Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  Harrison sat silent, staring out the side window as they tried to identify the correct address. ‘My gran and grandpa have one of these. Up in Fife,’ she said eventually. ‘Used to go there for holidays when I was wee. Can’t imagine living in one all the time, mind.’

  ‘It’s a roof over your head, I guess.’ McLean heard the awkwardness in his voice. He could have fitted one of these whole caravans in his drawing room, a room in his house that he rarely even entered.

  ‘Here. It’s this one, I think. Plot 34, right?’

  McLean stopped the car alongside a caravan that looked to his untrained eye to be exactly the same as all the others in this part of the park. Only when he’d climbed out of the car and approached the steps leading up to the door did he notice the faded number painted on the side. He checked his watch, looked back along the narrow road towards the park entrance. He’d arranged for a child support officer from social services to meet them, but it was anyone’s guess how long it would take them to arrive.

  ‘Think we should wait, or see if there’s anyone home first?’ No sooner had he asked the question than McLean knew it was unfair. Harrison was a detective constable; she would do what she was told. Decisions were his responsibility.

  The problem was solved by the appearance of an elderly woman from the next-door caravan. She was dressed in the thinnest of tops over denim shorts that might have been made by cutting up a pair of old jeans worn at the knees, but equally might have been expensively manufactured to look that way. She had clearly been spending most of the summer sunbathing, as her skin was a colour and texture more often associated with Barbados than Bilston.

  ‘Youse lookin’ for Genevieve, yer out of luck. Took her off in an ambulance yesterday. Reckon she OD’d again, daft bitch.’ The elderly woman raised a stick-thin arm to her face, pressing an e-cigarette to her lips. She took a long drag, the end glowing with a fake red light, then she let out a thick plume of sickly smelling vapour into the air.

  McLean took out his warrant card, but it didn’t seem to impress the woman. She raised a badly painted-on eyebrow and took another drag.

  ‘What about her son, Robert?’

  ‘Bobby? Not seen him today. Probably gone off with that mate of his. They’re always whizzing around on their push bikes. Little terrors, they are.’

  ‘He have a name, this friend? An address?’

  ‘What am I? His secretary?’ The old woman scowled and took another drag of her e-cigarette. The vapour must have calmed her down a little, as once she’d cleared it from her lungs she relented. ‘Wee Gav, everyone calls him, but I know his mum Sheila. Does meals on wheels for some of the old dears round here. Sheila Mason. Lives in Roslin. No’ sure where.’

  With a name and the village to go on, it didn’t take long to get a full address. McLean drove, while Harrison attempted to put a call through to social services redirecting their child support officer. She also tried to get through to the Royal Infirmary over in Little France, to find out what had happened with Genevieve Wilkins, but her call was still in a queue by the time they arrived.

  Sheila Mason lived in a neat semi-detached house in a quiet corner of a seventies housing estate on the south side of Roslin. McLean knew the village mostly from its association with the chapel made famous by Dan Brown. The last time he’d been there was to investigate a dead body found in the River North Esk, where it cut its deep path through the sandstone of Roslin Glen. That had been winter, with snow on the ground, but as he stepped out of the car the summer heat squeezed the air and weighed heavy over the land. In the distance, he could see the black smear where the fire had raged across the moorland. Somewhere over there, hidden from view by closer trees, lay Gladhouse Reservoir and the woods where Anya Renfrew had gone missing.

  ‘Genevieve Wilkins was admitted to the ERI yesterday morning. Drug overdose, apparently. She’d been drinking too though.’ DC Harrison still had her phone in one hand as she climbed out of the car to join him. ‘She’s not likely to be released any time soon. Report’s gone to social services about her son.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be in care? His dad’s in jail and he’s only thirteen years old.’

  ‘Aye, he should. Apparently not though. He’s –’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  McLean and Harrison both turned towards the front door of the house, where a middle-aged woman had appeared. She looked crumpled, hair awry and face a little puffy as if she’d been sleeping. Like the old lady at the caravan park, she was dressed for the heat, which was to say she was not wearing much at all. Her T-shirt had probably fitted fine when it was new, but now it sagged in some places and bulged in others. Her shorts would have embarrassed a girl a third her age.

