I woke early with a start, not quite sure where I was for a moment. My view from the mattress on the floor soon reminded me. The sun spilled in through the curtainless window to shine on boxes stacked around the room; a bedside lamp perched on one next to Marcella’s bare shoulder. I reached for my jeans, dragging them toward me with a foot. I fished my phone from the pocket and checked the time, five-thirty. I still felt a little drunk, having come in for one drink and staying for the rest of the bottle and half of a further one, but I knew I wasn’t getting back to sleep. There was a niggling tension at my temples, the promise of a later headache. I stood up to pull up my jeans and stubbed my toe on an open suitcase which was spilling over with clothes. Marcella stirred, but didn’t wake.
I finished dressing in the kitchen while the kettle boiled and I prepared two cups. I drank my tea and then brought Marcella’s to the bedroom. I knelt, laid her cup next to the lamp on top of her bedside box and kissed her shoulder.
She jerked awake, her head rising and then crashing back to the pillow. ‘Hey,’ she said, her voice thick with sleep.
‘Morning. I brought you some tea.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘Yeah, I have to get to work.’
She rolled onto her back and rubbed at her eyes with a yawn. ‘Sorry about the morning breath, but …’ she pulled me in for a kiss.
‘I’ll call you later,’ I said.
‘Much later.’ She rolled back over and pulled the duvet around her.
I had a quick shower at home and tried to eat something, thinking about how much trouble I might already be in, not to mention the possibility of being stopped and breathalysed. I wasn’t rostered on for today, but nobody at Drylaw station batted an eyelid when I showed up. I tried not to breathe on anyone while I changed into uniform and took a car from the yard.
It took forty minutes to reach the outskirts of Rickerburn. I had a vague recollection of having driven through the town once, though I couldn’t recall why. The satnav took me in one end of the place and out the other. I was beginning to think something had gone wrong with the app before I was directed to turn off to the right. Had I not been prompted I would never have been aware this road existed. I bounced along the pockmarked surface and was told I had reached my destination.
A man carrying a binbag had spotted me and he watched me park and exit the car.
‘I’m looking for Mr Bradley,’ I said.
‘Aye?’ he replied unhelpfully.
‘Would that be you?’
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, a cigarette hanging from his lip.
I was about to introduce myself, something of a habit, and then remembered the reason for getting into uniform for this job. If he asked me my name, I would give it, but I was banking on the uniform being enough for him. ‘I was hoping to have a quick word, Mr Bradley.’ The man wore pyjama bottoms and sandals. His vest had been white when he’d bought it, but was now grey and there was a yellow stain at the collar.
He opened the lid of the metal bin next to a crumbling caravan and tossed in the binbag. ‘I don’t know why you lot have decided I’m needing talked to all of a sudden. Shouldn’t you be doing more useful things?’
‘It’s just a few questions. I promise it won’t take long.’
He didn’t agree or protest, he just turned and walked towards the last of the little cottages. I followed him to a garden area where he sat himself into a tired-looking folding chair and transferred the cigarette from his mouth to an ashtray.
‘I’m a bit busy today, but you can have ten minutes. After that, I’m done. Fed up with you lot,’ he said and began coughing. When he was done, he spat at the floor. I almost took a step back it was so close to my foot.
He reached under the chair and produced a glass and a tin of extra strong lager. He poured and placed the tin back in the shade of his backside. His skin was sun-darkened and blistered red at the shoulders. There were some scabs on his arms, a few of them wet and angry that might have been midge or cleg bites.
‘I’ll get straight to it then, Mr Bradley,’ I began and looked around for somewhere to sit, but there was nothing. ‘You’re aware that we’re looking for some connection between the death of your grandson and that of a priest in Edinburgh.’
‘You make it sound like an accident or something. A “death”? Let’s just call it what it is, you don’t need to sugar-coat it.’
‘All right. These murders, we believe, were perpetrated by the same individual and we need to know why the two victims were selected. I won’t lie to you, Mr Bradley, we’re still searching for the answer to that question and that’s what brings me here.’
‘I already told the lesbian detective everything I know.’
Lesbian detective? Jesus, is this what Alyson has to put up with?
‘I just wanted to go back over a few points, that’s all. These two schools that you worked at—’
‘I worked at more than two.’
‘Right, but the two Catholic schools you worked at, one was a standard, Catholic primary school …’ I pulled my notebook from my pocket and went to the page I’d prepared. ‘… St Ninian’s. And the other was a residential school for boys, St Cuthbert’s. Why did your employment end with them?’
Mr Bradley screwed up his face, whether in irritation or in reaction to the beaming of the sun, I wasn’t sure. ‘St Ninian’s was a bastard of a commute. It was on the south side of Glasgow and at the time I didn’t drive. I only took the job because I was desperate. I was there six months or so.’
Eight months according to Alyson’s notes, but fine.
He continued, ‘The St Cuthbert’s job lasted a few years and I was happy there, but they were in the process of closing the place down. That sort of school had gone out of fashion and the funding wasn’t there.’
‘What did you do after that?’
