‘Should we empty the place?’
She answered DC Singh’s question with a shake of her head. ‘Not yet, Talvin. Let those two stay where they are, but go nowhere else in the flat.’ She opened the door next to the kitchen. ‘Bathroom,’ she peered inside. There were more bloodstains around the small basin and a blue towel lay on the wooden floor.
Singh looked over her shoulder. ‘Those boards, they’re rough, not sanded or stained. There’s been a carpet here.’
‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Stapled to the floor.’ She knelt and looked closely at a metal fastening twisted as if something had been wrenched loose. There were fibres attached. ‘Purple,’ she murmured.
‘So who’s the victim?’ Singh mused. ‘The householder?’
‘Why are you assuming there’s only one? I’ve seen domestic homicides that looked just like this. The husband could have done the wife, disposed of her body and disappeared.’
‘Take a look behind the door,’ he replied, pointing. ‘That row of coat hooks. There are four garments on it, they’re all female and they’re all much the same size.’
The sergeant winced, knowing that she had missed the obvious. ‘You’re right, of course. Christ, I have been away from the job for a long time. Keep on watching my back, Talvin, will you?’
‘You got it,’ he rumbled.
‘So who is the woman . . . was, I should say?’ She looked at the door for a few seconds, frowning. ‘All the indications are that the place has been empty for a while, unread meter, dead flowers in the vase. I’m sure that when we look in the fridge we’ll find milk that’s at least a couple of weeks past its sell-by. And one other thing: where’s the mail?’
She led the way back into the living room. ‘Ms Trotter,’ she called out. ‘When you entered the flat, were there any letters behind the door?’
‘Yes,’ the girl said. ‘I gathered them up. They’re on the coffee table there.’
Singh picked up the handful of mail, and began to flick through it. ‘Most of this is the usual junk,’ he muttered, ‘addressed to “The Householder”, that’s all, but, hold on, here’s one . . . and another.’ He held up two envelopes and put the others back on the table.
‘Let’s see them, please.’
He handed them over, impressed by his new sergeant’s courtesy. He was used to orders, not requests.
‘I. Spreckley,’ she read aloud, from the first, then ripped it open. ‘Bank statement. It’s a current account and it’s well in credit.’ She paused as she studied it. ‘Okay, she’s over sixty, ’cos there’s a pension credit here. Plus, she’s claiming housing benefit.’
‘She does?’ Tilda Trotter, who was close enough to overhear her, exclaimed. ‘She lives here rent-free.’
‘Then let’s hope her sins haven’t found her out,’ Neville muttered as she opened the second envelope. ‘Miss Isobella Spreckley,’ she announced. ‘This one’s from the NHS; an appointment under the breast cancer screening programme. Miss,’ she repeated, then crossed to the fireplace, and picked up a framed photograph.
It was creased beneath the glass, as if it had been well-handled in its lifetime, and its colour had faded somewhat, lending it a pale yellow veneer. It showed a beach scene, and a woman in her thirties, dark-haired, full-bodied and not unattractive, with her arms around two boys, the older of whom could have been no more than ten. There was a clear resemblance between the trio; mother and sons, for sure, she thought.
‘If this is Miss Spreckley . . . I wonder who these two are and where they are now.’
‘And if they know where she is,’ Singh added.
The DS barely heard him, for she was staring hard at the images. ‘Maybe we know,’ she said. ‘This photo has to be thirty years old at least. Sixty-something, female, stocky build, had children. Tarvil, have you read the file on that body that was washed up a week ago? I’m not saying it’s her, but she’s definitely a candidate.’
Ten
‘Why are you calling me, David?’ Mario McGuire asked. He was in his car, with his wife in the back, beside their baby, in his egg-like seat. He had pulled into a layby when his phone had sounded.
‘Because Mary Chambers is unavailable,’ Mackenzie replied, his voice amplified by the Bluetooth system, ‘and I need to report this further up the line. You’re the ACC Crime.’
‘So what do you want to tell me?’
