Scamper's Find
Page 1
Scamper’s Find
Terry H. Watson
Copyright © 2016 Terry H. Watson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador
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ISBN 978 1785895 494
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For my nieces and nephews.
You have brought so much joy into my life.
Thank you.
ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR:
CALL MAMA
A TALE OR TWO AND A FEW MORE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sincere thanks to my readers who so enthusiastically welcomed CALL MAMA and encouraged me to continue writing. Scamper’s Find is the result of their encouragement, comments for the proposed storyline, and enthusiasm from family and friends as well as the many total strangers who were eager for this sequel to be published.
My thanks to Glenboig Neighbourhood House Digital Inclusion Group, especially to Donna Marie Gallagher for assistance with IT; to my precious god-daughter, Amy Wynne, for her artistic suggestions for the cover; to my first-draft proofreaders, Drew and Robert and Marie Sweeney for comments and corrections; to my mentor, Rebecca Forster, for her honesty, inspirational advice and friendship; to the team at Troubador Publications for professional assistance; and finally and most importantly to my husband, my constant and long-suffering supporter throughout this process whose enthusiasm and tea-making skills contributed immeasurably to the completion of Scamper’s Find.
Contents
ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR:
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
Not many people noticed the bloodstain. It was as if time had forgotten the heinous murder. A crime that reverberated throughout history, a volatile history at that. People in their hundreds walked by the spot where David Rizzio, musician and secretary to Mary, Queen of Scots, was brutally murdered in her presence; a stabbing that her husband, Lord Darnley, demanded she witness as vicious revenge for what he thought was Rizzio’s apparent closeness to Mary.The ruthless, devious, scheming lord hoped that she would miscarry her child. The blood-spattered floor from the explosion of blood remains to this day a reminder, a sacred relic almost, of the brutal deed normally unobserved by all but the most observant tourist to the tragic Queen’s tiny chamber high up in what was then a cold, dingy, forlorn part of the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The brownish stain, protected from the elements, preserved and soaked into the wooden floor, conjures up the haunting ghost of David Rizzio.
***
Julie Sinclair sighed as she signed off her computer, removed her half-moon specs, stretched her long, toned limbs, and called to her three lively pets to follow her outside. She wrapped up well as the early evening often concealed a deceivingly chilly wind. Her well-worn fleece jacket, which she referred to as her doggy coat, would keep her warm and cosy as she trekked along at a spritely pace, breathing the fresh reviving air. A tall, fit woman, she covered a few miles in almost record time. She had been writing for several hours that day and desperately needed a break; her head, shoulders and indeed every muscle seemed to ache.
The writer walked through the countryside, deep in thought as she mulled over ideas for her latest novel. The balmy October evening walk was a regular event for her. An unexpected Indian summer had left a welcome warmth in the air. I love this time of year in Scotland, Julie thought as she scrunched her way through piles of stunning autumn leaves, a favourite caper of hers taking her back to her childhood, evoking memories of carefree, heavenly days, when time seemed to stretch to infinity and holidays lasted forever.
She had been indoors all day and now relished the sights and smells of an autumn that clung onto its season, as if reluctant to give way to the approaching winter. From its high vantage point, a lone blackbird sang its evening chorus, lifting the writer out of her reverie as she listened to its melodic tone. She laughed at the antics of her dogs as they rolled and frolicked, chasing each other like the puppies they still believed themselves to be, pausing to sniff the air before periodically returning to check on her.
Early evening walks calmed her spirit, cleared her head for the inspiration she so badly needed for the next chapter of her book. She was at a crossroads with it. How was she to proceed when she was experiencing writers’ block? Panic was setting in. Pressure from her publisher heightened the already stressful situation. Where am I going with this character? As she deliberated, the dogs returned ready for home and dinner. The sun was beginning to set: it cast a silvery sheen through gaps in the almost leafless trees, highlighting the unique shape of each species before they became invisible when dimness took hold of the night sky.
“Come on boys, time to head back. Dinnertime! Scamper, come on boy.”
Scamper, well named for his penchant for taking off on his explorations, was nowhere in sight. The light was slowly fading. Julie wanted to be out of the dark, wooded area before total darkness descended. She called incessantly for the tardy mutt.
“Oh come on, Scamper! Biscuits!”
The latter normally brought the wily canine to heel, but on this occasion he appeared to ignore all her commands. He often appeared home before the others. I bet he is sitting by the door demanding food.
