The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  Tears.

  No matter what he does, the tears come. Tears of relief when he leaves, tears of pain when he doesn’t. The latter are more common. When he comes into the room and closes the door and steps over to the bed. Agonised tears, angry tears, shameful tears ripped from the child during and after.

  The child has not shed a tear since the night he died.

  15

  The room was fairly large but it looked much smaller thanks to the number of people crammed into it. The table at the far end was set with two chairs and two microphones but was conspicuously absent of the guests of honour. The rows of seats facing that table were filled with representatives of Her Majesty’s Press. Rebecca spotted Lola McLeod, the BBC reporter from the day before, and Stan, her cameraman, but there was also a well-groomed man from STV and a crew from Channel 4, plus a scribble of reporters and a click of photographers from dailies and rival weeklies, as well as radio and agencies. Elspeth was there and she waved her pencil at Rebecca as she entered.

  News of the murder was out, thanks to the BBC and Rebecca’s own story, and it was big news. New Dawn’s mail order terror had turned out to be a damp squib – what was feared to be anthrax was an innocuous powder – although an arson attack overnight on a mosque near Glasgow had shown that they were capable of real harm. One man suffered severe burns while others were injured. They had commited similar acts before, including in the north, and Rebecca thought it was time the authorities started taking them seriously.

  A body found on the site of an historic battlefield was certainly high profile enough that Rebecca didn’t have to fight to get out of the office. Les didn’t even look at Barry to gauge his views before he told her to cover the Police Scotland press conference at their Inshes HQ. The fact that there was something unusual about it piqued his interest even more, so perhaps there was a newsman under that designer suit and corporate arse-kissing. It appeared the adage ‘If it bleeds, it leads’ was not lost on him.

  The rumble of voices stilled when a door at the far end of the room opened and Terry Hayes, the tall, blonde head of the Police Scotland communications department at Inverness, ushered in Superintendent Harry McIntyre, a powerful figure in his blue uniform. Behind him was another tall, slender figure, a dark-complexioned woman with cropped black hair. That would be DCI Val Roach, Rebecca surmised. She wore a stylish blue suit over a crisp white shirt and she looked as if she really did not want to be there. Rebecca’s father had hated press conferences, too. No working cop likes them, even though they have their uses, he once told her. The only ones who relish them see the Job as a means of climbing the ladder rather than putting away the bad guys.

  Roach’s face had an elfin quality. It put Rebecca very much in mind of Audrey Hepburn – her mother’s habit of watching old movies paying off once again. Her eyes carried a mixture of sadness and toughness, though, that perhaps came from years of seeing things that people should not be in the habit of seeing. Rebecca knew that look from her father’s eyes. He was a kind man, a fair man, but as a police officer he had dealt with many things that reasonable people should never really deal with. He had never spoken of them to her, but she had the feeling that look had begun even before he had joined the force. On Stoirm. Her time on the island the year before had led her to discover why John Connolly had fled the island as a teenager and never returned. The revelation had hit her hard. It was decades old but it still resonated. On the island of Stiorm the past never dies. It merely lingers in the air and rests in the stone. And in the secret recesses of her own mind, she knew, that baby crying in the dark of night was not merely an echo of her own past. It was a darkness she shared with her dead father, a family shame that followed her like a shadow.

  Rebecca forced her attention on the two police officers as they took their seats. Superintendent McIntyre was ramrod straight in his chair as he stared straight ahead at a fixed point above the heads of the assembled reporters, while DCI Roach leaned forward to rest both arms on the table before her, a thermos mug cradled in both hands. Her sharp, no-nonsense eyes roamed over the faces before her, as if she was searching for someone, but Rebecca could tell she was studying them, filing the faces away. DCI Roach was a sharp cookie, as her mother would say.

  Terry Hayes remained standing and cleared her throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she addressed the room, ‘thank you for coming. As you’re all aware, there has been a very tragic incident at Culloden, but Superintendent McIntyre, Divisional Commander, and Detective Chief Inspector Valerie Roach, who is heading up the inquiry, will bring you up to date.’