‘It’s more a case of asking you, sir. I’d like to know whether you’re happy about Neville having called out the bloody A team to what turned out to be a potential crime scene in Caledonian Crescent without reference to her senior officer.’
‘Why should I not be happy? And why are you not?’
‘I sent her down there,’ he said, indignantly. ‘She should have reported back to me first.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the householder appears to be missing, there’s a possibility that she might be the Cramond Island body, and I’m the senior investigating officer on that case.’
‘So I noticed when you held that press briefing. It would have been nice of you to tell Sammy Pye first.’
‘With respect, I don’t have to, sir. He reports to me, directly. So does DS Neville, when McGurk’s off duty.’
‘With respect to you, David, I don’t share that interpretation. You’re the CID coordinator for the Edinburgh divisions. That doesn’t make you automatically the SIO on all investigations in the city; in fact, it suggests to me that you shouldn’t be SIO on any. Did you give Karen a specific instruction to take no action without your approval?’
‘No,’ Mackenzie snapped. ‘I told that big Sikh to . . .’
‘Hold on a minute!’ McGuire retorted, on the edge of losing his temper. ‘You told who? What do you call me behind my back? “That big Mick?” or “That big Italian?” After all, in my case you’ve got a choice.’
‘I told Detective Constable Singh . . .’
‘That’s better, Superintendent,’ he said, cooling a little. ‘You let the wrong person hear you refer to a junior officer by his religion or race rather than his rank and name, and you’ll be beyond any protection.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the other man replied, stiffly. ‘It won’t happen again. But I did tell him that he and Neville should check it out and report back to me.’
‘And did they?’
‘They did,’ he conceded, ‘but by that time Neville had called in Forensic Services.’
‘On the basis of the details that PC Wood had called in, as you described them to me in your earlier call, I’d have done the same thing. As far as I’m concerned DS Neville had the discretionary authority as the senior officer attending.’
‘And to advise DI Pye? Did she have that authority too?’
‘Sure she did. For the last five days, Pye and Haddock have been fielding hotline calls from the public on the Cramond Island case, all of them useless. Karen had potentially important information, and as a police officer she had a clear obligation to pass it on, directly. Blood all over the kitchen of a woman in the right age bracket, who’s apparently gone missing? Come on, man, of course she did right. David,’ he continued, ‘cut to the chase. What’s this really about? Don’t bullshit me now, out with it.’
Mackenzie’s sigh seemed to fill the car. The ACC looked at his wife, via the rear-view mirror and rolled his eyes.
‘If you insist. I’m not happy having Detective Sergeant Neville under my command.’
‘Actually she isn’t,’ McGuire pointed out, ‘not directly. She reports to Jack McGurk, who’s acting DI while Becky Stallings is on maternity leave; you’ve just acknowledged that yourself. That makes you her two-up boss. That aside, what’s your problem with her?’
‘I’m not sure she’s competent. She’s been away from the force for several years. During that time things have moved on, yet she’s come straight back in as a detective sergeant and here she is on the ground in what might be a very important investigation.’
‘You mean “high-profile inves
tigation”, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ Mackenzie concede, ‘I suppose so. But that doesn’t matter. In my view she should have had a probationary period in uniform and retraining before she was let anywhere near a CID office. To be honest, I don’t understand why Mary Chambers didn’t insist on it when she was interviewed.’
‘Chief Superintendent Chambers wasn’t there when Neville was interviewed,’ the ACC said quietly. In the mirror, he saw his wife wince. ‘She was on holiday. I did the board myself and I took the provisional decision to put her straight into CID . . . provisional, because in the circumstances, I felt it should be ratified by the chief constable, and it was. So, David, you’re questioning my judgement and Maggie Steele’s. Is that it?’
The car fell silent, as if Mackenzie was contemplating the ground beneath his feet and the speed at which it was rising up to meet him. ‘I’m only expressing my concern,’ he replied, ‘and voicing an opinion. I meant no disrespect.’
