The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020)

by Anderson, Lin

  ‘Going to the gym will give you more energy,’ had been her reply. Which sounded okay in principle, although the only result for McNab so far was a desire for more sleep and pains in muscles he’d forgotten he possessed.

  Also, why did Ellie think he required more energy?

  There were compensations, however. From his experience of being in public spaces, he was wont to spend far too much time scanning for faces he recognized from the Glasgow criminal underworld, usually identifying at least one. Happily, he was yet to spot anyone in that category during his early-morning workouts, although there were some very attractive ladies also pumping iron.

  McNab hadn’t mentioned the eye candy to Ellie because, let’s face it, he had no intention of following up on any of it. Still, their presence did, if he was honest, urge him to work harder when he was there.

  The after-workout swim followed by a hot shower was then enhanced by two double espressos from the machine in the cafe, and he was ready for the day. Hence he’d arrived bright and sparkly at the station this morning, which was causing the desk sergeant to crease his brows in consternation.

  ‘I’m not sure I like this version of you,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t please everyone all of the time,’ was McNab’s retort. ‘What’s happening?’

  The sergeant continued to scan McNab as though he were a fake version of himself.

  ‘A lot. Dr MacLeod unearthed a body on moorland south of Glasgow.’

  Whatever he’d expected in today’s news, it hadn’t been that.

  ‘Is it anyone we’re looking for?’ McNab said, immediately thinking of the current status of organized crime in the city.

  ‘Strategy meeting on it shortly. Best go up there and find out.’

  McNab took a detour past his desk to check if his partner, DS Clark, was about. Janice was seated in front of her computer, staring at something she obviously found interesting.

  McNab took a look over her shoulder to discover it was an article about bog bodies with a gruesome photograph of a twisted, blackened corpse lying in a grave.

  ‘You’ve heard, then,’ she said, catching sight of McNab and sitting back to give him a better view.

  ‘If it’s one as old as that,’ McNab said, ‘then we’re not involved. No one left alive to jail for it.’

  Janice gave him one of her withering looks, of which there were a multitude to choose from.

  ‘Word is there was a plastic bag under the head. So a little nearer our time,’ she told him.

  ‘Mmmm. A time-frame clue. No longer available once we ban all plastic bags in this brave new green world.’

  By the look on Janice’s face, his attempt at humour wasn’t welcome in the circumstances, which might suggest she already knew more about this than he did, a thought McNab wasn’t comfortable with.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  The room was already busy, most of the assembled audience studying the visuals of the excavation site. McNab was a little taken aback by the images of the body. Although it was a similar colour to the one on Janice’s screen, that was, to his mind, where the similarity ended.

  The child-size body wasn’t twisted into a weird shape like the bog man, but had been laid out on its back, with the head placed on what had to be a makeshift plastic bag pillow. A pillow that was revealed in other images to have contained clothes.

  And if the clothing belonged to the victim, the body was that of a young girl. Suddenly McNab’s earlier jokes regarding bog bodies seemed totally inappropriate.

  The impact of the photographs on the officers in the room was palpable. Any abduction of a child was horrific. The discovery of their remains even more so.

  The boss appeared at that point to give them an update. On DI Wilson’s entry the babble of voices fell silent.

  ‘As you’re no doubt aware, we received a report yesterday from Julie Black, a wild swimmer who, with her partner Dougal Thompson, discovered what they thought was a human hand protruding from an exposed peat bank at Advie Lochan, south of Glasgow. An officer confirmed the sighting and Dr MacLeod began an excavation of the site, the result of which is shown here.’

  He continued, ‘The remains are mummified due to the chemistry of the location. Raised bogs are fairly rare now in Scotland. Bog bodies, as you probably know, have been found across Europe and identified as being thousands of years old. However, not in this case.

