Mark of the Devil

by Tana Collins

  A few minutes later the door opened and Mrs McGuigan re-entered the room. ‘He must have them with him,’ she said. ‘It’s not unusual. He often takes them to work. All I’ve found is the empty case.’ She held up the black casing.

  Fletcher fished the plastic bag containing the binoculars from her bag and passed them to Carruthers. Carruthers with sinking heart handed them to Mr McGuigan. ‘Are these your grandson’s binoculars?’

  Mr McGuigan took them, turning them over in his hands. He gave a puzzled look first to Fletcher then to Carruthers. ‘They look like them. I don’t understand. Where did you find them?’ He then passed them to his wife who fitted them snugly into the empty case.

  ‘Top of the cliffs, yards from where we discovered some poisoned meat,’ said Carruthers. ‘We found them the day we got an anonymous call about a girl’s body on the beach over by Pinetum Park,’ he continued.

  Fletcher gave Mr McGuigan a copy of the artist’s impression of the girl. The older man looked at the likeness but shook his head. Reaching up he passed it to his wife.

  ‘They can’t be Joe’s,’ was all Mrs McGuigan said.

  ‘Mrs McGuigan,’ said Carruthers, ‘would Joe be likely to phone the local police station if he came across a crime?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr McGuigan.

  Once again Carruthers wondered if their grandson had come across the woman’s body when he’d been out laying contaminated meat to poison birds of prey. And been talked out of reporting it to the police, only to make an anonymous call instead.

  If Joe McGuigan was a keen birdwatcher then clearly he would be greatly upset at being asked to do something not just illegal but, in the boy’s eyes, immoral too. And if he’d come across the woman’s torn body whilst doing that… well, he’d quite rightly be anxious. He didn’t say any of this to the McGuigans. All he said instead was, ‘Look, we interviewed your grandson yesterday afternoon–’

  ‘So he got to work alright, then?’ said Mrs McGuigan.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carruthers, ‘but like I said, we interviewed him and we felt he knew a lot more than he was saying.’

  ‘You think he might be in danger, don’t you?’ said Mr McGuigan.

  Mrs McGuigan let out a cry, looked as if she might collapse. Fletcher sprung up and guided Mrs McGuigan back onto the sofa. Mr McGuigan reached out and put a comforting hand on his wife’s arm.

  ‘Find our grandson for us, will you,’ said Mrs McGuigan.

  ‘Can you give us a list of his friends? Phone numbers if you have them?’ said Fletcher.

  Mrs McGuigan nodded.

  Carruthers stood up. ‘Can we see his room? Would that be OK? It might give us something to go on.’

  Mrs McGuigan looked over at her husband. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to see it, but I can’t see that it would hurt. It’s the second on the left up the stairs.’

  Carruthers and Fletcher took the stairs. The door to the boy’s room was shut. Carruthers turned the door handle and walked in. The room felt stuffy. As he switched the light on, they looked round. It was a small room, crammed full of belongings. There were children’s board games in one corner with a bunch of football magazines. Carruthers flicked through them. Some were very old. Carruthers imagined that Joe McGuigan had had the room since being a wee lad, perhaps since he arrived as a bewildered five-year-old orphan. He guessed the McGuigans were in their eighties which meant they would have been in their sixties when they took Joe in. A hell of an undertaking for a couple of that age to take in a five-year-old child.

  He looked around him. There was a bookcase. He went over and ran his finger over some of the books’ spines. Most of them were about birds and wildlife, some were on fitness. A painting of a Lancaster bomber was on the wall. He opened a few drawers. Socks and pants. Then he looked under the bed. He found a really old copy of Nuts magazine. No doubt Joe had had to smuggle that into the house some time back. He was surprised. Most young men nowadays looked at that sort of stuff on their mobile phones.

  Nothing in the room to help us. It was an ordinary room of a young man who had left his boyhood behind and was now navigating the sometimes treacherous waters of young adulthood. But what must it have been like for Joe to have grown up with people two generations older than him? Especially after losing his parents the way he had? If he had gone off the rails a bit would it have been surprising? But Joe McGuigan did not sound like a young man who was going off the rails. He sounded like a thoroughly decent lad.

