Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  ‘Tony, it’s good to see you again.’ She held out her free hand to be shaken, which McLean found he preferred to the hug.

  ‘I hope we’re not too early,’ he said. ‘I’m never sure with these things.’

  ‘Punctuality is the politeness of kings. And of course it’s easier to see the paintings when the gallery’s not full.’

  At the mention of paintings, Meg turned slightly, sweeping her arm in the direction of the main body of the gallery. The reception area was something of a mezzanine, more steps descending to a much larger room beyond, and McLean was surprised at just how large the room was, how far back it stretched under the tenements above. He wouldn’t have thought that a vaulted basement would lend itself to such a use, but the stone had been painted white, and someone worth every penny of their fee had designed a lighting system that seemed to cast no awkward shadows. The paintings hung on stands either side of the space, sculptures dotted around the centre on daises of varying height.

  A glass balustrade gave him a clear view of the exhibition floor, and, as he looked around, McLean could see that he and Emma weren’t the first to arrive. The room would take ten times the number of people already there before it felt crowded though.

  ‘I have to confess to having a bit of a dead eye when it comes to art.’ McLean turned back to Meg, who was standing beside a larger version of the poster on the railings outside. It was dominated by a reproduction of one of her works, an abstract composition of mostly black and red, with here and there flecks of white like bone splinters. ‘The subject matter’s . . . interesting too.’

  Meg laughed, an almost girlie giggle that was surprising yet fitted her perfectly. ‘Truth be told, most of the people here have a dead eye for art. It’s just that they like to be seen at events like this. Grab yourself a glass of fizz, Tony. Stand in front of any one of these pictures and just listen to what other people say about it. You’ll be surprised, trust me.’

  He tried to tell whether Meg was joking, but she was too well made up, and her eyes had that odd colour to them he remembered from their dinner. Definitely contacts, or she was some kind of faerie. He glanced back to where Emma was still talking to the professor, hopeful of some moral support. The two of them were deep in conversation and quite oblivious to anyone else. More people were coming in through the door now too. Meg would need to greet them.

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ he said. At the top of the stairs leading down to the gallery, a table was laid out with glasses of champagne; orange juice for those who preferred their art sober. He considered it for all of a second before opting for something fizzy and, with a deep breath, descended into the fray.

  ‘Fascinating how she blends the surreal and the horrific in a melange of sensual brushwork, don’t you think?’

  McLean stared at what to him looked like an abstract depiction of a coal hearth as the embers died down to nothing. Beside him a young man with awkward facial hair was talking to a woman in a kimono, who kept wafting herself with a fan like a geisha even though she was more likely from Tranent than Tokyo. Top marks for effort with her costume though.

  ‘It all seems a bit brutal to me. The darkness crushes your soul, sucks it in and you become one with the oils.’

  Definitely Tranent, by way of the Glasgow School of Art department of pseudo-intellectualism. He’d been just as much of a twat at that age of course; in his case a student trying to impress with his rather flawed knowledge of basic psychology, arrogant in his certainty that he knew all there was to know about a subject he’d only just begun to study. And at least they were both trying. If a little too hard.

  Turning away, his attention was caught by a sculpture off towards the back of the gallery. He paused for long enough to allow a young waiter to refill his glass, and ambled over for a closer look. About a metre high, it was made from strands of rusted steel razor wire, twisted into something that might have been a horse’s head in one of Picasso’s more wild nightmares. There was no denying that it was a powerful piece of work, but he wasn’t sure he’d want it in his home. Chances were he’d cut himself on it and end up with tetanus, for one thing.

  ‘What are you thinking, Tony?’

  He turned a little too swiftly, the familiar twinge of pain shooting up his hip where he’d broken the bone some years earlier. Meg had crept up on him unawares, something that wasn’t too hard given the crowd now building in the gallery.

  ‘Honestly?’ he asked.

  ‘Always.’

  He looked back at the piece again, speaking to it rather than her. ‘It’s impressive, evocative. There’s certainly pain in there, and terror too.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t give it house room.’ Meg smiled.

  ‘Your words, not mine.’ McLean shrugged. ‘But no. I’d be worried about tearing my clothes. Or worse.’

  ‘You’re probably right. The wire came from a concentration camp in Uganda. One of my darker periods, I think.’ Meg’s eyes lost their focus for a moment, no doubt seeing something that had happened long ago. Then she snapped back to herself with a jolt. ‘Oh bugger. What’s she doing here?’

  McLean followed her gaze across the gallery towards the stairs down from the mezzanine. For a moment he couldn’t work out who among the many women in the crowd such a heavily emphasised ‘she’ could refer to. Then he spotted her, leading from the front.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that Danielle Murray?’ he asked.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Not exactly, but we have met. She’s art critic for one of the broadsheets, isn’t she?’

  ‘She gave me a horrible review the last time I had a show up here. Thought I’d told Robert to keep her name off the invitation list.’

  ‘Do you think that would have helped?’

  ‘Probably not. She’d just make up some snark anyway.’ Meg drained her glass, looked around for a refill. ‘I suppose I’d better go and talk to her, at least try to be civil.’