  ‘Plastic bags began being issued in supermarkets in 1965, which provides us with a much more recent time frame. The clothing in the bag included what looks like a white confirmation dress, tiara with veil and black shoes, suggesting the child, probably a girl but yet to be confirmed, may have been abducted sometime close to when she had taken her confirmation, which gives us another lead. However, there is no firm evidence at the moment that these are in fact the victim’s clothes.

  ‘From 1965 onwards a number of children have disappeared across the UK. Without another explanation for their disappearance, we must assume the probability that they were abducted and killed.

  ‘There are a few Scottish ones among these, but we can’t say for definite that this child wasn’t taken from elsewhere in the UK and brought north of the border for burial.

  ‘The post-mortem will hopefully provide us with more, and Dr MacLeod is back on site at the moment so there may be further forensic detail to follow. I want the identification of this child to be a top priority. So let’s get on with it.’

  The boss’s look fastened on McNab and Janice at this point, indicating he wanted to speak to them in his office.

  Once in and the door closed, he said, ‘I’d like you two to visit Jimmy McCreadie, who was a DI around the time we’re looking at and dealt with a missing child enquiry. I spoke to him on the phone earlier and he’s happy to talk to you. Unfortunately, a number of the investigation files on missing persons around then were lost or destroyed, so anything he can tell you may prove invaluable.’

  McNab tried to do a mental calculation on the age of the old bloke they were about to visit.

  As though reading his mind, the boss said, ‘Jimmy was the youngest DI on the force, but he managed to annoy the big brass by doing his own thing. He succeeded in getting himself demoted, took umbrage at that, departed the police and joined Special Forces instead. Despite all that he became a bit of a legend for the cases he broke open back in the day.’

  The boss’s expression directed at McNab said even more than the words, alluding, as he suspected they did, to his own demotion from DI to DS in the wake of the Stonewarrior case. He, however, hadn’t left the force, although he’d contemplated it at the time. If DI Wilson hadn’t been his boss, he likely would have.

  ‘Did he say anything on the phone we should know about?’ McNab said.

  ‘He asked if the body was that of a girl wearing a confirmation dress.’

  11

  McNab had reluctantly agreed that Janice should be the driver on their jaunt to see former DI Jimmy McCreadie. It wasn’t that his partner was a bad driver, although she was a mite too cautious for McNab’s liking. It was just that he preferred being the one in charge of the wheel.

  He remembered how, before he’d got his own Harley, Ellie, his current biker girlfriend, had suggested a pilgrimage to Netherton Cottage, ancestral home of the Harley-Davidson brothers. Horrified that he wouldn’t be the one in the driver’s seat, McNab had almost turned her down. Which, he recalled, would have probably meant the end of their relationship.

  Luckily realizing this at the time, he’d consoled himself with the idea of hugging Ellie for the couple of hours required to head up the A90 to their destination. It was, McNab recalled, one of the best decisions he’d ever made.

  However, today’s trip definitely wasn’t in that category, nor was there any consolation prize, except perhaps to avoid getting grief from DS Clark. So rather than dwell on being a reluctant passenger during the said journey, McNab decided to see if Wikipedia had heard of Jimmy McCreadie, and was surprised to f
ind that it had.

  The entry opened with McCreadie’s time as a police officer, followed by his service with Special Forces, after which it was all about his current career as the crime thriller writer known as J. D. Smart.

  Something the boss had definitely not mentioned.

  ‘I know that name,’ Janice said, when McNab told her. ‘I’ve read his books. They’re good.’

  ‘You read crime novels?’ McNab responded, open-mouthed.

  Janice nodded, obviously unperturbed by his reaction.

  DS Clark often surprised him, despite the length of time they’d worked together, but this was something else entirely. McNab wanted to ask why the fuck a police officer would do such a thing.

  ‘What?’ Janice said, noting his expression.

  ‘I thought you would have gone more for fact than fiction, that’s all,’ McNab lied.

  ‘Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth,’ Janice informed him.

  ‘Who the fuck said that?’ McNab demanded.

  ‘Albert Camus.’

