‘These other points are where we found these.’ The detective sergeant bent down and lifted up two clear evidence bags from under his table. Each contained a battered high-heeled shoe, one missing its heel and neither suitable for woodland walking. He put them back down again, then tapped a heavy finger on each of the marks in turn, dragging it along to the point where the bag had been found. ‘Not quite a straight line, but no’ far off it either. And if you trace it back . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t need to. They could all see the point where Renfrew’s car had burned out.
‘Why go that way though? Was she being chased by someone?’ Harrison asked. ‘And where does it go?’
McLean squinted at the map, the contour lines like a migraine halo under the green of the forest canopy. There were all too many mine workings, hidden monuments, old cairns and the like marked around the area, and then everything rose up towards the moorland and the hills. But there was one small cluster of buildings close to the imaginary straight line that speared away from where they were, through where they had found the bag and on to infinity.
‘What’s that place?’ McLean obliterated it with a finger, turning to Sergeant Donaldson.
‘Woodhill Farm? That’s Sandy Bayne’s place. But it’s miles from here. No way someone would walk that far through these woods.’
McLean wasn’t so sure. Desperation and fear could do strange things to a person. ‘We should check it out anyway.’
‘Already done, sir. Josh – Constable Harker – paid them a visit last night.’
‘On his own? Or did he have a search team with him?’
The old sergeant looked puzzled for a moment. ‘He had another constable with him, but –’
‘I’m sure they’re both very competent, but in the light of this discovery, I think we should visit again. Take a team out with us.’
Donaldson said nothing for a moment, his silent stillness betraying some inner argument eventually won by the side of reason. ‘I’ll get it sorted.’
‘Thanks. Let me know when you’re heading over there. I’d quite like to tag along.’
Donaldson stared perhaps a moment longer than was strictly necessary before nodding once. ‘Aye, sir. It’ll no’ be today, mind. We need to get this search done so I can have my constables back, aye?’
‘Fair enough.’ McLean checked his watch, glanced back at the trees. The afternoon heat made the forest oppressive, no longer as attractive an alternative to being back at the station with the paperwork as it had been first thing. ‘Give it a couple more hours, and if you’ve not found anything else relevant we’ll call it a day.’
27
‘Aw no, man. I’ve fuckin’ lost it.’
Wee Gav’s about to take a bite out of his piece, but Bobby’s words stop him. From the smell of it, his mum’s made fish paste sandwiches again, so he’s not exactly missing out.
‘Lost what?’
‘Fuckin’ lighter. It was in here, I swear.’ Bobby’s got his rucksack off, one hand inside it throwing stuff around. Gav has no idea what shit his friend keeps in there. Trophies mostly, he guesses. Stuff Bobby’s found lying around, or nicked more likely.
‘When did you last see it?’ He asks the question even though every time his mum does the same it pisses him off. It seems to have much the same effect on Bobby.
‘Fuck should I know? When we torched that car mebbe?’
Gav lets the ‘we’ in that sentence go. It’s been a couple of days now, and he still worries about the call he made from the phone box. Stupid really. He knows well enough they can track a mobile; that’s why he didn’t use his. Well, that and the fact Bobby’d ‘borrowed’ it to play games on and run the battery down. Of course they’d know exactly where he was calling from. Same way the number shows up on the landline at home.
‘You no’ use it since then?’ Gav dumps the uneaten fish paste sandwich back in his lunch box, poking around in the hope that there might be a Mars Bar in there he didn’t notice before. It’s still just the spotty yellow apple and the wrapper from the bag of crisps he ate already. Even the juice is gone, and this heat’s making him thirsty.
‘Ah fuck it. Must’ve dropped it. Bollocks.’ Bobby throws his rucksack onto the grass bank and slumps down beside Gav. ‘You no’ eatin’ that?’
Bobby’s taken the sandwich and bitten into it before Gav can even answer. He doesn’t mind really. At least his mum made him a piece. Bobby’s mum hardly even remembers to shop for food half the time.
‘What we gonnae do this afternoon then?’ Bobby asks through a mouthful of sliced white and too much margarine.
Gav shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What you wannae do?’ It’s the same old conversation they’ve had a hundred times before. If it was up to him they’d be back home, in his bedroom, playing on the Xbox. But his mum sent them off with a warning not to come back until four. Why can’t she be like the other mums and not let her kids out of her sight?
‘We could go see if there’s anything in the old bothy, aye?’
Last time they’d been there, Bobby had found a half-full bottle of whisky and dared Gav to drink some of it. He almost had, but as soon as they opened it they could tell it was piss. Gav still had a suspicion Bobby had known all along and was just waiting for him to take a swig. Wee tosser.
‘Can’t we just hang out here? It’s too hot to walk all the way up to the bothy.’
‘Aye, you’re right.’ Bobby grabs his rucksack and goes back to searching in it for something. ‘Boring as fuck, mind. An’ I thought school was bad. Holidays suck.’
Gav has to agree. It wasn’t so bad in the winter, when there was no excuse to go outside. If either of them had any money they could catch a bus into the city, but that’s not going to happen. So here they are in the middle of nowhere, up a dirt track out of sight and out of mind. Nothing to do but stare at the sky. Wait until it’s late enough to go home.
