Blood & Guts

by Ed James

  Karen handed the clipboard back with a nod. ‘Thanks.’ She tossed a crime scene suit towards Vicky.

  She caught it just as the tent flap opened wide.

  The unmistakeable hunched figure of Forrester stomped out, shaking his head and snarling through his mask. ‘I don’t bloody care.’

  Trailing behind was the source of his ire. Vampish red hair a few shades darker than Considine’s crowded Jenny Morgan’s mask, but her icy smile seemed to make the air even colder. ‘I don’t bloody care if you don’t bloody care, David. It’s Christmas Eve and—’

  ‘And you’ve got a teenage lassie found half-clothed and dead in a supermarket car park.’ Forrester stopped, maybe letting his point sink in. ‘I don’t give—’

  ‘Look, I hate Christmas as much as the next Satanist, but my staff aren’t so enlightened.’

  ‘Well, I don’t give a monkey’s what day it is. That lassie has parents and a killer. If I’m to tell the former that I can’t catch the latter because you can’t manage your team? Christmas is cancelled. If your lot want a job that guarantees them off tonight, I suggest they inquire at Ashworth’s.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jenny’s snort looked like she was anything but. Still, she followed it with a resigned sigh, then a nod. ‘Evening, Vicks. Getting your evening ruined too?’

  Vicky gave a warm smile, trying to disarm Jenny on behalf of Forrester, but it didn’t seem to cut the mustard. ‘I’m hoping you’d have solved the case before I got here.’

  ‘Nah, that’s your job, Vicks.’ Jenny stepped aside and started tearing at her crime scene suit. Her phone rang and she answered it, trousers around her ankles.

  Inside the tent, Vicky saw the familiar sight of Dr Shirley Arbuthnott’s massive backside squatting by a body, side on to Vicky in a patch of petrol almost in the middle of a parking space. Looked like a teenager dressed for clubbing. A baby-blue dress that barely touched her thighs. Matching heels, though one had been discarded. Her lifeless eyes stared this way. Hard to see the cause of death this far away, just looked like the kind of prank kids would get up to on social media. That new Instagram thing, maybe. Or a video on YouTube. But the victim looked young, barely sixteen.

  Time was, that would’ve been Vicky, dressed up for a night on the town. In years to come, it could be Bella. A shiver crawled up her spine, like the cold had got deep into her bones.

  Jenny stabbed a finger off her phone and kicked the crime scene suit trousers up in the air. ‘Jay’s found a Samsung smartphone nearby.’ She caught the trousers and dumped them on the discard pile. ‘I’m going to head back to the station to work at it.’

  Forrester scowled at her. ‘I need you here, though.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Jenny smiled. ‘You need my team here, working on any forensics, not me. And there won’t be any, will there?’ She looked around. ‘Meanwhile, I’m going to get into that phone and see who your girl was meeting.’

  ‘Meeting?’

  ‘Well, you don’t come here dressed like that if you’re out for a stroll, do you?’

  ‘You’re assuming she wasn’t dumped?’

  ‘Same difference. She’s probably been speaking to her killer. Happens all the time.’

  Forrester looked desperate now, his eyes darting around the car park. ‘Are you cataloguing the cars?’

  ‘Not my job, David. You’ve got a very big team who can handle that kind of malarkey.’

  Forrester shut his eyes. ‘Right. Well. Off you bloody go.’

  ‘Charming.’ Jenny patted Vicky’s arm as she passed. ‘Catch you guys later.’

  Forrester nodded at Karen. ‘Constable, see that stuff about cataloguing cars?’

  ‘Can’t you get DC Considine to do it?’

  Forrester frowned, but it eased off when he spotted Considine’s eager bunny nodding. ‘Aye, fine. Relieve him from Crime Scene Management.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Forrester watched them go, easing off his suit trousers. ‘Swear she gets worse every day, Vicks.’

  ‘Karen or Jenny?’

  ‘Take your pick.’

  The tent opened and Arbuthnott stormed out, lugging her medicine bag. ‘Well, David, I’ll check to see if she was raped when I get her back.’

  Vicky felt like her gut was boiling now. ‘Raped?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Arbuthnott grimaced. ‘Sooner I get her into the lab, the sooner—’

  ‘But if you were a betting lady?’

