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

by Ed James

  Dad looking like that was a straw he was clutching to, that he’d cling to like a mast on a ship. ‘You’re thinking that whoever’s doing this used the Atreus MO to throw you off the scent?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘Or it’s one of the kids looking to pad their inheritance. Follow the money, who stands to profit? Louise stood to inherit, but now that she’s gone, well. Pamela, Audrey and Teri all come into focus.’

  And Vicky had lost all control now. She got between her father and his murder board. ‘Dad, there’s no evidence to support that. His wife was our suspect and she’s dead now.’

  Neither Forrester nor her father looked like they wanted to let the facts get in the way.

  ‘Dad, I want us to assume it’s a copycat, then we can dig into the old case and either prove or disprove it. We see where the copycat’s MO differs from the original MO. Might be something we can use to catch them. And the podcast might be related to it. But it might be that it’s only superficially related.’

  Dad stared at the wall, smoothing a hand across his stubble. His eyes seemed to scan every single document, trace down every single perceived connection.

  Vicky walked over to the window and looked along Bruce Drive, the same view she’d seen at least twice a day when she was growing up. Listening to the radio while doing her homework, when she was getting ready for school, when she was waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up in his car. She leaned against the window sill and looked back into the room. ‘The other possibility is that you caught the wrong guy back in the day. That Jim Sanderson was innocent.’

  Forrester couldn’t look up at his old boss, just sat there, hands on his lap like a little schoolboy. ‘We’re looking at the possibility that he wasn’t Atreus.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Dad was shaking with rage. ‘Of course he was!’ He collapsed into his office chair. ‘Vicky, if this is you going over my failure, about the fact I lost the knife, that…’ He slumped back in his chair, like the gravity of the situation had just hit him and pinned him down.

  Vicky felt terrible for doing it, but she needed to get through to him. ‘Dad, could you have got the wrong person?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘So why can’t Jenny Morgan find the paperwork about that knife?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The paperwork is missing.’

  Dad looked round at her with narrowed eyes, but didn’t say anything. He threw his hands up in the air. ‘This is bollocks.’

  ‘So there’s not even the slightest possibility that Jim Sanderson didn’t do the original murders?’

  Dad shut his eyes.

  ‘If I’m so wrong, prove it to me.’

  ‘These were different times, Vicky.’

  ‘You still had chain of evidence, though.’

  ‘Not like you have now. And in those days people actually respected the police.’

  ‘So why isn’t the knife catalogued?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So, what, this was all just some admin blunder and that’s it? End of?’

  ‘Vicky, I was hauled over the coals for this. It could’ve been my fault, it could’ve been the clowns in the lab. The important thing is we lost the knife. This is why I lost everything. Why I don’t want to even think about it.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘And you’re accusing me of catching the wrong guy?’

  ‘Dad, who could’ve taken the knife?’

  ‘Vicky, I know what you’re trying to do here. You can’t change the past. What happened, happened. My career, this case, it’s done. Over. Finito.’

  ‘I’m not trying to change the past. I’m trying to solve a case in the present. If someone on the inside took the knife, that means you caught the wrong guy. Or you caught the right guy but he had help. That means whoever killed those people is out there doing it again.’

  Dad and Forrester shared a look that was hard to read.

  ‘Who would’ve done it, Dad? Who would’ve benefited from it?’

  Forrester raised a hand in warning. ‘Vicky, can you give us a minute?’

  23

  Vicky stepped through the hallway and got a blast of Mum’s lavender perfume. Obviously heading out somewhere, and she’d happily ignored the shouting coming from Dad’s study. But Vicky couldn’t handle her hectoring today, so she walked out the front door.

  ‘Hey.’ Andrew was sitting on the bench outside Dad’s office, staring into his iPad. ‘I take it you won that barney?’

  ‘A barney? Are you fifteen?’

  ‘I’m not the one fighting with him like I’m still a teenager.’

  Vicky collapsed onto the bench next to him. Looked like he was playing some complex game. ‘Says the man who still lives with his parents and is hooked on computer games.’

  ‘Even for you, Vicky…’

  She slouched back on the bench, feeling like utter shit. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘I’d ask you what that was all about, but half the street could hear it through the window. It sounds like you’re being too hard on our old man.’

  ‘I’m being just as hard as he ever was on us.’

  ‘Ha, this is nothing.’ Andrew locked his iPad and hugged it tight. ‘Look, Dad went to hell and back over that case. But he got over it. And now this? After you went this morning, Mum spent like an hour trying to calm him down, and he flew off the handle at her. Now you and that old crony of his are just making things worse.’

  ‘That old crony is my boss.’

  ‘I remember. He kept busting my balls over that Airwave scanner. Don’t even use those pieces of shit any more.’

  The door opened and Mum stepped out, her keys jangling. ‘Andrew, are you—’ She frowned, dressed up like it was midwinter and not a baking July morning. ‘Victoria? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Seeing Dad.’

  ‘Ah, that explains the shouting. Well, I’m glad that me and your brother won’t be dealing with the aftermath today.’ She reached out a hand and helped Andrew to his feet. ‘Come on, son.’

