The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  Scott had grown bored with the conversation, was thinking what did it matter to him if Nolan’d had a set-to with this dickhead. Then his interest piqued. ‘What burd?’ he asked, suddenly curious.

  ‘No a bad-lookin’ lassie. I mean, no what you usually get in here, you know? Longish hair, reddish.’

  That reporter, Scott thought. He was out with that reporter, Rebecca whatsername. Scott walked away from the boy. He was still talking, but a look from one of Scott’s mates stopped him in his tracks.

  In the lane outside he gave himself a minute to process this information. He’d been winding Nolan up the night before about the way they’d been talking at the door. At least, he thought he’d been winding him up. Now he wondered if he really had spotted something. And Maw said Nolan had pulled a big hero act at the demo.

  Nolan, son, what you doing with that lassie? he thought, shaking his head.

  43

  Roach had intended to go straight to the incident room with the information provided by Rebecca Connolly when she got back to Inshes. Bugger the paperwork. However, a call from McIntyre’s secretary as she walked across the car park informed her that the divisional commander wanted to see her right away.

  She was ushered into his office immediately. McIntyre stood at the window, his eyes cast downwards, his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he looked as if he had been ironed recently. Roach had seen him at the end of a bad day and he still looked crisp, clean and fresh out of the packet.

  The man lounging on the couch in the sitting area of the large office was more like an unmade bed. Where McIntyre was trim and fit, he was stocky and looked fit to drop. His blond hair was wispy and too long, his chin stubbled with fine hairs, his skin pallid, and he was hunched into a sheepskin car coat that had seen better days, even when the sheep was wearing it.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ she said, wondering who the stranger was.

  McIntyre turned and she saw his face was stiff with something that might have been fury. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a growl. Something had pissed him off and it didn’t take a detective of Roach’s ability to work out that the man now blowing his nose into what looked like a very damp tissue was in some way the cause.

  ‘You’re just back from the locus?’ McIntyre asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And this man Lancaster was in full costume?’

  She glanced quickly towards the man trying to find a dry patch on his tissue.

  ‘Speak freely, DCI Roach.’ McIntyre was eyeing the soiled tissue in the man’s hands as if it was carrying Ebola. Roach fought the smile that struggled to reach her lips. Her boss’s fear of germs was a joke around the division that was not to be sneezed at. He continued, ‘This is DCS Lonsdale. DCS Lonsdale here is up from Glasgow.’

  ‘Sir,’ she said, bobbing her head towards the visiting detective, and he reciprocated. She made no move to shake his hand. She didn’t share her boss’s pathological aversion, but she didn’t want to run the risk of coming down with something. She looked back to McIntyre. ‘Yes, sir, the victim wore the stolen soldier’s costume.’ She wondered why the mucus-filled officer was in Inverness but knew all would soon be revealed. Anyway, she had other news to pass on. ‘And I have a name for the first victim, sir. Apparently he’s a Jake Goodman and he’s in some way connected to—’

  ‘That’s what we want to talk to you about, DCI Roach. But I’ll let DCS Lonsdale here fill you in.’ McIntyre’s lip almost curled. He seemed to relish saying the man’s name in a way that conveyed it was something deeply unpleasant a cat had recently disgorged onto a Persian rug. ‘DCS Lonsdale is with Specialist Crimes.’

  Lonsdale sneezed. McIntyre physically recoiled. He was probably thinking about reaching into his drawer for the anti-bacterial spray Roach knew he kept there. He took a few steps further away from any possible contamination.

  ‘Sorry, got a serious viral infection, been laid up for days. The worst has passed, though,’ said Lonsdale, the hard tones of his native Yorkshire Moors made nasal by his blocked passages. He blew his nose again. Viral. Infection. Roach would bet her boss was only one more sneeze away from calling for a hazmat suit. She gave the Specialist Crimes unit officer her full attention while he put the tissue away and produced a packet of lozenges. He popped one from the blister pack and slipped it into his mouth. Specialist Crimes covered a multitude of sins and she wondered if the investigation was being taken away from her.