  ‘Mrs Mason?’ McLean asked.

  ‘No’ since the divorce. Who’s asking?’

  McLean pulled out his warrant card, held it up for her to see and made the introductions. ‘We’re looking for Robert Wilkins. I believe he’s friends with your son, Gavin?’

  ‘Bobby? Is this about his mam?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ McLean took the opening given him. ‘Is he here?’

  Not Mrs Mason scratched at her cheek with a fingernail that had to have been glued on. ‘No’ just the now. Him and my Gavin headed off this morning on their bikes. Probably out on the old railway somewhere.’

  That seemed a bit casual, but then who was he to judge how people raised their children? ‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’

  She shrugged, checked her watch. ‘Twelve, maybe. Unless they’re hungry. Or bored. What’s this all about then? He’s no’ in any trouble, is he?’

  McLean considered the options. They could have Control broadcast a message to all patrols to be on the lookout for two thirteen-year-old boys on bicycles. Then he could head back to the station and get on with all the other work that needed doing. Or they could sit and wait for them to turn up. He was only here on a hunch, a first name that wasn’t exactly unusual in these parts. And yet the fact that Robert Wilkins and Gavin Mason were out unsupervised during the holidays fitted the theory that had brought him here in the first place.

  ‘I don’t suppose we could come in, could we?’ he asked.

  51

  The inside of the house was mercifully cooler than the oppressive afternoon heat outside. Not Mrs Mason led them through a narrow hallway to a kitchen at the back. Big enough for counters and a central table with four chairs around it, the room was dominated by a window looking out over a garden bounded by mature trees. The top of the Pentland Hills could be seen poking above the canopy in the distance, set against a deep-blue, cloudless sky.

  ‘Tea? Or is it a bit too warm for that? I’ve juice in the fridge. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?’

  McLean didn’t need to glance at his watch to know that it was a bit early for that, even if he wasn’t on duty.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a glass of water, if it’s not too much trouble,’ Harrison said.

  ‘Mrs Mason,’ McLean began as the woman went to the fridge and brought out a filter jug.

  ‘Ms Underhill actually. Like I said, Mason was my married name. I’ve been divorced almost a year now.’

  ‘Sorry. Ms Underhill. Your son, Gavin. He’s been friends with Bobby Wilkins a while?’

  Underhill passed two glasses of cold water to them, took up a third for herself. ‘Since they were at nursery, aye.’

  ‘And do they often go off together? On their bikes?’

  ‘Rather that than they sat upstairs playing computer games all day. Do you have children?’ Underhill’s gaze swept over McLean’s face, then down to his bare ring finger, before rising back up to his face again. He fought the urge to clasp his hands together.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, if you did, you’d know what they’re like, aye? An’ teenage boys’re the worst. Never wash unless you tell them to, never pick anythin
g up. They eat crap all the time and won’t even look at a meal you’ve cooked for them. An’ see if you let them, they’ll sit in front of a computer all day and all night. Rots their brains. Well, it’d rot them if they had any.’

  As an only child, raised by his grandmother, McLean had no reference to the life of a modern teenage boy. He risked a glance sideways at DC Harrison, who had two brothers if memory served. She raised an eyebrow, not quite smirking.

  ‘I couldn’t use your toilet, could I, Ms Underhill?’ She held up her empty glass by way of explanation. McLean knew it was a ruse to have a look around the house, and possibly give him some time to talk to the woman alone. If Underhill had watched any cop shows on the telly she hadn’t taken that nugget of information on board.

  ‘Aye, back the way you came in. Last door on the left.’

  Harrison thanked her and left the room, closing the door behind her. McLean waited a moment before speaking again.

  ‘Do you think it’s safe, letting two lads go off on their bikes like that?’ he asked.

