See Them Run

by See Them Run (retail) (epub)

  ‘Sorry, no,’ Clare said. ‘Could we come in, Mr Bain? We have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.’

  Fergus shook the overalls out and carried them round the side of the house to a garage with an up-and-over door. A moped stood propped up next to the garage. He wrenched at the handle and the door slid up. The garage was empty, save for a few tools. He hung the overalls on a hook then wheeled the moped in and pulled the door back down. He turned to them, dark eyes staring out from under his fringe. ‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you but come in anyway.’

  They followed him into a small sitting room. It was furnished with an assortment of ill-matched chairs and other small bits of furniture but was relatively tidy and clutter-free. He motioned to them to sit and he perched on the arm of an easy chair. Clare asked him to go over the day the Land Rover was stolen once again, and he did so with barely concealed irritation.

  ‘You must be missing it.’ Chris’s tone was light. ‘Are you managing okay?’

  ‘Got the moped. It’ll do till the insurance coughs up.’

  ‘Insurance companies,’ Clare said. ‘Don’t get me started. They wrote off my car a few years ago and gave me next to nothing for it.’

  ‘Aye, they’re a right shower,’ Fergus agreed. ‘I‘ll no’ get anywhere near replacement value. They’re quite collectible now, Land Rovers. But they dinnae take that into account. They’ll say it’s old and only worth a few hundred.’

  Chris smiled. ‘I’ve just changed to Corcoran Insurance. You’re not with them, are you? Seem to be pretty decent, so far.’

  ‘Naw. I’m with Farm Collective Insurers. Supposed to be cheaper if you’re in farming, but I dinnae see much difference.’

  Clare made a mental note of his insurance company. ‘It must be a struggle when you’ve a gig on, though,’ she went on. ‘Can’t be easy carrying your accordion on a moped.’

  ‘Hammy picks me up, brings me back.’

  ‘Hammy?’

  ‘Hamish Munro. Band leader. Plays the fiddle. He lives down near Ainster.’

  ‘Anstruther,’ Chris muttered for Clare’s benefit and Fergus suppressed a smile.

  Clare mentally calculated the distance to Anstruther, an attractive fishing village on the East Neuk of Fife. Twenty minutes, maybe. ‘Could you give us his address?’ she asked Fergus.

  ‘Aye.’ He reeled off the address which Chris wrote down.

  Clare pressed on. ‘When was your last gig?’

  ‘Last night,’ he said. ‘Rugby club down Kirkcaldy way. Fundraiser.’

  ‘I like a good ceilidh,’ Chris put in. ‘Can’t beat an Eightsome Reel.’

  Fergus’s lip curled. ‘If they ken what they’re doing. Often as not they’re drunk and make a right arse of it.’

  ‘Was it a late one? Those rugby lads party hard.’

  ‘Finished at midnight. But we werenae back till after one, by the time the boy paid us and we loaded up the van.’

  ‘Hard getting up this morning then?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Early night the night.’

  Clare took over again. ‘That’s a lot – two gigs in four days, when you’re working on the farm as well. It was your band at the wedding last Saturday, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s like that. They all come together. ‘’Specially in the summer. Gotta take the work when it’s going. Farm labouring doesnae pay too well.’

  ‘Do you take Sunday gigs?’

  ‘If we’re asked. But most folk like a Friday or Saturday. Naebody wants to get up on Monday morning when they’ve been drinking and dancing till the wee small hours.’

  ‘So you weren’t working last Sunday?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, why?’

  Clare smiled. ‘No reason. Thanks for the chat, Mr Bain. We’ll let you get on now.’

  He watched them from the door as they walked to the car. Resisting the temptation to look back, Clare said, ‘Notice his hands?’

  ‘I did. Full set of fingertips, from what I could see. We could still take his prints though. His could be the other set.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Clare said. ‘Prints alone might not be enough. And we don’t want to scare him off.’ They reached the car and Clare stopped, key in hand. ‘Ainster?’ she said. ‘What’s with that?’

  Chris laughed. ‘That’s Fifers for you. Don’t ask me why they say Ainster and not Anstruther. It’s a mystery to me.’

