McLean stared at the map again, unable to tell whether it was right or not. He didn’t doubt the professor though. ‘What about aerial maps? Isn’t it all digital these days anyway?’
‘I’ve got Angie on that right now.’ The professor tilted her head in the direction of one of the students working at her laptop. Hearing her name, she looked up and smiled, wiped sweat from her brow. Then she turned her computer around so they could see the screen.
‘I’ve been working with the most recent photographs, and they show everything in the right place, at least. But the resolution’s not good enough to be useful for what we’re doing here. And the overlay’s just as wrong as the paper map, see?’
McLean peered at the image, too small for his old eyes. ‘I’ll take your word for it, but why’s it wrong? More importantly, how is it wrong?’
Angie shrugged. ‘Bad mapping data to start with, maybe? Most of this stuff’s been locked down by GPS now, but if they’re still working on old OS data for this area . . .’ she tailed off, shook her head. ‘No. OS is solid. I’ve never heard of it being wrong.’
Something niggled at the back of McLean’s mind. The search teams looking for Renfrew had complained about the maps not fitting the terrain well, but they’d put that down to the woods obscuring the old land features. ‘Easy to get lost even with a map and compass’ was how Sergeant Donaldson had put it. But Bobby Wilkins had mentioned it too, in his childish, roundabout way. ‘The woods are all wrong there. They lure you in an’ you starve tae death, ’less you’re a local an’ ken where y’are an’ where yer goin’.’
‘What if someone had made it wrong on purpose?’ He gestured at the paper map.
‘Why would anyone do that?’ Angie asked, her talents clearly wasted in forensic anthropology.
‘Presumably to hide something, or make it less likely people would go somewhere you didn’t want them to go.’ McLean looked out the open side of the tent again, bending slightly so he could see up the burned moorland to the top of Oak Hill. It wasn’t that far really. And a walk would do him good, even in this heat.
‘I couldn’t borrow that, could I?’ He pointed at the map again.
Professor Turner removed the stones from the corners and folded it up expertly before handing it over. ‘Going somewhere?’ she asked.
‘Thought I might have a look around from the summit. Try to see what’s in the wrong place and why.’
‘Then you’d better take this with you too.’ She bent down and guddled in a box underneath the table for a moment, coming out with a compass. ‘You do know how to use one, right?’
‘Grid to mag add, isn’t it?’ McLean took the compass and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t confidently say he remembered how to navigate with one, but that particular gem had stuck in his head from school geography lessons. Mr Collier would have been proud.
‘Very good, Tony.’ Turner smiled, picked up a small pair of binoculars and shoved them into the soft case lying beside them. ‘Take these too. Just don’t lose them, OK?’
64
With hindsight it was probably a mistake, climbing a steep hill in the early afternoon of one of the hottest days of a year already breaking records for hottest days. By the time he and a stoically uncomplaining DC Harrison made it to the top, McLean was damp with sweat. He’d shed his suit jacket, trailing it over his shoulder with one crooked finger. His shirt stuck to his skin, and a sizeable puddle had formed at the base of his spine too. Now he understood the reason most of Professor Turner’s workforce wore barely any clothes. The view was worth it though. Of the countryside from the top of the hill, not the professor’s students.
‘I’d forgotten how far you can see from up here,’ he said as he reached the Ordnance Survey trig point and tapped it for luck. He’d done the same at the top of every hill and mountain his grandmother had forced him to climb in the course of countless holidays in the Highlands. Now it was an ingrained habit, not only to touch the brass plate in the top, but to do it before anyone else on the walk and thus claim some kind of imaginary prize for getting there first. Harrison breathed heavily but said nothing. She stopped a few paces short of the concrete pillar too, which felt strangely wrong.
‘You get a good view of the reservoir from here.’ McLean shielded his eyes against the glare rising off the unnaturally still water. He turned a slow 360 degrees, seeing the distant Pentland Hills to the west, the continued rise of the Moorfoots to the south, the horizon speckled with slowly turning wind turbines. To the east he could make out North Berwick Law and the Bass Rock, then the Isle of May out in the Firth of Forth, and across to Fife in the north. Somewhere in the sun-baked brown was Traprain Law too. Another Iron Age hill fort, and one-time capital of the Gododdin, if he remembered his ancient history correctly.
‘Is that the castle?’ Harrison asked, and for a moment McLean thought she meant the hill fort they were standing on. That’s what Bobby Wilkins had referred to it as, a castle. Then he realised she was looking out towards Edinburgh, where a grey-brown haze of pollution hung over the city. Castle Rock and Arthur’s Seat both rose up out of the murk like knees in dirty bathwater.
‘It is, yes. Here, you can get a closer look if you want.’ He passed over the binoculars Professor Turner had pressed upon him. Harrison took a moment to work out which end she was supposed to be looking through, but was soon scanning the horizon.
