The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  As her thoughts wondered, it occurred to her that between being deskbound, doing paperwork, dealing with the press and observing post-mortems, there really wasn’t much about police-work she liked now. Rank did bring its privileges, but it also had its drawbacks.

  She looked through the passenger window at Loch Ness as it flitted past, the faint sunlight stroking the deep waters and winking at her between the trees and bushes like a coy lover. Years ago, she and Joe, her then soon-to-be husband, had camped on the banks of the loch near Urquhart Castle. It was a small, two-person tent and it let in water when it rained. And rain it did, of course. But they were young and they were happy and they laughed as it seeped through the canvas. She smiled as she remembered this. She always smiled when she remembered those years with her husband. At least that version of him.

  When she was left alone the year before, she had considered putting in her papers, such was her dissatisfaction with the Job. She had even gone to the length of typing up her resignation. But then she had baulked at actually handing it in. It had suddenly occurred to her that, if she didn’t have her job, she would struggle to find something to do with her time.

  The truth was, all the negatives apart, she liked being a police officer. She liked bringing the bad guy down. She liked providing victims and their families with a measure of closure. She liked being in a position to help people.

  But a change was necessary. Instead of packing it all in, she requested a transfer. The Perth house harboured too many memories. Too many rooms haunted by whispers of the past and echoes of what had once been. She didn’t sell – it had been Joe’s home, hers and his. She couldn’t part with it. So she rented it out to a decent family because she liked the idea of children’s laughter bouncing from the walls. They had never had children and that was what the house needed. It needed laughter. It needed life. God knows there had been little of that in the months before she’d moved out.

  But she couldn’t think of that now. It had been a dark and terrible period in her life, but it was in the past. That was where it had to stay.

  DC Moore was a fast but skilful driver and he had them at their destination in under two hours. A makeshift gate had been erected across the small single-track road leading to the site the film production company had chosen for their headquarters. Val had watched a lengthy news report on BBC Scotland about the Hollywood invasion and knew the bulk of the filming was being done in the glen. Culloden itself was an otherwise unremarkable stretch of heathery moor, and the director wanted a more Highland feel for his re-enactment of the battle and that meant mountains. Sure, at the real site, on a clear day, you could see across the Moray Firth to the peaks of Easter Ross, but he wanted the ‘true’ Highland experience for movie-goers. That was one of the reasons the production was being criticised: that ‘true’ Highland experience not being true to the real experience of the combatants in 1746. But hey, Mel Gibson didn’t want a bridge at the Battle of Stirling Bridge.

  Roach had called an old friend in Glasgow about the company’s founder. John Donahue had set up the security company after he had retired from the force and swiftly turned it into the go-to firm for the entertainment industry. If you needed guards or bouncers, or close personal protection for your talent, they were the team for you.

  They showed their warrant cards to the security guard sporting the company logo, a shield and crossed swords, on the shoulders and left breast of the dark grey uniform top. The guard stepped away and breathed a few words into a radio before he leaned back through the window on DC Moore’s side. ‘Sorry, Mr Donahue is tied up at the moment and can’t see you. He says if you could make an appointment he’d—’

  Roach said nothing as she climbed out of the car, moved to the gate and put her hand on the bolt. The guard darted to her side.

  ‘Ma’am, you can’t go in there, it’s restricted.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘You an ex cop?’

  ‘No, army.’

  ‘Then you understand chain of command?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, and that’s why I can’t—’

  ‘Let me explain something to you.’ She kept her voice reasonable. ‘You saw my warrant card, you know my rank. Right now, that supersedes anyone else.’

  ‘Mr Donahue—’

  ‘Mr Donahue is a civilian and I’m heading up a major inquiry, which you are currently impeding. Now, we either open this gate or we drive through it.’ She jerked a finger over her shoulder to the car. ‘That’s a company vehicle and fully insured, so it makes no difference to me. Now, which will it be?’

  Her tone had not modulated – she might have been ordering a pizza – but her words carried weight. The guard swithered for a few moments, trying to decide if she was bluffing, then reached out and unclasped the bolt to let the gate swing open.

  ‘Wise choice. You’ll go far.’

  Roach walked back to the car, where Moore was sporting a wide grin. As he nosed the vehicle through the open gate, he said, ‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you, ma’am?’

  She couldn’t conceal her own smile. ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘But that was just the opening bout. The main event is coming up.’

  The narrow road snaked through some tall pine trees to an open stretch of ground surrounded by hills. They had created quite a complex, even though the buildings were prefabs and the trailers could be towed away at any time. Another fence surrounded the entire area and Roach saw further guards in uniform. These guards were accompanied by powerful dogs and they patrolled the perimeter in a regimented fashion.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Moore as they edged along the road to the next gate, ‘all it needs is a couple of guard towers and we’ve got Stalag bloody Thirteen.’

  The gate to the complex proper was a more substantial affair and any threat she might make to demolish it with the police-issue vehicle would be an empty one. She had no doubt that the first guard would have been on his radio again as soon as they drove through, and she hoped Donahue would be so outraged by her impertinence that he’d come out to deal with her himself. She felt a twinge of guilt at the position in which she’d placed the guard, but it couldn’t be helped.