‘Dole for a while, then another janny position came up at the high school in Shotts. I worked there ’til I retired. I telt all this to the—’
‘To my colleague, yes. I’m sorry to be going over it again, but it’s just for clarification, and it gives you a chance to have a think about anything we might have missed. At St Ninian’s, were there many priests involved at the school?’
‘I don’t think so, not really. I’m not sure how it works, but I think they tie in with the local church and the priests visit the school and the kids go to the chapel. I don’t know, you’d need to ask them. But I don’t remember this priest I was asked about.’
There was nothing in the notes about further enquiries at this school, but I had no doubt that it would have been looked into. Still, I might need to go back over this point myself, I thought.
‘St Cuthbert’s, on the other hand, must have had priests involved?’
He coughed again, using the back of one hand to cover his mouth and the other to refill his glass. The smell of the alcohol was turning my stomach. ‘Aye, of course. The priests did some of the teaching, some nuns too. They had proper teachers for some subjects though.’
There was some information in Alyson’s notes for this school. Thorough checks on any connection with the second victim. Work histories compared for registered employees, though the records were not great. The school shut down some twenty years ago and the building was now used as a headquarters for an animal charity. There had been an attempt to talk to those who were in charge of the school back in the day, but things were not going well, as one was ten years dead and the other, a nun from County Cork, now doing missionary work in Bolivia.
‘Apart from the usual day-to-day staff at the school, were there many visitors that you can recall? Is it possible this priest came, just unofficially?’
‘I dunno. I suppose.’
‘Are you aware if they kept a logbook of some kind, for visitors?’
‘I don’t remember ever seeing one. Look, I cleaned up piss when the weans were too stupid or too lazy to hit the bowl, fixed door handles and occasionally did a bit of gardening. I can’t answ
er these questions.’
‘What about a blonde priest?’
‘A blonde priest?’
‘At either school. Do you remember seeing one? Either working there or visiting?’
‘What? I don’t know. Some priests are brown, some are blonde and most are either grey or bald. What does it matter?’
‘It’s just something that came up. Apparently, this blonde hair is striking for some reason. It doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘You suggesting I’m some sort of poofter or something? Why would I find some priest’s hair striking?’
He began hacking again, even placing his glass down while he coughed furiously into the crook of his arm and it somehow felt like karma.
‘Never mind, Mr Bradley. I’ll see myself out.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Old Habits
‘OK, what do you have?’ Kate Templeton stood at the front of the gathered crowd who were all facing the big screen in the office. The shorter ones peered around shoulders, but Alyson had a perfect view, towering as she was over the DC in front of her. There was an air of anticipation. It reminded Alyson of going to the cinema as a child, the sense of something magical about to appear.
‘We’ve edited this down, ma’am, so you can see clearly what we’re focusing on. OK, go ahead,’ one of the CCTV team said to another.
‘The city centre CCTV doesn’t cover the route we’re about to show, so the composite video is put together with private footage, except for the first and last shots, which are taken from the bus station. The camera looks onto the exit to Elder Street. When I press play, you’ll see a bunch of people disembarking from a coach which set out from North Berwick.’ Alyson wasn’t sure of the guy’s name, maybe Brian? He clicked on the remote and the video ran. The quality wasn’t bad. Sure enough the screen showed a line of people, viewed from above and to the side, leaving a yellow coach. Then it was paused. ‘This is our focus. This guy here with the red cap on. The time is eighteen-thirty-two hours on the day in question.’ He played on and Alyson watched as the guy in the cap hopped down from the step. He was carrying a dark rucksack. ‘Now, I won’t lie, there’s massive holes in the following footage as we track this guy through the city centre, but we’re confident that every image you’ll see is the same person.’ He played on and the screen switched, an interior of an office. ‘In a moment you’ll see this figure pass by the window, it only lasts a second, coming … now.’
This footage was far less clear, but a figure in a cap carrying a bag walked swiftly across the screen.
‘Where is this?’ said Kate.
‘York Place, ma’am. An architect’s office. The next images are from various stores on Leith Walk.’ The video rolled on and a series of black and white footage played. You had to use your imagination a little, but the stream was well put together and seemed to follow this person who walked at a determined pace. ‘This one is from Tesco Express and is the best image we’ve found.’ The screen switched to colour and automatic doors of the supermarket came into view. ‘You’ll see the figure pass by and then you’ll see another slowed version straight after.’
The figure came into view from the left and slowed for a moment before continuing on, but it was still fast. Then the replay came in slow motion and as the figure reached the middle of the screen, he looked towards the camera and then the footage paused. By some clever use of the software, this image was pulled to the corner of the screen and would stay there for the remainder of the presentation. There was one more clip from a grocery shop before the DC addressed the room again.
‘From train station to this point on Leith Walk, nineteen minutes have passed. We’ve obtained no further footage on this outward journey. The location of the last footage to the locus is four-hundred and eighty metres and can be walked in under five minutes. There is a gap now of twenty-one minutes and then we see this.’
He pressed the remote and there was our cap-wearing, bag-carrying figure, but very small, the camera recording from a distance.