  ‘Thought you were a Fifer.’

  ‘How dare you! I’m a Dundee lad. Born and bred.’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect.’

  Clare started the engine and pulled away. As she drove, she talked through her thoughts.

  ‘We need someone down Kirkcaldy way to check they were both at a ceilidh until midnight. Can you phone the station there, Chris? And we don’t just take Hamish Munro’s word for it. Check with someone at the rugby club.’

  Chris nodded. ‘I’ll get onto his insurers too. See what the claim value’s likely to be on the Defender. As for the murders, he could have done Bruce Gilmartin but if Hamish Munro confirms his alibi then he couldn’t have done Nat Dryden. And we know he didn’t do Andy Robb.’

  ‘All the same, I’m sure he’s hiding something.’

  ‘I agree. The question is what?’

  Chapter 17

  Clare pulled the car into the station car park and came to an abrupt halt in front of a clutch of journalists.

  ‘Looks like the statement’s gone out.’

  Chris jumped out and moved them back to let Clare draw into a vacant space. As soon as the engine died they were round the car again.

  ‘Are you hunting a serial killer, Inspector?’

  ‘Is St Andrews in the grip of a crime wave?’

  ‘Should you be warning residents not to go out after dark, Inspector?’

  Clare ignored the barrage of questions and pushed her way, with some difficulty, through the journalists towards the door. But before she could reach it, one of them called out, ‘Inspector, any comment on the Ritchie family’s private prosecution?’

  It was like a hammer blow to the chest. She looked at him, opened her mouth to respond but the words would not come. Chris, seeing her confusion, advanced on the journalist.

  ‘We have a press office, guys. Use it!’

  Then he turned, propelling Clare into the station in front of him. He guided her over to a corner, his hand still at her back. ‘You okay?’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I didn’t realise…’

  She didn’t turn round. ‘Yeah. Thanks Chris. I’m fine. Don’t fuss.’

  Sara was looking irritated. ‘They still out there?’

  Clare raised her face to meet Sara’s. ‘Yep. Hopefully they’ll get bored soon. Any calls?’

  Sara, seeing Clare’s expression, hesitated. ‘You’ve just missed Diane from Tech Support. I said you’d call her back.’

  Clare nodded and moved away, leaving Chris and Sara to chat. She opened the door to one of the interview rooms, flicking the sign to show it was occupied.

  She closed the door behind her and sank down on a chair, phone in hand, and sat for a few minutes, taking deep breaths in and out. They would all know, now. About the Ritchie family. If the Press knew, it would be everywhere. Probably splashed all over tomorrow’s paper.

  Killer Cop!

  A lump formed in her throat and she put down her phone. Tears welled up in her eyes and began coursing down her cheeks. For the first time since that night – that dreadful night – Clare gave way to her emotions. She didn’t do tears. Never had. After the shooting she had buttoned up her feelings and carried on.

  ‘It’s not natural,’ the counsellor had said. Clare responded that it was in her nature so it must be natural.

  But now, after all this time, with one casual remark from a reporter, the mask had slipped. She felt her throat tighten as she sobbed involuntarily. Her face was soaking now with hot tears, and she put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Her shoulders began to shake and she could hold
it back no longer. With an overwhelming sense of relief, Clare gave way, sobbing audibly, no longer caring if she was overheard.

  She wept for the worry she had caused her family; for the pitying looks from her colleagues – relieved it hadn’t been one of them. She wept for Tom and their lost future, the life in Glasgow she had given up to come here – to this strange town she didn’t know – and most of all she wept because she could feel her life spiralling out of control. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  She had no idea how long she sat there in that room. Gradually the tears subsided and her breathing began to slow. She dried her cheeks and gave her nose a final blow. A tension headache was beginning at the back of her neck so she massaged her temples with her hand. Her heart rate was returning to normal and she moved to the water cooler to pour herself a cup. She drained this then, clearing her throat, picked up her phone and dialled.

  ‘Diane? Clare here. Sorry to miss your call.’

