Mystery Tour

by Martin Edwards

  8 Greshamsbury Industrial Estate

  Greshamsbury

  30/8/2012

  One standard storage unit

  £25 per week:

  3 months paid in advance in cash: £300

  Item #21

  James Finney,

  16 Knowle Road

  Plumstead Epsicopi

  Barsetshire

  Private Investigations Undertaken

  Absolute Discretion Guaranteed

  26 September 2012

  Re: Tracing their daughter, Mrs Laura James-Sleep, of Ullathorne House, Barchester

  Last contact, 28 August 2012

  Initial payment of £500 received from Mr and Mrs James.

  Item #22

  Silverbridge Police Station

  Custody Suite

  3. 10. 2012

  Received from Mr Jolyon Sleep:

  Wallet containing £160 in cash, one American Express card, one Visa card, one Mastercard, one Barsetshire Bank credit card

  Loose change to the sum of £3.86

  One Rolex watch

  One bunch of keys

  Item #23

  Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee Mr Jolyon Sleep

  Solicitors Ullathorne House,

  6 Cathedral Close, Barchester

  Barchester

  Our ref: FEG. PP.017566.1

  4 October 2012

  Dear Mr Sleep

  We acknowledge receipt of your payment of £5000 as a retainer for our services. As I explained on the telephone, we intend to employ Geoffrey Bonstock (QC) of Borleys & Bonstock, Barristers at Law, Gray’s Inn on your behalf and will arrange a meeting at the earliest opportunity. My assistant will send you a formal engagement letter which will cover various issues including further payment of fees, which we require to be paid on a monthly basis.

  Kind regards,

  Yours sincerely,

  Fiona E. Gazebee

  Item # 24

  HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs

  Du Cane Rd, Shepherd’s Bush London

  30. 4. 2013

  Receipt for clothes belonging to prisoner no. 1938394.

  One suit (Gieves & Hawkes)

  One white cotton shirt

  One tie

  One pair underpants

  One pair lace-up shoes (Church’s)

  Item # 25

  Gumption, Gazebee and Gazebee Borleys & Bonstock

  Solicitors Barristers at Law

  6 Cathedral Close, Gray’s Inn Square

  Barchester Gray’s Inn

  London

  30 April 2013

  Dear Geoffrey,

  Just to inform you that a bank transfer of £25,000 to Borleys and Bonstock has been effected, being the balance outstanding in the case of Regina V. Sleep.

  I’ve very much enjoyed working with you again. My best regards to Mildred.

  Ever yours,

  Fiona

  PS. You win some, you lose some. I didn’t think the sentence was unduly harsh, did you?

  Item # 26

  THE GAZETTE

  OFFICIAL PUBLIC RECORD

  Bankruptcy Orders

  Sleep, John Jolyon

  Ullathorne House, BARCHESTER

  John Jolyon Sleep, a self-employed accountant, residing

  at and carrying on business at Ullathorne House,

  Barchester, lately residing at H M Wormwood Shrubs

  Prison, Du Cane Rd, Shepherd’s Bush London, London

  In the County Court at Barchester

  No 76 of 1015

  Date of Filing Petition: 9 May 2013

  Bankruptcy order date: 10 May 2013

  Time of Bankruptcy Order: 10:40

  Whether Debtor’s or Creditor’s Petition – Debtor’s

  A Prichart, 3 Paradise Walk, Barchester

  Capacity of office holder(s): Receiver and Manager

  24 May 2013

  Item # 27

  Businesses for sale in Silverbridge

  Popular patisserie and bakery located in Silverbridge, Barsetshire • Town centre location • Healthy turnover and profits • Excellent local reputation • Fantastic change of lifestyle opportunity • Good mix of complementary businesses nearby • Annual turnover £45,000

  Seller relocating, favourable price for fast sale.

  Offers in the region of £60,000

  Item # 28

  www.ebay.co.uk

  PORSCHE 911 CABRIOLET RED, ONE CAREFUL LADY OWNER

  GREAT SPEC

  £63,990

  WHITE GOLD WATCH 18CT WHITE GOLD AND DIAMONDS, ALMOST NEW

  £8,999

  Item # 29

  LUXURY TRAVEL

  FIRST CLASS ALL THE WAY

  WHEN ONLY THE BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH!