  Lonsdale seemed satisfied he had cleared his nasal passages sufficiently to speak further. ‘Your victim out on that battlefield.’ He paused to suck the lozenge. She waited. ‘He was one of ours.’

  She blinked. ‘As in . . . ?’

  ‘As in, he was a counter-terrorism officer working undercover.’

  Spooks, she thought, now we have spooks. Wonderful. She looked at McIntyre, his face still shadowed with rage.

  ‘Jake Goodman was his cover name,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘And what was his real name?’ Roach asked.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Brian Roberts.’

  ‘And he was working on what, exactly?’

  Lonsdale’s face contorted as if he was about to sneeze but the moment passed. ‘That’s above your pay grade.’

  Roach faced McIntyre. ‘Do you know, sir?’

  McIntyre gave Lonsdale a stare that was hard enough to scare any germs daring enough to waft his way. ‘It has become quite clear that I don’t get paid enough either. This operation was kept from me, for some reason.’

  ‘It was nothing personal. We had our reasons.’ Lonsdale gave a slight shrug. ‘Sorry,’ he added. He didn’t sound in the least bit sorry. That was the problem with spooks, Roach thought. They told you bugger all unless they wanted you to know, and even then it was likely to be a lie.

  McIntyre cleared his throat, or growled, Roach couldn’t tell which.

  Lonsdale kept talking. ‘The chief constable approved the operation and the need to keep it under the official radar. If you wish to make a formal complaint then be my guest, take it to him. In the meantime . . .’

  ‘What took you so long to come forward?’ Roach asked. ‘It’s been three days. Surely our fingerprint and DNA search pinged somewhere along the line?’

  All police officers had their biometric data stored so they could be identified should there be any inadvertent contamination of a crime scene.

  Lonsdale’s face was deadpan. ‘There were operational reasons for this. DS Roberts’ data was sealed and I’ve been sick. I did not become aware of this until last night and I drove straight up from Glasgow.’

  ‘So who did DS Roberts report to locally?’

  ‘No one. This operation was based out of Glasgow.’

  Roach and McIntyre exchanged glances, both knowing immediately what that meant. No involvement in Inshes meant they didn’t trust the local law. But then Roach had learned that spooks didn’t trust anyone. As for the operational reasons for the delay, DNA profiling would take some time but the fingerprint hit should have raised an alert immediately. Roach was fairly certain the dead man’s police service record was safely under some digital lock and key, lest the bad guys use a friendly copper to access it and check up on him. It was conceivable that a glitch in the procedure had caused the delay – even what used to be called Special Branch was not infallible – but heads would roll.

  The way McIntyre glared at the visiting officer made it plain he was more than happy to start the lopping. ‘I think, under the circumstances, you had better explain what you and your department are up to. In my division. Without my knowledge.’

  Lonsdale didn’t say anything at first. He shivered and pulled the thick sheepskin closer to his body. ‘I don’t think we can.’

  ‘I think we can, and I think we will,’ said McIntyre. ‘Speak up, man – we’re all friends here. No one is listening in. I have one dead police officer and another corpse that seems to be connected somehow. So, what the hell was your man into on my patch? And don�
��t give me that “need to know” bollocks. I now need to know, as does my DCI here.’

  Lonsdale gave it some thought as he blew his nose. Then he sighed. ‘What I say goes no further than this room. Clear?’

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ said McIntyre, his voice suggesting he was an inch away from wheeling out a portable guillotine.

  Lonsdale hesitated again, the lozenge clattering around in his mouth like a key in a washing machine. Roach felt he had intended on telling them all along, that this was just for show. Then he said, ‘DS Roberts was investigating Spioraid nan Gàidheal and its connection with New Dawn. As you know, the alt-right has become more mainstream than alt in recent years and the likes of New Dawn pose a very real threat to security.’

  ‘Not to mention the public,’ said Roach.