  ‘See you later, Vicks.’ He ambled over to Mum’s car with all the energy of an elderly man.

  Vicky stayed where she was, but spoke in a low voice. ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘Same old. He keeps trying to go back to work too soon. And when he’s not at work, he’s up all night playing computer games or talking to people on Schoolbook.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a word with him?’

  ‘Vicky, I see what you having a word with male Doddses does to them.’ She sighed. ‘But Morag’s daughter has ME too. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Poor thing was always in her bed, but she turned the corner. Got a flat, got a job. Morag gave me the name of a doctor in Glasgow. So, we’re going through there to see this chap. Maybe it’ll fix him, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Well, good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mum leaned over to kiss her cheek, giving her a taste of perfume, then tottered off down the slab path to the car and took an age of man getting in. The car drove off at the usual ludicrous speed, clearing forty and barely slowing as she left Bruce Drive.

  Vicky sat on the bench, basking in the warm sun. Now the haar had burnt off, it was a nice day. Blue skies with a few wisps of cloud. And the distant clanking of someone hammering something, and two lawnmowers giving a stereo image just out of sync with each other.

  At the far end of the street, two kids were outside playing kerby, bouncing a football off the opposing kerbs, just like she’d done in the ancient past with Andrew. One got a bounce and ran into the middle of the road and caught the ball. A car approached from the other side and honked its horn.

  Vicky got out her phone and called Rob. He’d answered it by the time she put it to her ear. Music thumped and kids screamed.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m up in Dundee with the kids. They’re having a great time.’

  Despite everythi
ng, she felt herself smiling. ‘And you?’

  ‘Well. Let’s just say I’m looking forward to them being shattered later on.’

  ‘Good plan. I wish I was with you.’

  ‘Me too. But we’ve got Crete coming up.’

  ‘Seems like such a long time away.’

  ‘You free for lunch?’

  Vicky got a stab of regret deep in her gut. ‘I’m stuck in Carnoustie.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Aye, oh.’

  A long pause, filled with the sound of a thousand kids begging their parents. ‘Was that Alan this morning?’

  ‘God no. It was Euan. Euan MacDonald.’

  ‘Should I be worried about that?’

  Vicky couldn’t help but grin. ‘No way. Even if he was the last man on earth. He’s such a dickhead.’

  ‘So am I, though.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re the good sort of dickhead, Rob.’ Then her phone rang, warning her Karen was calling her. ‘Look, I’d better go. Give them both a big cuddle from me. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  Vicky let herself breathe, trying to shift from wistful mother to Detective Sergeant, then she switched calls. ‘Hey, Karen.’

  ‘This is the worst piece of shite you’ve ever given me.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The podcast! It sounds like she’s in a broom cupboard and it’s all just a load of shite. And there are hours of it!’

  ‘You know you can listen to it on double speed, right? Triple even.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Have a look for Overcast on the App Store. It boosts voices too. Think there’s also another one that does it.’

  ‘Wish you’d told me that earlier.’

  ‘Officially, it was MacDonald who got you to do this, not me.’

  ‘Still blame you, though.’

  ‘You getting anything from it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Karen paused. ‘She’s not got much first-hand stuff. And she’s taking an episode per victim pair. I’m just about to start listening to the Inverness one.’

  ‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I should focus on.’

  ‘Mm.’

  The door opened again and Forrester barrelled out, heading towards the pool Subaru.

  ‘Got to go, Kaz.’ Vicky ended the call and followed him over. ‘Did you get anywhere?’

  Forrester opened his door but didn’t get in, instead looking over the car to her. ‘For George’s sake, we need to put this nonsense to bed.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s the same guy, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Forrester got behind the wheel and had started the ignition by the time Vicky was in the passenger seat. ‘And it’s tearing your old man apart.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of him? Anything at all?’

  ‘He’s… He’s starting to come round to our way of thinking, but this isn’t easy on him, Vicky.’

  ‘I know.’ She looked back at the house. Through the blinds in her old window, she could just about make out Dad standing by his madman’s murder board. ‘If that knife went missing for nefarious reasons, then—’

  ‘Nefarious?’

  ‘You know what I mean. If it went missing for nefarious reasons, it was either because someone on the case was involved with the killer, or the killer was on the case.’

  But Forrester hadn’t driven off yet. ‘Come on, seriously?’

  ‘Try and persuade me otherwise.’

  ‘But who on the case benefited from what happened?’

  ‘You did.’

  His head jerked round. ‘What?’

  Vicky shouldn’t have said that, no matter how true it was. But was his reaction anger or guilt? ‘I’m just saying, David. You are where you are now because of that case.’

  ‘Be careful what you’re saying here.’

  ‘You were made a detective and have been promoted a couple of times since then.’

  ‘Come on, Vicky. That’s complete bollocks.’ Forrester killed the engine and slumped back in the seat. ‘If someone was paying me off by promotions, then they could’ve done a better job of it.’

  ‘Or you’re just cheap.’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘No, but I think we should speak to anyone who worked the case back in the day. We still don’t know if our guy is copying every detail. If there’s something that wasn’t public knowledge, then…’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with the old team since last night. It’s been a struggle. They’re all dead or senile. Your old man’s one of the few who can still track down their marbles. At a push.’

