‘And what made you go back there having dismissed it?’
‘An intriguing rhyme on my blog.’
‘Rhyme?’
“Heads did roll and flames consumed, till nought but rubble and blood remained. Her curse returns, by fork’ed burn; the innocents shall be avenged.” Archie smiled and looked at Tyler. ‘Granted it’s hardly in the same league as Robbie Burns but intriguing, wouldn’t you say?’ Tyler looked back at him blankly. ‘You obviously haven’t got to that bit in my manuscript yet.’
‘Err’, no, no I haven’t,’ she answered.
‘How did that lead you to back to Braur Glen?’
‘Fork’ed burn. It’s what the old local gillies call it, not Spinney but Fork’ed – two burns, like a serpent’s tongue. Of course it hasn’t been forked for a half a century or more. I looked in the archive at old maps of the area. They damned one branch to dry the meadow out and Spinney Burn got bigger, cleaved a more direct course through the glen.’
‘Do you think the poet is referring to the two heads found up there when they speak of vengeance?’ Tyler asked.
Archie shrugged. ‘I’m not really interested in them – my interest lies with the skeletal remains the good professor has unearthed.’
‘You don’t care that two people were decapitated?’
‘People die horrible deaths all the time, Chief Inspector. Two more is neither here nor there.’ Archie studied them in turn, dispassionate but sincere. Tyler was tempted to slap the handcuffs on him there and then.
‘From what I can gather, there are no innocents in your story,’ Dunbar observed, flicking through Tyler’s copy of the manuscript.
‘Your cynicism does your profession proud, Chief Inspector but your purpose a disservice. As I said before, it’s not what you believe – or I for that matter – it’s what the killer believes, surely.’ Dunbar bristled, the smug little bugger was right. ‘We all have a tendency to live in the ways that validate our beliefs.’ He continued. ‘I believe that I am a direct descendant of both the Humes and the Inglis Clans – hence I have dedicated my life to learning about them all to validate that belief. Morag believed that consuming the blood and flesh of her enemies made her stronger, and that it would see her live longer. It was more commonly practised than pious people of the day cared to admit; to us, the practice of a degenerate, of a monster – to her, perhaps the difference between premature death and a long life.’
***
They didn’t speak until they were sat in his car and Archie had gone back inside.
‘Well?’ Tyler said.
‘It’s not him.’ Tyler gasped and was about to object. ‘He said it doesn’t matter what I believe or what he believes – the killer.’ Dunbar met her irritated gaze. ‘The killer,’ he repeated for emphasis. ‘He used the third person – if he’s referring to himself why would he use the third person? He hasn’t used the third person regarding any of his other exploits – and let’s face it, he’s no’ shy o’ claiming credit and fair up his wee self.’
‘Disassociation.’
‘What?’
‘Of course he’s happy to associate himself with the archaeology but – murder isn’t something many people like to own up to.’
‘And having made this brilliant, historic discovery, he scuppers his moment of glory by burying the heads of his victims in the same place?’ Dunbar countered.
‘Nobody was taking much notice until –’
‘Professor Geary was,’ Dunbar cut in.
‘Well, he remains top of my list, sir, but –’
‘But!’ Dunbar interrupted, ‘I’m starting to think he knows more than he lets on. Now let’s go have a quick crack with Baccy-mouth,’ he continued. ‘I want to know as much as I can about this obsessive bastard before we put him in an interview room.’
That would do her for now. Tyler smiled with relief as much as anything and nodded her agreement.
‘And I think we’ll pay Wilson Farish another visit to that end as well.’
‘I’d rather clap cuffs on the dirty old cripple and charge him,’ she hissed.
‘You and me both, Briony. By the way – what list? How many other suspects have you got? – Holding out on me, Inspector?’ He smirked. She sneered.
***
The door cracked open and the occupant weighed them warily from under a crud-encrusted bunnet that had the look of a permanent fixture. He’d certainly not taken it off in the bar of the pub where Tyler had first met him. Redolent of a rodent peeking from under a dry cow pat as his beady eyes shifted to and fro from one to the other of his visitors.
He flashed his warrant card. ‘Got a minute, Mr Liddle?’
‘Time’s all I’ve got an’ nae much more o’ that according te the quacks,’ Tam Liddle responded, through a hacking cough. He looked ancient but wasn’t. His decrepitude was almost certainly down to an excess of alcohol and tobacco.