  Underhill laughed mirthlessly. ‘Safe? Aye, they’re sensible enough not to get into trouble. And they’ve both got phones if they need to get in touch. That’s more’n you had when you were a lad, aye? Bet you never thought twice about biking out to the hills or going round your mate’s house for tea.’

  McLean hadn’t, but then he’d never really had mates to go round to tea with anyway. He’d been bundled off to boarding school before he was old enough to spend much time biking around Edinburgh, and he’d spent most of his holidays under the baleful eye of his grandmother or being smothered by Mrs Roberts the housekeeper. He’d not made any close friends until university. Well, apart from Norman, but he’d died when they were both six.

  ‘I take it you work, Ms Underhill?’ McLean tried to steer the conversation away from awkward subjects.

  ‘Aye. Part-time just now, but it’s still a struggle in the holidays. Easier now Gavin’s turned thirteen. I couldnae leave him long before.’

  ‘So going out biking with his friend, that’s recent?’

  ‘His father took him out last summer, Bobby too.’ Underhill managed to inject an almost lethal amount of venom into the word “father”. ‘Now he’s no’ around any more, they have to make their own entertainment.’

  The possibilities are endless. ‘Have you any idea where they’ve gone? When they’ll be back?’

  ‘They like the old railway line. It’s safer than the roads. Sometimes they go up towards Gladhouse and the hills, but I told them no’ tae go there. What wi’ the fire an’ all. As to when they’ll be back?’ Underhill looked at her watch. ‘Could be any time really. Depends how hungry they are.’

  ‘What about Bobby? I’ve seen where he lives and we know about his parents.’ McLean left the assumption unsaid, fishing for information on the boy and killing time until Harrison came back.

  ‘Ach, wee Bobby’s no’ so bad. There’s plenty worse my Gavin could be hanging oot wi’. An’ the poor wee lad’s no family worth the name. Gen, his mum, she used to be fine, aye? But Bobby’s dad got a bit free wi’ his fists, and she took to the bottle to cope. Youse ask me if they’re safe out there on their bikes? The real danger’s at home half the time.’

  A rattling noise came from the back window before McLean could say anything to that. He couldn’t see what was making the noise, but Underhill, standing a bit closer, looked around. ‘That’ll be them now.’

  A moment later the back door clattered open, and two young boys barrelled into the kitchen. The one in front was obviously Gavin, he had his mother’s nose and eyes. The lad behind was thinner, a bit taller, and dressed like a street urchin from casting central. They didn’t see McLean at first, didn’t even acknowledge Gavin’s mother, as is the way of teenage boys. Instead, they went straight to the fridge. It was only as Gavin was opening it that Bobby noticed they weren’t alone.

  ‘Hey, Sheila,’ he said, which McLean thought was a bit informal. ‘Who’s the boyfriend?’

  ‘Gavin, Bobby. This is Detective Chief Inspector McLean, from the polis.’

  The effect would have been funny if it wasn’t also tragic. Underhill’s words took a few moments to percolate, but McLean could see the instant they registered. Gavin went rigid, and it was as well he’d not yet picked up the bottle of Coke that was in the fridge door, otherwise he’d surely have dropped it. Bobby betrayed his previous form by reacting more like a hardened criminal. The ‘fuck’ was barely audible, and then he was off.

  Had he gone for the back door they’d both walked in through, he might well have got away. As it was, he sprinted for the other door, aiming for the hall and out the front. Too bad for him DC Harrison chose that exact moment to come back in. She was quick off the mark, as well, reading the situation in an instant. And she had experience growing up with two brothers.

  ‘Not so fast, you wee – oof.’ She caught Bobby in a tackle that would have got a cheer at Murrayfield, wrestled him to the floor and sat on him. Gavin could only watch, his face turned white with shock.

  Given the circumstances, McLean felt that Sheila Underhill was very understanding, at least to start with. He hadn’t told her why they wanted to talk to Bobby, happy to let her assume that it was something to do with the young boy’s mother overdosing the day before. Her tune changed remarkably the moment he expressed an interest in speaking to Gavin too.