  A tall man with the build of a WWE wrestler wedged into a dark blue suit, white collar and pale blue tie waited for them at the gate. He had his radio clasped in both hands in front of him as if it was a golf club and he was about to swing angry. Roach liked to play a round or two when she could and she knew you should never do that. You might think it gave you an edge, but in reality it handed one to your opponent. The man watched them approach with barely concealed rage. He didn’t even wait until they had slowed to a halt before he strode to the passenger side and glared in at her.

  ‘What kind of game are you playing?’ He had a harsh voice, one that was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. His hair was like grey iron, his broad face like frozen steel. He was a plain man but his temperament and sense of self-importance made him downright ugly.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Valerie Roach,’ she said, her voice as smooth as his was rough. ‘This is Detective Constable Edward Moore. You are John Donahue, I take it?’

  ‘Yes – and I asked what you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘I’m conducting inquiries, Mr Donahue, and you can assist us.’

  ‘Yes, so your lad here said earlier, but I haven’t the time right now.’

  ‘I suggest you make the time.’

  He stepped back and something like a smile played with his lips. It didn’t make him look any more good-humoured. ‘Do you, now? Do you really?’

  She gave him a full grin in return. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘Really. I’m conducting a murder inquiry. Now, we can do it here or you can take a wee trip back to Inverness with us. But either way, Mr Donahue, you’re going to talk to us.’

  He seemed to pull himself erect. She knew what he was going to say before the words left his mouth. ‘Listen, dear, do you know who I am?’

  She almost laughed. Who he was, or once was, m
attered little to her. People like Donahue were all the same. He was a man who had spent his career giving orders and expecting them to be followed, but he was a civilian now and, whether he liked it or not, she gave the orders. ‘Yes, I do, sir. But you’re still going to talk to me, one way or the other.’

  He took out a mobile phone. It looked expensive. Hers was bought in Tesco. ‘Who’s your boss over there?’

  ‘Superintendent Harry McIntyre,’ she said. ‘He says hello, by the way.’

  Donahue’s finger was poised to punch in the number. In his line of business, she presumed, he would have local law on speed dial. ‘He knows you’re here, then?’

  Superintendent McIntyre actually did not know she was there and when he found out he would be far from pleased, but she’d started this particular bluff and, like the one earlier with the car, she had to play it out. The game had changed from golf to poker and she was about to raise the stakes. ‘Of course.’ She nodded to the phone. ‘Go ahead, ask him if you want.’

  For a moment she thought she’d fooled him, but he called her bluff and stabbed at the screen with his forefinger, then put the phone to his ear. He watched her closely while he waited for an answer, no doubt hoping to spot a look of concern. Then he said, ‘Put me onto Superintendent McIntyre.’ His gaze didn’t waver as he added, ‘This is DCS Donahue. He knows me.’ She knew he was waiting for her to say something, to concede her lie, but she was damned if she would give him that satisfaction. She smiled sweetly at him, outwardly calm but inwardly wishing she hadn’t overplayed her hand. Any advantage his anger had given her would be moot as soon as he got through to the boss and he would take the pot. But people like him just annoyed her.

  Donahue flicked the call to loudspeaker and held the phone out between them so she could hear both sides of the conversation.

  ‘John Donahue!’ McIntyre’s voice was loud and clear. That was a really good phone. ‘Now there’s a name from the past.’

  ‘Harry,’ said Donahue, ‘long time, mate.’ His voice was different now. He was talking to another bloke and one of matching stature to himself. All pals together. Brothers in arms. ‘Listen, I’ll get right to it, if you don’t mind. Got a lot going on over here. I’ve got one of your people here, Roach, a DCI?’

  There was a pause on the line. Roach kept her face blank but inwardly she was saying oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  Then McIntyre said, ‘That’s right. She’s heading up a murder inquiry and you can help us out, if you’d be so kind.’

  She struggled to keep the relief from reflecting on her face. Glorying in the shock that splashed on Donahue’s face, she mentally raked in the chips.

  ‘Harry, I-I . . .’ Donahue stammered. Roach would bet her pension it wasn’t something he did often. ‘Look, mate, I’m really up to my eyes in it. Can’t this wait?’

  ‘John, come on. You know the drill. First forty-eight hours and all that? DCI Roach has some questions and you really need to answer them. Okay?’ McIntyre paused before he added, ‘Mate?’ The slight emphasis on the final word suggested to Roach that these men were far from mates. Which might explain why her boss had covered for her. ‘Let me have a word with my DCI,’ McIntyre said, and a clearly annoyed Donahue handed the phone over.

  Roach made sure she took it off loudspeaker before she put it to her ear. ‘Sir.’

  ‘DCI Roach, you’re lucky I bumped into DS Bremner so I knew you were off on a jolly.’

  Roach knew Donahue was watching her closely, so she smiled and said, ‘Hardly, sir.’