  Lonsdale conceded with a decline of his head. ‘This has been a two-year operation, beginning in Edinburgh, then moving here, where DS Roberts had managed to get himself deeply entrenched with individuals close to Dalgliesh and by extension New Dawn.’

  ‘As what?’ asked Roach.

  ‘Low-level drug dealer working for a local family.’

  ‘The Burkes?’

  ‘That’s right. Seems one of the sons, Scott Burke, is a member of Spioraid, or at least closely connected with it. Roberts, using his alias—’

  ‘Jake Goodman.’ Roach was a touch peeved that her big reveal had been upstaged.

  Lonsdale nodded. ‘Jake Goodman. Using that alias – small-time dealer – he inserted himself in the organisation. The main target was Dalgliesh and his connections with New Dawn. Scott Burke was merely the gateway.’

  McIntyre interjected, his voice still heavy with anger. ‘And did he actually sell drugs for the Burkes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  McIntyre’s fury could now barely be held under control. Roach feared he would burst something. ‘And why was I not informed of this operation?’

  Lonsdale’s face remained impassive as he took his time before answering. Clearly, the divisional commander’s ire was not something that worried him. ‘I’m sorry, but we could not be sure that your division had not been infiltrated.’

  That was it for McIntyre. ‘You what?’ The words exploded out of his mouth. He took a step towards Lonsdale, then thought better of it. Roach didn’t think it was his fear of germs that held him back this time; rather it was the fear that he couldn’t control himself. He breathed heavily and forced himself to sit down in his chair. His voice remained strained, as if the gas that had heated it was merely turned down and not off. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Lonsdale, you’d better explain yourself. And make it good.’

  Lonsdale’s voice remained calm. ‘I can name at least three of your officers who have attended Spioraid meetings. One of them at chief inspector level. Just because they pull on the uniform, it doesn’t mean they leave their political views in the locker. We couldn’t take the risk that my man would be exposed.’

  ‘Yet he’s still lying in the mortuary,’ said Roach.

  Lonsdale gave her a fleeting look, but she saw the pain in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. There was a moment’s silence between them.

  ‘You know something, Detective Chief Superintendent,’ McIntyre said, ‘this has been a cock-up of the first order. You place a man undercover in my division and you don’t even tell me about it. You accuse my people of being in league with right-wing extremists. You take three days to give us your man’s identity after he is found dead. You know what? I think I will get in touch with the chief constable about all this.’

  Lonsdale shrugged, dug his packet of paper tissues from his pocket and peeled off a fresh one. ‘Feel free.’

  McIntyre gave him a long hard stare. ‘I don’t need your bloody permission,’ he said.

  44

  When she finally returned to the office, Rebecca received the usual disappointed look from Barry, but he didn’t ask for an explanation for her absence, even though she had a good reason. No sign of Les, so that was something. She seated herself at her terminal and set about crafting the words to go with her amateurish shot of the police activity on Church Street. She had discussed it with Elspeth and they had decided to go with the line that the victim in the kirkyard was named locally as Walter Lancaster. They had also agreed that they would mention the uniform too, their experience of holding back with the Highlander gear having taught them a lesson. Lola McLeod would sure as hell be sniffing around this soon if she wasn’t already, and she had proved her sources were as good as Elspeth’s. Roach was too experienced a cop not to know what she was doing when she effectively confirmed it all and they were pretty sure she was not steering them wrong, even though the conversation had taken a heavy turn pretty damn quickly. Rebecca could still feel her heart hammering slightly, and it was nothing to do with her run back to her car and then a madcap drive to the office. Roach had rattled her. Rebecca had no fear of the police, not with her father having been a detective in Glasgow, but Roach had a quiet determination that was unnerving. Rebecca knew it was highly unlikely she’d get anywhere with her threat but, at the same time, her gut told her that the detective would most certainly do her best to follow through on it. And Rebecca was unsure how much support she’d get from her employers.

