Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

‘Could you let me see it, please? I’d like to make a note of it.’

  Shona left the kitchen, returning a few moments later. She opened her handbag and removed a scrap of paper, which she laid on the table.

  Reilly studied the note for a second or two, then said, ‘His surname, I’m not sure if I’m reading this right – it’s Turner?’

  Shona nodded.

  Reilly copied the details and said, ‘One more thing. Did you see Ms Fairbairn leave the club with Masters?’

  ‘No,’ Shona replied. ‘I ran into her in the ladies’ room, which is when she told me she was leaving. I said I was going to an Indian restaurant in Forrest Road with Joe and I’d get a taxi home afterward. She said cheerio to me there, saying she’d ring me today.’ She stifled a sob. ‘That won’t be happening now, will it?’

  Reilly closed his notebook and rose, then Herkiss followed his lead.

  ‘Okay, Ms Kirkbride,’ Reilly said. ‘Thanks for your help.’ He made for the door and added, ‘We’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you again.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘So, Arlene,’ Fulton was saying, ‘you’ve already worked with DCI Naismith?’ He steered his Vauxhall Astra from Waverley Bridge into Market Street and added, ‘Before Gartcosh, I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ McCann replied. ‘Herkiss and I served under him in the old City of Glasgow force, before amalgamation. The three of us were transferred to Gartcosh in 2014.’

  ‘And Charlie Reilly?’

  McCann made a face. ‘That prick?’ she said. ‘No, he’d already been there for over two years.’

  Fulton shot her a glance as he slowed for traffic lights at the junction of Jeffrey Street and the Royal Mile. ‘I gather you don’t like him?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Nobody does,’ McCann said, shaking her head. ‘He’s cleared up four murder cases this year already, as he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. A man with a guid conceit of himself, as the saying goes. And very adept at brown-nosing anyone above the rank of superintendent. You heard Naismith say we should keep it informal. Forget rank, call each other by our Christian names?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘Word to the wise, Bill, don’t do it with him; he’ll pull you up on it.’

  She paused for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I’d the misfortune to be his passenger coming through on the M8. He gave his ego a good old massage all the way here. Convinced Naismith would give him the run of the case.’

  ‘He raised an objection when Naismith appointed Jack,’ Fulton said. ‘The DCI put him in his place.’

  ‘Don’t think that’s the end of it, Bill. He’ll find a way to undermine Knox.’

  ‘He’s that vindictive?’

  McCann nodded. ‘As a few at Gartcosh have found to their cost. I told you, the man’s not liked.’

  Fulton turned into the Cowgate from St Mary’s Street, then said, ‘You know, Arlene, I’ve just changed my initial impression.’

  ‘Of who?’

  Fulton grinned. ‘You.’

  ‘Really,’ McCann said, ‘and what was that?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, when you arrived in the office this morning, I thought you were reserved, quiet, maybe even a bit–’

  McCann interrupted. ‘Tight-lipped?’

  ‘Uh-huh, maybe.’

  McCann laughed. ‘Listen, if you’d spent the better part of an hour listening to Reilly, you’d be silent, too.’ She shook her head and added, ‘No, Bill, I’m no shrinking violet. However, experience has taught me that every time I join a new team, it’s better to not say much until I know exactly who I’m talking to.’

  ‘Like Reilly?’

  McCann nodded. ‘Like Reilly.’

  Bungo’s Discotheque in the Cowgate was situated directly underneath an arch of South Bridge, a thoroughfare which had split Edinburgh’s Old town into two levels after its creation in 1788. The street lay in a valley created by a west-east divide, which became more marked in 1832, when George IV Bridge spanned its western end, leading to the demolition of many of Edinburgh’s medieval streets.

  McCann learned this from Fulton, who regarded himself as a bit of a local historian. ‘The Cowgate got its name from the cattle which were taken via the street to the Grassmarket, where they were auctioned,’ he told McCann as they exited his car. ‘Apparently, they were herded along here up to the mid-1800s.’

  McCann and Fulton stood beside the Astra, waiting to cross the narrow thoroughfare. A constant stream of traffic flowed in either direction, forcing them to wait. McCann nodded to the road. ‘I think I’d sooner have taken my chances with a herd of cows.’