‘What are we looking at here?’ said Kate.
‘This is still Leith Walk. The camera is on the East side, the side our man walks down, but now he’s on his way back on the west side.’
‘Back towards the station?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Wait, play that part back again. There, see? He stops briefly outside that shop. Has it been checked?’
‘Yes, ma’am. They do have CCTV and you can see a dark shape approach the window, but nothing more.’
‘Bugger. Play it on.’
A series of clips showed the blurry, but reasonably convincing figure’s journey back up Leith Walk.
‘This clip, from the Sainsbury’s door, is the last image before a gap of twenty-three minutes. Then this final clip.’
The recording showed the figure back within the bus station in an image similar to the first, but from a different bay. On the rear of the bus was again a sign for ‘North Berwick’. The figure enters suddenly from the left, not a great view of him this time, and he’s quickly on the bus which rolls out six minutes later. The screen goes black except for the image from Tesco.
‘We think these twenty minutes may have been our guy waiting until the last moment to enter the station and board the bus to ensure minimum capture from CCTV. From arrival at Elder Street to departure, just one hour and nine minutes have passed. Now, our guy could have a legitimate reason for his bizarrely swift visit to the capital, but we think this is significant.’
‘Fucking good work. Even if he was avoiding the camera before he departed, it’s still pretty brazen. Presumably it wouldn’t be difficult to enter the city, even by bus, get off at an earlier stop and take a more secluded path to the locus and return without hitting any cameras at all?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Very possible.’
Kate walked forward to the screen and stared at the captured figure. ‘But then you’ve never given a shit about hiding, have you?’ she said to blurred man. ‘There was no CCTV on the bus itself, or you would have said,’ she went on.
‘That’s correct, ma’am.’
‘The bus terminated in North Berwick. Talk to me.’
‘Uh, yes, ma’am. It does a loop of the town before returning to Edinburgh. We’ve been checking CCTV in the area and have the occasional capture of the bus itself, but not of any disembarking. We’ve made arrangements to interview the driver. He’s out of the country, but returning from holiday tomorrow and we’ll ask him to come in next week.’
‘No, fuck that. Alyson, I want you talking to this driver the minute his feet hit terra firma.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
For some people it’s clowns that send a shock of fear and repulsion down their spines. And while I don’t really get the point of them, their red noses, makeup and oversized shoes (is it supposed to be funny?), I don’t find them to be creepy or unsettling, except perhaps when you consider the person behind that makeup has made this their career of choice, that is a little unsettling. No, for me, it’s nuns; always has been.
So, it was unsurprising that I could feel sweat on my palms and neck as I turned into the drive for the Dumbarton Carmel. The road had a steady climb and I kept to a low gear as the tyres crunched the stone-chip surface beneath them. St Ninian’s had been a bust. None of the teachers at the school were in post when Mr Bradley had been the janitor and so they were unaware of him and had already been spoken to by a DC, and no link to Father McCauley had been established. I had no plans to re-interview schoolteachers and students or Father McCauley’s congregation, it was a small miracle I had been able to look into so much already without ringing an alarm bell somewhere. So, this looked to be the last roll of the dice. Roll of the dice, I thought and sniggered. What goes black-white, black-white, black-white? A nun rolling down a—
‘Ah … shit,’ I said as a gaggle of them came into view. That sweat on my hands now seemed cold and clammy.
They smiled at me as I passed and I waved through the o
pen window. Three of them were heading down the road, perhaps out for a walk towards town. Then the building came into view and I was surprised to find myself disappointed. There was a small parking area with no vehicles and I pulled up, watched by two more of them who were sitting on chairs in front of the modern building which made me think of the Pennywell Care Home, as it was such a similar interior structure: brown and beige and unremarkable.
‘Good afternoon, eh, sisters,’ I said and hoped that was the correct way to address them. Though I’d been brought up Catholic, I’d had mercifully little contact with nuns.
They squinted up at me, shielding their faces from the sun with their hands.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ one of them said, smiling. They might have been sisters, actual sisters, so alike they were in their brown habits and wimples, though I suppose that is the point of it. White, wispy hair was visible to the front of her habit, which was a relief as it removed the austere image I had in my head of the tight outfit with only a scowl visible on a pasty-white face – no doubt instilled by too many movies.
‘Hi, I’m so sorry to stop by unannounced. I was just hoping I might speak with someone who I think, uh, works here?’ Again, I wasn’t sure if ‘work’ was an appropriate term, probably not.
‘You’re looking to speak to Sister Catherine?’ the other nun said.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ This was a disappointing insight. It meant I wasn’t the first police officer here and so in turn meant all relevant information had already been extracted.
‘You best wait here. I’ll go fetch Sister Gladys.’
The first nun remained seated, smiling up at me. I kept my hands in my pockets to control my nervous twitching. The other nun returned with something closer to my nightmare image. She was younger than the other two, but instantly there was far more authority about her. She strode across the stones of the drive, the nun fetching her struggling to keep up. More wimples were appearing at the windows.
Into the Dark Page 21
