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

by Ed James

  Vicky parked and got out. Tall wrought-iron gates blocked entry, but an intercom was buried into the wall. She walked over and hit the buzzer.

  Considine joined her, scanning the surroundings, eyes narrowed like he was a pro and in control of guarding the president rather than a numpty. ‘Boy was married, right?’

  ‘Believe so.’ Vicky tried the buzzer again. ‘Three kids, the youngest eighteen next month so we should at least hear some music blaring, right? Ariana Grande or something.’

  ‘Don’t try and pretend you’re cool, Sarge.’ Considine smirked. ‘And that’s assuming they’re in. Assuming they even still live here.’

  Vicky tried the gate and it held firm. ‘I’m still not forgetting the fact that you were supposed to show his photo to Lamont.’

  ‘That was Karen.’

  ‘Stephen, acting like a child won’t get you promoted. Okay? You need to demonstrate leadership, not try and blame everyone else.’

  ‘Here, let me.’ Considine grabbed the gate and tried to budge it. But it didn’t move for his puny muscles.

  Vicky inspected the neighbours’ houses. Two-storey buildings, white-harled with paved drives and rose beds in full bloom. No sign of anyone in there either.

  Considine was still wrestling with the gate. ‘Come on, Sarge, give us a hand here.’ But the metal grunted and rolled along the wheel and Considine flopped over, face-first.

  ‘Get up, you clown.’ Vicky reached out a hand to help him up.

  Considine dusted himself off, but mud and moss stains joined the red on his shirt. ‘Well, we’ve got in.’ He looked back at the gate like he was going to fight it again and maybe win this time. Instead, he grimaced. ‘Ah, shite, it’s an automatic. Have we bust it?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Vicky barged past and marched towards the house across the drive, old bricks arranged in a grid, mossed over except for a pair of grooves where a car had repeatedly driven up. A lawn on either side, manicured to within an inch of their lives. Sprinklers sat on both, but neither was spraying.

  A Range Rover basked in the sun in front of a wide row of cottages turned into a bling footballer’s mansion. The old building had been carved open on the south side with a balcony installed on the first floor.

  Considine hit the house bell and it chimed deep inside.

  Vicky looked through the window into a living room filled with chintz. Bright oranges and purples and browns, like the designer had taken inspiration from a mid-eighties sweet shop. Black electronics equipment all proudly on display. If he was married, then Mrs Craigen certainly let him get away with more man cave antics than Vicky would.

  ‘Nobody in.’ Considine sniffed. ‘Shall we do a recce?’

  ‘Meet you round the back.’ Vicky stepped off away from him, crunching over small pebbles. Her route gave her a decent view of the balcony and its rattan furniture and glass tables. Still no sign of anyone inside.

  She passed through the fence at the side and got a cracking view across western Carnoustie, stretching as far as Barry before the heat haze swallowed it up. To the south, the golf course was a mess of Lego-sized people, though the hulking Carnoustie Hotel blocked off most of the fairway, not to mention the apartments springing up around it. Fife was hidden by mist and rain that hadn’t stretched this far north.

  Vicky’s whole world was visible. Her parents’ house, Rob’s, her old box just off Barry Road.

  ‘Eh, Sarge.’ Considine was standing at the rear of the house, frowning at an open back door. ‘I just found it like this, I swear.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jenny Morgan will dust it for prints.’ Vicky snapped on some gloves. She had no idea what she’d find. Hopefully a wife and kids, but… Well, her luck hadn’t been that good recently. So another pair of bodies was likely. She should call it in to Forrester. But she took a breath and stepped inside. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  So she went further inside. ‘Police.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Let’s split up. I’ll go upstairs, you stay down here. And I mean right here.’

  The thick slap of a glove being snapped on came from behind her. ‘Sure thing.’

  Vicky took the stairs slowly. Framed photos lined the walls, though they were arty golf courses from around the world and not family shots. She recognised Carnoustie and St Andrews, but the rest could’ve been anywhere. Florida, California, Dubai, Mars.

