The Running of the Deer

by Catriona King

  “Are we heading for the morgue then?”

  Craig was jolted from his self-diagnosis. “What? No. We’re going to look at the heads.”

  “OK.”

  Appeased by this reply the D.C.I. stared out of the window for a moment, watching as the fields flew past. Then he raised another query, always a man who liked to know where he was going to end up.

  “Where is it then?”

  “At the western edge of the Forest. according to the location Raymond gave us. I phoned ahead.”

  The answer had come from the car’s back seat and Liam turned to see Miranda Hunter lounging along it, her feet carefully hanging off the end. She had witnessed the debacle of the even potentially untidy Mars Bar flying out the window and she didn’t fancy the same fate. Liam smirked knowingly.

  “The Flight of the Mars Bar put the fear of God into you then?” He jerked a thumb towards Craig. “Ach, I wouldn’t worry, he won’t throw you out. It was just one of his little moods.”

  Craig responded before the inspector could. “If you drop that Bounty wrapper in my footwell you’ll see exactly what I can do, Liam.”

  With that he turned left down a lane which was so narrow that the pine trees on either side were threatening to join up. He immediately slowed the car, driving cautiously in the knowledge that one misjudged shift might see his paintwork scratched to hell.

  After crawling down the potholed track for three miles, the interior of the car growing darker as the forest on either side grew denser, Craig finally drew the car to a halt in front of a high, curved-roof building that appeared to be made from corrugated steel, set so far back amongst the surrounding vegetation it looked as if it was trying to hide.

  The detective opened his door and got out, pulling open the rear door as he did so and trying to ignore the fact that the policewoman in the back was draped along his seat.

  “Put the wrapper in that bin, Liam, and follow me, both of you.”

  In a few steps he was at the front of the building, which now that he was closer he could see was an old Nissen hut, like the type used by the military in World War Two. Craig knocked hard on its grey double doors and a full minute later a small man wearing glasses and a baggy white body suit appeared. He peered up at them.

  “D.C.S. Craig?”

  “And D.C.I. Cullen, and Inspector Hunter, yes. We called ahead. You’re…?”

  “Ian Ross. Doctor Ross.”

  The man turned on his heel, beckoning them to follow. “I’ll take you to the Director. This way.”

  It wasn’t a short trek. The Nissen hut Craig had seen was apparently only one of many interlocking, and they made their way down ribbed-walled, concrete-floored corridors for what seemed like miles. Liam moaned the estimate at their guide, who nodded cheerfully.

  “One mile, five hundred and forty yards to be exact. We measured all the different internal routes when we first started here.”

  Liam’s snort in response was a comment not only on their escort but on pedantic scientists in general, and as he chuffed along behind Ross he wondered idly how the shorter man’s legs hadn’t worn down. Or maybe they had, maybe Ross had actually been seven-feet tall when he’d first arrived.

  After thirty minutes they arrived at a low door that Ross knocked and then motioned them through. What Craig saw there shouldn’t really have surprised him in the twenty-first century, but it did, whether that was by dint of ingrained sexism, which he would admit that he wasn’t entirely devoid of no matter how much he fought against it, or merely his cognisance of their present culture of inequality he would decide by staring at his navel some other time. Either way he was surprised to see that the facility’s director was female.

  The woman rising to her feet in front of them was tall and slender, with tanned skin and pillar-box-red henna-ed hair. Well, Craig’s first thought was that it was probably henna, memories of girls at law school leaving one day as brunettes and appearing the next with their hair a startling shade of orange, the transformation only made affordable on a student’s income by use of the cheap plant extract. Nowadays it probably involved a six-hour hair appointment and a week’s wages to obtain the same effect, but either way the look was startling and seemed strangely at odds with both the sombre location and the woman’s responsible job.

  Craig immediately added ‘dinosaur’ to his self-accusation of sexist, and determined to add an extra hour of staring at his belly button just for that. He just hoped that Liam wouldn’t put his foot in his mouth, where it always seemed most comfortable, and say what he’d just been thinking.

  To pre-empt his deputy filling the silence less than tactfully, Craig stepped forward and extended his hand.

  “Director…?”

  The woman replied in a strong Welsh accent. “Underwood. Jeannie Underwood. D.C.S. Craig, is it?”

  Craig smiled at her lilting voice, the cadences of her words making them sound like the intro to a song. But before he got carried away by what Liam called his ‘poetic Italian’ tendencies, he made the rest of the introductions and accepted the proffered seats gratefully after their hike.

  To his relief Jeannie Underwood’s voice continued to fill the air and not Liam’s, as she telephoned a request and refreshments quickly appeared.

  “I’m sorry to make you walk so far. We’re used to it now, but it was quite a shock when we first arrived here, I can tell you. Now I can walk ten miles a day without blinking.”

  Small talk over Craig moved quickly to the reason they were there.

  “You have ten deer heads.”

  The director raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

  The rebuttal took the detective aback, but he hid his surprise, keeping his face impassive even as his mind raced. When Miranda had phoned to say that they were coming he’d been listening and there had been no refusal, although now that he thought about it there appeared to have been no request for a reason either. A querying glance at the local inspector and her slight shake of the head in reply confirmed that he was correct.