  Fulton grinned. He then spotted a gap in the traffic and escorted her across. They jinked around the front of a parked lorry and reached the safety of the pavement, where two men were carrying cases of soft drinks into the club. Fulton pressed a buzzer next to the door, and a moment later a man in his thirties appeared.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  Fulton flashed his warrant card and said, ‘Police. We rang earlier about your CCTV recording – from last night?’

  ‘Ah, right,’ the man said. ‘I’m the guy you spoke to. Roy Duttine, assistant manager.’ He waved behind him. ‘My office is along on the right.’ He indicated the two men, who were back at the lorry hoisting boxes onto their shoulders. ‘I’m taking a delivery of Coke. Please, go along and take a seat. I’ll sign for the delivery and join you in a minute.’

  Fulton and McCann walked along the corridor and came to an office with the dimensions of a large box room. A small desk sat flush with the top-right corner, behind which was a compact armchair. Two tubular metal chairs had been placed side by side near the door opposite a filing cabinet.

  Fulton indicated the chairs. ‘I suppose he means these?’

  McCann looked at the chairs, upon which a thin film of dust was visible. ‘I think I’d rather stand,’ she said.

  A couple of minutes passed, and then Duttine reappeared, edged past the officers, and took a seat at the desk. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Supposed to have been delivered yesterday, but the weather’s created a spike in demand.’ He shrugged. ‘They don’t normally work on Saturday, so I suppose I should be grateful.’

  Fulton nodded. ‘About the CCTV…?’

  ‘Of course,’ Duttine replied. He took a laptop computer from a shelf above the desk and a USB cable from a bracket on the wall, then plugged it in and said, ‘We’ve two CCTV cameras. One mounted on the ceiling facing the entrance from above, and the other just inside the club, trained on the dance floor. Both are in fixed positions, so there’s not a great deal of coverage.’

  He lifted the laptop lid and clicked on the trackpad. The detectives saw two images appear on the screen, arranged diagonally.

  Duttine turned to Fulton. ‘What time did you say you were interested in?’

  ‘From a little before eleven last night until just after two this morning.’

  Duttine clicked a key and a counter at the top right of the screen displayed the date and time: 10/8 – 10.48pm.

  He pressed another key, and one of the windows enlarged, taking up almost all the screen space. The view was from the camera facing the entrance. ‘You said on the phone it was four folk together?’ he said. ‘Two men and two women?’

  Fulton nodded. ‘Aye, we think they might’ve arrived just before eleven.’ He indicated the counter. ‘Maybe it’s better to start a bit before then.’

  Duttine ran the video back until the counter read 10.44pm, then began to spool forward. The images displayed at twice normal speed, showing a steady stream of people coming through the entrance: a number of males on their own; groups of girls together; and, more frequently, men and women arriving as couples. In each case there were a few seconds between arrivals. Duttine continued reeling the images until the counter read 10.58pm, then McCann said, ‘There – two couples together. Will you run it back, please? I’d like to see that blonde girl again.’

  Duttine wound back to 10.57pm, then advanc
ed the recording at normal speed. Two females came into view, followed by two men. The women were in their late teens or early twenties; the men five or six years older.

  ‘Stop,’ McCann said. The screen froze on the women, then she turned to Fulton and added, ‘You’ve the forensic officer’s picture, Bill?’

  Fulton nodded, took his smartphone from his pocket, and clicked the images icon. He thumbed through the files, clicked again, and a post-mortem photo of Connie Fairbairn appeared.

  He gave the phone to McCann, who nodded. ‘It’s her,’ she said. She turned to Duttine and asked, ‘Can you zoom in a little?’

  ‘Sure,’ Duttine said, then moved a cursor over the image and clicked, and a close-up appeared on the screen. McCann handed the phone back to Fulton, who glanced at the laptop, then back at his phone. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘That’s her alright.’

  McCann gestured to the laptop. ‘Can you scroll forward a wee bit, please? I’d like to see the men.’

  Duttine tapped the keys again, then the video advanced frame-by-frame until they came into view. The man on the right was looking ahead with a wide grin on his face. He appeared to be sharing a joke with his companion, whose head was inclined, his face out of view.

  ‘Damn,’ McCann said. ‘The other one seems to be studying the floor.’