  ‘Oh no problem. Hope you’re making progress.’

  ‘Getting there. We’re up against it, though.’

  ‘Clare – are you okay? You sound a bit odd…’

  ‘Yeah, fine, Diane. Think I’ve caught a bit of a cold,’ she said, hoping she sounded convincing.

  ‘Ach, poor you. Hope it doesn’t come to much.’

  ‘Thanks Diane. So – any progress?’

  ‘Think so. I’ve done the photos and added them to your folder on the network. I’ve also recovered some more files from one of those broken laptops and added them too.’

  ‘Sounds promising. Any that would help us identify the men?’

  ‘Yeah, possibly. Some good shots. Also, I’ve taken the colour out of a couple. It’s easier to see the background detail in black and white. Walls and so on. They look to be quite unusual so might help you pinpoint the location.’

  ‘Any location data on the photos?’

  ‘Sorry, no. Either the camera didn’t have GPS enabled or someone’s used software to remove it. Timestamps on some, though. Mostly in the last six months but I’m not sure that’s any help.’

  Clare thanked Diane and ended the call. Out in the front office a cup of coffee and two biscuits were waiting for her. Sara and Chris eyed her and she made an effort to smile.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ she said, raising the cup to her lips. ‘Don’t suppose either of you have any paracetamol?’

  Sara nodded and went to find her bag.

  Chris moved to stand next to her. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I will be. Thanks, Chris.’ She took another draught of coffee. ‘Come on. Diane’s uploaded more photos. Let’s see what she’s got for us.’

  They went through to the incident room and sat down at a vacant desk. Clare navigated once more to the folder on the network, Chris looking over her shoulder. She found the ones Diane had added and zoomed in on one particular shot.

  ‘This, I think, is Andy Robb. See there… he has a scar on his left shoulder. If I remember correctly, there was something like that mentioned in the PM report. Let me see if I can call it up.’

  Minutes later, they were looking at the post-mortem report on Andy Robb’s body.

  ‘Gotcha.’ Clare was exultant. ‘See that? Five-centimetre lateral scar on left shoulder. I think there are a couple of photos here we can show to… let’s show them to Angela. She is his next of kin, after all.’

  ‘And probably more up to looking at them than Vicky,’ Chris agreed. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Can you call up a photo of Bruce Gilmartin, maybe from the brewery website? The hair here looks pretty similar but it’s hard to tell when you don’t know him.’

  Chris took out his phone and found his way to the brewery website. He clicked on a smiling photo of Bruce Gilmartin. They peered at it, comparing it with the photos Diane had sent. ‘It could be him,’ said Chris. ‘We could always ask the boss.’

  Clare sighed. She didn’t relish upsetting the DCI any further by confronting him with evidence that his old friend was involved in a paedophile ring. But it was probably easier than asking the brewery employees. ‘All right. Let’s see what he says.’

  Clare put her head round her office door. The DCI looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Something I’d like you to see, sir.’

  DCI Gibson followed Clare over to the computer and sat to look at the images. She pointed out the scar on the shoulder of the man they believed to be Andy Robb and he nodded but made no comment. Then he moved onto the photos of Bruce Gilmartin, examining each closely.

  After a while, he relinquished the mouse and rose from the seat. ‘I would be very much obliged if we could keep this from Mrs Gilmartin in the meantime.’

  ‘You agree these are photos of Mr Gilmartin?’ Clare asked.

  He sighed. ‘What do you want me to say, Inspector? You’re right and I’m wrong?’

  Clare sat down again and took up the mouse, moving on through the next set of photos. ‘Could these be Nat Dryden?’

  Chris peered at the images of a grey-haired man and shook his head. ‘Dryden’s too young.’

  Clare moved on through the photos until she found a new subject. ‘This?’

  Chris nodded. ‘Yeah, could be. Can we take these up to the hospital to show the sister?’

  Clare checked her watch. ‘Yes, we could do that now. Need to check with whoever’s on duty at the hospital that she’s still there, though.’

  ‘Let’s just stop a minute and go over what we have,’ said DCI Gibson.