‘Here, check this out.’
He smells the smoke at the same time as he hears the words. Confused, Gav rolls over to see what Bobby’s done this time. Maybe he’s found the lighter after all.
‘What you doing?’
It’s a stupid question. He can see well enough what Bobby’s doing. He’s got a magnifying glass that looks a lot like the ones they hand out in biology class. The ones that are all carefully collected at the end of the lesson. He uses it to focus the sunlight onto a patch of dry grass. The smoke appears almost instantly, and then seconds later it bursts into flame.
‘Cool, ain’t it.’ Bobby scrunches the sleeve of his hoodie into his hand to protect his palm, then rubs out the burning grass before it can spread. ‘You want tae try?’
Gav knows he shouldn’t, but it’s kind of cool. And it’s not as if they’ve got anything better to do. He takes the magnifying glass, kneels down and looks for a good spot. They’re at the edge of the moors here; there’s heather and that spiky grass he doesn’t know the name of. Everything’s bone dry, baked by weeks of sun and no rain. Still, it’s not like he’s going to set the whole hill on fire.
The focused point of light is almost too bright to look at, the sun so strong it’s easy to get that hot spot and move it around. He’s not done this for ages. Not since he was a wee kid. Dad used to show him how to do it. Use the burning light to carve his name in a piece of wood. But Dad fucked off to live with Abby, and Mum’s too busy working to ever play.
‘Fuuuck.’ Bobby’s voice is full of admiration, and Gav realises he’s let his mind wander, left the magnifier burning too long on a piece of heather. White smoke billows out from the tangle of stems and roots, too much to pat out with his sleeve, and anyway he can’t see where the flame is. A moment later and it’s everywhere, exploding out of the ground like it was soaked in petrol. Gav springs away, trips, falls on his backside, unable to take his eyes off the growing fire.
‘Gav, pal. We gotta
split. Come on.’ A hand on his shoulder breaks the spell, and Gav scrambles to his feet. Bobby’s already got his rucksack over his shoulder, Gav’s bag in one hand. They slither down the bank to the track and their bikes, the sky darkening overhead as smoke begins to blot out the sun that started it all. Fuck, but he’s going to get in trouble for this if they catch him.
As he pedals like fuck to catch up with his mate, Gav can’t tell whether the noise is the clattering of his bike chain or the crackling of flames.
28
Thick black smoke palled the southern sky as McLean drove around the bypass, heading for the forensics labs and the remains of Anya Renfrew’s BMW. Harrison had called him twenty minutes after he’d left the scene, a wildfire on the moors not far from the woods that were currently being searched. Or more accurately, where the search had been called off because it wasn’t safe and every trained officer in the vicinity was needed for something more urgent. The long, hot spell had left everything tinder-dry, so it wouldn’t have taken much to spark it alight. In many ways they’d been lucky the burning car hadn’t set the forest ablaze the day before, but he didn’t much fancy its chances now.
Dr Cairns met him in Reception as he was countersigning the chain of evidence form for the handbag. He’d brought it in mostly as an excuse for coming to the labs rather than going back to the station. There wasn’t much Forensics could do with it, and the phone would need to go to the IT labs. He’d probably need the keys too. If DS Gregg had managed to find an address for Renfrew’s place in Pilrig.
‘We’ve done what we can with it, but there’s only so far you can go when something’s been burned. Fire’s not the best way of preserving forensic evidence.’ Cairns led him through to the workshops at the back of the building. The burned-out hulk had been placed in a separate bay at the far end, where the stench of it wouldn’t put everyone off their lunch. McLean hadn’t thought there was much of a breeze at the woodland car park where they’d found the car, but it had been enough to shift the worst of the smell. Here in an enclosed space, even with the roller shutter wide open, it was eye-watering.
‘Christ. That’s strong.’
‘Here. Pop this on. It’ll help.’ Cairns handed McLean a face mask.
‘How am I supposed to ask questions with this over my mouth?’ he asked. Her smile suggested that she rather hoped he wouldn’t.
‘Let’s just make it quick, aye?’ He held his hand up to his mouth and nose, to little useful effect. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘As good as we can tell, the fire was started by a flame applied under the dashboard on the driver’s side. To the right of the steering wheel, so either they were leaning in to do it or they’re right handed and sitting in the driver’s seat.’ Cairns walked around the car as she spoke, pointing at things McLean found hard to focus on through watery eyes.
‘The worst of the damage is on that side, and it’s fairly well contained to the interior. These things are more reluctant to burn than they used to be, which makes our job a little easier. We’ve pulled the satnav out. It’s got a tracker function, so there’s a chance we might be able to pull recent routes from it if it’s not been totally fried by the heat. I wouldn’t pin too many hopes on that though. Electronics don’t like being cooked.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Aye. Like I said at the scene, the car wasn’t locked. We can’t get anything from the inside, but the door handles front and back have both got usable prints on them. Passenger side’s best, where the fire didn’t do too much damage.’
‘Prints?’ McLean hadn’t really considered the possibility. ‘Any matches?’