  Perhaps the place often had visits from the police, and if so why? And perhaps if the facility had known why they were coming Underwood would have declined.

  There was only one way to find out. Craig shifted forward slightly in his chair, keeping his voice cool.

  “We were informed by the veterinary who first saw them.”

  No response. Worse, the woman had started sipping her tea. It irritated him, and he allowed it to show.

  “At the murder scene.”

  Normally he would have begun more delicately, with words like crime-scene, death, unfortunate loss.

  With only a slight flicker of her eye-lids Underwood continued sipping.

  She was really pissing him off now and it showed in his next, terse, words.

  “The murder of a child.”

  The director’s immediate wince told Craig something, several somethings in fact. That Jeannie Underwood had known there’d been a death was obvious, the deer heads had after all been collected from the scene. And perhaps she’d even suspected that it might have been a murder, after all, the word itself hadn’t even made her blink. But that in itself told him little; many people would assume murder if a body was discovered in a wood, they had TV detective stories to blame for that.

  But the fact that the body had belonged to a child, now that was something Underwood definitely hadn’t known. Even if she had collected the deer heads from the scene herself, which was unlikely, the boy’s body would have been covered by a sheet and its small size wouldn’t have given much away; it could easily have been a petite woman. So, in theory no-one at the facility might have been aware that the dead person was a child, making Underwood’s surprise at the information understandable.

  What was much more interesting was that the director’s reaction said that whoever had requested the removal of the deer-heads clearly hadn’t given her any detail about the victim. Had they not known who the murder victim was? Or perhaps not even known th
at there’d been a murder at all?

  Craig needed more information, so he pushed his advantage, watching Underwood’s face as he did.

  “A young boy. His body was abandoned.”

  The director’s wince tightened into a grimace of disgust, and her teacup, now shaking, hit its saucer hard. Craig was in no mood to mess about, so he called her on it.

  “You knew there’d been a death, perhaps even suspected it might have been a murder, but you didn’t know that it was a child. Did you know that there’d been a death before you arranged the collection?”

  When there was no response he leaned forward on the desk separating them, determined to get one. “Why did you send someone to the scene to retrieve the heads, and who told you about the body?”

  As Craig had been speaking Liam had been watching Underwood’s face as well, and he knew that the boss was spot on. She had known there’d been a death, even possibly a murder, so the question now was, had she been involved in it somehow, or had she just been asked to remove evidence?

  The director recovered her composure quickly, and they watched her calculating whether or not to lie. She decided to go halfway.

  “Yes, I heard about the death, from the technicians who collected the heads. Terrible business. But I had and still have no reason to believe that it was a murder. I was simply told that someone had been found dead in the woods. It happens quite often, what with vagrants and suicides. And the local deer can be quite vicious to intruders.”

  Craig decided to play it her way. “And the deer heads? You’re not denying that you still have them, I suppose?”

  She lifted a pen from the blotter in front of her and tapped it slowly against the desk for a moment before replying, no doubt using the time to fabricate the best lie that she could.

  “No… I’m not denying that we’re storing them.”

  Craig frowned. Storing? Interesting word. It implied that someone else was coming to pick them up.

  While Underwood’s game-playing was making Liam want to leap across the desk and shine a light in her eyes, Craig kept his tone polite.

  “Please tell us why you collected them.”

  She feigned surprise for a second. “You really don’t know? No, no, of course you don’t. You’re a stranger around here.”

  If she’d been aiming for an insult she missed her mark. Craig merely nodded her on.

  “Well, when the body was found the police were called, naturally, but while the forensic and pathology people dealt with the deceased, it seems that no-one was quite sure what to do with the deer.”

  Craig shook his head. “Not true. We met with the vet. He said he was called to look at the deer but was told to back off when someone from the government mysteriously arrived.”

  Underwood shrugged dismissively. “Nothing mysterious about it, Mister Craig, we were called in.”

  “By?”

  “I’ve no idea. We received a phone call. Possibly from the local police.”

  He doubted that, it wasn’t standard procedure and Miranda’s face said that if it was true it was something she hadn’t heard. But he held his fire while Underwood carried on.

  “Understandable, of course. It’s probably not something they’d ever seen before-”

  This time Craig didn’t hold his tongue, cutting her off. “Is it something that you’ve seen before?”

  It made the director smile, and the sudden flash of long white teeth made her hair seem an even more violent red.

  “Not deer and not in the British Isles, but I have seen animal remains left with dead bodies before. Goats mainly. In parts of Africa.”

  Liam’s mouth fell open in surprise. “You’re talking about Voodoo?”

  She nodded cautiously. “Animal sacrifice is part of some rituals in Santería in South America as well, but always used for food, not abandoned like this, and not deer.”

  Liam had the bit between his teeth. “You think this could be Voodoo then?”

  Her expression said she was unconvinced. “Using deer? No, I don’t think so. Besides, in Voodoo there’s almost always a fire, and our technicians saw none of that. And-”

  The D.C.I. cut her off. “Devil worship! That’s what it is, isn’t it? I said that’s what it was.”