  She called the communications department at Inshes and spoke to her favourite press officer, a young man who, like her, was an incomer to Inverness. He gave her the official line on the murder, something bland and hugely uninformative, but at least it was a quote. She attached the photographs she’d uploaded from her phone but before she hit SEND she stopped and thought for a moment. Lancaster had been wearing the stolen uniform and that connected his death somehow to Jake Goodman – another story she was about to break, again using the ‘named locally as’ line. Goodman had been found at Culloden, a site of historical significance, Lancaster at the High Kirk. It was an old church, certainly, but she wondered what was so significant about it. Something was still whispering in her mind, but she couldn’t quite hear it.

  She picked up her mobile phone, found Anna Fowler’s number, hoped she wasn’t lecturing. It rang and rang. Shit, Rebecca thought, listening to the ringtone droning as she pulled up Google and typed in the name of the church. She would have preferred to speak to an expert than rely on the internet, but that was—

  ‘Anna Fowler.’ The history professor’s voice cut through her thoughts.

  ‘Anna,’ said Rebecca, her relief evident. ‘Listen, I need to pick your brain.’

  ‘If you pick it, it won’t get any better,’ said Anna.

  Her father used to say that all the time, but Rebecca dutifully laughed. ‘The Old High Kirk, on Church Street?’ There was that inflection again. Anna would know where it was, for God’s sake. ‘What’s the history and what connection does it have to Culloden?’

  ‘It’s the oldest church site in Inverness – St Columba is said to have preached there, to King Brude – although the church building itself only dates back to the early eighteenth century. Government prisoners were held in the tower by Charles Edward Stuart’s forces until Culloden, when the tables were turned and Jacobite soldiers were held there, among other places – the old Gaelic church round the corner, where the used bookstore is, was another. Cumberland had them executed at the door to the tower. They say the pits in the stonework were left by musket balls. Others, the wounded who could not stand to meet their fate, were propped up against a headstone in the yard and a government trooper used a V-shaped notch in another to steady his weapon in order to execute them. You can still see those headstones, although there’s a large memorial of more recent vintage now between them.’

  Rebecca scribbled all this down. Her story didn’t officially link the two murders but by mentioning the uniform and adding a sidebar, ostensibly to illustrate the significance of the location of the body, she would at least be satisfying herself that she had done so.

  ‘Has something happened there?’ Anna had launched immediately into her thumbnail lecture. Now,
she was clearly curious as to why Rebecca was asking.

  ‘A man’s body was found there this morning. Walter Lancaster. You may have seen him on the news.’

  ‘I tend not to watch the news now,’ said Anna. ‘Too depressing. Too much Trump, Brexit and death. Who is he? Or was he?’

  ‘A sex offender who was due to be rehomed in the Ferry. The locals have been actively working against it.’

  ‘And he was found in the kirkyard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  They hadn’t asked Roach that. It was doubtful she would have confirmed anything about the manner of death anyway. ‘He was murdered,’ she said.

  ‘And judging by your question about the church’s history, you think his death is linked to that man found at Culloden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The line went silent for a moment. When Anna spoke, her voice had changed slightly, was distant somehow. ‘Was he dressed in the missing uniform?’

  ‘That’s right. Em, I’m sorry, Anna, I have to go.’ Rebecca was eager to get the information fed into the system and online. ‘I’m under the gun here.’

  A little laugh breathed over the phone. It was a sad little noise. ‘Given the kirkyard’s history, that’s very appropriate. I have a class anyway. Please, keep me informed of developments, will you? I feel as if I have a vested interest in all this. One thing, though, before we go, and I’m sure it’s one that’s already occurred to you. These sites aren’t random. Culloden and the High Kirk are both linked by blood. Whoever did this chose them for a reason.’

  45

  The child sees the men walking to their deaths for the past is present and the present is past. They are ragged and weary, their wounds rudely tended to, blood seeping through dirty linen. For why give medical care to those who are about to die? They sit in the tower, hearing the gunfire outside and the impact of musket ball on stone. And flesh. They hear their comrades, their friends, their brothers scream and groan and fall. Then the door is opened again and another one is taken away.