McLean unfolded the map and spread it out next to the trig point, orientated so that north was in approximately the right direction. A quick check showed that the castle was on the right bearing from their position, according to both map and compass, but when he lined up one of the two islands in the reservoir, it was out by five degrees. It was the same for the woods that climbed up the slope towards them like a very slow advancing army. Looking south-east, he could make out a series of low mounds that looked like barrows, where only a few stubby trees grew. The long, dry spell had kept the grass short, and he imagined he could see stone ruins in among the whins, which he took to be the remains of the monastery. Except that according to the map they should have been much further away, and considerably more to the south of where he was standing.
‘Can I have those binoculars back a minute?’ he asked. Harrison was still staring through them towards the city, maybe looking for her flat. From here it would be hidden behind Braid Hill.
‘Found something?’ she asked as she handed them over. McLean took a moment to adjust them, then focused on the ruins.
‘I think that’s the remains of the old monastery. Only it’s in the wrong place.’ As he spoke, so the magnified image began to come together. Most definitely worked stone, the bases of pillars perhaps, a piece of an archway, all overgrown with gorse and broom, brambles and wild raspberry. Not an easy place to get into. Scanning back and forth, he saw again the low mounds with their twisted and stubby trees, in sharp contrast to the towering mature pines that grew around them. And then he noticed movement, a car making its way along a track he couldn’t quite see.
‘Where’s Woodhill Farm from here?’ He took the binoculars from his eyes, noticing as he did that it had a zoom function. A quick glance at the map showed where the farm was supposed to be, but he wasn’t entirely sure he could trust that any more.
Harrison bent down to peer at the sheet as McLean once more lifted the binoculars. With the zoom, he was able to get a clearer view of the woods, and make out a fence beyond the trees that must have marked the track leading to the farm. As he stared, another vehicle moved through his field of view, a shiny black Range Rover with dark-tinted windows. He followed its passage through the trees, and as it disappeared down below a rise, he noticed the unmistakable triangular shape of the old open barn’s corrugated iron roof.
‘Should be that way, about a mile and a half.’ Harrison’s voice interrupted him, and when McLean looked she was kneeling by the map, one finger in the middle of the paper, the o
ther hand pointing somewhere clearly different to where the farm buildings stood.
‘Well, it’s actually over there, and no more than a few hundred yards.’ He crouched down, the better to see the map. Now that he had the points of the farm and the ruins of the monastery in his head, McLean could see why it was upsetting Professor Turner. They were much closer together, for one thing. Far from being separate to the monastery, Woodhill was almost its kitchen garden. They were closer to the Iron Age hill fort, and not far at all from the site where the bones had been discovered.
‘We searched the farm buildings thoroughly, didn’t we.’ McLean stated it as fact. He’d been there after all, drank tea with Mr and Mrs Bayne, Harrison herself and Police Sergeant Donaldson. He’d not been in the buildings himself, but the sergeant had said his team had been through them.
‘Twice, aye.’ Harrison was just as certain. ‘Looks like they’ve got visitors, mind.’
He looked up from the map just in time to see a flash of light where a car windscreen reflected the sun through the trees. Three vehicles in as many minutes tripped his finely tuned policeman’s sense of suspicious activity, even if it was probably nothing.
‘I think I’ll go and pay them another visit.’ He stood up, fetching out his phone as he did so. The icon at the top of the screen showed no signal. ‘You got your Airwave with you?’
Harrison produced the chunky handset from her jacket pocket, prodded a button to bring it to life, then frowned at it in puzzlement. ‘No signal, sir. Thought these things worked everywhere.’
‘Thought these did too.’ McLean waved his useless phone. Harrison put her Airwave away and fumbled for her own mobile.
‘Must be a black spot. It was fine back at the car.’
‘OK then. You take these.’ He folded up the map and passed it, the compass and binoculars to the detective constable. ‘And this.’ He shoved his hand in his pocket and came out with his car key. ‘Get back into signal range and call in a search team. Then you can meet me at the farmyard. We’re going to go over the whole place again. And the monastery ruins.’
Harrison made everything disappear into pockets except the binoculars. ‘Do I need to ask what you’re going to be doing in the meantime?’
‘I’m going to see if I can persuade Mr and Mrs Bayne to give me a cup of tea. Looks like they’re already entertaining a crowd, after all.’
Another car bounced its way along the rutted track to the farmyard as McLean struggled through the thick undergrowth around the mature trees. He wasn’t as up to date with these things as once he had been, but he recognised the impossibly clean SUV as one of the new Bentleys. North of a hundred grand’s worth, it wasn’t the sort of vehicle he would immediately have associated with Sandy and Morag Bayne. Their battered Series 1 Land Rover might have been worth a bit, but only because it was old and rare, and that more by accident than design.
Fighting through the brambles was a fool’s errand, so he worked his way around the thickest bushes, taking a zigzag route to the farmyard that brought him close to the barrows. There came a point where he was prepared to admit, albeit only to himself, that this was a really stupid idea. A detective chief inspector had no place hacking his way through jungle that would have thwarted Tarzan, and procedure would have dictated putting together both a plan and a team of fit young detective sergeants and constables to carry it out. On the other hand, he would have had to explain his reasoning to them all before sending them into this place, and that would have required there to be some reason behind it all. Instead he had gut instinct and a horrible feeling that all the strange things that had been happening this past week and more were somehow connected.
