receiver just to be sure. Harrison said a cheery hello, then hung up.

  ‘Looks to me very much like she stays somewhere else, but comes here from time to time. We know if she’s got a boyfriend she might be living with?’

  Harrison’s shrug was answer enough. ‘Don’t really know her that well.’

  McLean glanced at his watch. If needs be they could have a more thorough look later, but right now this was something of a dead end. And the day was marching on. ‘OK. Let’s get back to the station then. She’s doesn’t live here, so we’re going to have to widen the search. Get a team out to go door to door with the neighbours when they’re not all out at work.’

  ‘Later tonight, or first thing tomorrow?’ Harrison asked. McLean was tempted to get it done with, but then he remembered what day it was, and a promise he’d made that he couldn’t break. Didn’t want to break.

  ‘It’ll have to be tomorrow.’ And if that upset the DCC, then so be it.

  8

  ‘Get on to Renfrew’s mobile provider. We need to track down her phone. And ask around the station. I want to interview anyone she’s friends with. All of the admin staff on the last two cases she worked, for starters.’

  Harrison nodded her understanding and hurried off. McLean set a more leisurely pace as he made his way down into the basement. The Cold Case Unit lived in what might once have been a storage room, deep in the old Victorian bowels of the station. He liked to think that maybe it had been a drunk tank; a holding cell for many minor offenders, who would most likely be let off with a stern word of caution and sent home after a few hours’ sober – or not so sober – reflection. Its arched stone ceiling rose to a decent height in the middle, but became more claustrophobic the closer to the walls you moved. Since that was where the desks had been arranged, he was glad his position as officer in charge was more nominal than actual.

  That role fell to ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid, one time bane of McLean’s life, now a grudging ally. His desk was at the far end of the room, and centred so that the light well up to the car park at the back of the station at least had a chance of giving it some illumination. The chair behind the desk was empty when McLean entered, but a mixture of cough and growl from the bank of filing cabinets at the other end alerted him to where Duguid was.

  ‘Looking for me, or are you just hiding from the angry mob upstairs?’

  It didn’t surprise McLean that Duguid knew what was going on. That had always been his skill, even before he retired. It didn’t hurt that Grumpy Bob was settling into a similar role in the CCU either. Nobody had a better handle on station gossip than the old detective sergeant.

  ‘A bit of both actually.’ He closed the door and glanced around to see whether anyone else was there. As far as he could tell it was just the two of them. ‘What do you remember about Grace Ramsay?’

  ‘Ramsay?’ Duguid rattled the filing cabinet closed. He paused for a moment. ‘She’s not dead, is she?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Least I hope not. I’d quite like to talk to her.’

  ‘She retired when I was still a DI. Must be twenty years ago now. Can’t say I’ve seen her since, don’t think I’ve heard anyone mention her much either. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Seems our missing admin is her daughter. Did you know that?’

  McLean didn’t really need to wait for the answer to see that Duguid didn’t.

  ‘I knew she had a daughter, but Anya Renfrew? She kept that quiet.’

  ‘That’s not the only thing, I’m finding out now. Seems our Ms Renfrew has been leading us astray.’ McLean told the ex-detective superintendent all he’d found out so far, what little it was.

  ‘Ramsay lived out Joppa way. I remember that much. We were in different departments, didn’t often cross paths. That was back in the days when we had enough detectives to spare, mind you.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about her then?’

  ‘Aye, a bit. She didn’t suffer fools, had a bit of an obsessive streak. Good enough detective, but she rubbed most people up the wrong way.’

  A mental image formed in McLean’s mind. A slim, middle-aged woman in a severe dark suit with a face like licking piss off a nettle, tearing several strips off a hapless young detective constable who’d made the mistake of being two minutes late to a morning briefing. He still had the scars. ‘Yes, she could be a bit prickly. Not that I had much to do with her when I started, and she was retired before I made DS.’

  ‘What’s your plan then? Want me to ask a few of the old guard what they know?’

  It was such an uncharacteristic act of helpfulness that at first McLean thought Duguid was joking. Then he noticed the empty room again, the desks clear. Not much going on in the Cold Case Unit at the moment, it would seem.

  ‘That would be helpful. I’ve already asked HR to send me Renfrew’s complete file and I’ll see if I can track down her mother too. Apparently she’s in a nursing home, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it. See if I can’t persuade Grumpy Bob to give me a hand when he gets back.’ Duguid looked at his watch. ‘Not much of the day left, mind.’

  ‘Couple of phone calls ought to do it. Don’t want you wasting a lot of time.’ McLean stared at the filing cabinet, then looked pointedly at Duguid’s clean desk. ‘Unless you want to of course.’


  ‘Actually, I was thinking of heading off early. Might drop by the Police Club on my way home though. There’s always one or two retired detectives in there of an evening. Might even be someone who remembers Grace Ramsay more fondly than the rest of us.’

  The climb from the basement up three flights of stairs to the operations room left him surprisingly out of breath. McLean paused at the open door, gathering his thoughts as best he could. The quiet emptiness over the threshold did little to reassure him as he entered. He had a nasty feeling things were about to get complicated. Even more complicated than usual.

  ‘Chief Superintendent McIntyre was looking for you, sir. Wanted an update on Anya.’ Newly promoted Detective Sergeant Sandy Gregg bustled up the moment she saw him. From the way she spoke, it sounded like they all wanted an update. He’d not have minded one himself.

  ‘You’ve worked with her a lot, haven’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, pretty much. She’s one of the team, you know? Even if she’s no’ an officer.’

  ‘Did she ever mention her mother at all?’ McLean wondered whether this conversation wouldn’t be better in a more formal setting, complete with note taking, but he’d started now.

  ‘Mother?’ Gregg tilted her head like a confused pet. ‘Not that I remember, no. She’s not really the kind of person talks about her personal life. Just the work, maybe her choir.’

  ‘Choir?’

  ‘Well, mebbe more like a singing club. Folk stuff. I was talking to her about it just last week, right enough. Thought I might tag along one time.’

  ‘You sing?’ McLean tried to make the question as innocent as he meant it, but it came out more disbelieving than interested.

  ‘Aye, and I’m no’ half bad.’ Gregg looked for a moment like she was about to break into song, but her gaze shifted past McLean towards the door, worry in her eyes.

  ‘There you are. Where the hell have you been, Tony?’

  McLean didn’t need to turn to know that Detective Superintendent Jayne McIntyre had entered the room. He did anyway, since she wanted to talk to him and he had much to tell her.