  Having heard the name but with no idea to its significance, McNab decided to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  ‘Well, if McCreadie’s so good at making stuff up, how can we be sure that what he tells us isn’t fiction?’

  ‘You once told me, despite Professor Pirie’s research on the subject, that a good detective can always spot a lie.’ Janice shot him a glance that reminded McNab of all the times he’d been lax with the truth himself.

  At that point he decided to shut up and observe the passing countryside instead.

  Having negotiated their departure from Glasgow, they were now heading north-east. Apparently, the wayward cop-turned-soldier-turned-writer hadn’t retired to his home city of Glasgow after leaving Special Forces.

  McNab wondered why. Perhaps McCreadie, aka J. D. Smart, hadn’t wanted to bump into old enemies, on either side of the law. That was something McNab could understand. Or maybe it was easier to reinvent himself as a novelist elsewhere.

  So he’d taken up residence a little further north. According to the Google map, his current abode was a substantial stone villa on the outskirts of Stirling, just below Castle Hill, with a view over an area of parkland known as King’s Knot.

  ‘The writing game must be paying off,’ McNab said as they eventually drew up outside.

  ‘We’re not interested in what he does now.’ Janice pulled on the brake. ‘Just what he knows about our case,’ she reminded him in her usual forthright fashion.

  Entering through a wrought-iron gate, the manicured lawn and well-tended flower beds indicated that J. D. Smart was either a keen gardener or else had help in that department.

  Which certainly seemed to be the case on the housekeeping front.

  Obviously expected, they were shown by a woman McNab presumed was the housekeeper to a conservatory at the rear of the building, which apparently was also the all-important writing room.

  Smart McCreadie, as McNab had already fashioned the former detective, rose to greet them from his seat in front of a keyboard and three large screens.

  ‘DS Clark and DS McNab, I presume?’

  They all shook hands, McNab registering the slight tremor in McCreadie’s grip.

  ‘Dodgy tendons,’ he explained. ‘Viking DNA, I’m reliably informed, although how they continued to wield a sword once the tendon shortened I have no idea. My eyesight’s going too, hence the big screens.’

  ‘Why three of them?’ McNab asked.

  ‘I have three different characters’ viewpoints on the go. I switch from one to another as the plot develops. Plus I need to remember what each player knows about the others at any given time.’

  ‘So, just like a real crime, only with fewer players?’ McNab said, trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice.

  By McCreadie’s response, his attempt was unsuccessful.

  ‘Ah, I see DS McNab is not a fan of the genre. And what about you, DS Clark?’ McCreadie said.

  ‘I enjoy your books,’ Janice told him. ‘Along with a few other crime authors.’

  ‘Dare I ask who my rivals are?’

  ‘You can, but I won’t divulge the names,’ Janice said with a conspiratorial smile (or at least McNab thought that’s what it was).

  ‘Not giving anything away. I like that,’ Smart McCreadie said with a glance at McNab.

  He gestured to a nearby sofa and took a seat himself on a big leather reclining armchair. The spring sun was hitting the glass and there was a scent of something in the air. McNab took it to come from the climber with white flowers that stretched across part of the glass roof above them.

  ‘Winter jasmine,’ McCreadie offered, as though reading McNab’s mind, ‘which flowers here in spring. If it gets too bright, I’ll close some blinds. I like the light. If I was an artist, I’d paint in here.’

  Once settled, a tray arrived via the housekeeper to be placed on a table between them.

  After a quick, ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ McCreadie said, ‘I can offer tea or coffee. If you’d rather a soft drink, I have some in the little fridge over there.’

  Both McNab and Janice opted for coffee.

  ‘You like yours strong, DS McNab,’ McCreadie said with confidence. ‘I sense another caffeine addict. As for DS Clark, there’s hot water in the jug if you need to dilute it a bit. Can I ask you to pour? My tendons don’t allow me to lift a heavy pot.’

  Janice did the honours and McNab took a long swallow of the strong and delicious coffee.