  Three doors on the first-floor landing. A glass one to the left showed into a massive games room. A full-sized snooker table, vintage arcade machines and three pinball tables, all flashing away. Leather sofas and a bar running along the far wall. And there was the balcony and the view across the mouth of the Tay. No signs of life.

  So she turned round. Ahead was a bathroom, the door open. She peered in, but the standalone bath was empty and bone dry. A stack of golfing and motoring magazines sat by the pan.

  Through the other door was a long and wide hallway, leading to another set of doors, with two each of the walls. She tried the first and it was a kid’s bedroom. A female teenager judging by the K-pop posters, but nobody inside. And no laptop or any signs of homework. Across was another bathroom, with a shower but no toothbrushes or toiletries.

  Curious and getting curiouser.

  She went back into the hall and tried the next door. A guest room with stale air. Same story over the corridor, leaving just the door at the end.

  Vicky took a deep breath, expecting another body, and opened it slowly.

  A huge master bedroom with an eight-foot bed and—CHRIST—a sex swing hanging from the ceiling. A grown-up version of a child’s garden swing, angled back and mounted at the perfect height for… mounting. And God knows what else. No other signs of sexual adventure, save the mirrored ceiling. Oh, and a mirrored cupboard, hanging open. A box filled with leather costumes. Man alive, rich men and kinks went hand in gloved hand.

  Another door to an en-suite bathroom. Two toothbrushes, both looking slightly damp but maybe not that recently used.

  So this whole floor was empty.

  Vicky paced back through the hallway and skipped down the steps. No sign of Considine, but she could smell toast somewhere. She followed it through the bling living room to an equally bling kitchen. Black-marble worktops and shiny turquoise units. ‘Are you making toast?’

  Considine was standing by the galley unit, sifting through opened mail. ‘Hardly.’ He shook his head but didn’t look round at her. ‘There was some burnt toast on a plate and it was reeking so I chucked it in the bin.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to piss about with crime scenes?’

  ‘Sarge, I’m wearing gloves.’ But he was still just going through the post.

  ‘You found anything?’

  ‘Nobody here.’

  ‘So now we’re missing a wife and three kids.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Considine looked up. ‘Hang on. This letter is about an apartment in Carnoustie.’

  10

  Vicky battled her way through heavy foot traffic coming from the Open. Massed ranks of varying speeds from the slowest on the pavement over to the chancers almost jogging in the middle of the road. And honking her horn wasn’t doing anything but getting thumps on the bonnet.

  Up ahead, the crowds swarmed like ants to cross the bridge over the train line, heading to Golf Street Halt. A tiny stop Vicky had only ever taken once on a train, not that she used it much.

  ‘This is insane.’ Considine was scowling like that would clear the masses out of their path. ‘How can they get away with this?’

  ‘Because the council thinks that letting a town of fifteen thousand have an extra fifty thousand visitors a day is a good thing.’

  ‘Might as well park here.’

  Vicky put the indicator on but nobody was budging. ‘Bollocks to it.’ She bumped on the right-hand kerb and left the hazards on.

  ‘You’re just going to leave her here?’

  ‘Her? You’re as bad as that lighthouse guy.’ Vicky got
out into the street and it felt like she was back at school in the middle of a sway. She held out her warrant card. ‘Police! Coming through!’

  Nobody paid any attention.

  Considine’s solution was to charge through, and it seemed to be working, so she followed in his slipstream, grabbing hold of his suit jacket so they didn’t get separated. A sharp left turn and they were through into a courtyard.

  The flat was in a new development overlooking Carnoustie golf links. Tall modern buildings on three sides, six or seven stories high with couples sitting at balconies, sipping on wines and beers. More than a few barbecues on the go, though that had to be against so many regulations.

  ‘Could do with a nice lager right now.’ Considine pressed the buzzer and stepped back, ogling a pair of women in their late twenties looking down at them. He stood up tall.

  The intercom crackled. ‘Hello?’ A female voice.

  Considine leaned down. ‘Police, ma’am.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Do you know a Derek Craigen?’

