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

by Ed James

  Vicky swiped through the front entrance just as her phone rang. Considine. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’re just leaving now, Sarge.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Vicky stopped on the stairs. ‘I’ve already arrived in Dundee.’ She set off again.

  ‘Aye, well, her lassie didn’t take it that well. I mean, you’re lucky I was here to calm the sitch down.’

  ‘The sitch?’

  ‘Situation. Christ. Had more than my fair share of lassies chucking stuff around.’

  ‘I bet you have.’ Vicky pushed through the doors at the top and headed along the corridor. ‘Give me a call once she’s identified the body.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ And he was gone with the loud rev of an engine. Letting him have that Subaru would be a big mistake.

  The light was on in Forrester’s office. As Vicky closed in on it, she heard two voices and the hiss of a filter machine. She opened the door and the dank reek of rancid coffee hit her.

  Forrester slurped from a mug, eyes beaming. ‘Alright, Doddsy?’ Acting like he’d Irished up his coffee too, but it didn’t smell of booze so it was probably just the sheer amount of caffeine in it.

  MacDonald put his mug straight on the desk. ‘Alright.’

  ‘Thought you’d both be at the PM?’

  ‘Just finished.’ Forrester tipped some stinking coffee into a fresh cup and handed it to Arbuthnott. ‘Just take it black, aye?’

  ‘Sure.’ Arbuthnott had been hiding over by the window, shrouded by the glow from the streetlights not quite hitting the alcove. She wrapped her hands around the mug and soaked in the steam, focusing on Vicky. ‘The long and short of it, my autopsy confirmed that the female victim died of blood loss from the wound to her neck. The male victim, this Derek Craigen, well, the wound to his heart was the fatal blow.’ She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. ‘Both would’ve been excruciating.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you were expecting? Whoever did this, they clearly wanted the victims to see the other one’s suffering. Mr Craigen’s eyelids were removed with surgical precision and the nick in the female victim’s neck is from a similar instrument.’

  ‘Should we be looking at medical suspects?’

  ‘I mean you could, but there’s nothing tying this back to anyone yet. And, well, it’s not advanced surgery.’

  ‘You said they were removed with surgical precision.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean they were a surgeon. I could give you five hundred YouTube videos just on this very topic. All it’d take would be a lot of practice, which someone could do on themselves or on animals.’

  Vicky had seen more than enough animal cruelty. ‘What about the stabbing through the heart?’

  ‘I’d suggest that was to symbolise breaking someone’s heart in their relationship.’ Arbuthnott shrugged. ‘If this is indeed a copycat of Atreus, then there’s adultery in the victimology. Someone’s heart had been broken, ergo death by a broken heart.’

  As good as Arbuthnott was, she was yet again straying into psychology.

  ‘Let’s just see, shall we?’ Forrester sighed. His sunburn was looking really bad now. ‘We’re not so lucky on the forensics front. The lassie’s body was out in the open so nowt on her. Nails clean, yadda yadda yadda. And this Craigen boy was covered in bleach. Killing someone, then covering your tracks like that. It’s brutal, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Arbuthnott put the coffee up to her lips but it didn’t look like she drank any. ‘It’s either extremely premeditated, or he’s got a sudden flash of clarity after the bloodlust abated. It’s common in serial killers.’

  ‘Why didn’t he go after her, though?’

  ‘Maybe he did, but a golf course in the dark is very tricky hunting territory. All the woods and bunkers and they’re just so bloody big. You’d need daylight to stand a good chance of finding someone, but it’s entirely possible. Plus he probably thought she’d run along the beach.’

  ‘You really think this is someone copying Atreus?’

  ‘Same MO.’ Arbuthnott glanced at Forrester. ‘I mean, whoever killed Mr Craigen certainly knew enough about those old cases to recreate the same torment in the victims. And the shared victimology.’ She grinned wide. ‘But Jim Sanderson is dead, David. I don’t think a ghost killed them, do you?’

  Vicky laughed. ‘Okay, well, we probably need to find a decent exorcist.’

  ‘I know a couple.’

  ‘Your old man could do with speaking to one, Vicky.’ Forrester took a slug of coffee. ‘Lot of ghosts around this case. I’ll not keep you, Shirley.’

  ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ Arbuthnott waddled out of the room and left the door hanging open behind her.

  ‘Born in a bloody barn.’ Forrester stomped over to slam it, and focused on Vicky on his way back. ‘What have you been up to, Doddsy?’

  ‘Speaking to Craigen’s wife. She’ll identify the body once Considine pulls his finger out.’

  ‘We know it’s him, though, right?’

  ‘Just going through the motions, sir.’

  ‘She a suspect?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Because I know you.’ Forrester grinned. ‘Plus, women murdering their husbands isn’t exactly out of the ordinary. Usually poison them, though.’

  ‘Well, she might stand to inherit the house and the business.’

  ‘What’s the house like?’

  ‘It’s big. About half a million’s worth of big.’

  ‘In Carnoustie?’

  ‘It’d be ten million down south. And that’s before we factor in a supposedly successful business. And the flat by the golf course will be at least two-fifty.’

  ‘Why do you say supposedly?’

  ‘Well, businesses being what they are, you can never be sure whether it’s failing or not until you dig into the books.’

  ‘But if she’s going to inherit a fortune, then we’ve got ourselves a suspect.’

  ‘Right. And according to her, she’s staying in the flat her husband put his mistress up in.’

  ‘Christ.’ Forrester slurped coffee, his eyes wide. ‘So, how do you want to progress?’

  ‘If I may?’ MacDonald glanced in Vicky’s direction. ‘Don’t want to cramp anyone’s style, but I’ve got three years in financial fraud. Know my way round a balance sheet and a P&L.’

  Forrester seemed to think it through, then nodded at MacDonald. ‘Okay, get round there first thing. See what you can dig up.’

  ‘Fine.’ But it wasn’t. Yet again, MacDonald was taking credit for Vicky’s work. She wasn’t an ambitious person, but boy did she hate it when the ambitious types trampled over everyone else.

  The door opened and a ruddy face peered in, even more sunburnt than Forrester. ‘Aha, the gang’s all here.’ DCI John Raven crept in, snarling wide and baring yellowing teeth. Usually he’d be clad in a sharp suit, shiny grey and a patterned shirt underneath, but today he was head-to-toe in walking gear, all synthetic blues and greys. Shorts that didn’t hide knobbly knees. And socks with sandals. ‘Hi-de-ho.’ He walked over and sat behind Forrester’s desk. ‘Any of that coffee on the go?’

  ‘Sure. Can I get you a cup?’

  ‘My gut’s still inflamed from the last one, so no.’ Raven grinned as he rested his phone on the desk. ‘Okey-doke, who’s running interference with the press?’

  Vicky looked to Forrester, saw MacDonald doing the same.

  Forrester rested his mug on his desk. ‘What’s happened, sir?’

  ‘Some little shite of a journo from Edinburgh turned up.’ Raven sniffed. ‘I say turned up, but I mean door-stepped me outside my bloody house just as I got back from the sodding golf. I mean, I appreciate you won’t be too sympathetic to my plight, but this is my first day off this year.’ He shook his head, then focused on MacDonald. ‘Son, when you’re a DCI, you’ll see just how shite it is.’

  Vicky stood there, hands on hips. ‘You saying I won’t make DCI?’

  Rav
en held her gaze, then shifted it to Forrester. ‘Anyway, this little turd was asking questions he shouldn’t know the answers to. And they always know the answers before they ask them. Asking me about Derek Craigen.’ He was struggling to keep his mouth still. ‘Anyone care to tell me who Derek bloody Craigen is?’

  Forrester shot Vicky a shut-up glare. ‘He’s our victim, sir. Just got an ID on him.’

  ‘Didn’t think to brief me, no?’

  ‘You would’ve been briefed if you’d answered your phone.’

  ‘I was driving. Traffic was hell.’

  ‘I left a voicemail.’

  ‘The long and winding voicemail that leads to your door. And I haven’t exactly had the ten years to listen to it yet.’ Raven didn’t seem in the mood to take that. ‘I need a TL;DR.’

  Vicky frowned. ‘A what?’