‘Allo, bonny lass – didnae recognise ye’ there behind the big yin. ‘Awa’ in,’ he invited, leading the way. As he did, a stench only the man who had created it could stand wafted out. Tyler gagged but followed Dunbar over the threshold. Liddle took a final drag before dumping his stub and grinding it into the filthy carpet with the toe of his slipper.
‘Went back to the smokes when you stopped stalking I see.’
‘Ne’er off ‘em but ye cannae buy jawin’ bacca here aboot any mare. Awa’ in – awa’ in. I was aboot to have a dram, will ye’ join me?’
‘I won’t, thanks,’ Dunbar replied.
‘Can I tempt you, lass?’
‘I don’t.’ Tyler said, looking around his reeking hovel.
He studied them both curiously and shook his head. ‘Never have I known polis refuse a drink – on or off duty.’
‘We live in changed times,’ Dunbar explained.
‘Right enough then.’ Liddle poured a generous measure into a grime-stained tumbler and sat, gesturing for them to do the same. They took one look at the furniture and remained standing. ‘Slainte mhath,’ he said, raising his glass to them before taking a gulp at it.
‘Aye, your good health, Mr Liddle’ Dunbar responded.
‘Ach! Long gone.’ Liddle hissed after swallowing.
Whisky was a vice Dunbar had sworn off after Maggie’s death and he missed it like an old friend and it was an acquaintance he dare not renew, for fear they would not be so easily parted the second time around.
‘You told Inspector Tyler that you’ve known Archie English most of his life.’
‘Aye, grew up doon tha’ way, so I did.’
‘What sort of childhood did he have?’ Dunbar asked.
‘Much like his mammy’s – weren’t easy, raised wi’ a Bible and willow twitch by his Bible-bashin’ granda’ an’ she wasnae much better. Well suited them two. A bless’d union all reet! Why spoil a good couple?’ Liddle chortled as Tyler stifled a giggle. At that the former gillies face lit up. ‘Will yer’ lok at her. Ach! But yer’ as canny a lookin’ lass as I’ve seen in a long while.’
Tyler stopped and blushed.
‘You were saying,’ Dunbar pressed.
‘Aye, well. Granny English made up for old Thunder Guts. No’ an easy woman te like but – she fair spoiled wee Archie, so she did. Aye, an’ what with him bein’ a bit y’know! – An’ what with his mammy takin’ off an’ all. D’ye ken folk aboot here?’
‘I’m a Jedburgh lad,’ Dunbar offered.
‘Aye, well you’ll know the crack then. Tittle-tattle’s their stock-in-trade, they’re nae different aboot here. Sweetie wives the lot o’ them.’
Tyler looked bemused.
‘Gossips,’ Dunbar explained quietly.
‘Dinnie’ be fooled by the sheen o’ civility, they’re a dull an’ bitter breed doon here. Spite an’ bile’s what most o’em are made of. Be it Bentock, Spinney Burn an’ Lowford – all aboot think they know, an’ if they dinnae, want to know everyone else’s business. Aye an’ what they don’t know they’ll make up. Ach! Y’only had
to listen to Lorna at the pub to know that, lass, hey?’
‘Well she certainly has an opinion about wind farms.’
‘An’ everythin’ else. She dinnae know wee Mary-Mo but ye’d think she did eh?’ Tyler nodded in response to the question directed solely at her. ‘Aye, full o’ crack aboot a lass she never met.’ He hesitated and shrugged. ‘Mary-Mo was a wild lass,’ he sneered. His eyes momentarily flashed. ‘Weren’t a buck ‘ere aboot’ that dinnae fancy gettin’ into her knickers. Aye’ an’ many tried but no’ so many as the likes o’ Lorna would have ye believe got lucky.’
‘Mary-Mo?’ Dunbar repeated. ‘Archie’s mum?’
‘Aye’, Mary, her middle name’s Morag – but she didnae care for either really. She got, Mary-Mo all through school. I mind when –’
‘They named her after the witch?’ Tyler cut in.
