Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  Ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid sat at his desk. His anglepoise lamp cast light on whatever he was reading and reflected brightly off the shiny bald top of his head. He looked up at the noise, pulled his spectacles down to the tip of his nose and peered over them.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ he said, although not unkindly. ‘Why do I get the impression you’re looking for something?’

  McLean ignored the half-hearted insult. ‘I spoke to Grace Ramsay a couple of days ago. She said I should ask you about the cold-case files where she was SIO on the original investigations. That make any sense to you?’

  ‘Nothing that woman says makes any sense to me.’ Duguid took off his spectacles, folded them carefully and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket before standing up. He stalked across to the long row of filing cabinets at the far end of the room, ran his fingers down them one by one until he found what he was looking for.

  ‘Missing-persons cases. She was always obsessed with them. Saw connections where there weren’t any. Ignored obvious conclusions in favour of something much more complicated.’ He pulled out a drawer, flipped through it, then fished out a slim folder. McLean had thought he was going to hand it over to him, but instead Duguid closed the cabinet and took the folder back to his desk before speaking again.

  ‘Reminds me a bit of you really. Or maybe you remind me of her. That’d explain why I always thought you were so insufferable.’

  ‘You do realise her own daughter’s gone missing,’ McLean said.

  ‘Which is exactly why you should take anything she says with a fistful of salt. She’s unreliable and emotionally attached. And bonkers with it.’

  And you’re not? McLean managed to keep the thought to himself. ‘Well, we’ve got bones from at least three bodies up on Oakhill Moor, one of which shows signs of a pre-mortem healed fracture that could well be on a medical record somewhere.’

  Duguid had opened up his new folder and was reaching for his spectacles again, but he gave up, sat back in his seat with a sigh. ‘And you want me to look into it.’

  ‘You as in the CCU, yes. Angus should have all the details to you by the end of the day.’

  ‘As you can see, we’re not exactly over-staffed here.’ Duguid raised both hands, palms up, to indicate the otherwise empty room. ‘I’ve even lost my loyal sidekick, and he’s meant to be retiring at the end of the month.’

  McLean shrugged. They were all short staffed, but this needed looking into. He’d work out how to pay for it once it was done.

  ‘I’ll see about getting you some help. But you need to go easy on the young constables. The last lot won’t even look me in the eye any more.’

  34

  Leaving Duguid to his miserable loneliness, McLean walked the short distance along the basement corridor to the room given over to the IT forensics team, ever hopeful that they might have been able to do something with Anya Renfrew’s phone. He didn’t often visit, possibly because him and electronics were barely on speaking terms, and possibly because there was a certain aroma about the place. The only window was a light well, but the same could be said about the Cold Case Unit at the other side of the station, and that didn’t smell like a teenage boy’s bedroom. The underlying whiff of fried electronics didn’t help either. At least the man who ruled this subterranean domain was dependable. And clean. Mike Simpson had been part of the support team in the station almost as long as Anya Renfrew.

  ‘Bastard thing wasn’t easy to crack, y’know.’

  ‘But you managed, right?’ McLean looked at the phone lying in a hastily cleared space on an otherwise cluttered workbench. It looked a lot like the old physics lab at school, far more 1970s and a lot less technical than he would have expected. The phone itself was by far the most modern piece of equipment to be seen.

  ‘Oh ye of little faith.’ Simpson reached for the phone, clicked a button on the side and the screen lit up. No passcode request, no invitation to read a thumbprint. Just a standard smartphone screen with remarkably few icons on display.

  ‘Of course, it’d be a different story if this was an iPhone. They’re not infallible, but they’re a lot harder to break into. This would normally be easy, but whoever owns it knows their security.’

  ‘Nobody told you who it belongs to?’

  Simpson shook his head slightly. ‘It’s usually need-to-know. I don’t, so I never ask. I was told it was important and needed doing quickly, but that’s pretty standard too.’