  A long pause. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘Ma’am, to whom am I talking?’

  ‘Louise Craigen. His wife. What’s going on?’

  LOUISE CRAIGEN PERCHED on a stool at the breakfast bar, quietly sobbing into her hands. Early forties, with red-and-grey roots bleeding through dark hair. She looked up. A round face that was moderately cute.

  Behind her, the apartment looked across the golf course towards the Carnoustie Hotel, the fairways now virtually empty of spectators and strewn with rubbish. Underneath the temporary stands, a mad clean-up operation was in place, a battalion of stewards armed with grabbers and bin bags tidying it all away.

  A large TV was mounted on the wall opposite, playing the golf highlights, but Vicky couldn’t tell who had won, not that she recognised many of the names.

  The kitchen had that high-end showroom feel to it, all glossy countertops and units, expensive appliances. The coffee machine didn’t so much look like it could make a perfect espresso but would instead fly you to Rome for a romantic weekend break without the kids.

  Music played from another room, the solid thump of an electronic dance track, but with loose shards of melody and out-of-tune teenage singing.

  Louise looked over at Vicky, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her ice-grey eyes drilled into Vicky with the most intense stare she’d seen since her school headmaster and a particular judge in Dundee. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘We’ll need a formal identification, but we’re pretty sure, yeah.’

  ‘Have you got like a photo or something?’

  Before Vicky could act, Considine shoved his phone in her face. ‘Here you go, ma’am.’

  ‘My God.’ Louise slumped back in her stool and ran a hand through her hair. She blew out a deep breath slowly, shaking her head. Whatever anger she’d had was now lost too. ‘Well. That certainly looks like him.’

  Considine looked like he was going to chime in with something, but Vicky’s glare finally got to him. God how she wished she had Karen Woods or someone vaguely competent here.

  Louise swallowed hard. ‘You know, after everything that’s happened, the number of times I wanted him to die… It’s… That phrase, wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy? That.’ She kept staring at the phone. ‘Someone cut his eyelids off? How did he die?’

  Vicky joined her at the breakfast bar. ‘Our pathologist hasn’t performed a post mortem yet, so we don’t know for sure.’

  ‘But you’ve got a good idea?’

  And sometimes you just had to play along with their questions before you got to ask your own. ‘Our initial assessment is your husband died from a knife wound to the heart.’

  Louise let out a slow breath. ‘But the eyelids? Was it Atreus?’

  That was straight out of left-field. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I was at school, there was that murder in Broughty Ferry. Supposed to be a serial killer, wasn’t it? They called him Atreus. He cut people’s eyelids off.’

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’

  ‘Not for months.’

  ‘But you’ve got kids, right?’

  ‘He still sees Teri. Her bedroom’s made up in… Derek treats her like a Disney princess, like he can buy her affection. She’s our youngest, but she’s not stupid.’ Louise folded her arms, the tough Dundee wifie image returning. She nodded at the door, at the source of the thumping din. ‘She’s eighteen next month, going to Manchester Uni in September.’

  ‘She must be smart.’

  ‘Got a brain on her, that’s for sure.’ A dark look settled on Louise’s face. ‘Our middle girl, Audrey, she’s at Edinburgh but she’s working in Canada all summer.’ A sharp snort. ‘Christ, I’ll have to tell her on the phone.’

  Vicky gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘And your other daughter?’

  ‘Pamela. She’s at Dundee, a real brainbox too. Doing a PhD.’

  ‘We’re trying to find your husband’s killer and we need to build a picture of his life.’

  Louise nibbled her nail. ‘Fine. We met at school.’

  ‘You’re from Carnoustie?’

  ‘Aye, he lived on Thomas Street. His parents are both dead. Dad was a heart attack, mum cancer. Not that long ago, either. Might explain a few things too. We had kids young. I was eighteen when we had Pamela. I was at Dundee College, training as a journalist, had to take a year out and go back at nights. When I finished, the recession was biting hard so DC Thomson didn’t take many on from our year and I wasn’t likely to get a job elsewhere. So I worked as a typist, and Derek’s mum looked after Pamela while I supported Derek. He built up his company from nothing.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘He almost went bust a few times and, Christ, there are a lot of people he stepped on as he climbed the greasy pole.’