‘We’re running them at the moment. They’re only partials, and chances are they’ll be mostly the owner’s. You’ve got hers on file, I take it?’
‘Should have. She works for us.’ McLean couldn’t remember whether admin support staff were routinely fingerprinted these days.
‘We’ll find out soon enough. She wasn’t particularly small though, was she? Have kids?’ Cairns continued her journey around the car as she talked, coming to a halt at the front passenger door.
‘Small?’ McLean did his best to picture Anya Renfrew in his mind without thinking too hard about the exotic clothing they’d found at her home. The woman he remembered from countless investigations was probably about the same height as he was. Slight, maybe, but not small. ‘Not especially. Why?’
‘We got the cleanest prints from the passenger door handle here.’ Cairns crouched down and pointed, but McLean was happy to keep his distance. ‘They’re too small for a normal adult though. If she had a child, maybe picked up from school or something, that’d explain it.’
‘No, she doesn’t have any children. Well, not that we know of.’
Cairns shrugged. ‘We’ll run them anyway. Might get a hit. Might match the ones we pulled from the lighter.’
‘What, the one you found under the car?’ McLean raised an astonished eyebrow.
‘Oh ye of little faith, Chief Inspector. Come. Let’s get out of this stinking garage and I’ll let you see.’
The air was much sweeter back in the main laboratory building, although McLean still caught whiffs of burned plastic every so often. Either the taint had infused into his suit or it was one of those smells that was going to follow him around for a while. Dr Cairns led him along a corridor that wouldn’t have looked out of place in his old school science block, and in through an open door to a well-lit room kitted out with expensive-looking machines. Over on a far bench a plastic evidence bag held the small, silver Zippo.
‘We’ve taken everything off it we can, but best you wear gloves anyway.’ The forensic scientist handed him a pair from a nearby box. By the time McLean had struggled into them, she had snapped on her own pair and removed the lighter from its bag.
‘We managed to lift quite a few prints off it in the end. They’re all only partials, badly smeared, but we’ll see what we can do with them. Like the car door handle, they’re mostly small though. Either an adult with tiny hands or a child.’
‘The 999 call was made by a child. Could be his, or his friend’s?’ McLean searched his memory for the name. Bobby, that was it. ‘You said they’re mostly small? Not all of them though?’
‘Aye. We managed to get a good print off the inside where you put the fuel, look.’ Cairns took the lighter back from him, flipped the lid, then pulled the strike wheel assembly away from the body. It slid out to reveal an inner sleeve. ‘We found a full thumb on one side, partial finger on the other. Definitely adult prints. If they’re in the database we’ll know who last refilled it at least.’
‘I’m impressed.’ McLean waited while Cairns reassembled the lighter and gave it back to him. He remembered having one like it when he was a teenager. Not that he’d ever smoked, but it was the sort of illicit possession that raised your cool quotient at school. His hadn’t been engraved though.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve any ideas about the inscription.’ He held the lighter up to the light, angling it so that he could make out more clearly the initials etched into the shiny surface. ‘J.D.F.’ And underneath that a date, ‘22nd July 1997’.
‘No idea. Someone’s birthday, maybe? Whoever J.D.F. is, I’d guess. Probably a twenty-first or eighteenth or something. It’s a fairly standard Zippo otherwise. Nothing special.’
McLean turned the lighter over, studying it for clues, finding none. If it came down to it, he could get a constable to run the date through the system and see if it came up with anything, but the fingerprints were a better bet.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any update on the DNA samples yet.’
Cairns gave him a look that perfectly described how stupid a question that had been. ‘You’ll get the results as soon as we have them. Can’t do any better than that. There’s more than a hundred of those slippery wee things, you know? Christ only knows what was going on in those woo
ds.’
‘Still, at least they were using protection, eh?’ McLean said, and the withering stare Dr Cairns gave him suggested it was most probably time to leave.
The black smoke still hung over the southern sky as McLean drove back from the forensics labs to the station. Cocooned in air-conditioned luxury, he couldn’t smell it, but the short walk from building to car had brought the faintest whiff of bonfire. Far more pleasant than the acrid stench of burned plastic, but unlikely to be much fun for the many fire crews who would be out tackling the blaze. What had the uniformed sergeant from Penicuik said? There’d been a spate of fires in the area, always were when the weather turned dry like this. Had this one started simply from a badly parked car? Or was it no coincidence it was only a short distance from the woods they’d been searching?
A squad of constables were climbing into the back of a Transit van as he parked his Alfa and squeezed through into the building. Empty spaces showed where yet more vans had left already. McLean didn’t need to ask where they were going. He even toyed with the idea of offering to help, except that he’d more likely get in the way than anything else.
There wasn’t much point going to either the control room for Operation Caterwaul or the small incident room across the corridor from it that they’d set up for the Anya Renfrew investigation. The first had been on hold following her disappearance, and it looked like the second was going to be on hold at least until the fire on the moors was under control. How much else that buggered things up was anyone’s guess. He went instead to his own office, took one look at the piles of folders on his desk, and continued on to see McIntyre. Her office door stood open, so he knocked once on the frame and stepped inside.
Bury Them Deep Page 15