  ‘Can I?’ McLean reached for the phone but didn’t pick it up. The cable plugged into the charging socket looked rather more jury-rigged than standard and he didn’t want to break anything.

  ‘Sure.’ Simpson tugged it out without a care, then handed the phone over. ‘It’s got a full charge now. Should be good for a while. We’ve mirrored the memory on this little thing.’ He tapped a squat grey plastic box on the workbench. ‘It’s a full backup, so we can dig through the apps and settings without worrying about losing stuff.’

  McLean tapped at the screen to wake it again. He should probably give the phone to one of the younger detectives to work through, but there was no harm in looking at the text messages, contacts and any photos that might be on it. The call log showed several attempts by Police Scotland to call the number since the previous Friday, but nothing outgoing. The standard texts were all about meeting up at Fanny’s Folk Club, and none of them were less than a month old. They’d be followed up of course, but it wasn’t exactly the breakthrough he’d been hoping for.

  ‘Is this the only messaging service on the phone?’ he asked, after peering at the screen for a while longer. He knew when he was defeated by technology.

  ‘SMS?’ Simpson took the handset from him and swiped at the screen a couple of times. Then he tapped at an icon and pushed his spectacles back up his nose to get a better look. ‘Here we go. Good old WhatsApp. Seems whoever owned this was part of a group calling themselves the GoodDog Group. Looks like they exchanged messages and arranged meetings. Ah. Ew.’

  ‘What?’ McLean leaned over so that he could see what Simpson was looking at. Then wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ The technician angled the screen, leaned in close, then pulled back again. ‘Ew.’

  ‘WhatsApp’s secure, encrypted and all that stuff, right?’ McLean asked as Simpson handed him the phone as if it was a baby’s soiled nappy.

  ‘That’s the one. If we’d not been able to get into this phone, we’d never have been able to crack those messages. Given that photograph I think that might probably have been a good thing. Not sure I’m going to forget that in a while, and I’ve seen stuff doing this job, let me tell you.’

  McLean swiped away the image, unsure he’d be able to forget it in a while either. There were other messages in the conversation though, many dated from the previous Friday night. He scrolled down until he reached the last, thankfully text only this time. It came from somebody calling themselves JackieBigTits.

  Police presence at BGC. New meeting site at this location. GoodDogs are go! JBTx

  He tapped the underlined word, and the phone opened a mapping app. A message flashed up about no internet connection, but he didn’t need it to connect to know where the meeting had been. The app was already centred on the car park at Gladhouse.

  ‘Don’t suppose we’ve any way of finding out who this person is?’ McLean pointed at the screen, which Simpson seemed reluctant to look at again.

  ‘There’s a number associated with the account. We can try tracking it back to an owner, but if they’ve any sense it’ll be a burner phone.’ Simpson took the phone back, tapped away at the screen for a moment, then walked over to his computer terminal. Writing down the number on a slip of paper by the keyboard seemed somewhat low-tech to McLean, but he wasn’t going to point that out if it worked. He waited while the IT specialist tapped and scrolled away. If all else failed, he
could always try texting Jackie Big Tits, he supposed. Maybe even phone her. Or him.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ Simpson stood up straight, angling the terminal screen so that McLean could see. A match for the number and an entry on the database. He read the name with a sense of disbelief.

  ‘If this name and address are correct, clearly not as much as I thought. Thanks, Mike. This should make for a very interesting interview.’

  McLean had never met Danielle Murray before, but he knew well enough who she was. Or at least he had thought he did. He’d read her reviews in the weekend papers, and even managed to wade through the first three chapters of her debut novel before something more interesting had distracted him. He’d seen photographs of her at posh literary events and never really thought much about what she looked like; it wasn’t important, after all. Now, as she sat across the table from him in interview room one, he could understand the pseudonym she used for the GoodDog Group.

