Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  THE GREENKEEPER’S hut was between the fifteenth and sixteenth holes. Pretty fancy too. Solar panels and all sorts of rain-collection devices on the roof, though they looked dry as a bone. A row of golf buggies, all plugged in to the mains, and some mowing equipment that belonged on a farm, not a golf course.

  A female uniformed officer appeared at the door. ‘What?’

  Vicky unfurled her warrant card. ‘DS Dodds. Looking for Brendan Doig.’

  ‘Right.’ The uniform stepped forward and let the door close behind her. ‘He’s the head greenkeeper here.’

  ‘Thanks. Can you give us a minute?’

  ‘Thing is…’ Her mouth puckered up. ‘He’s not doing too well.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well. He found the body first thing, but he told me he froze. Took him like an hour to come round. He had some sort of PTSD episode.’

  ‘Poor guy.’

  ‘Yup. Said he’d found his uncle’s body when he was a kid.’ She stepped aside to let Vicky past.

  Brendan Doig was sitting at a table. He was all skin and bone, the lithe physique of a marathon runner, but with a big-jawed face that looked several sizes too big for him. He was staring into space, his lips twitching.

  MacDonald whispered to Vicky, ‘I worked with an Edinburgh cop who suffered from this. Let me.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  MacDonald took the seat across from him and waited for him to look up. ‘Hi.’

  Brendan looked away.

  ‘Mr Doig, my name is DS Euan MacDonald and I need to ask you a few questions about the body. You okay?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Brendan’s voice was a lot deeper than Vicky expected. And he was clearly struggling, his eyes wheeling around in his head.

  ‘Sir, I gather you discovered the body?’

  He gave a vigorous nod, like he’d snapped into the present. ‘Just found her lying on the sand.’

  Vicky’s sight had adjusted to the light. The walls were lined with three rows of lockers, most of them covered in pin-up shots from American porn mags. ‘You recognise her?’

  ‘Nope.’ He stared at Vicky. ‘I was just working. Why should I have to see that?’

  MacDonald raised his eyebrows. ‘Sir, I want to thank you for calling it in despite the obvious trauma.’

  Brendan shut his eyes and tilted his head back. ‘Right.’

  ‘Sir, it’d help us immensely if you could take us through your morning.’

  Brendan drew a breath and nodded slowly. ‘Boss is piling on the pressure to get it perfect, so I was cutting the fairway on the sixteenth. I mean, it’s close to burning to a crisp and you’ve no idea how much watering it’s needing. And I just saw her lying there.’ He tugged at his hair. ‘I mean, a dead body? Like that?’

  MacDonald sat next to him and smiled. Gave the guy a few seconds’ attention. ‘What’s your boss’s name?’

  ‘John Lamont. He’s the owner here. I report directly to him, but he wants to bring someone in to manage this place once things are up and running.’

  ‘Okay.’ Vicky scrawled the name down. ‘Why is he applying so much pressure?’

  ‘Supposed to be opening up tomorrow, but there’s a pro-celebrity match. Some actors and that annoying fat comedian off the telly. But it’s not working well, I think the subscription numbers are low. Don’t know what he thought would happen. He’s got Carnoustie a few miles away and St Andrews over the Tay. Had this big opening ceremony last night during the Open, to cadge punters in, but I don’t think it worked as well as he hoped. And he’s the kind to sweat the small stuff.’

  So the victim could’ve been a guest.

  Vicky took the seat next to MacDonald. ‘Were you at this event, Mr Doig?’

  He laughed. ‘Hardly. He put on a free bar in the function room upstairs for the staff while the VIPs were wined and dined. And of course, I had to bugger off early to get the course shipshape today.’

  Vicky didn’t want to risk traumatising the guy further by showing the face. ‘So you didn’t see her?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Still, a little black dress and three hundred quid shoes meant it was probable she was a guest. Just not likely to be a local.

  3

  Up close, the hotel looked less finished than when Vicky had arrived in the car park. All the bits of unpainted wood, smoky glass, lights not working, snagging or whatever they called it.

  And where the hell was MacDonald?

  I should just get in there and do this myself.