  Arbuthnott exhaled slowly, her breath misting in the air. ‘My take is that the victim was strangled and then dumped here.’

  Vicky looked around the car park again. ‘Why would you dump a body here?’

  ‘Good question.’ Arbuthnott shrugged. ‘But the body’s still warm, so I can give you a very accurate time of death.’ She checked her watch. ‘Eighty-two minutes ago.’

  Forrester gave her a warmer smile than he gave Jenny. ‘Any danger we can get the PM fast tracked?’

  Arbuthnott was nodding her head. ‘I mean, it’s Christmas Eve and all of my children are waiting on Santa’s visit, but this is a young girl’s life, snuffed out just like that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘As soon as she’s in the mortuary, I’ll fast-track a preliminary post-mortem.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Shirley.’

  ‘I’m not the one who has to break the news to her parents. Evening.’ Arbuthnott hefted up her bag again and charged across the car park.

  Vicky stood there, trying to process it all. A dead girl in the middle of a supermarket car park. ‘Take it we don’t know who she is?’

  ‘No purse, no ID. Nothing.’ Forrester folded up his trousers and put them on the discard pile. ‘Hoping that, despite her general nippiness, Jenny can get us at least that from the phone.’

  ‘Assuming it’s the victim’s.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Night security lad.’ Forrester was scratching at his seven o’clock shadow, rasping like a matchbox. ‘Lad wasn’t the full shilling. More excited about how he’s working all of Christmas Day too and how he’s coining it in at double time. Some nonsense about going to Barcelona in a week to watch the El Clásico and tour the stadium.’

  ‘David, “the” is redundant.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s El Clásico, not the El Clásico.’

  ‘Either way, I fancy Barca crushing Real.’

  ‘Displacement activity, right?’ Vicky looked over at the supermarket, now emptying of staff. ‘He’s just found a dead body. Can’t process that, so he talks about football.’

  ‘Right.’

  She focused on him. ‘Unless he killed her.’

  ‘Already crossed my mind.’ Forrester shot her a crafty wink, just the wrong side of creepy. ‘Lad didn’t see anybody turn up, though.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘I do. Young Buchan got hold of the CCTV.’ Forrester pulled out a smartphone and pressed his finger to the sensor. ‘Bastard thing never— Here we go.’ He held out the screen to Vicky.

  It was paused, showing a car driving over from the roundabout. A silver Skoda, but blurry. Vicky nudged the frame on but it disappeared. Back two, and it was over at the roundabout.

  Forrester scowled. ‘They’ve got the world’s worst security system.’

  ‘It’s 2015 – who only stores every five seconds?’

  ‘Ashworth’s is who. Cheap bastards.’ Forrester shook his head. ‘Had a case over at their head office in Crieff a few years back. Bunch of clowns, I tell you. Had to threaten both brothers. Twins, would you believe?’

  ‘Believe anything. So, you think this Skoda dumped her body here?’

  ‘Possible.’ He took the phone back and held it out, on the frame of the car. ‘You see both of our problems, though, aye?’

  Vicky stared at the screen, but she couldn’t see much else. Ah. She had it. ‘So, there’s no CCTV nearer the store?’

  ‘Nope. It’s like Fort Knox, Doddsy.’ Forrester shook his hea
d. ‘Cameras everywhere. And in glorious HD. Just not out there. Not their land, so no dice on the old cameras.’

  ‘And that car doesn’t show up?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Vicky stared at the screen again. ‘No, I don’t see what the issues are.’

  Forrester tapped the screen. ‘The car’s got masked plates.’

  ‘That’s not just blur?’

  ‘No, that Jay gadgie in forensics ran it through his laptop, said it’s been sprayed with that shite that, you know, masks it.’

  ‘It’s a Skoda, right?’

  ‘Right. An Octavia. Why?’

  ‘Well, my dad’s always joking about how—’

  ‘All taxis in Dundee are Skoda Octavias. Aye.’

  ‘What’s the other one?’

  ‘Well, if that car didn’t dump her, then let’s say they were meeting here. We’ve got one other car coming and—’ Forrester’s frown deepened into a scowl. ‘In the name of the wee man…’ He powered off across the car park. ‘Shite!’ He slid forward, arms rising, but at least he didn’t go down.