  ‘Too Long; Didn’t Read. A bloody summary!’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Raven flipped up the lid on Forrester’s coffee machine and peered in like you would an open sewer. ‘Long and short, David, someone’s been blabbing to the press. Someone on your team. Before I’ve got wind of any progress. Any idea who that might be?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’ Forrester drank coffee. ‘Vicky?’

  ‘Nobody on my team.’

  ‘Mac?’

  ‘Snap.’

  Forrester settled back in his chair. ‘Sir, we’ll keep an eye on it.’

  ‘You do that.’ Raven snapped the lid shut and walked over to take a seat. He put his sandalled feet up on the desk and scratched at his red knees. ‘So we’ve got someone using the MO of a serial killer we put away donkey’s years ago?’

  ‘We didn’t put him away, but pretty much.’ Forrester folded his arms. ‘Same MO. Same victimology.’

  Raven scratched harder on the left knee now. ‘These two were having a fling?’

  ‘We believe that Craigen was having an affair with the female victim, just like with all those victims way back when.’

  ‘Right. You got an ID for her?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘That’s got to be your focus here, David. Okay?’ Raven hoisted himself up and walked over to the door. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow, David, you and I have a call with DCS Soutar. You know what Carolyn’s like, right? She’ll tear you apart unless you’ve got something solid and send some clowns up from the Met or bloody Edinburgh. Now, I could get Bri Masson in here, but I trust you to solve this.’

  ‘Will the call be in your office, sir?’

  ‘Aye.’ Raven looked at Vicky then at MacDonald. ‘And I expect someone to have held this journo nyaff’s conkers over an open fire.’

  ‘You going to give me his name?’

  ‘Can’t remember it, but I texted you it.’ Raven got out his phone and checked the screen. ‘Shite, it’s not sent.’ He prodded it. ‘Okay. I’ll see you later.’ And he was gone, replaced with a swinging door.

  Forrester slumped back against the wall with a sour expression on his face. ‘Well, you heard the man. We need to get on top of this lad.’

  MacDonald rested his coffee on the desk. ‘Want me to speak to him?’

  ‘If you could. Put the frighteners on him. Cheers, Mac. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Vicky.’ MacDonald grabbed his suit jacket. ‘Night, Dave.’ He left them to it, but didn’t shut the door. Sneaky bugger was probably lurking outside and eavesdropping.

  Vicky walked over and kicked it shut. No sign he was still out there, but you never knew with a sneaky bastard like Euan MacDonald. ‘He’s calling you “Dave” now?’

  ‘You know I hate it as much as people calling you Victoria, but it seems to get him to focus a bit.’ Forrester grabbed Arbuthnott’s empty cup. ‘Cheeky cow didn’t drink the coffee I made her.’ He sniffed it. Then drank it himself. ‘Ahhh, that’s the ticket.’

  ‘So you’re just letting him run my leads?’

  ‘It’s just a case of horses for courses. As much as you don’t want to admit it, Mac is just better at some things than you.’ Forrester held up his hands. ‘And you’re better at him on most, before you start.’

  ‘He should be focusing on the copycat thing, not me.’

  ‘Right now, I think your copycat theory is bollocks, so you need to convince me. And I can see where this is coming from. You’re just like your dad. You both get obsessed and it can be used well, but it can be a bloody hindrance. It’s much more likely that this woman’s copied the MO to throw us off the trail. Not divorced, right?’

  ‘Correct, but it’s in the post.’

  ‘So dig up their financial records, see what she stands to inherit. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And you’ve still not IDed the female victim.’ He took a swig of coffee and snarled. ‘Get yourself home, get a good night’s sleep and show Mac what’s what in the morning.’

  ‘Right.’ Vicky let out a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m glad I drove all the way from Carnoustie to Dundee just to go back again.’

  12

  Rob’s house was still lit up, giving her that nice tingle in the pit of her stomach and that smile on her face. Two years now, with him stopping being Robert and her settling on calling him Rob. Over a year living there and she was starting to think of it as hers and Bella’s home now.

  And his new VW, a real family man’s car. Mum and dad up front, two kids trying to kill each other in the back.