  ‘I must say, this is most irregular, Detective Chief Inspector. The officers who brought me here refused to say why. Only that it was of the utmost importance and urgency.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t know why. I thought it best to keep the circle of people who do to a minimum. It’s just me at the moment. I expect you’ll probably want us to keep it that way.’ He didn’t bother telling her about Mike Simpson, confident that the IT specialist wouldn’t be the source of any leak.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ Murray said.

  ‘Perhaps the phrase “GoodDog” means something to you? Or maybe “Jackie Big Tits”?’

  If he hadn’t been trained in observing people, and with many years’ experience behind him, McLean might have missed the tell. Murray didn’t flinch at the words, but her expression remained just a little too bland. The second of the two phrases at least should have warranted some reaction from a woman of her stature. She stared at him impassively for a count of five seconds, then shook her head slowly.

  ‘No. Can’t say they do.’

  ‘So you don’t know anything about this message then?’ He slid Renfrew’s phone from its evidence bag, switched it on and tapped the icons until he found what he was looking for. Turned the whole thing around and placed it, screen up, on the table between them. ‘It was sent from your mobile.’

  Murray stared at the screen for a long while, and now the conflicting emotions played across her face like a cartoon. McLean gave her the time she needed to come to terms with what she was seeing.

  ‘I don’t . . . That is, I . . .’ She picked up the phone. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘It belongs to another member of your . . .’ McLean struggled for a collective noun. ‘ . . . group? She was out at Gladhouse last Friday, same as you. Unlike you, she never made it home.’

  ‘Oh.’ Murray thumbed the screen, then put the phone back down again. ‘Oh my God. Amazing Grace? What happened? Is she . . . ?’

  Amazing Grace? Well, it made sense, he supposed. McLean leaned back in his seat, almost folded his hands across his chest too, but stopped himself at the last minute. ‘So you do actually know about the GoodDog Group, and you are, in fact, Jackie Big Tits.’

  As if to emphasise the name, Murray clasped her hands to her ample bosom theatrically. ‘What can I say? My secret is out. Are you going to arrest me now?’

  ‘What you do isn’t illegal.’ McLean held up one hand and waved it about. ‘Well, not strictly speaking. It’s a bit of a grey area, as I’m sure you know. That’s why you relocated to Gladhouse last Friday, isn’t it. “Police presence at BGC”. That’s Braids Golf Club, I’m guessing. We had a few complaints, and that’s when having sex in public becomes an offence. When people are offended and complain to us about it.’

  Murray said nothing, but he could see the look in her eyes. She wasn’t stupid.

  ‘So why Gladhouse? Who decided that was to be the place?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I was just given the details and asked to pass them on. It’s quite a way off our normal patch, but this time of year, and this weather? We go where we can. Like you say, it’s not illegal until someone sees and is offended enough to make a complaint. Everyone’s much happier if that doesn’t happen.’

  Now that she had come to terms with the initial shock of discovery, Murray seemed surprisingly unashamed about her participation in the city’s dogging scene. McLean supposed he should be glad, although the whole thing left him feeling ever so slightly unclean. Well, it would be time to go home soon. Then he could have a shower. A long, cold one.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me who gave you the details?’ he asked.

  ‘His user name is Big Jim. That’s all I know. Well, apart from that it’s apt. Might recognise him in the street, but I’ve no idea what his real name is, or what he does other than . . . well.’

  ‘Is there a meeting this weekend?’

  Murray gave him a grin that could only be described as lascivious. ‘Why, Chief Inspector? Were you thinking of coming along? We do have one or two police officers who are regulars, you know.’ She switched from playful to serious in an instant. ‘But no. Not that I know of. I’m sure we’re not the only group active in the city, but once a month’s more than enough for me. Anticipation is a large part of the thrill, don’t you think?’

  He ignored that. ‘Was there anything unusual about last Friday’s meeting? Apart from the location, that is? Any new faces, unwelcome behaviour, that sort of thing?’