  Vicky followed him, but slowly. ‘Watch for the ice, sir.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ But Forrester wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Ryan!’

  A car door opened and a tall bugger got out, his face obscured by a thick beard. His bald head caught the light. DS Ryan Ennis was weaving about, like he was drunk. ‘Eh?’

  Vicky felt her gut clench in that sickening way. Christ knows how Ennis did what he did to her, but he did it.

  ‘Been trying to bloody call you!’ Forrester held out his phone, emphasising his point. ‘I’ve texted, I’ve left voicemails! Where the hell have you been?’

  Ennis leaned back against his car and folded his arms. ‘Daughter’s run off again. Took her granda’s car. Suspect she’s seeing her boyfriend, but I’ve no bloody idea who he is. Neither does Kelly. And I’m raging.’ He didn’t seem to be anything like raging. Just stood there, with the same dead expression on his face. He looked over at Vicky and his eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Vicks. Just you wait until wee Bella’s seventeen, then you’ll see.’

  Vicky clenched her jaw tight.

  Before she could say anything, Forrester was in Ennis’s face. ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek. Can’t get hold of your daughter and you’re raging? Why aren’t you at least doing me the courtesy of letting me know you’d gone off duty? Eh?’

  Ennis sniffed, eyes shut. ‘Sorry, Dave.’

  ‘Don’t “Dave” me. This is serious. A lassie’s been killed and—’

  ‘Said I’m sorry.’

  Forrester stood there, his tongue worming around in his cheek. Vicky knew that look. Trying to figure out how much punishment to mete out.

  ‘Wait a wee minute.’ Ennis shot into action, charging across the car park like a bull driving at a matador, his heavy feet pounding away.

  While he was distracted by Ennis’s appearance and equally sudden disappearance, Vicky nudged Forrester’s arm. ‘Sir, now he’s turned up, do you mind if me and Karen can get off home?’

  ‘Give me a bloody minute!’ Forrester started off after Ennis.

  As much as Vicky wanted to get home, this kind of drama needed to be sorted out. And Ennis was prone to worse. So she followed too.

  Ennis had a hold of Considine’s suit lapels and had pulled him close. ‘Of course I do, you arsehole!’ Ennis looked like he was going to chin him.

  Forrester was trying to prise him off. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

  ‘This big wanker—’

  ‘You, son, are a useless wee fanny.’ Ennis took a step forward, head jutting out towards Considine, but he stopped short of sticking the head on him. ‘How could you not know?’

  Forrester got some traction and hauled Ennis away from Considine. ‘Know what, Ryan?’

  Ennis stood there, head darting around. ‘The car.’ His shaking hand was pointing at a battered old Peugeot that surely couldn’t be roadworthy. Bruise purple, with lichen or moss growing in the radiator. ‘It’s…’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s my wife’s father’s car.’

  Forrester frowned. ‘Does he work here?’

  Ennis shook his head. ‘My… daughter uses it to ferry the old bugger around. Teresa… She’s…’ He barged past Forrester, then set off into a jog, then as close to a sprint as his giant frame could manage. ‘Teri!’

  He was heading for the crime scene.

  Vicky raced off after him, but he was at the tent before she was halfway there. And Karen was no match for his bulk, half his weight. At least. But she had a baton extended, raised behind her back, saying something lost to Ennis’s manic shouting.

  Vicky grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  The ice was on her side and he slipped and slid towards her. ‘That’s my daughter in there!’

  Vicky kept hold of his arm. ‘We’ll show you a photo, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Karen kept a glare fixed on Ennis, ready to smash him with her baton.

  Vicky walked over to the crime scene tent. ‘Jen, can you show us a photo?’

  Jenny peered out, holding a tablet computer. ‘Here.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Vicky held it out to Ennis. ‘Is this her?’

  Panting hard, Ennis stared at the screen, mouth hanging open. He collapsed into Vicky’s arms.

  She let two of the bigger nearby uniforms take him, then stared into his eyes. ‘Ryan, is it Teresa?’

  Ennis shook his head. ‘No. It’s not.’

  ‘Do you recognise—?’

  ‘Why the bloody hell is her car here?’

  Vicky grabbed his lapels now. ‘Ryan, do you recognise her?’