  She stepped back. Shutters chattered as Superintendent McIntyre leaned into the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll make this as brief as possible. As you’ll understand, time is of the essence. At around 7.45 yesterday morning the body of an unidentified white male was found on the moorland at Culloden, part of the National Trust battlefield site. We are treating the death as one of murder. Inquiries are ongoing in the immediate area but we would appeal for anyone who may have been driving along the B9006 during the hours of 9 p.m. on Sunday and 7.45 a.m. on Monday and who may have seen anything – lights on the moorland, a parked vehicle, a vehicle driving slowly or perhaps leaving the driveway that leads to the visitor centre – to please get in touch.’

  A pause, taken as an invitation for questions by a young woman with black hair streaked with green sitting at the front. Rebecca had met her before and knew she was fresh out of university and worked for a free newspaper that had sprung up. It was a glorified advertising sheet and as likely as not would vanish as quickly as it appeared, but she was young and keen to make a name for herself. ‘Have you got a name for the victim?’

  Something that might have been amusement flashed in McIntyre’s eyes as he let the stupidity of the question sink in.

  ‘Maybe you should google the word unidentified, pet,’ said Elspeth.

  The young reporter looked suitably ashamed as laughter rippled round the room, but Roach did not join in. ‘Inquiries are ongoing as to the victim’s identity,’ she said, speaking for the first time.

  Even though the first question had been ridiculous, Elspeth took it to mean the door had been opened. ‘What was the cause of death?’ she asked.

  Roach glanced at McIntyre, who indicated she had the floor with a small sweep of his hand.

  Roach bent towards her microphone once more. ‘He had been stabbed.’

  ‘A knife, then?’

  Roach paused and studied Rebecca’s former boss. Rebecca felt something in that pause, as if the detective was wondering if Elspeth knew something. That made Rebecca wonder if Elspeth actually did know something. She had an army of contacts and people trusted her.

  ‘It was an edged weapon,’ said Roach, carefully.

  ‘So not a knife, then?’

  Superintendent McIntyre leaned forward again. ‘We’d rather not expand on the weapon used, Elspeth. You know the score.’

  Elspeth nodded her acceptance. She did know the score, as did Rebecca, mostly thanks to her father. But she still sensed something behind Elspeth’s question and the fleeting evasion she’d spotted in Roach’s eyes. There was something about the weapon. Was that what was unusual? Had one of Elspeth’s myriad contacts tipped her off?

  Elspeth, however, wasn’t finished. ‘What about his clothes?’

  Roach’s face remained impassive, but her eyes bored into the woman facing her. The room was quiet, everyone seemingly sensing something in the air. His clothes, Rebecca wondered. What about his clothes? And why had the very mention of them caused McIntyre’s face to contract as if his sphincter had suddenly clenched?

  Roach had still not answered when her boss filled the void. ‘Yes, Elspeth, he was wearing clothes . . .’

  That sent laughter scattering around the rows of seats again. The air cleared. Rebecca saw some of the reporters give each other looks and one or two heads darted in Elspeth’s direction. The old dear’s lost it, those looks said, but
Elspeth had lost nothing. She knew something.

  Elspeth wasn’t completely satisfied. ‘So, nothing to tell us about the clothes the man was wearing when he was found?’

  McIntyre’s face remained tight. First the suggestion about the weapon and now this. Rebecca would bet all £210.47 she had in her current account that he was wondering who the hell had been talking.

  It was Roach who bit the bullet. She glanced once at her superior, then looked directly at Elspeth again. ‘As I said, inquiries are ongoing and we’re not in a position to release many details at present.’

  ‘And there was nothing on the clothes to help identify the victim?’

  A pause. ‘No.’

  ‘No tags, no labels, nothing in the pockets?’

  Another pause, another long look from both police officers. ‘Nothing that assists us.’

  Elspeth nodded as if she was finally satisfied and jotted down the answer in her notebook. Rebecca almost smiled. Whatever Elspeth knew, they had somehow confirmed it.