  ‘It’s how the video’s caught him,’ Duttine said. ‘Pity. But like I said, the cameras are fixed. You’ve only a two- or three-second view of punters before they’re out of shot again.’

  ‘What about the other camera?’ Fulton asked.

  Duttine manipulated the keyboard and the second window filled the screen. He synchronised the time with that of the entrance camera, then the view switched to the dance floor. The two women reappeared, followed by their escorts.

  ‘Not much better,’ Fulton said. ‘A good view of the backs of their necks.’

  ‘I’m afraid this side only covers the dance floor. You can’t really see the surrounding area. But you can scroll through – might get a clearer image when they’re dancing,’ Duttine said.

  ‘Okay,’ Fulton said. ‘We’d better take a look.’

  Duttine gave Fulton a puzzled glance, then gestured to the laptop. ‘10.45pm until 2am?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Fulton said. ‘I see, more than three hours.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Can you make us a copy?’

  Duttine nodded, then leaned across, pulled a small cardboard box from the shelf and took out a memory stick, which he plugged into the computer. ‘You’ll be able to cover the entire period,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’ Fulton said, then shook his head. ‘I’m not that good with computers.’ He turned to McCann. ‘You, Arlene?’

  McCann shrugged. ‘Not too clever. I’ve enough of a struggle with my smartphone.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ Fulton said. ‘We’ve a young DC called Hathaway who’s an expert. He’ll figure it out.’

  Duttine completed the transfer and handed the USB stick to Fulton. ‘One thing, though,’ he said, ‘I should advise you that there’s almost continuous flashing coloured lights on the dance floor – they’re synchronised with the music, see? Oh, and the system’s linked to a dry ice machine. It produces a smoke-like fog. It’ll mean you’re only likely to see those who are nearest the camera.’

  The detectives exchanged glances, then McCann gave an almost cynical smile. ‘Young Hathaway’s in for a treat, isn’t he?’

  Chapter Seven

  Mason was the first to see Knox when he arrived back at Gayfield Square. She could tell from his expression that Mrs Fairbairn’s identification had proved positive, and confirmed this the moment he drew near her desk.

  ‘It’s Connie, boss?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ he said, then shook his head. ‘You know, the more of these things I attend, the more difficult they are to deal with. Men and women IDing their spouses, parents IDing their kids…’ His voice trailed off.

  Mason shot him a sympathetic look. ‘It’s always that way, boss,’ she said. ‘You never become inured.’

  Knox acknowledged this with a philosophical shrug, then promptly changed the subject. He gestured to Naismith’s office. ‘You and Mark introduced yourselves to the DCI?’

  Mason nodded. ‘Almost as soon as we got back.’

  Knox glanced at Hathaway, who was deeply engrossed with his desktop computer until he looked over his shoulder and registered Knox’s presence. ‘Hi, boss,’ he said, his eyes swivelling back to the screen.

  ‘Found something, Mark?’

  ‘I think so,’ Hathaway said, nodding at the display. ‘In the last six months there’ve been fourteen rapes or attempted rapes in the Lothian area. Twenty-three other violent assaults on women. But the one I’m looking at, I missed first time around.’

  Knox said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Concerns a twenty-one-year-old woman called Evie Lorimer, who was given a lift home by a man she met. Apparently, he tried to kill her.’

  ‘Where and what time was this?’ Knox asked.

  Hathaway peered at the screen. ‘Approximately 1.30am on 14 July, at a cul-de-sac at Roull Gardens, Inverleith. Lorimer claims she met the man at Doonan’s in Market Street. He offered to drive her to her home at Wardie Park View. On the way there, they stopped at Roull Gardens.’ Hathaway paused and scrolled the text. ‘Says she assumed the stop was for “a kiss and a cuddle”. But instead he dragged her into the back of his van and attempted to strangle her. She screamed, which alerted a Mr Gordon Poole, who was walking his dog. After Poole called out, Lorimer was able to escape. It was then that the attacker drove off.’

  ‘Did either she or Mr Poole get his number?’

  ‘No. Only a description of the vehicle and the man driving it.’

  ‘There’s more?’ Knox said.

  Hathaway studied the screen. ‘Yes, boss. It’s thought the van was a VW Caddy, white or off-white in colour. The man was in his mid-twenties and clean-shaven. Smartly dressed, around five-seven in height.’