  Considine nodded at her. ‘Can you give me a list?’

  Louise shut her eyes. ‘Fine, I’ll pull together a list for you if it’ll shut you up.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Vicky gave Louise a few seconds of nail biting.

  She stared at Vicky with that intense look again. ‘You’re from Carnoustie, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I think I know you from school, but you were a few years below me. When did you leave?’

  ‘2000.’

  ‘Quite a few years younger than me, then.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘I know what it is. I was your aunt.’

  ‘My aunt?’

  ‘Yeah, at the start of sixth year, we were aunts and uncles to the kids going up from primary. That was it. I was Louise Mitchell.’

  Vicky still had no memory of her, not even a vague inkling, but then that would’ve been 1994, so twenty-four years ago. A hell of a long time. And she’d remember those eyes.

  ‘I’ll be Louise Mitchell again when the paperwork goes through.’

  ‘You’re getting divorced?’ Another avenue opened up. Vicky scribbled a note of it. ‘Were you—’

  ‘He was divorcing me.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘You can ask, but the whole thing has left me completely bamboozled.’

  ‘Did he leave you?’

  Louise steeled herself. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘So why do you live here with Teri?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’ She looked around. ‘We bought this place for my dad. After Mum died, he couldn’t cope with our old place up on Carlogie Road. This was a lot more expensive, mind. He died two years ago, and it’s kind of got sentimental value.’ She shook her head. ‘Derek was renting it out to someone, but it turned out it was to himself. He was putting up his slapper in here.’

  ‘And it’s just you and Teri here?’

  ‘Right. Only good thing about us being here is he hasn’t been able to rent it out to anyone for the golf.’ She glared out of the window. ‘The hardest part is he’d been shagging that tart here. It was a fuck pad.’

  Considine frowned at her. ‘He was having an
affair?’

  ‘Shagging some little scrubber behind my back. I caught him at it with her in our bed.’

  ‘You know her name?’

  ‘Nope, but she was young. Young, but legal. Probably about the same as Pamela. I mean, what kind of man does that?’

  ‘You ever see them together?’

  ‘Once. I was out for a walk with Teri a few months ago, and we saw them having a meal at that Thai place on Queen Street.’

  Vicky got out her phone and showed her the photo of the female victim. ‘Is this her?’

  Louise didn’t even need a long hard look at it, just a glance and she was nodding like a dog in the back of a car. ‘That’s her.’ She got up and walked over to the patio doors, but didn’t open them, just looked out. ‘I don’t know much about her, before you ask. As far as I can tell, that whole thing had been going on for two years.’ She turned back round. ‘I actually take pity on her. She was just like me, way too naïve to see through his bullshit. Now he’s a fat old man, and she must’ve been too enamoured with his money and the lifestyle he could offer.’

  ‘How rich was he?’

  ‘I don’t know the exact details, but Derek was well off for Carnoustie. I mean, people in Arbroath call it Car-snooty, but it’s hardly Edinburgh or London, is it?’

  ‘Given that you’re not divorced, you still inherit your husband’s estate?’

  She looked around the room. ‘I’m not an expert.’

  ‘That house is worth a lot, and this place almost as much. Do you own it all outright?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Considine snapped his notebook shut. ‘Ma’am, I can drive you up to Dundee to identify the body if you want?’

  ‘Sure.’ Louise nodded slowly. ‘I’ll just have to break the news to Teri.’

  11

  Bell Street police station was Sunday-night quiet, which wasn’t that usual for a Sunday night in the middle of summer. Then again, a massive golf tournament down the road didn’t attract the same numpties as a Celtic-Rangers football match, which they’d already be looking forward to in late August. Dundee derbies were much more sedate affairs. Tea and flasks rather than knives and bricks.