Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Gavin. And well you know it.’ The young boy’s mother squeezed his shoulder again, then looked at McLean. ‘Are we done here?’

  He was about to say yes, but they were interrupted by the doorbell.

  ‘That should be social services. We’ll need to take Bobby into care, at least for a day or two until his mother’s been assessed.’

  Gavin opened his mouth to say something, but McLean held up his hand for silence. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll still be able to see your friend.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a business card, placed it down on the table. ‘And in the meantime if you remember anything else from the woods, however small and insignificant you might think it, you tell your mum and get her to give me a call about it, OK?’

  52

  Lunch had long since passed by the time McLean climbed the stairs to his office. He stopped at the vending machine on the third-floor landing; there wouldn’t be much left in the canteen now, and he was realistic enough to admit he’d probably not eat any fruit if he bought it. A packet of crisps and a couple of chocolate bars would have to do. Washed down with some tarry coffee from the pot he’d put on at six that morning.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket as he was walking back with his spoils, leading to a complicated shuffle until he managed to fetch it out. The name that appeared on the screen meant he had no trouble deciding to answer it straight away. Or at least as soon as he was able to juggle the food so he could lift the handset to his ear.

  ‘Manda. How are you today?’

  ‘Ugh. Tired mostly. Trying to get any usable samples for DNA analysis out of bones that have been lying about in the bushes for God only knows how long and then baked in a fire isn’t easy, you know?’

  ‘But you’re a miracle worker so you managed, right?’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. We’ll know for sure once the tests are all complete.’

  ‘And how long’ll that be?’

  ‘Will you still like me if I say “a while”?’

  McLean pushed through the swing doors and into the corridor that led back to his office. ‘A while’ wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but Manda Parsons wouldn’t have called him if she didn’t have something more than that. She’d have called her flatmate, DC Harrison, and asked her to break the bad news instead.

  ‘You know we’re still missing a police admin support officer, right? This is high priority.’

  ‘Aye, I know that. There’s some things you can’t rush though. Confirmation will have to wait until we’ve got the full sequence done, but I can give you a wee heads up. A possibility of a match with one of the more recent cases.’

  McLean stopped walking, the corridor empty and silent. ‘Go on.’

  ‘One of the bones had an old fracture. Healed for a good few years, but there’s always a mark, right?’

  ‘Yes, I remember Angus showing it to me. Happened maybe ten years or so before death. What of it?’

  ‘Well, I was going through the records Janie sent me. We need something to compare the DNA results to, after all. A close relative if we can’t get an actual sample, which is unlikely at this distance. That’s when I noticed that one of the missing women broke her leg when she was a teenager. Right tibia, same as the one we found.’

  That cold sensation spread into McLean’s gut again, and it felt almost as if the corridor was shrinking around him. ‘Which woman?’ he asked.

  ‘Abigail Porter. Disappeared twenty-five years ago according to the file. There’s an X-ray in there someone must have thought might come in handy during the investigation, which is lucky. No way her medical records would still be around after all that time.’

  McLean saw the hand of Grace Ramsay in the inclusion of the X-ray, her obsession with missing-persons cases. She’d be delighted to hear that they had a bone match, even if it was tenuous at best. Certainly not enough to persuade Duguid and Robinson that she was right, but possibly enough for a more concentrated search of the area where the bones had been found. A few more detectives assigned to combing through the old missing-person files.

  ‘That’s great work, Manda. Thanks. Seems I owe you a drink.’

  ‘Just the one?’ Parsons managed to pout even over the phone. ‘Maybe I’ll not bother with the other news then.’

  ‘Two drinks? Or will I just send Janie home with a bottle?’

  ‘That sounds more like it. See those partial prints we got from the lighter you found under the car?’

  McLean didn’t think it necessary to remind her that it was the forensic technicians, and in particular their boss Jemima Cairns, who had found the lighter. ‘You’ve got a match?’

  ‘Ha. There’s a joke in there somewhere, I’m sure. But, aye, we got a good positive from the boy you just picked up. Bobby Wilkins? Pretty sure he’s had his grubby mitts all over that thing.’

  ‘A word, McLean. In my office, now.’

  He had only got in, barely sat down, certainly hadn’t managed to do more than look at the pile of folders that had magically appeared on his desk in his absence. McLean had been hoping he might even manage to eat the chocolate still nestling in his pocket, but the DCC appeared to have other plans.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said as McLean entered the room. That was never a good sign. A short, sharp bollocking usually meant standing in front of the desk like a guilty schoolboy.

  ‘I wanted to have a chat with you about this morning’s meeting, only you disappeared almost as soon as it was done.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I had a phone call from Penicuik. A development that needed following up.’

  Robinson pulled out a seat on the same side of the conference table, settled himself into it with a weary sigh. It could have been the DCC’s old bones complaining, but on balance it was more likely the pain came from outside.

  ‘You’re a good detective, Tony. I’ve seen you at work and I’ve seen the results. You’ve an eye for the pattern where nobody else can see it.’

  There was a ‘but’ coming, McLean knew. He kept his mouth shut all the same.