  25.6.2013

  Itinerary for

  Miss Magdalene Dyer

  Flight

  SAT 22 JUNE HEATHROW TO ZURICH DEP 10.00; ARR 12.40.

  BUSINESS CLASS £255

  TUES 25 JUNE ZURICH TO SAN JOSE DEP 07.30; ARR 15.50.

  BUSINESS CLASS £6,446

  Please note

  *NO RETURN FLIGHTS REQUESTED*

  Travel Is Dangerous

  Ed James

  DS Scott Cullen dumped his tray on the table and shrugged off his leather jacket. Slouching into his seat, he tore the lid off his coffee. The Leith Walk Station canteen was a wall of white noise, enough to take cover behind. Somewhere to hide from managing a team making a mess of case preparation. Hide from his boss. Perhaps they’d all be better off if he just stayed here and played some game on his phone, maybe something to practise his anger management. He yawned then took a sip of coffee. Let the brown sauce on his fried egg roll congeal.

  Bugger it. He started up Angry Birds.

  ‘Morning, Sundance.’ DS Brian Bain plonked down his tray opposite, the plate overflowing with a wet fry-up. Bacon, sausages, haggis, tatty scone, heaps of fried bread and hash browns, all swimming in a sea of baked beans. His breakfast looked as tired as he did. The dirty-grey stubble on his head matched the sallow skin and the fuzzy beige goatee he’d been sporting for the last few months. ‘Hard to get a decent breakfast in this shite town, I fuckin’ swear.’

  Cullen’s shoulders slumped as Bain sat, wishing the inevitable heart attack would strike the man now. He took a glug of his coffee. ‘Let me guess: the choice is nowhere near as good as in Glasgow, home of sectarian violence and divine fry-ups?’

  ‘God’s own fuckin’ city, Sundance.’ Bain bit the end off a sausage. ‘Your fault I ended up back here, anyway. Those stripes you got were mine to start with.’

  ‘And I keep hearing about it.’

  ‘As well you should. You disrupted the natural order of things, Sundance.’ Bain scooped a mound of beans into his mouth and chewed, somehow keeping the sludge in without once closing his lips.

  ‘There you are.’ DI Colin Methven crouched at the end of the table like a sports coach who had just tracked down two boys skipping PE. The guy was fizzing with energy. Or righteous indignation. Always hard to tell with him. His giant eyebrows bobbed up as he got a look at Bain’s plate. ‘Glasgow MIT have passed us a case. Body found out east this morning; looks like murder. Need you to head through and get started. I’ll follow through this afternoon.’

  ‘Nae luck, Sundance.’

  ‘I meant both of you, Brian.’ Methven stole a hash brown as he stood up. ‘Be like old times, eh?’

  ‘Don’t get fresh air like this in Edinburgh, Sundance.’ Bain sucked in the stale cigarette smoke on the breeze like it was perfume.

  Cullen still couldn’t get over working with him again. Anyone but Bain. Bloody Methven. He followed Bain over to a dark-brick lane behind a row of payday lenders, bookies and barbers. They were deep in Glasgow’s banjo country.

  Two bins stood against the side wall, a pair of officers rummaging around in one of them; a bright light glaring into the dull morning. Low clouds and cold winds, but it hadn’t rained. Yet.

  A gorilla in a suit grunted at them, p
resumably to stop them entering the crime scene. Looked like he lacked the opposable thumbs to work the pen and clipboard.

  ‘Gaffer!’ One of the suited figures jogged over, tearing at his mask. DC Damian McCrea, an old colleague of Bain’s. Bald head and a good three stone over regulation weight. Out of breath, of course.

  ‘Damo!’ Bain grabbed him in a bearhug. Started singing ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’, but McCrea broke free halfway through the chorus and did a double-take at Cullen. ‘Christ, you brought the village idiot?’

  ‘And you’re more than enough for a whole city, Damian.’ Cullen gave him a tense grin, trying but failing to hide his rage. ‘Are you bin raking?’

  ‘For my sins.’ McCrea thumbed behind him. ‘The body’s in the other one.’

  ‘I want to call it a dumpster, Sundance, but…’ Bain reached for a set of ladders and started clambering up. ‘It’s just a big fuckin’ bin, right?’

  McCrea was back rooting around in its neighbour, tossing evidence bags on the brick paving, chain of evidence clearly not troubling him.