‘Aye, but that was her mammy’s doin’, bein’ a Humes. Mary said she added it when she registered her birth. The old man wanted Mary after his mammy but her mammy registered her Morag after the Witch o’ Obag’s Holm.’ Liddle chortled again, took a swig and continued. ‘Aye, Mary Morag English. Owt’ te wind her husband up, ach, but what’s in a name? Naebody bothered aboot all that back then – it was forgotten till Archie stirred it all up.’ Liddle was eager to get back to his story, to revisit a treasured memory. ‘I mind one time after chapel she dared some of us to jump off Lowford Bridge into Spinney Pools but naebody fancied it – so she did. In her best Sunday frock an’ all.’
‘So, Mary wasnae scared o’ the curse?’
Liddle scowled and thought. ‘Mary-Mo wasnae scared o’ anythin’! But none of us boys ever played in that beck. Or oor family’s before us. Superstitious lot aboot here.’
‘So we hear.’
Liddle suddenly cackled and became animated. ‘Right up over her head it went when she jumped. Hid nothin’ when she climbed oot agin’. Ach, what a sight! Ye could even make out the pattern on her knickers through it – and her breests. Nae bra see!’ He shook his head and sighed before his features collapsed into a grotesque grin. ‘Aye, a vision she was. Then himsel’ come along wi’ a face like thunder.’
‘Her father?’ asked Tyler, quite engrossed.
‘Aye, so – we off – like coursed hares but Mary-Mo – she just stood there, hands on her hips with that wet frock clingin’ to her beautiful young body – ach, what a sight.’
‘The local temptress then,’ Dunbar asked.
‘Ach, aye! But she had it hard with her daddy – folk forget that. Spirited is all she was. There’s plenty o’ folk should look to their sels before they judge, wee Mary English. Kirk an’ Calvinist values still hold sway when it suits but the pews are queer empty come Sunday – aye’ there’s nae saints here aboot but plenty o’ sinners. Archie’s ol’ grandpa would shake a few if he were still alive – a firebrand he was, aye’ an’ fierce wi’ it.’
‘His grandfather was a preacher?’ Dunbar asked.
‘Lay preacher – but you’d think him the Moderator the way he carried on, him and old Doc Petrie. They had the local minister a’feared o’ them so they did. He got to do his bit but they ran the show.’ He chugged at his Scotch and it fuelled his enthusiasm for another – and for the crack. ‘Ach, d’yer no’ ken that Laird an’ master mentality aboot’ here? See me? Aye’ well, gillie I was but nae servant. It was a job o’ work. Do the job reet an’ ye’ dinnae need orders, all’s as it should be. So I did – an’ anyhow, I dinnae like anyone givin’ me orders.’
‘Is your friend Carsy a gillie then?’ Tyler asked.
‘Ach no – does a wee bit o’ beatin’ when he’s short but he’s no’ the knack or the nous. But there y’are, he’s a fine example o’ what I’m talkin’ aboot. Cannae bide the idea that somebody’s got it better than him but will nae do anythin’ te pull his sel’ up. Archie’s grandparents left the wee feller a fair pot, they say. Nae surprise to me, the old bugger’ was tighter than the band on a barrel o’ malt.’
‘So Archie’s not well liked – is that what you’re saying?’
‘Archie has his airs an’ it puts folks’s backs up but I put that doon’ te his upbringin’. His granda’ lookin’ doon’ his snout at folk – an’ granny English fillin’ his heid wi’ tales of how important her family once was aboot here. Tell ye the truth – yer wee mon’s a borin’ bugger. Obag’s Holm an’ reivin’ is all he knows aboot or talks aboot. An’ now he’s found it – well, it’s gone to his heid a wee bit, that’s all. Thinks it’ll make him rich.’
‘How?’
‘Tourism, books, guided tours. Ach! It’ll no make any o’ us rich an’ if it does bring money in there’s plenty o’ smarter folk than Archie here aboot that will beat him to it.’
‘How well did you know Wilson Farish?’ Dunbar asked.
Liddle drained his Scotch and shook his head. ‘Naebody knew Wilson really, cep’, Archie. Kept his sel’ te his sel’ did, Wilson. Queer feller.’
‘Queer?’
‘Aye, strange – probably that way as well. Ne’er bothered wi’ a woman that I know of but say what ye’ like aboot him, he was a dedicated teacher. Wee ones were just as welcome around his hame as in his classroom, so they were, but that’s done with now innit?’
‘You mean infirmed?’ Tyler asked, as she exchanged a knowing look with Dunbar.
‘Yer mon’ was a hypochondriac but nae anymore, hey?’
‘Was? But naemore?’ Dunbar repeated.