  Sod it, she did.

  The hotel interior was a riot of activity, a din of out-of-tune whistling and blaring radios tuned to different stations. Bright lights. A wide atrium with a dark granite desk, curtained off behind. Probably supposed to look like it was in London, New York or Paris. But it was in the middle of nowhere on the Angus coast. Whoever owned it, well he was trying to show the world how big his dick was. And the whole place smelled of turps.

  Vicky weaved between two joiners lugging big planks of wood across the shiny floor and stopped at the reception desk. Nobody about, but someone had been there working. Two desktop computers hummed away, though there were no chairs. She rang the bell and waited, checking her phone for messages. Nothing, except Rob sending her a photo of Jamie wearing Bella’s hair like a wig. Another glance behind her and no sign of MacDonald. The joiners were nailing the planks together at right angles. She had no idea why or what they were attempting to build.

  The curtain swooshed open and a female receptionist appeared, smiling, but her eyes betraying a deep feeling of harassment. And the place wasn’t even open yet. She tilted her head to the side. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘DS Vicky Dodds.’ She flipped out her warrant card and held it for a good inspection, then put it away. ‘Need to speak to the owner.’

  The receptionist cleared her throat. ‘Well, Mr Lamont is incredibly busy.’

  ‘It’s John Lamont, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct. He’s having a crisis meeting with our contractors.’ She gestured behind Vicky. ‘As you can see, our fish tank is way behind schedule.’

  Another glance and Vicky still couldn’t see how on earth that was anything other than some wood stuck together. She smiled at the receptionist. She wore a badge but it didn’t have a name, which made things harder. ‘I’m sure your boss is aware of the discovery this morning.’

  ‘And Mr Lamont is aware of how much time it is occupying.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Well, we need to get the greens shipshape for tomorrow or—’

  ‘Listen to me, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.’

  The receptionist raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr Lamont gave explicit instructions to—’

  ‘Kathy!’ MacDonald breezed past Vicky and leaned against the dark stone desk. ‘Didn’t know you were working here.’

  A genuine smile filled the receptionist’s face. ‘Mac! Good to see you!’

  ‘And you.’ MacDonald gave Vicky a clear-off gesture with his head. ‘So how’s it shaping up here?’

  Vicky gave him some space. She was too big to fight him on it, and fighting seemed to be getting them nowhere near speaking to Lamont.

  Vicky got out her phone. Another text from Forrester, “Call me.” So she did.

  And he didn’t answer.

  Superb. Best case, he was driving. But there were way too many worst cases.

  MacDonald sauntered past her, striding like a guest just after a breezy check-in. ‘John Lamont is waiting for us.’

  Vicky followed him over to the lift. ‘How?’

  ‘All it took was a bit of charm, not your flavour of aggression.’

  ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘Know what you’re thinking, Dodds. Get your mind out of the gutter. I don’t know her in the biblical sense, no.’ MacDonald gave a flash of his eyebrows that contained a good chunk of disappointment. ‘Used to run the serviced apartments where we stay. Place has gone to the dogs since she left.’

&n
bsp; JOHN LAMONT’S office was a corner suite up on the building’s top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking across the first and eighteenth holes towards the sea and Fife in the distance. Heavy rain misted over Leuchars and Guardbridge, though it was still sunny this side. Arbuthnott had been right after all. A large telescope looked out towards Carnoustie, probably with enough resolution to pick out people on the high street.

  MacDonald walked over to a large banquette in the corner like you’d see on a film in a fancy American restaurant. The curved wall above was dotted with sporting memorabilia. A signed Toronto Blue Jays baseball jersey. A ton of Toronto Raptors stuff, whoever they were. And a muddy Dundee United shirt from their brief glory days back when Vicky’s old man insisted on taking both kids to Tannadice, despite mutual apathy.

  MacDonald pointed at a couple of basketball shirts. ‘You a Raptors guy?’

  ‘Damn straight.’ John Lamont was short, maybe five four and broad with it. Typical Dundee physique. Big belly hanging over trousers pulled right up. His accent had that Toronto twang some of Vicky’s distant cousins had, the ones whose parents had escaped to the promise of the New World. Tronno. ‘I’m hopeful we’ll win the NBA title next year.’