  ‘So we need to speak to everyone who’s lost their marbles then too.’

  ‘That’s what I was up to in there. Your dad’s still in touch with his old boss. Syd Ramsay. He was the SIO on the case. Eventually became Chief of Tayside Police for his work on the Atreus case.’

  ‘You know where he lives?’

  24

  Rob’s house was barely three hundred metres away.

  Not a house, a home. And not his, theirs. She could see her next-door neighbour but one, Karen Woods’ home. Never felt that claustrophobic, but looking at it, maybe it should. A back road led up to those new houses on the ancient cliffs that overlooked Carnoustie and ran all the way to Arbroath.

  Forrester got out of the Subaru and met Vicky outside the house. ‘Old Syd’s done well for himself.’

  And he had. Syd Ramsay’s house wasn’t far from the local parish church, meaning it was probably the local manse, but there were a few contenders for it, other big Victorian mansions. His was a sprawling thing set back from the main road between Carnoustie and Dundee, the low road that was long since bypassed. Vicky could still remember a million teenaged bus trips into town and all the promise shopping in Dundee offered back then.

  ‘Ladies first.’ Forrester scraped back the gate to let Vicky go up the short path.

  The house was made from that brown stone so typical of Tayside, seen everywhere from Arbroath to Perth. And it was hidden from the main road by a row of copper beech trees, turning the front garden into a dark little hovel. The back wouldn’t be much better, trapped between the house and the hill.

  Vicky tried the bell and stepped away.

  Lights on inside, though, and The Archers theme blasting out from somewhere, its jaunty English musicality out of place in provincial Scotland. The door clattered open and a middle-aged woman stood there. Well-dressed, with a hairdo that looked like it cost a fortune. ‘Can I help you?’ A local accent, but twisted by years living somewhere else, somewhere hard to place.

  Vicky held out her warrant card. ‘DS Dodds, ma’am. Looking for a Syd Ramsay.’

  ‘Oh.’

  That wasn’t good. ‘He does live here?’

  ‘Right.’ The woman stepped outside. ‘Listen, I’m Syd’s sister, Irene. Irene Schneider. You know Syd?’

  ‘DI David Forrester.’ He held out his hand. ‘Worked together for a few years. Had a good few meetings with the old rascal. That body found in the sewers under Jura Street? He took an active role in that one. One of the last cases he worked, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, Syd and Janice had a good retirement.’ She snorted. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Just need a word.’

  ‘Join the line, honey.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You ain’t the first to “just need a word” today.’ Her accent was slipping to an American drawl, real New York attitude. ‘Had a ton of folks here, asking about it.’

  A clusterfuck of journalists, no doubt. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t begrudge anyone trying to make a crust in this world. Can I see some ID?’

  ‘Okay…’ Forrester unfolded his warrant card and let her inspect it. ‘That do you?’

  Her lips twitched and she twisted round to look at Vicky. ‘And you.’

 
; She complied. ‘Were they reporters?’

  ‘Yes. Now, why are two cops turning up here?’

  Forrester gave her his best professional smile. ‘Irene, the reason all those journalists are snooping around, pestering you…’ He sighed. ‘Well, there’s a serial killer copying Atreus.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She stared down at her feet. Bright-red toenails in fancy sandals. And a deep mahogany tan. ‘I remember that case.’

  ‘Right. I worked it as a young cop. Vicky’s old man was Syd’s deputy.’

  ‘George Dodds?’

  ‘Right.’ Vicky glanced at Forrester but he was just standing back and letting her make a royal arse of this. ‘Listen, we need to speak to your brother.’

  Irene raised her eyebrows.

  Forrester flashed her a grin. ‘We can go, if you want.’

  Irene snarled at him. ‘With the implication that there’s a serial killer out there and I’ve stopped you catching him? Get real. Trouble is, he’s not here.’

  ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘OVER HERE, SIR, MADAM.’ The golf club manager led them across the restaurant area, but only four of the twenty or so tables were occupied. And just cups of tea by the looks of it. Usually golf clubs would be more like pubs than even pubs were.

  Vicky matched the manager’s stride as they walked across what looked like it had once been a ballroom. ‘The new drink-driving limit hitting you at all?’

  ‘Correct.’ He rolled his eyes at her. ‘We’re struggling to break even these days. Putting on taxis and coaches to shuttle them in. Laying on high teas, quiz nights, steak dinners, you name it. But this… LA Golf, I’m afraid it’ll be the final straw.’

  ‘Isn’t it more expensive?’

  ‘Well, yes, but…’ He stopped by a table. ‘Here you go.’

  Just one man at the table, chewing slowly. But two plates, both halfway through fish and chips; the fish might’ve been shark it was that big.

  ‘Sir, is Mr Ramsay unwell?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ The man was mid-sixties and spoke with a similar New York drawl to Irene. He held out a hand to Vicky and Forrester, even though neither had been introduced, and smiled with a perfect gleam. ‘Buddy Schneider. Pleased to meet you.’