  ‘But lately you seem to have got yourself into a bit of a rut.’ Robinson held his hand up to stop McLean from complaining. Not that he’d been going to. ‘No, it’s OK. Everyone has a rough patch now and again. And you’ve been through the mill these last couple of years, haven’t you. Hardly surprising if it starts to affect your judgement.’

  McLean sat sideways in his chair, the better to face the deputy chief constable. The twist put pressure on his hip, which twinged uncomfortably. A cup of tea and a biscuit would have made this dressing down a lot easier, but in the absence of those things, he reckoned keeping quiet and letting Robinson get whatever was on his chest off it would lead to the swiftest conclusion.

  ‘It’s been noticed . . .’ the DCC began, then corrected himself. ‘I have noticed that your control of budgets has been slipping lately. Overtime and shift arrangements are one thing, and I appreciate we’re seriously undermanned at the moment, but over a hundred DNA samples from used condoms? On one case? Do you know how much that costs? And for what? You interviewed one person on the sex offenders’ register and didn’t even arrest him.’

  Again, McLean remained silent. He could have pointed out that the sampling had been necessary, that the man in question had given them a list of names even now being pulled in and interviewed. He might even have mentioned that the DCC himself had said Anya Renfrew was one of their own, needed the full resources of Police Scotland to be brought to bear in finding her. He knew better than to do that though. The budgets weren’t what was bothering Robinson. At least, they weren’t the most pressing thing that was bothering Robinson.

  ‘And then you go rushing off to the loony bin without telling anyone where you’re going. You waste time interviewing petty vandals and chasing after children. Not to mention digging up random old missing-persons cases and trying
to turn them into . . . what?’

  ‘Actually, that’s beginning to look like more of a possibility, sir,’ McLean finally said, and told the DCC about the broken bone among those found on the moors. If he’d been expecting it to mollify Robinson, he was disappointed.

  ‘That’s my whole point. One bone out of hundreds that has a mark which might, just possibly, be in the same place as an X-ray from the possible victim’s childhood? It’s not even tenuous.’

  Again McLean said nothing. They’d get DNA results from the bones soon enough, and he’d put the Cold Case Unit onto tracking down relatives of Abigail Porter. It was only a matter of time before that one bone opened up a whole can of worms, an investigation on a far, far bigger scale and with much greater ramifications. Was someone high up involved in some way? Was that why they were putting pressure on Robinson?

  ‘It’s not been officially announced yet, but Operation Caterwaul has been wound up. The NCA have some ongoing watching briefs, and our American friends will no doubt be making a nuisance of themselves as they always do, but the great multi-agency joint operation is a bust. Thanks to Ms Renfrew.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s fair, sir.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Robinson seemed genuinely mystified for a moment, then shook his head to clear away whatever thought was blocking his mind. ‘No matter. It’s been almost two weeks now since she was last seen. We have to accept that she’s gone. Most likely run off somewhere for Christ only knows what reason. By all means keep the investigation open, but I can’t sanction the level of spending on it you’ve had so far.’

  So that was it. Hidden behind a smokescreen, but there if you knew what to look for. Someone in a position of power had a guilty secret, all right. It wasn’t bones buried on the moor so much as a potentially embarrassing addiction to outdoor sex with strangers.

  ‘And the bones, sir? Do you want that investigation curtailed too?’

  ‘Dammit, McLean, I don’t want any of these things curtailed. But we have to prioritise. Hand the moorland dig over to the university. It’s an archaeological site now, not a crime scene. Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  McLean nodded once, stood up. ‘Very well, sir. I’ll have status reports on your desk by the end of the week. And if anything else awkward comes up, I’ll let you know.’

  Robinson stared at him, but said nothing. He looked fed up, and McLean knew that feeling all too well. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

  Bobby Wilkins had been taken to Fenton House, yet another social-care facility run by the Dee Foundation, and one he’d had reason to visit not many months earlier. Seeing the plaque at the entrance put McLean in a bad mood even before he and DC Harrison were led to the sparse room set aside for interviews, although his lack of lunch might have had something to do with it too.

  At least Bobby was already waiting for them, sitting next to an older woman, her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun that did nothing to soften her sharp features. She introduced herself as Mrs Webb, and apparently had no first name or any other explanation as to why she was there, even if McLean could work it out for himself. Alongside her, a nervous young solicitor was there to make sure Bobby didn’t say anything untoward.

  ‘They looking after you OK, Bobby?’ he asked, trying in vain to put the boy at ease. It was probably a bit daft, given that he would have only just arrived. According to the records, this wasn’t Bobby’s first brush with social care, and he clearly didn’t want to be here now.

  ‘Gavin was asking after you,’ he tried. ‘Said he hoped he’d see you again soon.’

  ‘Why’s he no’ in here too, aye?’ Bobby’s young voice was all attitude and snarl. It reminded McLean of Dan Forbes. Was that what life had in store for Robert Wilkins too? Petty crime and repetitive incarceration. What a future.

  ‘His mum’s not in hospital. She said she’d look after you too, but we have to sort out a few things before that can happen.’

  That got Bobby’s attention more than anything else. ‘For real? I could stay wi’ Gav?’