  Clare sat down at the computer again, next to the DCI and pulled the mouse towards her. ‘I’ll separate them out into folders with possible names.’ She went back to the first of the photos and selected the first six. ‘I think these are all Andy Robb. Most of them show that scar. If we can show these to Angela Robb I think we’ll have a positive ID.’

  ‘Nothing about why we’re asking,’ the DCI reminded her.

  ‘No, of course not.’ She moved the photos into a folder named AR. ‘Now the next few we’ll assume are Bruce Gilmartin?’ She looked to the DCI for confirmation and he gave a nod. She dragged these into a folder which she named BG. ‘Then we have grey-haired man who could possibly be our next victim.’ She moved these into another folder. ‘I’ll call this UK1.’

  ‘As in Unknown?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Exactly.’ Clare selected another six photos. ‘Now, these could be Nat Dryden. If Chris and I nip over just now we can get the sister to confirm.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Chris. ‘But there’s someone we’re forgetting.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Whoever’s behind the camera. Remember we’ve had three victims already, with the grey-haired man a possible fourth. But someone must be taking these pictures. And that person could be our fifth victim if we don’t get a move on.’

  Clare turned to the DCI. ‘Is there any way we can alert the public without causing a panic?’

  DCI Gibson sat back and considered this. ‘I don’t think it’s the public who are at risk. These attacks aren’t random. They’re clearly targeted at certain individuals. Presumably the men in these photos. If we let the public think there’s a madman mowing down people at random, we’ll have more than the press outside to worry about. Better to step up patrols and ask the public to let us know if they see a dark green Land Rover Defender. Do you have the number plate?’

  ‘Only a few digits but it may be a false one anyway. The driver could even have access to more plates. But it wouldn’t do any harm to give it out. Let’s get it on the Facebook pages too. If we maximise the publicity we may even put the murderer off coming out tonight. Buy us some time.’

  ‘It’s a pity, Inspector, that you talked me into that news blackout. We might have struck lucky with the car if we’d gone public earlier.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly five o’clock. It’s late enough as it is.’

  ‘It won’t be dark for a good few hours yet, sir,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Better get a move on then.’
He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Clare rolled her eyes. ‘That went well.’

  ‘I reckon you got off lightly, seeing as you just proved his old school buddy’s a paedo,’ Chris said. ‘Ninewells Hospital now?’

  * * *

  They arrived in Dundee at the back end of the rush hour and navigated their way through the teatime traffic jams. Ninewells was a sprawling teaching hospital in the west end of the city. Built in the 1970s, its medical school and research facilities drew specialists from all over the world. Clare managed to find a parking space in one of the closer car parks and they set off for the main concourse.

  Nat Dryden’s room was in the major trauma ward. They followed the signs, taking the stairs down to the lower levels, arriving at a security door. They were buzzed in by a nurse who led them to a large bay with four beds. Teresa, one of the uniformed cops from Cupar station, sat at the end of the bay, newspaper in hand. She rose to greet Clare and Chris.

  ‘No change,’ she said. ‘Still unconscious.’

  ‘Get yourself a coffee, or some fresh air,’ Clare said. ‘We’ll be here for a bit.’

  Teresa escaped and Clare turned to look round the bay. Nat Dryden’s bed was at the window. It was one of only two which were occupied, the other by an elderly man with an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth.

  Nat lay surrounded by machines and monitors, an assortment of lights and digital displays flashing. The bedclothes were elevated by a cage, protecting what remained of his legs. Clare tried not to think about the damage he had sustained. A woman in faded jeans and a pink T-shirt stood at the window, her back to them, taking in the view down and across the River Tay to Fife.

  ‘Cindy Dryden?’ Clare asked and the woman turned to face them. She looked tired and Clare could see the remains of mascara on her cheeks. Chris fetched an extra chair and they sat down at the end of Nat’s bed.

  Cindy seemed quite happy to talk. ‘To be honest, it’s nice to have the company,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sitting here since three in the morning.’

  ‘Is there anyone you would like us to call?’ Clare asked. ‘Someone who can be here with you?’