‘Fair enough, and I’ll accept that because I know your concerns aren’t based on Karen’s ability at all. Your objection to her is transparent, man. She’s Andy Martin’s ex-wife; that’s your problem. You don’t like Andy. That’s an open secret. You don’t like him and you’re concerned that she’ll have his ear, and be marking his card about you.’
‘No, sir,’ Mackenzie protested.
‘Oh but “yes, sir”. And you’re wrong. Karen and Andy have a civilised relationship, but they spend about five minutes a week in each other’s company, when he collects the kids and drops them off. In those five minutes, there is no way that they’ll share any sensitive policing issues. They’re both far too responsible and too professional for idle gossip.’
McGuire paused, then decided that frankness was necessary. ‘The sad truth is, David,’ he said, ‘that you’re flattering yourself. You mean nothing to Andy Martin, nothing at all. In the unlikely event that you ever apply for a secondment to his agency, you’ll be judged on your record, your performance at interview, and that’s all . . . just as Karen was, incidentally. Are we clear on all that?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The superintendent’s hostility was evident, even in those two words.
‘Good. Now let’s get back to matters in hand, for my Paula is mightily pissed off to be sitting in a layby when we should be at her sister’s for lunch. You will call Pye and Neville, please, and tell them that if the blood in that kitchen did belong to Cramond Island woman, the subsequent investigation will be run out of Leith, with Sammy as SIO. Not you, him; that’s a direct order from me. He will report to you, yes, and through you to Mary and me, but it’s his show and all future public statements, press briefings et cetera, will be down to him.’
‘If you insist, sir.’ To Paula, it was as if the temperature in the car was growing icier by the second.
‘I do, Detective Superintendent, I do. And one other thing, I want you to call Arthur Dorward in Forensic Services and ask him, as a favour to me, to put the DNA analysis of the blood from Caledonian Crescent right to the top of his priority list. I’d like a yes or no on whether it matches that body within twenty-four hours. I trust Karen’s instincts, though. I’m damn sure it’s her.’
‘I prefer evidence to instinct.’ As Mackenzie spoke, Paula saw, in the mirror, her husband’s eyes flare. She mouthed the word ‘No!’ to ward off any explosion. ‘But,’ the superintendent continued, ‘I’ll call Dorward right away and pass on your instruction.’
McGuire exhaled. ‘Fuck me! My request, David, my request. You don’t instruct Arthur, you humour him. He’s a prickly sod, and when he was one of us, a police officer rather than a central service person, he was often on the wrong side of insubordinate. He’s got away with it, though, for twenty years because he’s bloody brilliant at his job. This too: the chief constable has a high regard for him. When Stevie Steele, her husband, was killed on duty, Arthur’s work led to us catching the guy who did it.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, you do now, so ask him gently for a hurry up on the blood from . . .’ He paused. ‘What’s the woman’s name? The missing occupant? We do know for sure she’s missing, yes? It wouldn’t do if she turned out to be up the shops, liked dead flowers and had an accident with a juice carton.’
‘She’s missing all right. The downstairs neighbour said she hadn’t seen her for at least three weeks, and Neville’s view is that she doesn’t miss anything.’
The ACC laughed. ‘She sounds like my Granny McGuire. She knew everything that happened in the whole damn street. What’s her name, the vanished householder?’
‘Spreckley, Isobella Spreckley.’
‘Is there a husband to go to the top of our suspect list?’
‘No. She’s Miss Spreckley, according to the NHS, and the woman downstairs.’
‘Let’s hope she’s not the late Miss Spreckley, but I fear she is. Let me know the outcome of this, David. Also . . . for fuck’s sake, man, lighten up on your subordinates. And lay off Karen. If you put the chief and me in a position where we had to transfer one of you out of the city, don’t assume it would be her. So long.’
He hit a button on the steering wheel to kill the call.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paula exclaimed. ‘What’s that man’s problem? What’s with the attitude?’