  Bain reached the top and peered inside. ‘Fuck me.’ Less swagger in his step as he shimmied down. ‘Here, Sundance, you take a peek.’

  Cullen shot up the ladder. Almost lost his egg roll from the bleach stink wafting out the top. A middle-aged man lay on his side in the foetal position, naked except for a pink nappy. Some clear liquid spread halfway up the torso, giving the pale skin a sheen.

  ‘Hoy!’ Down the lane, a masked figure waved a fist at Cullen. A woman and a very, very angry one at that. ‘Get down, you hooligan!’ The nasal rasp of a local, distinct even through the crime-scene mask.

  Cullen took his time getting down.

  When he reached the bottom, she was shouting at Bain, who merely nodded. ‘Absolutely shocking who they let into crime scenes these days, darlin’.’

  ‘DS Scott Cullen.’ He flashed his warrant card. ‘DI Methven sent us from Edinburgh.’

  ‘Oh.’ She tore off her mask. ‘Dr Rachel Flockhart.’ Ruby-red lipstick and pale-white skin, a curl of ginger hair poking out of her cap. ‘I’m the pathologist.’

  Bain pulled down his own mask. ‘Pleasure to meet you, darlin’.’

  ‘Do you mind not calling me that?’ Flockhart put her mask back in place. ‘Now, I’ve got a body to inspect.’

  ‘So I found that bloke, eh?’ Steven Wright was leaning against a wall, his South African accent slicing through the city drone. Topless, showing off a dragon tattoo that crawled over his muscular torso. He shifted his attention to Bain. ‘Hey, you fancy not checking me out, mate?’

  ‘You fancy putting on a top?’

  ‘Never wear one, eh?’ Wright folded his arms, making a show of flexing his biceps. ‘Be a crime to hide these babe magnets. Not that you’d know.’

  Cullen held up a hand to stop Bain. ‘You working today?’

  ‘Tuesday’s brown-bin day, mate. All the fucking garden waste, eh?’ Wright nodded over at the crime scene. ‘Thursday’s for the dumpsters.’

  Bain sniffed. ‘That what they’re called, aye?’ He flicked an eyebrow at Cullen.

  Cullen just turned a page in his notebook. ‘So, if today’s brown-bin day, why were you looking in dumpsters?’

  ‘I check them just in case some fucker’s put a tin of fucking paint in. Happens all the fucking time, mate.’ His expression darkened, he even seemed to shiver. ‘Anyway, I found the fella in there this morning. Fucking weirdest thing I ever saw, mate, and I saw some shit in Jo’burg, you know?’

  Cullen didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

  Wright patted his shoulder. ‘You mind if I get on, mate? These brown bins won’t clear themselves, eh?’

  ‘Tell you, Sundance, I’ve fuckin’ seen everything now.’ Bain shook his head as they walked back to the crime scene. ‘A sexy binman. In my day, they were all big, fat hoofers with drink problems.’

  A charcoal Range Rover blocked in Cullen’s car, the engine idling, the window rolled down. Methven, looking like he was kerb crawling. Dr Flockhart was leaning against the door, shaking out her long red hair.

  Methven waved over at them. ‘You getting anywhere, gentlemen?’

  ‘Aye, give us a minute, Col, eh?’ Bain rested against the bonnet. ‘Thought you were coming this afternoon?’

  ‘Called in a few favours. Rachel’s running the post mortem now.’

  As if on cue, a pair of pathology workers pushed a gurney carrying a body bag up to the bin.

  Bain smiled at Dr Flockhart, stroking his goatee. ‘You find anything that might help us, darlin’?’

  She stepped away from Methven’s window, eyes narrowing at Bain. ‘The victim died last night. Livor mortis suggests he’s been in situ for a good ten hours. I’ve not been up close and personal yet, but it appears his throat’s been slit. And not by a professional.’ She dragged a pale finger across her own, as if they needed any reminding. ‘The nappy was most likely on when he died. I had a … a little prod. It’s heavily soiled.’

  Cullen frowned back at the bin as the two pathologists humped the body out. He tried to reconstruct the chain of events. Couldn’t get anywhere.

  ‘It’s likely your killer’s a pervert.’ Flockhart’s turn to frown as Bain burst out laughing. Didn’t seem to be the reaction she was looking for. ‘Either way, that liquid he’s in? Bleach. You’re not getting any forensics off the body.’

