INTO THE DARK
STUART JOHNSTONE
For Rose Winifred Johnstone
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BY STUART JOHNSTONE
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Mr Beeswax
‘Hello, emergency service operator, which service? … Emergency service operator, do you require fire, police, or ambulance? … Hello? … Is there someone there? … How can I help you? … Hello, is there—’
‘Aye, aye. I’m here.’
‘Hello, sir. What is the nature of your emergency? … Sir? I need you to tell me—’
‘Well, if you’d just shut up for a minute maybe I would tell you, wouldn’t I?’
‘Angie, I think it’s Mr Beeswax.’
‘What’s that? Who’re you talkin’ to there?’
‘Nothing, Mr … uh, sir. I was just consulting my colleague. How can I help you tonight?’
‘I’ll tell you how you can help me … I just, eh. What is it now?’
‘Sir, could I start by taking your name please?’
‘Don’t interrupt me. Ach, I’ve gone and lost my train of … Didn’t your mother teach you not to interrupt people? It’s rude. Ach, where was I now?’
‘Sorry, sir. But your name please? I need to log the call and I need your—’
‘My name? I’ll tell you what my name is, it’s none of your bloody beeswax, that’s what my name is.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll log that for you. Now what is it we can do for you tonight? You have something you’d like to report I assume?’
‘Are you laughing? I can hear you laughing. Your little pal beside you, too.’
‘No, no. Not laughing, sir. We’d never do that. What is it you’d like to report Mr Bees … eh, sir?’
‘You are laughin’. I can hear ye and whoever it is you’re with. I can hear them an’ all.’
‘Sir, I can assure you, there is nobody laughing here. Now what is it today, sir? Theft of a yeti, perhaps? Has another monster been assaulted?’
‘You are takin’ the piss. I bloody knew it. And what do ye mean again? I’ve never called you before in my life, ya cheeky wee—’
‘Now, now sir. No need for any bad language. What is it to be? Aliens in the park? Armed robbery of a—’
‘He’s butchered him. He’s bloody butchered him and dumped him in a damned ditch.’
‘… Uh …’
‘Cut his eyes out, so he has. What kind of a monster could … Cut his eyes out?’
‘Sir, what exactly are we talking about here? … Sir, are you still there? … Sir, are you still on the line?’
‘Cut his eyes—’
‘Sir? Hello? No, he’s gone.’
‘That’s it. He just hung up after that. What do you think?’ DS Cunningham swept the mouse to the top right of his computer screen and closed the window.
Alyson Kane rubbed at her arm where goosebumps had formed. ‘That got pretty dark, pretty quick. What are we listening to?’
‘A treble-nine call, obviously. The DCI wants it looked into.’
‘It’s a bit … unprofessional. Don’t you think?’
DS Cunningham laughed. ‘It is a bit. I’d hate to be the poor sod who handled that call. If he’d thought for a second it was going to be studied in connection to a murder case, he would have stuck to the script, for sure.’
Alyson lifted one of the Starbucks coffees she’d placed on the table in front of them and sipped. Her train had been late this morning, therefore so was she, and rather than run to McNair Street Police Station, she’d allowed a few more minutes of tardy timekeeping to bring her sergeant a placating gesture. Coffee never failed. When he stopped her in the corridor, she thought perhaps this trick had been played one too many times, but he hadn’t seemed to have noticed the time and ushered her into his office to play her the recording of the call.
‘So, what’s the story, boss? Is this to do with the Bradley case?’ she asked, pointing at the MP3 file in the folder on the screen.
‘I’ll tell you in the car. This coming in has reminded the DCI that it’s been a while since we updated the family and you and I have drawn the short straw,’ he said, standing up.
Alyson’s heart sank. If this wasn’t the worst part of the job, she didn’t ever want to see what beat it. She followed Duncan through the enormous room on the third floor of McNair Police Station, which was empty but for a few lone DCs typing away at terminals. Outside, she dropped herself into the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford, clutching her coffee to her like a safety blanket. She prayed he’d be doing the talking this time. During the last visit he’d left it to her and she’d stumbled over her words and tortured herself by playing a constant loop of it in her mind for days afterwards.
‘So, this recording …’ she prompted him, once they’d joined traffic.
‘Right, well, this guy, he’s a frequent crank caller. Or maybe not a crank, more confused. Mr Beeswax, as they called him, phones in maybe once every other month. They traced it to a care home out in Edinburgh. He calls in at crazy hours of the night, reporting outlandish things. He’s clearly senile. The call handlers are bored to tears at that hour and I suppose they were just have a bit of fun with him. Unprofessional, but harmless, really.’
‘Until now. It’s the eyes thing, I suppose?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the DCI wants me to look into it?’ A jolt of euphoria surged through her, displacing the dread of updating the family and making her feel a little lightheaded.
‘She does, yes. But Alyson, don’t get excited. The thing is, that call you listened to is from March.’