  ‘Making initial inquiries is not your job, DCI Roach, and you bloody well know that. Your place is in the incident room directing operations, not gallivanting around the countryside.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Had you been here, you would know we have trouble. That BBC reporter, Lola whatsername, has got wind of the clothes.’

  Bugger, Roach thought, that didn’t take long. She knew it would happen sooner or later but she’d hoped they would keep the lid on a bit longer.

  ‘The ball is up on the slates now,’ McIntyre continued, ‘and it’s only a matter of time before the connection is made to the film people. We’ve had to let Elspeth McTaggart know, so she’ll be feeding it to her clients. That Connolly girl’s involvement means the local rag will be running it, too. As you know, I’d love the power to impose a media blackout on any info that doesn’t come through official channels, but we live in an imperfect world. You’d better warn Donahue that he can expect an invasion of media people. Wrap it up there soonest and get back here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a pause during which all she could hear was her boss’s breathing. ‘You’d better make this trip count for something.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The connection was cut and Roach was left holding a dead phone to her ear. She felt strangely stupid for a moment, then she handed it back to Donahue. You’d better make this trip count for something, McIntyre had said. It was time to take control of this interview.

  ‘So, Mr Donahue.’

  ‘You can call me sir,’ he snapped.

  She ignored him. ‘You want to tell me about the missing costumes?’

  His look of shock told her that the information was accurate.

  21

  There was no reason for Rebecca to notice the black Mercedes 4x4 in the car park. There were other businesses in the various offices nearby – it wasn’t called a business park for nothing – so the Mercedes could have belonged to anyone. Apart from that, it had been a long day and she was tired. Les had indeed commented on her being back late from lunch, a kind of passive-aggressive, corner-of-the-mouth remark that should have had her reaching for the nearest heavy object, but instead it saw her mumbling a muted apology and heading straight for her desk. She saw Barry shoot her an ‘I warned you’ look across the room, so she got down to churning out some copy to meet the daily quota. That entailed re-writing press releases and a few calls to make her feel as if she was really in the world of journalism. But inside she felt like a coward. She should be standing her ground, not sneaking about like a guilty schoolgirl.

  The two pieces on the murder helped with the story count. The image of the murder victim pinged into her email first. She opened it to see the face, brought to life through CGI, of a man in his late thirties, long fair hair, chin heavily stubbled, some kind of stud in his left ear. The brown eyes were open but even computer trickery could not bring a dead man to life. The details told her that he was five foot eleven inches in height, weighed around twelve stone, was of slim build and had one scar from an appendix removal. And that was it, all that was known about the man distilled into one shot and a few lines of description. Cold, efficient, emotionless. It saddened her and she recalled her father’s words from many years before when she’d asked him about investigating murders. He had thought about it for a while and when he spoke it was in a quiet voice, still bearing the wind-blown echoes of his island upbringing.

  Murder is always sad, no matter who the victim is. Because it can often mean the end of more than one life. A wife picks up a breadknife and stabs her husband. She faces jail. Their children have to live without parents. A fight in the street turns tragic. A man lies dead, the man who killed him has robbed him of his future and also changed his own life for ever. And his family. And friends. Murder has ripples and they wash over not only everyone involved but also anyone connected with either victim or killer. That one act damages more than just one person.

  She had barely completed that story when Elspeth called about the Highland costume line getting out. Terry Hayes had been true to her word and had stalled in order to let Elspeth know, but her old boss was spitting blood.

  ‘Holding that back was our trump card,’ she had said on the phone, after she relayed a quote provided by Terry Hayes. ‘Gave us all sorts of credit with the police.’

  ‘Who else got it, do you know?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘Aye, that brainless bitch from the Beeb. Alt
hough how she stopped looking in the mirror long enough to find out beats the buggery out of me.’

  Rebecca stifled a laugh. She knew Lola McLeod was a smart operator and was extremely good at her job. She was a star on the regional channel and it was only a matter of time before she would be poached by the network and whisked away to Salford. Sooner or later she’d be off to Washington or even fronting the breakfast show, exchanging banter with her co-presenter. She had the skills, the looks and the personality. However, for Elspeth, the only journalism that mattered was print. In her mind, TV was just showbiz with soundbites.

  ‘So now we’re back at square one with the police. We had a wee opening and we’ve lost it.’

  Rebecca cradled the phone on her shoulder as she typed. She wanted this online right away, especially if the BBC had it. As Elspeth talked, she checked their online news feed but it still wasn’t up. She had a window here to get it out first, even before Elspeth’s clients. That didn’t happen often. She didn’t say that, though. The words ‘wound’ and ‘salt’ came to mind. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now we bust a gut to keep ahead of the pack.’

  Rebecca was under no illusions who the ‘we’ was in that sentence. It was just as well she had no personal life because until this story was done and dusted she would have very little time to herself.

  As she left the office, her body felt as if it had gone a few rounds with Tyson Fury, but she consoled herself with visions of a long hot bath, a glass of wine and then a movie before bed. Something nice and soft and girly, with no blood and no death and everyone living happily ever after. Not like real life at all. There are damn few happy endings in real life.