  Murray thought for a moment before answering, always a good sign. ‘Not that I noticed, although I wasn’t necessarily paying much attention to the other people there. Well, some of them. Seemed to be a good evening. I probably left earlier than most. Had to file a review for the paper.’

  For a moment McLean thought she meant a review about her experiences in the woods, then he remembered her day job. He glanced at his watch, aware that it was getting late and he had places to be. He gathered up the phone and put it back in the bag, picked up his unused notebook.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Murray. You’ve been very helpful. I might have some more questions for you later, but that’s enough to be going on with.’ He stood up, and she did the same, a look of uncertainty coming onto her face now.

  ‘This . . . It’s just helping with enquiries, right? And the whole Jackie thing’s just between the two of us.’

  ‘I’m not interested in spreading malicious gossip, if that’s what you mean. Until we find An— . . . Amazing Grace though, I can’t promise anything. If we find her and something’s happened, there’ll be an enquiry. I can’t predict what that will turn up, so let’s just hope we find her soon, and well.’ There was no point in asking her not to talk to the group about it. He knew that she would anyway, and who knew? Maybe that would shake something loose.

  ‘Thank you.’ Murray held his gaze for a little longer than was necessary. ‘I’ve not met a detective before who was so . . . understanding?’

  McLean shrugged. He’d have called it calculating himself. ‘There was one thing I was wondering though. Why Jackie Big Tits? You don’t look like a Kooks fan to me.’

  Murray’s frown suggested that she’d not got the reference. ‘My mother’s name is Jacqueline. Horrible prude of a woman, always sneering at people, spends most of her time in church these days. And, well . . .’ She pointed at her chest with both hands, smiled. ‘What else could I be?’

  35

  In the end the shower had been warm, and far too short for his liking. McLean had left the station at a reasonable enough time, but he knew better than to try and explain his late arrival home on bad traffic. Emma’s pursed lips and tapping foot had been warning enough. She’d calmed down a bit once they were in the taxi and on their way, and by the time they arrived she was almost speaking to him.

  The gallery where Meg Turner’s exhibition was on display was a new one on him. Tucked away in a side street in th
e West End, it would have been easy to overlook the gap in the railings, and the tiny window looking onto a narrow light well promised a crowded room beyond. Hardly the best place to step back and admire some pictures.

  ‘You sure this is the place?’ he asked as Emma waited impatiently for him to catch up. He could see by her scowl it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘Bloody well better be. We’re late already. Hurry up, Tony.’

  As far as he was aware, they were maybe fifteen minutes past the opening time. If he knew anything about art establishments, it was that they were at least an hour early. If they were lucky, there would be no one to let them in yet, and they could nip around the corner to the pub. He wasn’t feeling lucky though. Sticky, yes, despite having showered and changed not long ago. The sun might have dipped behind the tall buildings now, but its heat still radiated from the stone.

  Emma couldn’t wait for him any more, descending a short flight of stairs and disappearing inside. He paused for long enough to read a small brass sign fixed to the rail at the top of the steps.

  Galleria Subterranea – Fine Art Exhibitors

  Beside it, a less permanent poster advertised that this was indeed the right place, and that tonight was the opening night of a week-long exhibition by the artist Megan Turner, a series of paintings and sculptures inspired by her visits to mass graves and other sites of genocide around the world. Taking a deep breath, McLean set off down the stairs. He hoped there would at the very least be wine to drink. Preferably lots of it.

  ‘Tony, Emma. You came.’ McLean had barely stepped inside the front door before he was being swept into a fierce hug. Professor Turner – Hattie, he reminded himself – was dressed in the same somewhat shabby manner as when she and Meg had come to dinner. Her wife, on the other hand, had made more of an effort. Her face was flawlessly made up, she wore an elegant black dress and had tied back her hair in a neat braid. Her necklace looked expensive, diamonds sparkling in silver, and she clutched a glass of champagne with fingers that couldn’t quite keep still. Nervous at her opening night, perhaps.