  McLean shrugged, tilted his head to one side. ‘If we can get it sorted. I need to ask you a few questions first though.’

  Alongside the young boy, McLean saw the lawyer sit up a little straighter, paying attention lest his client be tricked into something.

  ‘Aye?’ Bobby said.

  ‘We know you and Gav were up at the forest car park, where we found the burned-out car.’

  ‘I didnae –’

  McLean held his hand up. ‘I’m not interested in that, Bobby. Not now.’ That could come later, if the Procurator Fiscal thought it worthwhile. ‘I want to know about the car park, the forest, why you went there. Gavin told me you said it was haunted. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Dunno. Stories, I guess.’

  ‘What kind of stories? What’s meant to be haunting the woods?’

  ‘It’s just stories. Ghosts dinnae exist. An’ even if they did they couldnae hurt youse. It’s just a creepy place. Wee Gav’s a feartie.’

  ‘Aye, I know that. But here’s the thing about stories. Usually even when they’re made up, that’s for a reason. I’m interested in knowing why, and to find that out, I need to hear the stories, see?’

  The lawyer looked at McLean as if he were mad, and Mrs Webb was on the verge of saying something, no doubt to admonish him for his foolishness the way his old matron at school had done so many times. Before either of them could interrupt though, Bobby gave a little shrug of acceptance and began to speak again.

  ‘Was my da’ telt me first. Back when I was wee. Y’ken how there’s an old castle at the top of Oak Hill, aye?’

  McLean assumed the boy meant the old Iron Age hill fort. This didn’t seem the time to point out that such places weren’t castles, as such. He nodded his understanding instead.

  ‘Been folk living there thoosands a’ years, ken? Warriors an’ Droods and stuff. Theys used tae kill their enemies, cut ’em up intae wee bits and bury them a’ over the hillside. A’ the trees in that wood are growin’ oot of the bodies, see? And when one falls doon, sometimes the bones come up an’ the ghosts wi’ them. Least, that’s what my da’ said.’

  ‘Sounds quite horrible.’

  ‘Aye, and there’s this spring, see? Only it’s no’ water comes oot the ground but blood. No’ all the time, like. Just when there’s something special happening. An’ there’s the roons a’ the monastery too. They’s haunted an aw.’

  Something about the way Bobby spoke made McLean think the boy would make a great actor someday, or maybe a novelist. At least, if life gave him a chance. Telling the stories brought him to life in a way the anger he wore like a cloak never had. And there was something creepy about the tales he spun too. Some underlying truth distorted into myth by time and repeated telling. After all, there were bones on the moors, and lots of them if Professor Turner’s dig was anything to go by. And there was a spring in the woods, around which there had once been a monastery. Whether it had ever flowed with blood rather than sweet water was another question altogether.

  ‘When your father told you these tales, did he also warn you never to go into the woods after dark? Not to go alone?’

  ‘Aye, he did. He said the woods were a’ wrong there. They lure youse in an’ youse starve tae death. ‘Less yer a local an’ ken where y’are an’ where yer goin’. An’ he telt me aboot the folk who thought theys knew better, right? The folk who disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ McLean asked. ‘What folk are these?’

  ‘Jes’ folk. I dinnae ken who they were. But they went intae the woods at night, see. An’ the red monks killed them an’ et ’em.’

  53

  ‘Lad’s got some imagination, I’ll give him that much.’

  Traffic crawled all the way up the Old Dalkeith Road as McLean drove from the care centre back to the station. Sitting beside him,
DC Harrison had said very little until they’d reached Cameron Toll, keeping her thoughts to herself or maybe thinking the journey would only take a few minutes. Now it was clear it would be quicker walking, she broached the subject of their interview with Bobby Wilkins.

  ‘I kind of feel sorry for him,’ McLean said. ‘Life’s not exactly dealt him a winning hand, but he’s a smart kid. Quick-thinking too. Might even make a good detective, come to that.’

  Even though he was staring at the line of unmoving cars, McLean could almost feel Harrison’s raised eyebrow.

  ‘You think he made all that stuff up? About the bones in the ground and the red monks and all?’

  ‘Half made up, half riffing on things he’s heard, I’d guess. The bones found up on the moor are hardly a secret any more, and he knows we’re looking for a missing person. I never really expected to get any great truth out of him.’

  ‘So why go speak to him then?’

  McLean stared silently as a bus a few dozen metres ahead eased itself into the queue despite there being no space for it. The readout on the screen in his car’s dashboard said the temperature outside was already more than thirty degrees, the air in between the tenements shimmering with it. Tempers were bound to fray in this weather, and sure enough the horns began almost immediately.

  ‘First off, we have evidence of his presence at the scene of the burned-out car, and good reason to believe he was the one who actually set it alight. We had to interview him, and will probably have to do so again soon enough. The Procurator Fiscal needs a report whether she decides to pursue the case or not.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually talk to him about the fire, sir.’

  ‘No. Not yet. I’ll need to set up an interview with Gavin Mason about that too, and at the moment that’s a little down my list of priorities. What I wanted to know was why they went there in the first place. I know they’re a couple of bored kids kicked out of the house during the school holidays, but why there? What’s the attraction?’