‘What? You’re kidding.’
‘I’m afraid not. Three full weeks before Callum’s murder.’
The euphoria in Alyson’s chest dropped into her stomach, morphing through disappointment into something more resembling irritation. She took a moment before she spoke; counting to ten, her mum called it. ‘Then what’s the point? I’m assuming Mr Beeswax, or whatever his name is, isn’t considered a suspect, or even a witness. Why this? Why me?’
She could hear the petulance in her voice, despite her best intentions. But Duncan Cunningham was one of the good ones; he was three years before his retirement and so had long since given up on any career advancement. In Alyson’s experience, you remove ambition from a gaffer and you end up with a level-headed one. They’re the ones you can rely on to help you with your career. There’s no competition, no games. Along with the ladder-climbing, he’d also given up on his appearance a bit. He had no problem wearing the same shirt and tie combination four days in a row. He was bald across the majority of his head, with a Caesar’s laurel of hair remaining which he allowe
d to grow, bucking the middle-aged shave-it-all trend and so making him look older than his fifty-eight years.
He was silent as he negotiated a roundabout, then took the exit for Rickerburn, before addressing her again: ‘It’s desperation, that’s what it is. The DCI’s feeling the pressure and you know as well as I do that shit rolls downhill. Twelve weeks with no tangible leads, suspects or witnesses and she’s getting … creative … in the face of some tricky questions from above. That’s what I think.’
‘But this could be looked into by anyone. It’ll take all of an afternoon. Why not get uniform on it?’ Alyson unfolded her arms, conscious of how much like a sulking teenager she must look.
Duncan turned to her, exhaling. ‘You want some advice?’
‘That’s rhetorical, right?’
‘Of course it is. Look, just go with it, and do it with a grateful smile on your face. You remember what the incident room looked like last month?’
‘It was going like a fair.’
‘Every spare detective, pro-active team member and a small army of uniform all queueing to get five minutes on a computer terminal. Now you have your pick from dozens. They’re scaling this back big time, but for the moment, you’re still involved. Don’t give them an excuse to send you back to interviewing plebs for housebreakings. Go do this and don’t rush back. Get some local help and stay involved.’
He had a point. A good one. The day after a dog walker had discovered the mutilated remains of ten-year-old Callum Bradley – his body dumped at the side of an old open-cast mine, his eyes … God, Alyson never wanted to see those photographs again – they had set up the dedicated Major Incident room. The day she’d entered, it had seemed small and ridiculously crowded. Alyson had been rescued from a housebreaking team to which she’d been seconded to for three months, but which had stretched into a tedious seven months. What was she complaining about? All the things she’d been tasked with had been pretty mundane. Collect CCTV here, log productions there; but now she was working a murder.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Where is this old weirdo?’
‘North Edinburgh. I’ll email you the details. You know anyone out there?’
Alyson laughed humourlessly. ‘Actually, I do. A community sergeant who works out that way. And he owes me. Owes me big.’
They pulled up to the house and Alyson drew a long breath before she pushed the car door open and stepped onto the kerb.
It was Mrs Bradley who answered when they knocked, though she barely looked to see who she was opening the door to. She was in the same semi-catatonic state she’d been in each time Alyson had seen her. Mrs Bradley shuffled back along the hall. Alyson allowed Duncan to go ahead of her.
Mr Bradley sat at the kitchen table. His beard was new, his trembling hands were not, as he reached out to shake Duncan’s hand. Alyson felt wretched about the initial weeks of the investigation when he had been treated as a suspect, though mercifully ruled out after an air-tight alibi, and from prints and DNA samples he freely gave.
Alyson stood in the corner of the kitchen while Duncan uttered phrases they all had come to know so well and said nothing: ‘Investigation is ongoing’, ‘pursuing several leads’, ‘working around the clock.’ She faced the floor and willed it to be over.
Mrs Bradley was sobbing in another room.
CHAPTER TWO
Morgan’s Case
‘I’m really sorry about this, Sarge.’
‘Don’t apologise, Cathy. Listen, I’ve worked with plenty of officers who’d go off sick if their budgie sneezed, and you’re not one of them. You’ve a chronic problem and you need to look after yourself. You hear me?’
Cathy sniffed on the other end of the line and confirmed she understood, her voice breaking with emotion.
‘Thanks for ringing me, but you didn’t need to do that. Now call the HR line to let them know and then you rest up. I’ll manage your cases. Give my best to that family of yours.’
‘Thanks, Sarge. Really.’
I felt bad for her. Cathy was the senior constable on my small team and a good cop. It wasn’t unexpected, not really. I’d been watching her throw back pills like smarties for weeks and had once watched her from the first-floor window as she tried to exit her police vehicle. It had taken her two attempts in as many minutes.