  Carruthers and Fletcher went back downstairs. Mr and Mrs McGuigan were standing close together at the foot of the stairs. Mrs McGuigan gave Carruthers a sheet of paper.

  ‘The list you asked for, of his friends. We don’t know his most recent friends very well but he’s still in touch with his school friends and we know them.’

  Carruthers took the sheet of paper, folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. ‘We’ll do our best to find your grandson,’ he said. ‘And if he turns up make sure you give us a ring, will you?’

  Mr McGuigan nodded.

  They said goodbye to the older couple. As the door shut on them Fletcher turned to Carruthers. ‘What do you think?’ She had to raise her voice over the sound of the wind. Carruthers didn’t remember the weather being quite so breezy earlier in the day.

  Carruthers shook his head, rubbing the stubble on his chin. ‘I don’t know, but I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t want to jump to conclusions,’ said Fletcher, walking towards their car, ‘but do you think this boy could be one of our poisoners? Out laying poison. Seen something he shouldn’t. Left in a hurry, dropped the binoculars and made the anonymous phone call to us?’

  ‘It’s a theory. Why do you think he’s disappeared?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘Either he’s scared and in hiding or someone’s caught up with him and silenced him before he could blow the whistle.’ She opened the car door.

  Carruthers was silent for a moment. He had his hand on his door handle. ‘It’s possible. It would make sense, although if he’s been silenced it’s unlikely to be over birds of prey.’

  ‘Perhaps he saw what happened to the dead girl.’

  ‘There’s also numerous other things that could have happened,’ said Carruthers, climbing into the car. Fletcher did the same. He shut the door. She followed suit. ‘Perhaps he’s gone out on a bender with friends and is sleeping it off somewhere?’

  ‘Do you really think so? That sounds out of character. He sounds like the sort of person who would have at least phoned his grandparents. Stop them from worrying. What’s our next plan of action?’

  ‘Back to the estate. Interview Barry Cuthbert and Derek Sturrock again and get hold of the elusive estate manager.’

  6

  They found Cuthbert out in his garden practising his golf. He was struggling against the wind which was tearing at his trousers. He looked up at them. ‘The best golfers are the ones who can play in all weathers,’ he said.

  Carruthers looked at the man with disdain; salmon pink trousers and purple striped shirt. He might have money, thought Carruthers, but he has no idea how to dress himself. He wondered if there was a regular woman in Cuthbert’s life. He suspected not, although he also suspected there wouldn’t be any shortage of beautiful, disposable females.

  Laying his club down, Cuthbert asked, ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘We’re here to make enquiries about Joe McGuigan. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon,’ said Carruthers. Cuthbert looked at them blankly. ‘We interviewed him yesterday,’ confirmed Carruthers.

  Cuthbert selected another golf club from his caddy. ‘I have a good number of staff on my books. Some are temporary, often seasonal.’ He dropped a golf ball on the ground. It rolled away from his feet. He bent over, picked it up and dropped it again. He took a practice shot. ‘Name isn’t familiar.’

  ‘Like I said, we interviewed him yesterday. He was with Derek Sturrock. Remember? The two gamekeepers you didn’t want us speaking to.’r />
  ‘I know them by face. Not all their names. How long did you say he’d been missing?’

  ‘Since yesterday, Barry. Is there something wrong with your hearing or is this a stalling tactic? You don’t sound too worried if I may say so.’

  Cuthbert took a swing at the ball and drove it 250 yards or so. Shielded his eyes to see where it had fallen. ‘Not bad in this wind.’ He looked over at Carruthers. ‘He’s not been missing long. Don’t you normally wait forty-eight hours after someone’s been reported missing?’

  Carruthers ignored the question. ‘We have reason to believe that one of the bird poisoners saw the body on the beach and rang it in anonymously. The call came from Windygates which is where Joe McGuigan lives. He’s now missing.’

  ‘I’ve already told you my gamekeepers don’t poison birds of prey. It didn’t even happen on the estate. You have absolutely nothing that links me or anyone here to poisoned meat, the body on the beach or a missing gamekeeper.’