“Right, boys, home!”
Scamper was not, as expected, waiting by the door, nor was he in the vicinity of the neighbourhood, nor in Julie’s overgrown, unkempt garden. Fully expecting him to return soon, she fed the others. Her phone rang as she did so.
“Where have you been? I thought you’d be home ages ago.”
Julie related the tale of the overdue dog to her fiancé.
***
The dogs were an issue for Craig to the point that it hindered the development of their relationship. A horrendous childhood incident with a stray dog resulted not only in physical, but mental scars; the skin graft to his thigh a constant reminder of the trauma. He had almost, but not quite, issued an ultimatum to Julie: the dogs or me, your choice! His love for her prevented him saying something he might regret. Sensing his unease, the animals would leave him alone when he stayed over, and much to his relief, take themselves off to their own area of the house.
“They really only want to be friends with you,” said Julie, bemused as to why he was so reluctant to overcome his anxieties, while she herself was completely oblivious to the lasting emotional effect of his boyhood shock.
“If Scamper hasn’t turned up by morning, I’ll come over and help you search. Where was he last sighted?”
“Oh, on my usual route, over the wooden style onto the path leading to the copse, and back by the bluebell wood. It’s not strange territory to him. He’ll probably limp home when he’s finished chasing rabbits or whatever else he gets up to. It’s pitch black now and I’ve no intention of chasing after him tonight.”
Julie let the shower cascade over her tired limbs. She had read somewhere that hot water hitting the head helped trigger brain synapse. I could do with some clear thinking right now.
***
Next morning, she and Craig trekked through the wood, following her regular path and calling out to the lost pooch as they went along. A gentle rain shower during the night had left a freshness in the air which the two were oblivious to, so intent were they on their mission to allow themselves to be distracted by anything that nature had to offer. After more than an hour Craig stopped.
“Quiet! Listen! Stop scrunching the leaves; move over here and listen; I’m sure I heard something.”
In the silence, broken only by their own breathing, they both heard whimpering.
“Don’t move!” hollered Craig. “I can see where he is. Stay back!”
A hole had opened in the ground almost beneath where they stood. The area was riddled with old mine shafts from the heyday of a thriving coal industry. Several pit seams had been operational then. Sadly, the decline in coal stock and political interference caused the industry to nosedive. It was not unknown in mining areas for the weakened ground to open to reveal a water-filled pit similar to a sinkhole.
In such a shaft, Craig located the terrified dog, whimpering and stuck on a narrow ledge of rock, caught in some kind of chain.
“Don’t move Scamper buddy, keep calm.”
This was the first time in his life Craig had shown any concern for a dog. He was typical of his Celtic race, polite and chivalrous and with a tendency to fight for all unjust causes, his love of music and art in sharp contrast to his rough manner, which to those who knew him was a front to conceal a deep sensitivity.
He lay prone and took stock of what he saw. Julie, frantic by now, lay on the ground, peered into the crevice and was horrified at the scene below.
“Oh, Craig, if he moves an inch… ”
“Stay with him, there’s no clear phone signal up here. I’ll run for help. Derek lives nearby. I’ll be as quick as I can. Keep talking quietly to Scamper and don’t make any sudden moves and don’t go too near the edge.”
Water-filled pits and mines can hide rock ledges such as the one Scamper lay on. Abandoned mines can be hundreds of feet deep and filled with all kinds of rusted machinery and rubbish. Julie edged as near as she could; spoke quietly to her pet while trying to keep her voice from rising an octave or two from sheer terror. She could see into the murky darkness and was horrified at the depth of the water. Her own fear of tumbling headlong into the crater, like someone drawn by the hypnotic force of the water, took second place to her concern that Scamper might make a move to reach her and plunge into the abyss. Her imagination ran riot as she lay on the fragile ground, trying hard not to think of it moving under the weight of her body. Her breathing became almost uncontrollable and just as she feared she would experience a panic attack, Craig returned with his friend.
Derek owned a building firm and brought with him various pieces of equipment. He lay on the ground and assessed the situation. His agility contradicted his stature. His over-abundance of food and alcohol made him almost obese, but he lay there like a cat stalking its prey, planning his next move.
“Keep talking quietly to him, Julie, while I figure out what to do here. One false move…”
Julie did not wish to hear of any worsening dangers.