I was well aware of her back issues. It was a smash a few years ago during a pursuit when she was with the Traffic Unit. A lesser officer would have pursued a claim against Police Scotland, if not for compensation, then at least for early retirement with full benefits. Not Cathy. She loved the job, even after twenty-something years. Her enthusiasm was as obvious as it was infectious, which made her an ideal tutor constable. Joining the Community Policing Team was supposed to be a way of easing her back into service. I’d immediately taken to her when I’d joined the team three months ago.
I laid down the phone and walked through to the canteen which consisted of a table large enough to sit eight, a few armchairs and a TV/DVD combination job in the corner. A small bookshelf sat beside it, devoted almost exclusively to Stephen King paperbacks and movies. Cathy’s shiny new probationer was sitting at the table, at work and ready to go half an hour early, as I expected. He was clicking away at his mechanical pencil, trying to find the right length of nib to, no doubt, faithfully record that he was ‘on duty’ in his notebook. Which reminded me, I hadn’t even opened my own in over a week. I’d find time to go back over it and fill in the days missed: day and date, time on duty, time off duty. A bit silly, but we all knew of at least one officer who had been requested to hand over their notebook to a procurator fiscal depute at court after a bad showing in the box. It’s a disciplinary offence to have holes in the recording of your notebook. Probationers tend to it like a sick pet, whereas those with service, more like a distant relative. Seriously, walk into a waiting room in any court in the land and you’ll find a clutch of cops frantically back-filling months of non-entries; especially the ones who wear suits and generally live in pads of witness-statement paper rather than their little black books.
‘Morgan.’
‘Sarge,’ he said, dropping his pencil on the table. He chased after it and knocked his notebook onto the floor. He reached for it with a long, thin arm.
‘You’re with me today.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘It’s all right, relax. Sit down and finish your drink. Muster in twenty minutes.’
The boy was on his feet, it was difficult to think of him as anything else. He was twenty-four, I knew from his file, but he was still filling out. His body armour gave the false impression of some bulk, but you could see from his long, thin limbs that he could benefit with putting on a few pounds. He was fidgeting and trying to stuff his notebook away, almost toppling over his can of Fanta. Was I as awkward and nervous when I started? Probably.
At 2 p.m. my small team assembled in my office. The shift officers mustered in the canteen, but with just the five of us – four, now that Cathy was off – it didn’t seem necessary.
Vikram and Mandy had been working together for over a year and I didn’t see any point in breaking that up. They cleared their cases and produced a decent amount of pro-active work and that reflected well on the department as a whole. If it ain’t broke … So, I decided I’d work with Morgan, at least for today. Besides, it was about time. I’d never worked a full shift with him and his evaluation was due in a few months’ time. Good opportunity to see what he was made of.
‘Two car break-ins were reported overnight in Pilton. Day shift were apparently too busy to deal with it, so I’m afraid it’s dropped to us. Or rather – to you,’ I said and handed over the printout to Mandy. She had eighteen years’ service, Vikram just nine, which put Mandy in charge. An unwritten rule in policing. Strictly speaking all constables are the same rank, but that’s not how it works in practical terms. Ask lanky, fresh-out-the-box Morgan here to give Mandy an order and just see what happens.
‘This is happening just a wee bit too often, Sar
ge. The shift dumping stuff on us, I mean,’ said Vikram.
‘Agreed. I’m going to have a word with their sergeant, but you know what it’s like, how they view us community officers.’ There was a grumble of agreement. ‘And if you get a chance, could you get out by Muirhouse, by the golf course, been a few complaints about off-road bikes.’
‘Will do, Sarge,’ said Mandy, and she and Vikram set off.
‘So, what would Cathy have had you doing today?’ I asked Morgan.
‘Actually, we were going to follow up on a fraud case. It’s a bit of a mess, so it is.’ Morgan was from Northern Ireland and had a thick accent. The ‘so it is’ came out as a single word – soadis.
‘You can explain on the way. I forget, have you had your driving course yet?’
‘Not yet, Sarge, no.’
Bollocks, I thought. I was never fond of driving for an entire shift. It drained the energy from you. Even though you need to have a full driving licence to even apply to the police, they wouldn’t let you near the wheel of a police vehicle until you’d passed a week-long driving course. A torturous week that I wouldn’t fully describe to the lad. No point in scaring him, he’d just have to find out for himself.
It was a fine afternoon. That is to say, it wasn’t raining. I pulled the car out of the Drylaw office and turned left while Morgan fished through his notebook for details of this case he was working on.
North Edinburgh, our beat, took in very contrasting corners of the city. The northern border was easily delineated by the Firth of Forth and confined areas such as Granton and Newhaven. Not particularly affluent areas of the city, but not the worst. The East border was Leith and was a whole thing in itself. However, we were headed west. Cramond lies at the north-west edge of the city. Its distance from the city centre should logically mean a more achievable house price than areas within, but its proximity to the water and relatively easy access to arterial routes back into town meant that it was reserved largely for those with serious wealth. I wouldn’t be putting a down-payment on a three bed here anytime soon.
Into the Dark Page 1