  That elusive chain of events slipped even further out of reach.

  Flockhart got in Methven’s Chelsea tractor.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ Methven gunned the engine and tore off with screeching tyres.

  Bain flashed the Vs at the disappearing SUV. ‘Prick.’

  Cullen couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Not many things I agree with you about.’ Didn’t stop him wishing Methven clocked the insult.

  ‘Hoy!’ DC Damian McCrea was charging towards them, grinning as manically as he was panting. ‘What did you think? Pretty sick, right?’

  Bain looked like he was going to be. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Someone’s been date-raping men and women for months, trussing them up in nappies. First murder, mind.’

  ‘Any idea who the victim is, Damo?’

  McCrea waved an evidence bag in Bain’s face. ‘Found this in the other bin.’

  Cullen snatched it off him. A wallet, with a driver’s licence.

  Paul Skinner lived in a Victorian villa, a storey-and-a-half of beige stone with a row of pot plants in the front garden, a cream bay window poking out from behind.

  ‘Nice pad, Sundance.’ Bain strolled up the front path, whistling, hands in his pockets like he was taking a stroll around the annual flower show, rather than visiting a murder victim’s home. ‘You want to have a wee practice at giving a death message?’

  ‘Assuming the victim wasn’t single, are you? Very professional.’

  ‘If you’d looked close enough, you’d have seen that the guy had a ring on. His wife will need comforting.’ Bain stopped outside the door. ‘You up to it, Sundance?’

  Cullen just thumped on the door and waited, resenting his failure to have noticed that obvious clue. The crime scene must’ve stunned him more than he wanted Bain to know. He’d never hear the end of it if he found out…

  ‘You ignoring me?’

  ‘Let’s just get this over with, aye?’

  The door opened. A thin man in his forties peered out through thick glasses. ‘Lads, not this malarkey again.’ His accent was half Glasgow, half Dublin. ‘I’ve no time to talk about the Lord Jesus in the middle of the day.’ He pulled the door back.

  Bain kicked his foot in the way, blocking it, and thrust his warrant card in his face. ‘We’re police, sir, not Jehovah’s Witnesses. Looking to speak to someone about a Paul Skinner.’

  ‘He’s my husband.’ Red eyes flicked between them. ‘My name’s Gavin. Gavin Crossan.’

  ‘Right.’ A frown danced across Bain’s forehead. ‘Have you seen him today?’

  Crossan clasped his
hands together and dipped his head, like he was praying. ‘Not since yesterday. He … didn’t come home. Why do you ask?’

  ‘That a common occurrence?’

  Crossan frowned at Cullen. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Mr Crossan, I’m afraid your husband has … passed away.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Crossan took the cup from Cullen like it contained his husband’s ashes.

  Cullen poured out tea, then another one for Bain and slid it across the table. Looked like the crockery was from the Queen. So ornate it was hideous, and yet the front room was tastefully done, all beiges and browns.

  ‘We were out at a party last night,’ Crossan went on. ‘It was good craic like, until…’ He took a sip, then looked at each of them in turn. ‘This is really hard for me.’

  Bain was scowling. ‘Just get—’

  ‘It’s OK, sir.’ Cullen blew on his tea. ‘Take your time. Start with the last time you saw him.’

  Crossan took a deep breath. ‘We were both there. At this party, yeah?’ He let out the breath. ‘And we went home with … with different men.’

  Bain spluttered out tea. ‘You were at an orgy?’

  ‘It’s not a crime. Everyone consented.’

  ‘Just sayin’, pal, you need to be careful.’

  ‘We’re both on PrEP. And besides, HIV isn’t what it used to be when I came out. It’s not a death sentence anymore.’

  Bain put his cup down with a snarl, as if he could catch AIDS from drinking tea.

  Cullen leaned forwards in his chair. ‘Who did he go home with?’

  ‘I don’t know. I came back here.’ Crossan dabbed at his eyes. ‘I don’t know where Paul went.’

  ‘Can you at least tell us where the party was?’

  Cullen got out of his car and leaned against its side, waiting for Bain to finish his call. Another Victorian villa, but this one was in Bearsden, a twee suburb on the other side of the city – Glasgow’s answer to Edinburgh’s Morningside. Disco lights pumped out of an upstairs bedroom in time to The Killers. Bet the neighbours loved this house.