‘I wish I could be sure,’ Mario replied. ‘He may just be insecure, coming back into CID after having a breakdown last time he was there. Neil McIlhenney thinks he’s jealous of me. I suspect he’s jealous of every officer senior to him, and most of his subordinates as well. The bloke thought he was a whizz-kid in Strathclyde, and that us lot through in Edinburgh were just hicks beside him. He’s found out that neither of those things are true and he may be having a hard time accepting it.’
‘So why’s he in that job?’
‘Because he is a good detective: when I put him there I didn’t appreciate what a bloody awful man-manager he is, that’s the trouble. But it’s only been a few weeks; there’s hope for him yet if Mary Chambers and I point him in the right direction.’
‘Let’s hope so, but . . .’ She was interrupted by a rising wail from the baby chair. ‘Damn it! I’d planned it so wee Eamon’s next feed wouldn’t be due until we got to our Viola’s; thanks to Mr bloody Mackenzie he’s needing it now. Mario, do you . . .’
‘Of course not,’ he laughed. ‘Eamon comes first. Plug him into the mains and I’ll wait till you’re done. Your Viola knows the score; she’ll understand.’
He leaned back in the driver’s seat, smiling as he watched her unbutton her shirt then flip up her bra, to grant the baby access to the milk supply, and knowing that he had never been happier in his life.
His mind had been in neutral, but without warning it slipped back into gear. ‘Spreckley,’ he murmured. ‘That’s a name I’ve heard before.’
He switched off the car’s electrics to kill the Bluetooth, and dug his mobile from his pocket. The number of every CID officer from detective sergeant upwards was registered in his contacts. He scrolled through them until he found Neville, K, and called her.
He heard street noise as she answered. ‘Karen,’ he began, ‘Mario McGuire here. Are you still at Caledonian Crescent?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m just on my way to re-interview the downstairs neighbour. Am I in the shit?’
‘Eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course not. Why should you be? No, I’m just wondering about something. Other than her name, do you know anything about this missing woman?’
‘No. That’s why I want to talk to Mrs McConnachie again. I don’t want to start searching through the flat until Mr Dorward says it’s clear, and his people have only just got here.’
‘That’s understood, but based on what you’ve seen so far, were there any hints about her?’
Phone to ear, Karen thought through the scene upstairs. ‘Not really. I could see only one personal item, that was all: a framed photograph of a woman and two boys, kids, primary school age. It wasn’t taken recently. The colour wa
s quite faded.’
‘Two boys,’ McGuire repeated. ‘Do something for me, please. Go back up to the flat, take the photo out of the frame and photograph it with your phone, best resolution possible, then email it to me. Use my force address, “accmmcguire at”. Can you do that?’
‘Right away, sir. Give me two minutes.’
He ended the call then reached behind him for the bag that Paula had filled with Eamon’s daily needs, and found his iPad. He switched it on and waited for it to acquire a signal, then checked his email inbox. There were two new messages, one from his opposite number in Aberdeen, the second a forwarded message from the chief constable. While he waited he read both of them, and was in the act of replying to the first, when a musical tone told him that a new message had arrived. As he expected, it was from Karen Neville.
There was an image attachment and a note: ‘Sir, I’ve checked with the nosy neighbour and she says she’s certain this is Isabella Spreckley, the missing woman. Younger but definitely her. KN.’
He opened it and found himself looking at the photograph she had described, a woman with two boys. His eyes narrowed; he peered even closer, then swiped the screen to make the copied photograph larger, isolating the female face.
‘Well I never,’ he whispered.
‘Do you know her?’ Paula asked, from the back.
‘I rather think I do. I can’t swear to it, but if I’m right . . .’ He pulled the image back to its normal size and held the tablet up. ‘See those boys? If I’m right, Bob Skinner and I helped her bury one of them, going on for twenty years ago.’
He turned his attention back to the iPad, and keyed in a line, and a command. When it had been executed his went back to his phone and found another mobile number, from the personal section of his directory. The connection took longer than usual, but eventually he heard it ring, a single beeping sound rather than the British two-tone signal.
When it was answered, the first thing he heard was the sound of a seabird. The second was a familiar voice. ‘Mario, forgive me, but what the fuck is it?’
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