  ‘Except Joe McGuigan works for you, Barry,’ said Carruthers. ‘I find it a bit of a coincidence that the day after I come to talk to you one of your gamekeepers goes missing.’

  Carruthers cast his eye over to the golf club lying on the grass. He picked it up. Felt its weight. ‘Nice golf club. Expensive. Belong to a club, do you?’

  ‘All my things are expensive,’ Cuthbert said. ‘I like nice things. It’s not a crime.’

  ‘Which golf club do you belong to?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Carrockhall.’

  Same as Bingham and McMullan, thought Carruthers. ‘Do you know a man called McMullan?’ he asked. ‘Belongs to Carrockhall Golf Club, too?’

  Barry thought for a moment. ‘Victim of a recent robbery?’

  Carruthers nodded.

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘Do you know the other victims, Barry?’ Carruthers consulted his black notebook. ‘The Ashburtons and the Warristons?’

  Barry Cuthbert shrugged. ‘It’s a small place.’

  ‘There seems to be a spate of art thefts in the area, Mr Cuthbert. I couldn’t help but notice you have some half-decent paintings. If you have any tradesmen in the house, keep a note of who you use, will you? And if your gamekeeper turns up will you let us know, please?’ said Fletcher.

  ‘And your elusive estate manager hasn’t been in touch with us yet,’ said Carruthers. ‘We still want to speak with him.’

  ‘I’ll pass the message on,’ said Cuthbert.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Carruthers. ‘Have you heard of a woman named Marika Paju? She may be Estonian.’

  Cuthbert shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know any Estonians.’

  Carruthers drew the artist’s impression out of his jacket pocket and presented it to Cuthbert. ‘Have a proper look, Barry. I want you to call a meeting of your staff, show them this photograph and ask them if they know this girl or know the name, Marika Paju. Call it your civic duty, Barry. After all, yours is the nearest estate to where her body was found and you’re this area’s largest employer.’

  He motioned to Fletcher and they walked off, leaving Barry Cuthbert to select another golf club from the caddy. Cuthbert gave the impression of nonchalance but Carruthers knew Cuthbert would be digesting every word said.

  ‘Oh, Barry,’ Carruthers shouted over his shoulder, ‘don’t go far. Chances are we’ll need to talk to you again.’

  ‘Did you notice how evasive he was?’ said Fletcher. ‘But he’s right. We’re clutching at straws. We’ve got nothing on him and apart from some poisoned meat we don’t even know if a crime’s been committed. The girl may have been suicide, the boy might turn up, after all he’s only been missing since yesterday afternoon and the bird poisoners may not even be from this estate.’

  They opened the car doors. ‘Get on to the station, Andie, will you?’ said Carruthers. ‘Set up a team brief for later today. I want to know if anyone’s made a connection in the cases of all these different art thefts.’

  ‘Do you think that’s going to help us with the missing boy?’

  Carruthers shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He buckled up, shutting his door.

  Some thirty minutes later Carruthers was standing by the incident board scanning the room. He’d gone straight from his car into the stuffy briefing room. No coffee. No bathroom break. ‘Dead girl, missing boy, poisoned birds, high-end art thefts,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence that so many things have happened in such a small place like this. What’s the connection?’

  He looked round at the expectant faces. Harris with a pen behind his ear, Gayle Watson fanning her face with a file, Fletcher, poised with legs crossed, notebook on lap. They were getting so used to the broken air conditioning it wasn’t even being mentioned in conversation anymore. Two days ago they would have all been moaning about it.

  ‘We’re getting nowhere fast,’ he said. ‘We need to start bringing in some results.’ He consulted his own notebook. ‘The Ashburtons robbed on the 13th July; the Warristons robbed on the 27th July and the McMullans robbed on the 7th August. What have they all got in common?’

  ‘All rich and well connected,’ said Fletcher. ‘But,’ she flicked through her notebook, ‘in terms of tradesmen, none had the same tradesmen in common. The Ashburtons had a new drive put in on 20th to 23rd June by a company called Dream Drives, the Warristons had window cleaners in May 27th and a plumber on 5th June and the McMullans had roofers in on 30th June. Same roofers used by the Warristons. All companies have been checked, all are legit and from what we can see, they’re all clean.’