  Rebecca decided it was time she made her presence felt. Recalling the conversation with Alan the previous evening, she asked, ‘Are you able to tell us if the victim was murdered at the scene?’

  Roach’s scrutiny left Elspeth and switched to her. ‘We believe he was murdered at the scene.’

  Lola McLeod piped up. ‘How close are you to making an ID?’

  ‘As I said, inquiries are ongoing but the media can assist us.’

  Terry Hayes saw this as a cue. ‘An image of the victim’s face will be issued directly to newsdesks as soon as we have it and will also be made available on the Police Scotland website and Facebook page, and we would appreciate it if it could be circulated as broadly as possible via traditional media and social media. If you have any trouble accessing it, get in touch with my office. It is vital that we identify this man, if only so relatives can be informed as soon as possible.’

  There was a brief lull before Roach felt she had something more to say. ‘Can I emphasise that this is not simply a story. This man was real. He had a life and it is likely he had a family, friends, relationships. They have all been taken away from him. It is our job to find whoever did that. It is your job to help us do it, as much as you can, and not engage in any wild conjecture that could jeopardise any future conviction.’ Her eyes had been roaming across the press pack, but came to rest briefly on Elspeth. ‘Please remember that. Thank you.’

  Roach picked up her thermos mug and stood, but McIntyre remained seated for a second, studying Elspeth. Terry Hayes lingered behind him until he rose and they followed Roach from the room. Rebecca pushed her way through the reporters filing out to reach Elspeth, but before she could say anything she was silenced by a raised finger.

  ‘Not here,’ Elspeth said, and motioned for Rebecca to follow her away from prying ears. Of the many things that a reporter can dread, being scooped is near the top, and Elspeth did not want anyone to listen into her conversation. They may have dismissed her as a daft old bag past her prime, but Rebecca knew better. McIntyre knew it, too, and Rebecca assumed that was what that last appraising look was about. She had something.

  In the hallway outside the briefing room, Elspeth looked around her to ensure no one was within earshot. None of the reporters, photographers or camera people filing out of the room paid them the slightest bit of attention. As a couple of uniforms herded the media towards the lift at the far end of the corridor, Lola McLeod shot them a look, wondering why they were hanging back, but Elspeth ignored her as she rested both hands on her walking stick. ‘What have you heard about this?’ she asked Rebecca.

  ‘Only that it was somehow unusual.’

  Elspeth nodded her confirmation. ‘If what I’ve heard is gen up, unusual is the word, right enough. Bloody strange is another way to describe it.’

  She did know something, that much was clear. ‘So what have you heard?’

  With another furtive glance at the police officer, who was now giving them a pointed stare, Elspeth edged in closer. ‘Not here. Outside.’

  And she was off, her stick clicking on the floor tiles as she headed for the lift, where an impatient-looking constable waited for them. Rebecca was about to follow when Terry Hayes emerged from the briefing room and clattered past her on her high heels, making a beeline for Elspeth. Rebecca picked up her pace. Hayes said something to the uniformed cop, and he nodded and walked away. She reached them just in time to hear the comms chief ask Elspeth what that was all about.

  Elspeth’s face was the very picture of innocence. ‘What was what about, Terry?’

  Hayes gave Rebecca a look, as if warning her off, but Elspeth said, ‘That’s all right. Rebecca and I are working together. She knows everything I know.’

  Rebecca knew absolutely nothing but hoped her expression didn’t reveal that.

  Hayes seemed satisfied and turned back to Elspeth. ‘And what is it you know?’

  ‘I know a lot of things, Terry.’ Elspeth was clearly enjoying this. ‘So unless you want me to talk you through the intricacies of Grand Theft Auto or discuss the socio-political nature of the last days of the Roman Empire, maybe you should be more specific. And make it quick because I’ve not had a fag in almost an hour and my body is crying out for nicotine.’

  A smile twitched at the corners of Hayes’ mouth. ‘Elspeth, don’t play silly buggers here. You know what I’m talking about. Those were pretty pointed questions in there. I’ve known you for years. I know when you know something.’