“Craig, shine the torch, just there. I might be able to hook him up by the collar with this long pole. He seems entangled in some sort of chain. These old shafts could have all kinds of metal and corroded materials in them.”
He worked quickly, made a few attempts to secure a hook around Scamper’s collar, which had loosened slightly, and eventually succeeded in hoisting the bedraggled mutt out of its prison and into the arms of its relieved owner.
“Quick everyone, move back from the area!” shouted Derek. “The ground around has weakened by the cave-in. It’s not safe.”
Snuggled into Julie’s jacket, the terrified animal was examined for injuries.
“I can’t see any obvious breaks or signs of injury, but we better get him to the vet as soon as we can.”
As Julie climbed into the truck holding onto the whimpering dog, Derek took Craig aside.
“Scamper wasn’t alone down there. He was hooked onto a chain and the chain had another occupant. We best get the authorities here to secure the area and remove a body.”
CHAPTER 2
The authorities moved quickly to secure the scene. Coal Board officials, police, forensic scientists and various other agencies swooped on the area. Vehicles, sirens roaring and lights flashing, seldom seen in such numbers, followed each other like worker ants foraging and protecting their community. They quickly set up their headquarters in the nearby village community hall, which became a hive of activity, awakening the caretaker into a frenzy of action last seen when the village dance was in full swing. The residents of the sleepy village were curious at the disruption to their normally quiet, uneventful lives. Door-to-door enquiries did not reveal any concerns about missing people from the district. Initial investigation began in an attempt to identify the body. Police records of missing persons were summoned from dusty basement files and re-examined. Coal Board records too, were collected and checked for past mining disasters where lost miners were unaccounted for.
“The problem is,” began Doctor Brody Cameron, a renowned and prominent forensic scientist, “as yet we are unable to give much information until tests are complete, so we can’t say how long the body has been in the pit shaft nor can we identify the deceased by simple visual means. Dental records and possible DNA samples from nails, bones and hair follicles are all we have to go on at present. It’s a gruesome task to be faced with first thing on a working day,” he concluded as he tapped his tobacco pipe on his trouser leg, emitting dust, more of which came from his well-worn clothing than from his ancient rusticated pipe. His colleagues held him in high esteem. His sharp mind and ability to solve the most difficult of cases never failed to amaze them.
He was a commanding figure, tall and straight as a ramrod; his grubby Belstaff jacket told of many hours of outdoor activities. Removing his specs from his pocket caused a spillage of its contents. Every imaginable essential tool for the trade shared its spa
ce with his lopsided specs and smelly pipe. With his battered deerstalker hat totally out of place with his attire, he had the look of a rather eccentric and scruffy Sherlock Holmes stand-in.
“Can’t you even tell from the state of decomposition how long the guy’s been down there?” questioned Detective Inspector Rab McKenzie, inspector in charge of police involvement. It had been established that the corpse was male.
“Not so easy, Rab. The water temperature has a significant bearing on decomposition, and water in that mine would have been colder than an Eskimo’s nose.”
What had not been revealed to the public were the gruesome details of the discovery made by Derek when he rescued Scamper; that the body had been chained to an iron bar, its arms raised above head height and secured by handcuffs. Only officials Derek and Craig knew those details at present.
DI McKenzie continued, “Can we establish if the man drowned or was he alive when submerged? From the little we know based on the chaining, we are talking serious crime here which will involve calling in the guys from our special unit.”
“Our forensic team will pull out all the stops to establish the nature of this death. It will not be an easy task but my boys like a challenge. Unfortunately, there won’t be much in the way of fingerprints to help identification,” added the forensic expert. He and Detective Inspector McKenzie had worked together on many occasions and had complete trust in each other’s skills and in the competence of their respective squads.
The scene was photographed as well as could be achieved in the murky, dark, dangerous waters using highly sophisticated underwater cameras. It was deemed too dangerous for divers to venture into the flooded shaft. Eric Quigley, the police photographer, using a state-of-the-art digital camera secured in waterproof housing, took charge of the camera work and later reported to the waiting team:
“From what I can see, there’s a mountain of old machinery there. The depth is difficult to estimate but the blackness indicates hundreds of feet. No one in their right mind would go down there, or be allowed to with our strict health and safety rules. This camera is connected to a monitor here on the surface. It will collect whatever evidence is there. We’ll just have to depend on it for as much data as we can gather. At least we will have a permanent record of what I find.”