  Carruthers sighed. He raked through his short greying hair. ‘What about hobbies?’

  He remembered Cuthbert swinging his golf club in his grounds. ‘I’ve just had an idea. All these victims are people of a certain age and class. Without generalising, what would their hobbies be?’

  ‘Bridge is popular amongst a certain class,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Gayle, what are Mr Ashburton’s hobbies? Is he a bridge player?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No,’ said Carruthers. ‘What about golf? The McMullans are members of Carrockhall Golf Club as is Cuthbert. Andie, I want you to check the Ashburtons and Warristons. See if they’re members, too.’

  At that moment Detective Constable Brown put his head round the door. ‘Boss’, he said to Carruthers, ‘you’ve got a call.’

  Carruthers frowned. ‘You can see I’m leading a brief. Take a message, will you?’

  Brown didn’t budge. ‘Think you’ll want to take this. It’s the Policja on the phone.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Estonian police.’

  Fletcher stood up. ‘That’s my call.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Carruthers. He left the room and followed Brown to the station phone. He took the phone from Brown. ‘Inspector Jim Carruthers here.’

  ‘Hello, this is Olev Lepp from the police in Tallinn. I was told you are interested in a girl called Marika Paju. As I just told Interpol we have a girl of that name known to the police. A runaway from home. Reported missing by her parents.’

  Carruthers felt a shiver of anticipation.

  ‘As I’m sure you are aware we ordinarily give very little information over the phone but your details have been verified and in this instance we are happy to proceed. We have had a few sightings of Marika Paju. Think she may have become a lady of the evening. We have many gangs here that run girls. Unfortunately, although she’s known to the police as a runaway we don’t have her DNA on our files.’

  ‘A lady of the night, you mean? A prostitute?’ said Carruthers, disappointed that they didn’t have her DNA. ‘She turned up in Scotland.’

  ‘Oh well, this is good news. She made a new life for herself.’

  ‘Oh no, you misunderstand me. She’s turned up dead on a beach in Fife.’

  ‘This is terrible news.’ He sounded genuinely upset, thought Carruthers, wondering if perhaps he had a daughter the same age.

  ‘She has blonde hair, a tatt
oo on her ankle,’ said Carruthers. ‘Does this sound like the same girl? I’m afraid her face is a bit of a mess.’

  ‘I’d have to double check. I don’t remember hearing about a tattoo but she had blonde hair. Can you describe the tattoo?’

  ‘I’ll email you a copy of the photograph we took alongside pictures of the dead girl and the artist’s impression we had done; like I say, the face was a bit of a mess. We’ll also send in a sample of her DNA to you. If you can give us a positive ID on her we’ll need to get someone to fly in to formally identify her.’ Carruthers took note of the email address he’d been given and finished the call.

  He left the station desk and put his head round the briefing room door. ‘We’re one step closer to establishing the identity of the dead girl. There’s a girl called Marika Paju, a runaway, known to the Tallinn Police. A possible prostitute. I need to wait on a call back from Tallinn. But this tallies with our mysterious phone caller and what she said about her friend, although we still need to keep an open mind. Team briefing over. We’ll resume it at 8am tomorrow. Andie, can I borrow you for a moment?’

  Fletcher stood up and walked towards him. ‘I need the details, including the photograph of the dead girl’s tattoo and the artist’s impression, emailed to this address. Can you do it now?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Oh Dougie,’ Carruthers said as Harris was set to pass by him. ‘Any joy on the criminal records front?’

  Harris looked sheepish.

  ‘Just get it done, OK?’ Carruthers strode over to the coffee machine and fixed himself a double espresso. As he was taking his first sip he heard a shout behind him and swung round. Brown was walking down the corridor.

  ‘That’s Tallinn on the phone again, boss.’

  Christ, that was quick, he thought. Taking another swig at the coffee, and in the process burning his mouth, he strode after Brown.

  It was a clear line. ‘I have the picture of the tattoo in front of me,’ said Lepp. ‘I had to call you straight back. You know what this tattoo means?’