  Craig shook his head wearily. “This is very unlikely to be about Satanism, Liam, with the absence of ritual paraphernalia, an altar, fire, pentagrams.”

  He stopped and waited for the director to speak again, suddenly realising that he hadn’t asked what the facility they were sitting inside was, and which if any government department it belonged to. He chose a circuitous route to find out,

  “Are you a microbiologist, Ms Underwood? Is that why your unit was called to collect the heads, because of the possible risk of infection?”

  She smiled as if relieved that he’d finally asked. “No, no, I’m not a microbiologist, but Doctor Ross is. We also have veterinary surgeons, chemists, biohazard and infectious disease specialists here.”

  The hairs on the back of Craig’s neck shot up, even more so at the information that she volunteered next.

  “This is a jointly funded facility between the UK and Irish governments and we deal with many different things.”

  I bet you do.

  He pressed the point. “Funded by whom? Which departments?”

  He couldn’t remember ever seeing anything about a joint project in the press, and the absence of publicity immediately made him wonder if the place might be the Irish equivalent of Porton Down.

  Porton Down in Wiltshire played host to the Ministry of Defence's Defence Science and Technology Laboratory (DSTL), and had been known for over a century as the UK's most controversial military research facility.

  “Funded by the two governments, as I said.”

  It was as much as they were going to get from her. The facility’s location so close to the UK-Irish Border fitted with what she’d just said, but Davy would be finding out a lot more about the place PDQ.

  Craig changed tack.

  “Who took the phone call about collecting the deer heads?”

  “I did. My secretary was elsewhere.”

  “Male or female?”

  “It was a man.”

  “His organisation and ID?”

  She smiled coolly. “I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”

  “You took instructions from a complete stranger?”

  “He answered all of the security questions correctly.”

  In a pig’s ass. He doubted she’d even asked them.

  “I’ll be looking into that.”

  Or rather Davy would.

  “Please do, Superintendent.”

  Craig changed direction again, keeping up his pace in the hope of making her slip.

  “Ross is a microbiologist. And your specialty is?”

  She rose to her feet abruptly, and he joined her just as fast so that they were standing eye to eye. Her next words carried no lilt at all.

  “I’m the boss here, Superintendent, that’s what you need to know. But, since you’ve asked, I’m also a Professor of Physics. Anthropology just happens to be a hobby of mine, which is why I know about Voodoo. I find cultures and their rituals fascinating.”

  Liam chipped in. “You must be having fun in Northern Ireland then.”

  “Not nearly as much as in the last half-an-hour.”

  Liam knew a dig when he heard one and he rose to stand by Craig’s side. While they were careful not to look physically threatening, their united front was intimidating and made Underwood hasten to lighten the mood.

  “Just as I find the rituals fascinating in some areas of Wales. The Celtic nations are fertile hunting ground.” She motioned them towards the door with a tight smile. “Now. Let me show you to your car.”

  Liam turned to leave but Craig didn’t budge. “We’re going nowhere until we see the deer heads, Director.”

  Underwood shook her head. “I’m sorry, that won’t be possible. You’ve had a wasted trip.”

&nb
sp; “Explain.”

  Liam smirked. The pleases and thank-yous were over now all right.

  “This is a government facility covered by the Official Secrets Act. You’ll have to apply in writing to examine the heads.”

  Craig didn’t say a word, just reached across her desk and lifted the phone. In less than a minute Sean Flanagan was on the line and the detective outlined the situation.

  “I’ll call you back in a minute, Superintendent.”

  Flanagan was almost true to his word, it took him five minutes not one, but after a few seconds of renewed conversation Craig handed the director the phone.

  “Professor Underwood, this is Chief Constable Sean Flanagan. You have ten deer heads that are evidence in a murder investigation. You’re to release them to my officers now.”

  Underwood sneered. “Absolutely not. I only take orders from the British and-”

  Flanagan cut her off. “I’ve just conference-called with representatives of both governments and they deny any knowledge of you being asked to collect the deer heads and say that you’re to release them to us immediately. If you need confirmation phone Minister Caroline Aston. She’s awaiting your call.”

  With that he hung up and Underwood re-dialled hurriedly. An irritable exchange later the now red-faced director put down the phone.

  “It seems I’m to give you every cooperation, Superintendent.”

  Liam stage-whispered to Miranda. “That nearly killed her.”

  Underwood swept out of the office ahead of them. “This way. It’s less than a mile.”

  Liam grumbled. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever thought of Segways?”

  The moan fell on deaf ears as the physicist strode ahead, and in under ten minutes they were standing in a laboratory, staring at the deer heads through the walls of a vacuum-sealed PVC tent. Underwood took some handouts from a surgically masked lackey and passed them around.

  “These contain a summary of what we think killed them, and some other information.”

  Craig leant against a nearby steel table and read quietly, stopping to ask questions as he did. It seemed that Raymond O’Boyle had been almost spot-on. All the hollowed-out heads had come from animals killed decades before, five of them possibly as long as forty years before, four more probably killed during the previous two decades, and the tenth deer only dead one day, and all had died a slow death. The saddest part was how young the deer had all been; none more than seven years old.