  ‘We being the Raptors?’ MacDonald smiled. ‘Now that is hopeful.’

  ‘I’m an optimistic man.’ Lamont stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘The kind of people who leave this land behind in search of a new life over the sea, we require an optimistic nature. And it paid off for me. I made a ton of money in Canada.’

  Vicky joined them by the display. ‘And now you’re back.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lamont waved a hand around the vista. ‘The LA Golf resort allows me to give something back to my home town.’

  ‘You’re from Carnoustie?’

  ‘For my sins.’ Lamont grinned. ‘Almost lost the accent now, ye ken?’ He laughed, though his voicing of the Carnoustie flavour of the Dundonian twang wasn’t a million miles off.

  Vicky was from the half of the town that had avoided it and just spoke like a generic Scottish person. Even people from Essex could understand her.

  Lamont pressed a finger against the glass, indicating a football top, red with black sleeves, all high-tech and much nicer than the Dundee FC shirt Jamie was pestering Vicky and Rob to buy for his birthday. It was mud-smeared and covered with dark ink squiggles. ‘When Toronto FC won the MLS Cup in 2016 and again the next year, it reminded me of the glory days when Dundee United won the Scottish Premier Division.’ His accent had slipped back in time and place. ‘Well, makes you think.’

  Vicky smiled at him. ‘My dad’s a Terrier.’

  Lamont laughed. ‘I suppose calling them the Arabs isn’t politically correct these days?’

  ‘No, it’s not. He took me to a few of those UEFA cup matches in 1987.’

  ‘I was there too. Glorious, wasn’t it?’

  MacDonald snorted, like he was annoyed to be taken out of the equation by a woman discussing football. ‘So what really brought you back?’

  ‘Well, like I say, I wanted to repay my debts. This country taught me skills that I could make use of over the water.’ Lamont pointed to a small black and white photo stuffed between sports jerseys. A young couple on their wedding day, her in a flowing white dress, him in a minister’s dog collar. ‘That and my parents. Mum passed a few years back, but my dad… He got Alzheimer’s and I couldn’t bear to think of him rotting in a care home in Dundee, so I brought him over to live near us. Took a while, but he passed last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We had some good times. He loved watching baseball. But his death made me take stock, you know? I moved to Canada twenty years ago, but that made me realise how much I missed the old country.’

  Vicky gave him a few seconds. ‘Sir, we’re here to ask about the body on the golf course.’

  ‘I told the young cop, erm, Constantine?’

  Vicky grimaced. ‘Considine.’

  ‘Right, right, well he came up here and burst in. I was on a call with my contractor. That kid work for you?’

  MacDonald nodded. ‘Works for DS Dodds here, aye.’

  ‘Well, you tell him from me that we have ways and means of working here.’

  Vicky stepped closer to him. She was about three inches taller than him and the closer she got, the brighter the glare from his combed-over bald spot. ‘And I have an unidentified dead body in a bunker. That takes precedence.’

  ‘Dude!’ Lamont raised his hands in a defensive way. ‘I want to help, believe me, but I have absolutely no idea who the victim is. None of my guys do and I asked.’

  MacDonald folded his arms. ‘You had a big function last night, a gala opening. Maybe the victim could’ve been a plus one.’

  ‘Look, I’m up against it here.’

  ‘You don’t think she was a guest?’

  ‘We, uh, didn’t invite many women, no.’ Lamont was avoiding Vicky’s gaze. Good for him. ‘I mean, she could’ve been a local from Carnoustie or Arbroath, but there weren’t any gatecrashers, not that I’ve heard of. And I deliberately built this place away from the town so as not to attract that type.’

  ‘That type?’

  ‘Look, she could’ve been someone here for the Open. We had a few movie stars pitch up last night and of course we’re going to let those guys in.’ His eyes were gleaming. ‘The press has been extremely favourable today. When you get an A-list movie star showing up at a party in Angus, the papers put it on their front page.’