‘Aye’ well, did he not pass awa’ last neet.’ Tyler and Dunbar eyed each other. ‘I’d have thought ye knew aboot that. Polis was there, so they were. Fire! Ach, shame poor mon – terrible way te’ go. Aye, like me – ailed wi’ his lungs. Nae sae good on his pins either, but he was nae as badly as he made oot. Could nae carry him oot o’ his burnin’ hoose last night though. So maybe he was nae fakin’ it,’ he mumbled as he poured another measure. But Dunbar and Tyler were already heading for the front door.
9
The debris the fire fighters had dragged out to gain better access lay strewn across the pavement, and the scene was still attracting attention from neighbours and a couple of nosy hoodies, who probably should have been in school, circled nearby on their BMX bikes. Dunbar pushed on the door and called out as it swung open.
‘Hello!’ Dunbar peered into the gloom. There was no mistaking Wilson Farish’s grim fate. The hallway had been reduced to a soot-blackened tunnel.
The beam from Station Officer Barrie’s helmet-mounted Petzl strafed the hallway as he appeared from the gloom of the sitting room. He stopped in his tracks as he caught Dunbar in his torch light and spotted his ID strung around his neck.
‘DCI Alec Dunbar,’ he announced. ‘And this is Detective Inspector Briony Tyler.’
SO Barrie looked a little startled. Was it that two detectives of their rank had taken the trouble to visit the scene or was it more to do with how attractive DI Tyler was? Dunbar could not be sure. His composure regained, and with introductions out of the way, SO Barrie was more than happy to talk them through his findings.
As soon as they entered they were plunged into darkness. SO Barrie led the way and switched on a huge hand-held torch as well as he entered the sitting room.
‘Electrics have gone, so just follow me and mind where you step, love,’ he warned, shining the torch on the sodden hall carpet, coated in detritus from the fight to stem the blaze. ‘Fighting fire is a messy business,’ he explained, unnecessarily. ‘That’s why we wear rubberised safety boots, not kinky boots,’ he added with a sly wink.
Tyler bristled at his patronising attitude but let it go, being more concerned with the how and why of it all. And if he thought her boots kinky, he must have led a very sheltered life.
The cause of the fire was the result of a familiar combustive cocktail, as he put it. Take one open fire, add old age, infirmity and a large measure of alcohol and the result – yet another fatal domestic fire statistic. He apologised if he sounded blasé. He was.
He shone
the torch on the ceilings. ‘No smoke alarm either. Just cannae tell some folk. Looks like the old boy had been having a nip of brandy – well, a tumbler full of the stuff. Check out the broken glass in the hearth, and the bottle lying on its side with no stopper in it,’ he added, picking out the items with his torch as he spoke.
The three of them fanned out into the sitting room. The air was still thick with the stench of burnt PVC, plastics and human flesh. It was fairly easy to imagine, and something thousands of elderly folk might do every night all over the country without incident. All it takes is that one careless moment, just as the safety ads proclaim. It looked very much as SO Barrie had described it, a tragic accident. Wilson Farish had been careless, a familiar routine that in a fleeting moment had had fatal consequences.
The seat of the fire was self evident. It fanned out and up from the edge of his fire-grate coating every surface in a slimy, sooty residue of chemicals, ash and human fat. The frame of the mirror above the fireplace had melted and dripped onto the 1930s tiles. The mirror glass lay shattered into a thousand pieces in the hearth. One of Farish’s charred slippers remained wedged under the corner of his remote-controlled, orthopaedic chair, no doubt jammed there as he thrashed his legs in the throes of agony. The old man’s walking stick had been fused by the heat to the seat frame and arm. Dunbar felt something pointed brush his scalp as he moved to the middle of the room. He looked up. A tacky, plastic chandelier had melted into stalactites.
‘The severest burns to the victim were concentrated down his right side, where the alcohol ignited. Note the area around the fireplace is where the fire was concentrated. The rest of the room is mainly just superficial smoke damage. And being disabled, the poor bugger didnae stand a chance.’ SO Barrie took centre stage now and stood with his back to the fireplace. ‘Looks like he got in a tangle with his Zimmer frame, fell forward onto his fire, sloshing alcohol all over his right side and knocked the bottle over. The booze acted as an accelerant and whoosh! The old boy was turned into a fireball. Couldnae disentangle himself, couldnae get up, couldnae douse the fire.’
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 13