  Ennis looked right at her, then nodded slowly. ‘Aye. Aye, I do. She’s… She’s a friend of Teresa’s. Name is Carly Johnston.’

  3

  Adelaide Place was a long street filled with big old houses just that bit too close together. The Johnstons’ home was one of the more spread out, and had a great view down to the Tay, with both bridges glowing in the freezing fog.

  Vicky turned to face Forrester, silhouetted by the lights of Dundee behind him, stretching down the Law to the pitch-black Tay. On a night like this, it almost felt like a safe place. ‘Hate doing this.’

  Forrester looked up from his phone, the brightness catching his face. ‘What, interrupting a pleasant dinner party to tell parents their pride and joy has been killed and maybe raped?’ He let out a thick sigh. ‘Aye, it’s shite.’

  Vicky rang the bell and let it chime. Inside the house, soft jazz played from somewhere, accompanied by laughing and joking. Some kind of party, or maybe just watching a film at ear-splitting volume. She stepped back, clasping her hands around her back. She didn’t know what to do with them, where to put her fingers, now squirming against her palms.

  Forrester clicked his jaw, in that really sickening way. ‘Poor Ryan.’

  Vicky nodded.

  Still, nobody was answering.

  Forrester stepped forward and rapped his knuckles on the door, that stern policeman’s pattern that never failed.

  ‘Poor lad didn’t take being sent back to the station too well.’

  Vicky clenched her hands into fists. ‘I think you should’ve sent him home.’

  ‘Eh?’ Forrester shook his head. ‘Him remaining in the station means he’s close to any news. Professional courtesy, if nothing else. Besides, if I sent him home, you know he’ll somehow not turn up there and be out looking for what the hell’s happened to Teresa.’

  Vicky gave him as polite a nod as she could muster.

  So much for Forrester’s policeman’s knock. She reached over to press the bell again. ‘Still think he’s a powder keg waiting to explode.’

  ‘Aye, well, I can handle Ryan Ennis.’

  ‘Sure. That’s why you had to drag me in on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Come on, Vicky, it’s a man thing.’

  ‘A man thing?’

  ‘Aye. I can’t just send him away. He’s—’

&nb
sp; The door clunked open, replaced by a man with rosy cheeks. Mid-forties, short hair, his smart shirt open at the neck to reveal a wiry chest rug. He tilted his head to the side. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Name’s David Forrester. This is my colleague, Vicky Dodds. I’m a detective inspector in Pol—’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Forrester paused. ‘It’s best we do this inside, sir.’

  ‘Is it Carly?’

  ‘Sir, I sugg—’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Bill, what’s going on?’ A woman appeared, clinging to his arm. ‘What’s happened?’

  Forrester had his warrant card out. ‘We just need a word inside. About your daughter.’

  ‘My God. Is she okay?’

  Forrester closed his eyes and gave a grimace. He clearly knew he wasn’t getting inside. ‘I’m afraid the body of someone matching her description was found this evening. We’ll need one of you to identify her.’

  * * *

  ‘A hell of a time to do this, Vicky.’ Forrester rested his hand against the wall, like he was bracing himself against the news. ‘Every bloody Christmas Eve for the rest of their lives, they’ll be scarred by losing their daughter.’

  Through the thick safety glass, Arbuthnott pulled back the sheet to show the victim’s face. On the edge of being a girl and a woman. Whatever had led her to that fate, dying in a cold supermarket car park, maybe it had something to do with her exploring what becoming a woman meant.

  Or maybe it had nothing to do with it.

  Vicky stepped closer to the glass to get a better look at what was going on.

  Bill and Catherine Johnston stood in the room next to Arbuthnott, holding hands, faces stern in that Dundonian way, but his eyes and her lips betrayed their grief.

  Bill gave Arbuthnott the nod, and she replaced the sheet with a kind smile. Arbuthnott glanced at the window, then led the Johnstons away.

  Forrester ran a hand down his face. ‘Hell of a time.’ He walked off himself, heading for the family room, but stopped by the door. ‘Here’s the deal, okay? I’ll babysit the parents for a bit, stay for the PM, see if I can shake anything loose. Arbuthnott’s readying her just now.’ He grimaced. ‘You get back to the team, see what you can divine.’