  Elspeth conceded that and dropped the act. ‘I know about the clothes.’

  ‘What about the clothes?’

  ‘I know they were straight out of Outlander.’

  Rebecca digested that, tried not to blink in surprise. Outlander? Was the dead man dressed as a Highlander?

  Hayes took a moment, too. ‘And the weapon?’

  ‘What about the weapon?’

  ‘Elspeth . . .’ Exasperation had crept into Hayes’ voice. ‘Give me a break here, okay? I’m trying to do my job.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘The two aren’t necessarily incompatible.’

  ‘Oh, Terry – we both know that sometimes that’s just not true. Your job is to control the flow of information. Mine is to root it out and let it run free.’

  ‘That’s not always in the best interests of justice, Elspeth, and you know it.’

  ‘I do know that. But the police don’t always work in the best interests of justice, either.’

  ‘Not in this case. We can’t have the information about the clothes getting out there just yet. Similarly, what you know about the weapon. So help me out here and maybe I can help you. What do you know about the weapon?’

  Elspeth sighed. ‘I’m told it was a claymore.’

  The thinning of Hayes’ lips told Rebecca this was true. A man in Highland dress had been killed with a claymore on Culloden. Sawyer had been right – this was weird. And one hell of a story.

  ‘Who told you?’ Hayes asked.

  Elspeth smiled. ‘You know better than to ask that, Terry. You’ve been on my side of conversations like this often enough.’

  Hayes raised her head slightly. Rebecca usually dealt with communications officers lower down the pay scale, so she’d had limited contact with Terry Hayes, but she knew the woman had been a high-flyer in the tabloids before she had given it all up and taken the Queen’s shilling in Police Scotland’s corporate comms.

  ‘I have to ask you not to run it,’ she said.

  ‘You can always ask.’

  ‘We won’t confirm it.’

  ‘You just have, by saying that.’

  Hayes sighed. ‘If you run it, you’ll never get anything more out of my office.’

  Elspeth laughed. ‘Terry, don’t threaten me. If you were me, before you were seduced by the dark side of PR, would that work?’

  ‘I would have considered the wider implications . . .’

  ‘Bollocks! You pulled some strokes back then and didn’t think twice. And
you were good too, could’ve taught me a thing or two. But now you’re in corporate comms you think your poop don’t pong.’

  Hayes clenched her jaw. ‘We all change, Elspeth. The world changed. Our world changed, you must have noticed it. This is what I do now and, despite what you might think, I do it well. You say I was seduced by the dark side and there was a time when I would have agreed with you. But here I am, trying to do the best I can, just like the people trying to find whoever did this. What we don’t need is you running something that really can’t be out there right now. I’m asking you, as a colleague – as a friend, for God’s sake – don’t run this.’

  Elspeth stared up at the woman. Rebecca couldn’t tell if she was annoyed at the outburst. Then amusement grew in her eyes. ‘I really pissed you off with that dark side thing, eh, Terry?’

  Despite herself, Hayes also began to smile. ‘A little bit.’

  Elspeth looked down at the floor. ‘You really don’t want us to run with this?’

  ‘I really don’t. Not yet.’

  ‘But it will be released at some point, right?’

  ‘At some point, probably.’

  ‘I’d say definitely.’

  Hayes shrugged, conceding that.

  Elspeth’s lips pursed as she considered her position. ‘If someone else asks about it, you’ll give me a heads-up?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  ‘And when you do release it, we’ll get a heads-up on that, too? Ahead of time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Elspeth looked back at her old friend. ‘You know we’re still going to root around, don’t you? This has got book deal, podcasts, telly docs written all over it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less. But if you find anything I’d hope you’d bring it to DCI Roach.’

  ‘Find anything like what?’

  ‘Elspeth, I know you. I know you have more contacts than bloody Specsavers. And those contacts have contacts. And lots of them owe you favours. If anyone other than the investigating team is likely to find anything, it’s you.’