  McLean spotted a passing waiter and managed to grab two full glasses off his tray before he disappeared. He handed one to Meg. ‘Here. Why don’t I come and give you some moral support.’

  36

  Who is she?

  Light burns through the closed lids of her eyes, red like blood. For a while she is convinced it is the sun beating down on her like an abusive partner, flaying the skin from her face with its merciless heat. But she feels no warmth, only a deep bone-chill that sends spasms of shivering through her.

  Who is she?

  Movement is futile, impossible. The heavy weight of a coarse blanket pins her down without giving her any warmth. She can only lie shivering, sluggish thoughts picking around the central question of her identity. She doesn’t know how she came to be here, where here is, what has happened to her. But she knows she cannot move. Or is it that she must not move? In case the monster sees her, comes for her?

  Another spasm of shivering, and this time she instinctively curls in on herself for warmth. Foetal. It’s only as she feels her bony knees against her arms that she understands she is not strapped down. Why did she think she was?

  Fearful, she holds still in this new position, the light less bright on her tight-closed eyes. She strains to hear the beast approaching, but there is nothing save a distant trickle of water. She listens to it for a long time, not daring to move, but as she concentrates on the sound, so the pressure builds up in her bladder, the burn between her legs growing ever more insistent.

  The light is not bright when she opens her eyes, but it hurts none the less. For a while all she can do is blink and squint, details slowly resolving themselves in her vision. A dirt floor, hard-packed. Stone walls painted white. She lies on her side on a narrow bed, the mattress bare and stained, the blanket too small, too thin. A pair of old tin buckets stand in the far corner of her cell, and as she sees them she realises that this is, indeed, a cell.

  Who is she?

 
; Reaching bare feet out, she shifts slowly into a seated position. She is naked, but clean. A memory of being washed, an old woman’s voice, rough flannel like an animal’s tongue on her skin. Cold. She looks at her arms, the scratches dark, the bruises yellowing at their edges. Running through trees, chased, terrified. She remembers it now, but it is almost as if she watched it happen to another person. She feels no connection to the events. No connection to anything.

  Shivers run through her, chattering her teeth together as she hugs herself tight. But there is no warmth in her arms, and the pressure in her bladder is unbearable. She stands, sways, almost blacks out. A moment to gather herself, then she steps over to the buckets. One has a wooden lid, and underneath it is empty. The other holds water, that same rough flannel draped over the lip. She relieves herself in the first bucket, a sour smell filling her tiny cell until she puts the lid back in place.

  It’s only as she’s cleaning herself with the wetted flannel that she realises how empty she feels. Beyond hunger, she is hollowed out. Weak from it, and so cold. She can’t remember the last time she ate anything, but then neither can she remember how she came to be here.

  Or who she is.

  She walks slowly to the door, a heavy thing of ancient oak planks and black iron nails. A small hatch at head height might look out onto whatever lies beyond, were it not covered over on the outside. At her feet, unnoticed in the gloom until now, she finds a tray with a cup and a jug. No food, only water. As she bends to pick them up, the world darkens even further, tilting dangerously so that she is forced to retreat to the bed, sit before she falls.

  The water tastes flat, as if it has sat in the jug a long while. There’s an odd bitterness to it too, that she only notices after the first cupful. She doesn’t care, drinks it all just to feel some weight in her empty stomach. And then with sudden violence it all comes rushing back up again. She spews so hard she thinks she might have broken her ribs, spasms and chokes and retches. Somehow she has gone from sitting on the bed to crouching on the floor, hands pressed hard into the dirt.

  She vomits until there is nothing left in her but bile. Then she vomits some more. A dark line marks the ground where the water has soaked in, reaching almost as far as the bucket in the corner. By the time the roiling in her stomach has settled she is so weak she can barely struggle back onto the bed. She hugs the useless blanket about her, curls up into as tight a ball as she can, shivering both at the shock and the cold. Somewhere deep down she feels this is penance, punishment for some terrible sin. But, as she drifts once more into frozen oblivion, she can’t help but wish her hell was one of fire.

  37

  The call came in as he was driving across the meadows, breaking through the music McLean had managed to coax out of the overly complicated radio in his Alfa. Early Monday morning after a sort of weekend off. Sort of because while he’d managed to spend most of it at home, he’d still been working, much to Emma’s annoyance. It wasn’t as if he could go anywhere of course. Not with Renfrew missing, Operation Caterwaul in limbo, bones found on the moors and the budgets shot to pieces. But he was doing his best, and he wished she could see that.

  A quick glance showed that it was the forensics lab, so he tapped the button on the big screen to accept it.

  ‘McLean.’

  A moment’s silence, as if the person making the call hadn’t been expecting an answer. Then the familiar voice of Amanda Parsons, forensic technician and DC Harrison’s flatmate, cut in. ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘I am indeed, Ms Parsons. But it’s hands-free, so you don’t need to worry.’

  ‘“Ms Parsons”? You sound like my boss. Call me Manda, please. If only to wind up poor Janie.’

  ‘I thought you were on holiday, Manda.’ McLean gave in, knowing that it would take longer for the forensic technician to get to the point than it would for him to drive to the station otherwise.