There had once been a fence between the woods that spread up towards the summit of Oak Hill and the area where the barrows lay. McLean could tell that by the lone rusted iron post that poked out of the ground like some broken vertebra. That and the change in the vegetation. On one side, it was thick and lush and threatened to ruin an otherwise fine suit. On the other it was twisted and stunted, starved of nutrients or blighted by something evil. As if to hammer home the idea, flies buzzed around the hot air and a scent of rotten meat hung like a miasma of decay.
As he struggled through the scrub, McLean caught his foot on a heavy rock, almost tumbling headlong into the weeds. On closer inspection, he could see the ground was strewn with building rubble, carved lintels and bits of arch. At first, they appeared to be scattered randomly, but the more he looked, the more he saw that they formed a wall, perhaps an ancient cloister. Only where he might have expected there to be the remains of a chapel in the centre, instead stood the three low earth mounds.
A vague path followed the line of one wall, giving him the option of heading towards the farmyard or away from it. He’d told Harrison he was going to speak to Sandy Bayne, maybe find out who the visitors in the expensive cars were, but he wanted to get the lay of the land first. Something was happening here, and he’d rather find out what before confronting anyone. The more time he gave the detective constable to bring backup the better too. And there was the small matter of that smell. It wasn’t quite full-on rotting carcass, but there was something about it that set him on edge.
Taking the path away from the buildings, he skirted around what must have once been a sizeable cloister, now he was able to get the layout in his head. At the farthest corner, a tumble of stones and hacked-back weeds marked an entrance of sorts, and one that had been used recently. What little breeze there was passed over the barrows and on to where he stood, bringing with it that cloying odour. He knew he would have to find out what it was, but not just yet. McLean pressed on, following a path that showed ever more signs of regular use as it headed back to the farmyard. Soon the rusted steel and corrugated iron shed rose up through the trees, the path leading past the knackered old tractor and on to the stone steadings.
The sound of an engine had McLean ducking down behind one large tractor wheel on instinct. He peered up the track, and soon enough a car appeared over the rise, weaving back and forth in a vain attempt to avoid the worst of the potholes. When it came closer, he almost stood up and waved it down, recognising the Police Scotland markings on the bonnet and sides. Something stopped him though. It was too soon, and there should have been more than one. When it crunched slowly past him, he was able to spot the driver, alone rather than accompanied by a squad of burly constables. Police Sergeant Donaldson had the look of a man who’s late for the party, and McLean could think of no reason why he would be coming out here alone. No good reason, at least.
The dust kicked up by the tyres stung his eyes and tickled his nose. Stifling a sneeze, he worked his way along the hay shed, then ducked across the lane to the steadings. Inside was a little cooler than out, but not much. It smelled of disuse, and all McLean could see in the shadows was broken farm machinery of a vintage his great-grandfather might have recognised. At least none of the doors were locked, and the various interlinked byres and stables brought him to the courtyard at the back of the house. Through a missing pane in a glass window otherwise opaque with grime, he saw a dozen or more cars neatly parked in rows. Some were expensive, like the blacked-out Range Rover and the ugly Bentley SUV, but others were nothing special, nothing new. A mix of the wealthy and the common folk had come to whatever gathering this was. And Sergeant Donaldson.
‘You’re late, Andrew.’ Sandy Bayne’s voice drifted across the yard. McLean saw the old man standing at the back door as Donaldson weaved through the cars towards him. He said something in reply, but with his back to McLean the words were lost. Then the two men greeted each other like old friends. A warm embrace, a step back, a curiously formal bow, and a handshake straight out of the Freemason’s handbook. Except that McLean had met enough Masons in his career and this wasn’t any one of theirs. A secret society, just as Ramsay and Dalgliesh had suggested, and very much active. But why were they meeting here? Now?
‘I was b
eginning to think you’d never get here, Tony.’
He spun round, already knowing who’d spoken, but spooked by how quietly he’d crept up all the same. A figure shuffled forward out of the shadows.
Norman Bale.
65
The first words that came to him were ‘You’re under arrest’, but McLean managed to stop them from spilling out. For a start, he didn’t want to make any noise that might alert Sandy Bayne and Police Sergeant Donaldson to his presence. It was pointless anyway, since he had no cuffs, no way of easily overpowering the man, and no phone signal to call it in.
‘I left enough clues for you. Really thought you were smarter than that.’ Bale sat down on a wooden packing crate that creaked ominously under his weight.
‘What are you doing here, Bale?’ As questions went, it wasn’t much better than trying to arrest him, but McLean was still coming to terms with the situation. The last time it had been just the two of them, Bale had been intent on killing him. Then, he had been filled with a religious fervour, a mad zealotry that would brook no interference. Now he sat like a fellow drinker in the local pub. Not one iota of menace in his chubby face and sloped shoulders. It could have been an act, most probably was. Still, it was disorienting.
‘I’d have thought that would have been obvious, Tony. Same thing as you. I’m here for Anya Renfrew.’
Not here to save Anya Renfrew, McLean noticed. Only here for her.
‘And what makes you think she’s here? What makes you think she’s even still alive? It’s been two weeks since she disappeared.’
Bury Them Deep Page 36