  ‘He dragged her into the back of the van?’ Mason asked.

  Hathaway pointed to the screen. ‘So it says in her statement.’

  ‘Okay, Mark,’ Knox said. ‘Give her a ring, will you? I’d like to talk to her as soon as we can.’

  As Hathaway reached for the phone on his desk, Knox turned to Mason. ‘Anything else while I was away?’

  ‘Oh, yes – Haddington called. A DI called Ernie Clark.’ She went over to her desk and returned with a scrap of paper. ‘I made a note.’ She read from the paper: ‘“A team of twenty-two officers have combed the beach between Port Seton and Aberlady. Results are negative. Do you wish to extend the search?”’

  Knox shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so, Yvonne. Give him a bell, tell him thanks, but we know who the victim is now. Further searches might just be a waste of manpower.’

  As Mason headed back to her desk, Knox’s mobile began ringing. The screen told him the call was from DI Murray, the forensics officer.

  ‘Hi, Ed,’ Knox answered. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘With the tyre tracks, yes,’ Murray replied. ‘Nothing back from forensics yet.’

  ‘Probably Monday before those come through?’

  ‘I think so,’ Murray said. ‘Either that or late tomorrow.’

  ‘Sorry. You mentioned something about tyre tracks?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve managed to identify the make of the tyre and the weight of the vehicle.’

  ‘I see. And?’

  ‘We isolated the tread of the last vehicle to use the parking area. The weather was our best ally as there’s been little wind in the last 24 hours. Gave a clear impression on the covering of sand.’

  ‘The type of tyre and the vehicle’s weight. I take it that’s of significance?’ Knox said.

  ‘It is, yes. The tyres are made by a company called Byrona. They’re Czech. Not stocked by many dealers in the UK – but here’s the important thing: they’re only made for light commercial vehicles, particularly vans. Those with an unladen or kerb weight of approxima
tely 1,600 kilograms.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Knox said. ‘So, our killer drove a van?’

  ‘Yes, not huge. Something like a Transit. The make is distinctive by the pattern of its tread. The fact it’s a van is backed up with the width of the wheelbase and the degree of impression in the sand. Unlike cars parked at the dunes, the tread cut through to the tarmac.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Thanks, Ed, that gives us something to go on.’ He paused. ‘About the DNA – you’ll update me when you hear from the lab?’

  ‘As soon as reports come in, Jack.’

  ‘Okay, Ed. Cheers.’

  Soon after Knox ended the call, Fulton and McCann entered the office, followed shortly afterward by Reilly and Herkiss. Naismith exited his office and listened in as the detectives made their reports.

  After Reilly spoke, Naismith addressed him: ‘The man Shona was with, you spoke to him?’

  Reilly shook his head. ‘No, Alan. The call went straight to voicemail. I got his address via his service provider: 12a Meadowbank Grove. Ms Kirkbride gave me a detailed description of John Masters, the man Fairbairn was with.’

  Naismith nodded and turned to Fulton. ‘Any luck with the recordings from the club, Bill?’

  Fulton shook his head. ‘The video’s not that clear on one of the men. But we’re almost sure it’s Masters.’ He nodded to Hathaway. ‘Mark’s going to take a look at the remainder of the tape, see if we can get a clearer image. Unfortunately, the Quaich doesn’t have CCTV, so no joy there.’

  Naismith glanced at Knox. ‘So, this John Masters – not likely his real name, but we’ll go with it for the moment – we’ve a fair idea what he looks like, but no photographic proof. Anything else?’

  Knox nodded. ‘A couple of things that might prove relevant,’ he said, going to Hathaway’s desk and tapping the computer, ‘Mark got a lead on the HOLMES 2 database: a young woman called Evie Lorimer, assaulted four weeks ago. Her attacker gave her a lift home from a pub called Doonan’s in Market Street. She claims the man tried to strangle her–’

  Knox paused when Hathaway raised a hand.

  ‘Mark?’ Knox said.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss, but I got through to Evie Lorimer on her mobile. She’s on holiday in Spain. Won’t be back in town until tomorrow. Her plane gets into Edinburgh Airport at 2.55pm.’