  She killed the engine and got out of her car onto the driveway. The evening still had some warmth to it, but the breeze had picked up. Her phone thrummed. She checked it. Just a text from Considine:

  “Positive ID. CU tomorrow.”

  In this day and age of predictive texting, he still had to type like he was a drug dealer using an ancient Nokia.

  So she replied, “Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Not that it’d show him. She put her phone away and found the note from earlier.

  “V — I KNOW”

  It made her shiver despite the heat. Who the hell could it be? So many people she’d put away over the years and so many she’d pissed off in her private life.

  Someone grabbed her right arm.

  Vicky lashed out with her elbow and it cracked off something hard, sending shockwaves up her arm. Something thunked off her bonnet. She swung round and saw a pair of shorts and sandals disappear onto the drive.

  Breathing hard, she took her time going round the car.

  Her dad was on his hands and knees, sucking in breath. ‘What did you do that for?’ He was slurring and struggling to focus on her.

  ‘Christ, Dad, don’t sneak up on me like that!’

  He used her car to haul himself to his feet. ‘Have you caught the killer yet?’

  And Vicky smelled the booze leeching off him. He was hammered. How the hell did he manage to sneak up on her? ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Been knocked on my arse a fair few times, Victoria. I’m fine and dandy.’

  She let out a sigh. ‘Go home, Dad.’

  ‘Please. I need to know.’

  ‘I’ll call you in the morning when you’re sober. Do you need a lift?’

  ‘Only if you’ll talk to me about this case.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘Night then.’ He trudged off into the darkness.

  Vicky was in half a mind to follow him. A mile from home and at least three pubs she could think of on the way. She should pick him up, dust him down, sober him up and pack him off back to Mum.

  The house light flicked on and the door opened.

  Tinkle hopped out onto the driveway, the tabby cat with the squattest body in the world, making her weird chirruping sounds like she was trying to attract birds.

  Rob stood in the doorway, frowning out. ‘You okay?’

  Vicky took one last look at her old man staggering round the corner and decided he was big enough and ugly enough to get himself home, pub or no pub. She walked over and kissed Rob on the lips. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘That’s… unusual.’ He
led her inside. ‘I’ve just opened a bottle of red.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Vicky kicked off her shoes and padded through to the kitchen in Tinkle’s wake. ‘Anything to eat? I’m starving.’

  ‘Leftovers.’

  ‘Sounds good. Kids in bed?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I’ll just be a sec.’ Vicky climbed the stairs and opened Bella’s bedroom door. She was asleep and looked so cute. She tucked Bella in and pecked her hair. ‘Night, Bells.’ Then she went next door and repeated the ritual with Jamie. ‘Night, Jay.’

  He wasn’t her flesh and blood, but he was as much part of her life as Bella was. Two lost kids finding a mother and a father, but also a brother and a sister.

  She stood in the doorway, giving herself a minute of just standing there, soaking in the everyday. Not a beach or bleach or a lighthouse or a golf bunker containing a murder victim, just the sounds and smells of home. Bella’s shampoo, the only one that didn’t make her skin swell up. Some burnt sausages and the sound of the whirring microwave down in the kitchen, then some over-excited golf commentary. And Tinkle rubbing against her ankle like she wanted to be fed yet again.

  Vicky nudged the doors shut and climbed back down with Tinkle.

  Rob was sitting in the kitchen, watching the golf highlights as he served up her food. Two sausages, a burger, a pork chop, a kebab and a token gesture of salad and couscous. He looked up at her and grinned. ‘Here you go.’

  Vicky sat next to him and tucked in. She didn’t realise how hungry she was until that first bite of sausage. ‘How was your day?’

  Rob nodded at the TV. ‘Well, I didn’t get to watch this live as I had to look after Bella and Jamie on my own.’

  ‘Had to?’

  ‘I don’t mean it like that. But your parents buggered off not long after you did. And your old man sank four bottles of beer.’

  ‘I saw.’

  Rob looked up from his wine. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Popped in there later on. Something to do with the case. You know who won the golf?’

  ‘Nope. That’s why I’m watching the highlights.’

  Vicky reached across and poured herself a glass of red. She put the glass to her lips and the exhaustion hit her right then, but at least she could relax now.