  MacDonald wasn’t relenting though. ‘We’re going to need to speak to your staff, sir.’

  ‘Buddy, didn’t you see what it was like downstairs? I’ve got this place opening up, twenty assholes working to install a goddamn fish tank and a ton of exotic fish turning up at six.’

  ‘Going to need a list of all your contractors.’

  ‘That’s a lot of people.’

  ‘And I’ve got a dead body on your sixteenth hole.’

  ‘Fine.’ Lamont charged across the office as fast as his little legs could carry him. He sat behind a computer that was set about three or four inches higher than he needed, like a little kid on Santa’s knee. ‘Oh, she could even have been working for the caterers.’

  Vicky hovered over his shoulder, hoping that would irritate him. ‘Where are they based?’

  ‘Arbroath, Abbey Catering. They’re excellent.’

  The only other explanation Vicky could think of for her small black dress, aside from her being a prostitute. She jotted it down. ‘Okay, that’s a start.’

  He looked deflated. ‘Only a start?’

  ‘Were there any prostitutes here?’

  ‘Wasn’t that kind of party.’

  ‘I’ll take that under advisement.’ She sat on the edge of his desk, close enough that he couldn’t look right at her. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to provide a full list of contractors, including staff.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can dig out, but things are chaotic right now. We had to get a load of workers in over the weekend because of the severe number of flaws in the work done so far. My lawyers are going to be inundated with lawsuits for a long time to come.’

  ‘Sure they’ll enjoy the work. And all I’m hearing is excuses.’

  ‘I’ve got to open this place tomorrow.’

  ‘No chance that’s happening. You’ve got a murder victim on your sixteenth. The sooner we identify her, the sooner we catch the killer, the sooner you can open.’

  That seemed to perk him up. ‘Okay. A list of contractors? Done.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Vicky stood up. ‘And we’re going to need a full list of these employees. Every single one.’ She left a long pause. ‘And a guest list from this function, including plus ones.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘I’m not sure how your A-list movie stars will appreciate a police car sitting out front twenty-four-seven.’

  4

  Vicky stormed out of the hotel entrance into the blinding light
. A maroon Subaru had boxed her in. Superb.

  MacDonald was keeping pace with her. ‘Hate to see you really pissed off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Supposed to be a charm offensive in there.’

  ‘You’ll see me pissed off, Euan, mark my words. And it was effective, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Suppose.’ MacDonald stopped to laugh. ‘Your dad really an Arab?’

  ‘No, he’s Indian.’

  That got him. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘From Kolkata, Calcutta as was.’

  ‘But you’re—’

  ‘Euan, Euan, Euan…’ Vicky turned back to face him and the monstrous hotel. ‘His parents were jute wallahs, you idiot. I was picking you up on your use of Dundee United’s racist nickname.’

  ‘Hardly racist.’

  ‘Ask someone from the Arabic world how they feel about it.’

  ‘Season ticket holder at Tannadice, for my sins.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of sins.’ Vicky got out her phone and checked the display. ‘Still nothing from Forrester.’

  ‘Predictable. What’s the plan?’

  ‘You got any ideas? Feels like I’m supplying them all.’

  ‘Should separate.’ MacDonald thumbed behind him at the hotel. ‘If I take lead on the hotel and the contractors, you can work the other angles. Crime scene, that catering firm. When we get the guest list, we’ll split it, assuming we haven’t IDed her by then.’

  ‘Right.’ As much as she wanted to disagree, Vicky knew that no waitress would wear three-hundred quid heels to work. An escort might, though. ‘He seemed rattled when I—’

  ‘Noticed that too. Think she was an escort?’

  ‘Ask around.’

  ‘Will do. Look, we’re—’ MacDonald glanced over her shoulder and winced. ‘Oh, here we go.’

  ‘Come on, Kaz, you’re being a dick!’ The doors of the Subaru were open and DC Stephen Considine was over the passenger side, his red hair glowing like a fire. Thin but not especially tall, kind of like MacDonald’s ginger Mini Me. ‘I signed this out, so I should drive it.’

  Karen just shook her head at him. ‘If it’s not a cock replacement, then what is it?’