  ‘Better, I imagine, than what gets served up at some vending machine at the station?’ McCreadie suggested. ‘In my day, it was big pots of stewed tea that kept us going, especially on all-nighters.’ He paused there as though fondly recalling his former life for a moment.

  He’s trying to get us on side, McNab thought. And it’s working as far as Janice is concerned.

  ‘Okay,’ McCreadie was saying. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘When you spoke to DI Wilson you asked if we’d found a wee girl in a confirmation dress. Why?’ Janice began.

  McCreadie sat back in the leather armchair. ‘Because it’s the one that haunts me the most. The one I gave up my job over.’

  A story McCreadie, no doubt, was keen to recount. McNab didn’t ask him to elaborate, but with a glance at Janice, proceeded as planned.

  ‘No autopsy report to confirm as yet, but the well-preserved body Dr MacLeod unearthed is thought to be that of a girl, aged somewhere between ten and fourteen, both sex and age still to be forensically confirmed.’

  ‘Is that Dr Rhona MacLeod, the forensic scientist involved in the sin-eater case?’ McCreadie immediately asked.

  McNab nodded, made uneasy by the sudden and unexpected detour.

  ‘I followed that case closely,’ McCreadie went on. ‘The accessibility of forensic science to the general public, and of course by extension to the criminal world, is a concern of mine.’

  McNab wondered if this sudden declaration was for his benefit. If McCreadie had done his homework like the detective he’d been and perhaps still was, then, McNab realized, he would likely know two key things about him: that he’d been demoted (like McCreadie) for going his own way in the Stonewarrior case; and that he believed making forensic knowledge easily accessible was putting the police force at both a disadvantage and, in Rhona’s case, in danger.

  Unwilling to respond in a way that indicated his own feelings on the matter, McNab carried on as before.

  ‘The body was unclothed but there was clothing in there with her,’ he said, making no mention of the plastic bag.

  ‘A white dress and a veil?’

  When McNab didn’t respond, McCreadie said, ‘A wee girl called Mary McIntyre disappeared after her confirmation on May the first in East Kilbride, 1975. Her father reported her missing when she didn’t appear back at the primary school with the rest of the big group of pupils going for confirmation that day.’

  He fell silent for a moment and from his expression he w
asn’t having happy memories.

  ‘We put out a big search, but there were no sightings of her and we never found a body.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  McCreadie gave a sharp laugh. ‘From memory, quite a few, including her father, who had a fierce temper and liked to use a leather belt on his kids sometimes. There was a teenage boy who lived in the same street. An altar boy at the church. Even, for me at least, the family priest, Father Joseph Feeney. Didn’t like the man. There were more but they’re the ones I remember.’

  ‘And you never settled on one in particular?’

  McCreadie looked as though he might say something, then shook his head.

  ‘Was she picked up in a car?’ McNab went on.

  ‘Well, if she is your bog body, someone transported her to the moor from the south of East Kilbride, but at the time there were no reported sightings of a suspicious vehicle in the vicinity. In fact, there weren’t many vehicles on the road back then.’

  He continued, ‘It was a new council estate built on open land. Vehicles around the place were mostly ice-cream vans, the milkman, coal lorry, et cetera.’

  ‘How far did the search extend?’

  ‘For miles around. There were no sightings after the children went into the chapel to be confirmed.’

  ‘Was the girl actually confirmed?’

  ‘The priest, Father Feeney, said he thought so, but there were eighty kids that day, two classes’ worth from the nearby primary school. Hard to imagine quite as many these days, either in a class or in the chapel.’

  It was a bit before his time, but there were similarities with McNab’s own childhood. He suddenly recalled his march to the chapel with his schoolmates, all wearing wee jackets and smart trousers. God knows where his mother had got his outfit. Probably borrowed it from someone, because he’d never seen it again. Thank God.

  McCreadie went on, ‘There should be records and what little evidence we collected, if it wasn’t thrown out over the years. Oh, and I have something that might be of use.’

  ‘What?’ McNab said, his ears pricking up at this.