  ‘He’s no’ a criminal. Youse can’t treat him like one.’

  ‘Ms Underhill. Gavin is, technically, old enough to be treated as a criminal. I could have him taken away for questioning, into custody even. I have no intention of doing that. I don’t particularly want to treat Bobby any differently either. But I do need to talk to them, both of them, about some of the things that have been happening around here in the past couple of weeks.’

  Underhill eyed him suspiciously. ‘What is it you think they’ve done?’ she asked. They were sitting at the kitchen table, her and Gavin and McLean. Bobby was through in the living room with DC Harrison for now, awaiting the arrival of the child support officer. McLean shouldn’t really have been talking to either of them without social services; there were protocols for dealing with children, age of criminal responsibility or not, and he’d get into hot water for ignoring them. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘There was a vehicle fire in the woods up by Gladhouse Reservoir early last week.’ McLean kept his focus on Underhill as he spoke, but he watched her son out of the corner of his eye too. ‘It was called in to the control centre at Bilston Glen from the payphone at Temple. I’ve listened to the recording, and it’s a young man’s voice. He mentions his friend Bobby.’

  The flinch was unmistakable. McLean knew in an instant that Gavin had made the call, even though he was yet to hear the boy speak. His mother wasn’t going to let things go that easily though.

  ‘And that’s enough to come hassling folk, is it?’ She puffed up like a blowfish prodded, prickly and poisonous. ‘You come into my house accusing –’

  ‘I’m not accusing your son of anything more than being an upstanding citizen and reporting a fire.’

  Underhill turned her attention to her son, anger still there but momentarily deflected. ‘Did youse call the polis, Gavin? What were you doing all the way up at Gladhouse anyway?’

  The young lad squirmed in his seat as if he needed to go to the toilet. Given that he’d not been let out of his mother’s sight since returning home, that might well have been the case.

  ‘The car belonged to a colleague of mine.’ McLean addressed his words at the young boy now. ‘Not a police officer, but one of the support staff. A bit like a secretary, I suppose would be the best way to describe her. She went missing almost two weeks ago now, and we’re all very worried about what might have happened to her. That’s why we want to talk to anyone who might have seen that car before it caught fire, as well as whoever it was c
alled 999 that day to alert us.’

  ‘I didnae set it on fire.’ Gavin’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. His mother put a protective hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

  ‘I never said you did.’ McLean didn’t add that it was more likely Bobby who’d lit the flame. Probably found Dan Forbes’s lighter while mucking around at Rosskettle. Maybe caused that fire too, and the one on the moors. Or they could all be random, nothing more than might be expected from a hot, dry spell in the middle of the school holidays.

  ‘There was rubber johnnies everywhere up there. Pure disgusting it was. Bobby flicked a bag of them at me. Got stuff on ma troosers.’

  ‘Was this the same day you called us about the fire?’ McLean asked, receiving a nod in answer.

  ‘And can you remember anything else about the car park? Were there any other cars there?’

  A shake of the head this time.

  ‘How about people? Did you see anyone else while you were up there? Apart from Bobby?’

  Another shake of the head. Gavin had been studying the tabletop, but now he looked up at McLean. His eyes were wide, and glistened with the tears he was trying hard not to cry. The poor lad was terrified.

  ‘I didnae want tae go there, but Bobby dared us. The woods’re haunted, right? Folk disappear in there and they’s never seen again. I’ve heard the stories.’

  McLean tried to remember what the world had been like when he was thirteen. He’d changed school that year, from the horrific prep school he’d have been happy to let Bobby Wilkins burn down, to a slightly less horrific public school. Still in the south of England, still a nightmare. The summer he’d turned thirteen had been a holiday between the two, and he’d spent most of it bicycling around the same places Gavin Mason and his friend now frequented. Only he’d not had anyone to share the experience with. Nor a purloined Zippo to set fire to things with.