  ‘Aye, I was. But someone asked us to DNA sample a couple hundred used condoms, so they called everyone in for a party. My fault for letting slip I wasn’t leaving the country, I guess.’

  McLean shifted in his seat, uncomfortable even though Amanda Parsons was many miles away. ‘I did tell Doctor Cairns it wasn’t highest priority. It could have waited –’

  ‘Till I got back? Aye, you’re all heart, Detective Chief Inspector. I was still going to be the one lumbered with the job.’

  ‘I take it you’ve not called just to moan at me about it though? Seems a bit early for results already.’

  ‘Aye, well. We’ve not run them all, and we’ve only done preliminary tests to weed out the duplicates. We’ve a couple potential hits off the offenders’ register though. High enough confidence to be worth taking further, I’d guess. I’ve pinged them off to your team, but I thought you’d like to know soonest.’

  More likely angling for some praise, possibly a favour. Maybe both.

  ‘That’s great work, Manda. Thanks.’ He didn’t tell her that since he’d spoken to Jackie Big Tits the DNA sampling to identify other participants at the dogging site had become less high priority. Mostly because he didn’t want to upset her or Dr Cairns, but also because he’d forgotten all about it. Maybe he really did need a weekend off. A proper one.

  ‘You’ve no right dragging me in like this. It’s harassment, that’s what it is.’

  Even without knowing his background and arrest record, McLean reckoned he wouldn’t have had much time for the man sitting across the table from him in interview room three. Dennis Johns wasn’t the gift to mankind he thought he was. More of a pain in the arse. His nasal whine made him sound like he might burst into tears at any moment, and there was an odour about him that suggested being nervous upset his digestive system. There was plenty for him to be nervous about, unfortunately, and the window in the interview room didn’t open. It did let in the sunlight, which was making everything uncomfortably warm as well as malodorous.

  ‘Mr Johns. Would you have preferred it if we’d asked your employer for a room at work so we could interview you there? What sort of questions do you think they’d have asked once we’d finished?’

  Johns opened his mouth to complain again, then his brain caught up. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong,’ he said, slumping back in his seat like a petulant schoolboy.

  ‘That’s not strictly speaking true now, is it, Mr Johns?’ McLean leaned his elbows on the table and stared at the man over clasped hands. Beside him, Grumpy Bob sat motionless and staring. Detective Sergeant Laird was usually the relaxed and avuncular one in interview situations, but he could outstare a statue when he needed to. Now, with his arms folded across his chest and head tilted ever so slightly to one side, he was creating a dead zone in the room where Johns couldn’t look for more than an instant. He didn’t want to look at McLean either, but eventually he had no choice.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done. You’ve got the wrong man, aye?’

  There was something of the confused ferret about Dennis Johns. His eyes were just too close together, his nose that little bit too long and thin. Perhaps a different hairstyle might have lessened the effect, but there was only so much a barber could do with what little hair the man had. As it was, his widow’s peak gave him the look of a third-rate supervillain from a 1970s comic book. They’d picked him up on his way to work in a data warehouse down in Newhaven, and he was wearing some kind of company uniform that did him no favours either. Dark-brown nylon was never a good look.

  ‘Seems you’ve moved on from grooming teenage girls now, Dennis.’

  ‘I never –’ he started to say, then shut up again.

  ‘You were out at Gladhouse Reservoir week ago last Friday night. Enjoying the local wildlife.’

  Johns went very still in his chair. ‘I never . . .’ he said again.

  ‘DNA says otherwise. You should probably clean up after, you know? Amazing what you can get from a used condom. And,
of course, we’ve got you on the database.’

  ‘It’s not . . . I didn’t . . . You don’t . . . There’s no harm . . .’ Johns’s head twitched from side to side as he looked first at McLean, then at the space occupied by Grumpy Bob, then at McLean again, back and forth. It must have been sore on his neck.

  ‘There’s every harm, Dennis. It is, you did and we do.’ McLean opened up his notepad and fished a pen out of his pocket, perhaps a little more theatrically than was necessary.

  ‘Do I no’ get a solicitor then?’ Johns finally found some backbone in the jelly of his spine.

  ‘Only if we charge you. Which depends on whether or not you cooperate. So. Tell us all about your little session, aye. How’d you find out about it?’

  Something like relief passed across the man’s face. ‘Easy enough. There’s websites and stuff tell you all about what’s happening and where. I can give you the address if you’re interested.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit more sophisticated than that, isn’t it now, Dennis?’ McLean put the pen down on top of the pad. ‘You use secure messaging to arrange meetings, don’t you? And if there’s a crackdown somewhere, you all warn each other, arrange somewhere else to go. That’s what happened last Friday, isn’t it? Heavy police presence at Braid Golf Course, so you all hightail it out to Gladhouse.’

  ‘Why are you asking me this stuff if you know the answers already?’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me how it all works then.’ McLean ignored the question. ‘You head out to a car park in the woods, the back of some shopping centre, somewhere like that. And what? You just wait? Is there a signal? Do the . . . ladies come to you? Or maybe you just like to watch, aye?’