In their day the ceiling had been amateurishly painted in gaudy sky blue with fluffy clouds. Suspended beneath from fine fishing line was a mock aerial dog-fight comprising of a few dusty Spitfires and Hurricanes, and far more dusty Messerschmitts and Focke-Wolfes, Junkers and Heinkels. Across the wall, facing the front door and above the picture rail, they had painted Churchill’s rousing tribute to the pilots of the Battle of Britain: “Never was so much owed by so many to so few.”
The chime had not changed, neither had the ceiling, less the model planes of course. Nicotine coloured fragments of the Sellotape that once held them aloft still remained along with the ghost of Churchill’s words. Despite being buried under several coats of brilliant white matt emulsion, he could still just make them out – or was it just his mind’s eye? It is after all, a famous enough quotation, and one he knew by heart. So perhaps he was just imagining it. But no, the emulsion had covered the words but had not obliterated them; Sir Winston, as was his wont, always had the last word.
Dunbar closed the door behind him and looked around a room cluttered with computers and monitors. The tech was a mix of old and new; defunct and downright scrap. Cables bulged out of trunking or hung in swags between benches whilst spiral cable-tidies snaked all over the floor, pasted down under gaffer tape. Lights blinked, computer blipped and couple of early-bird foreign student types hunched over QWERTY boards in window seats. The one nearest to him, a baby-faced oriental with the weirdest razor cut and colour job he had seen, and the other, a bum-fluff faced Asian with chronic acne. Both studiously ignored him.
Out of sight in a recess a gravelly cockney voice asked. ‘Can I help yer, chief?’ He slowly emerged crabbing along on the wheels of his chair. Dunbar found himself looking at a lean ‘biker-type’ of indiscernible age. He was either a hard-drinking, spliff-monster 40-something, or a pensioner who was wearing well, Dunbar could not decide. The biker occupied a space, which in the twins’ day, had been off limits and had been filled floor to ceiling with shelves that held back copies of model making magazines and catalogues. He wore the statutory customised and very much lived in, cut-off denim jacket over a faded Metallica T-shirt and scuffed leather jeans. Covered as he was in tattoos from his pierced earlobes to the words, hate across the fingers of his right hand, and rage across the fingers of his left. His ‘Born-to-be-Wild’ look topped off by straggly greying hair scraped back into a ponytail. Dunbar thought that he looked more like he should be astride a customised hog than an ergonomic office stool.
‘Are you the owner?’
‘Nahh, my ol’ lady’s gaff, innit.’
‘Is it? And you are?’ he asked reaching into his pocket.
‘Banty.’
Dunbar waited.
‘Who wants to know?’
Dunbar flashed his ID.
‘Ansell – Brian if yer must, but everyone calls me Banty. The gaffer’s Angie, me missus.’ Banty chortled. ‘An’ that’s only evva happened to me once before.’
Dunbar found that hard to believe judging by the acronym ACAB (All Coppers Are Bastards) and the blood-drenched crossed battle-axe and sabre logo of The Horde, a notorious Pan-European biker gang, etched into his skin.
‘Geezers get, chief wiv’ me an’ girls, babe. Right? One time I asked this geezer that come in ‘ere the same fing, an’ he was a chief! Straight up! I mean a proper fackin’ red indian chief – from Alberta in Canada. Is that mad or wot’? Wanted to email the ol’ reservation back home or summat, so I sez – I thought you lot just sent smoke signals? He didn’t fink that was very funny.’
Or he had heard it too many times to find it funny, Dunbar thought.
‘Went down like a bad pint. Still pissed off at us for nickin’ all the beaver and buffalo an’ runnin’ the Iron Horse fru their Happy Huntin’ Grounds, I suppose.’
‘I think you meant the prairies. The Happy Hunting Ground being their spirit world.’ Dunbar corrected.
‘Whatever! He did a bit of a war dance an’ facked off! But I’ve still got me scalp. – So! What can I do for yer, Detective Chief Inspector?’ That got the attention of the two foreign students.
‘A blogger using the call sign MI has used this place a few times to blog on a website called, The Debatables Society. Do you know who that might be?’
‘Arghh! Tricky shit. Puttin’ me on the spot wiv that, Chief. The punters wouldn’t like me handin’ their shit over to the ol’ bill. An’ then there’s all that data protection malarkey, a minefield – innit?’
‘Even if I told you it’s a triple homicide enquiry?’
He hesitated and shook his head. ‘Even if me efficks would allow it, we get hundreds fru’ ‘ere every week.’
Dunbar cocked his head defiantly. Banty made a steeple, interlinked his fingers, turned his palms away and cracked his knuckles before tapping away at his keyboard, scrolling through pages and pages of lists. ‘MI, is that Roman numerals or –?’
‘We’re not sure.’
After a few seconds he suddenly stopped, pushed his seat back and blurted, ‘Baby I’m hot, so show me what you got.’ He glanced at Dunbar. ‘Spotted that sayin’ in the window of a knockin’ shop in Amsterdam, when I still rode wiv’ the bruvverhood.’
‘The Horde,’ Dunbar said.
‘Eyeballed my tatt, uh?’ He looked down at it, kissed his fingertips and pressed them to it. Happy days – crazy days but – happy.’
‘Ride till you die?’
‘Yeah well, kissed too many headstones of geezers that took that bollocks literally. Got nippers now, yeah! Anyhow, Amsterdam!’ Banty leered. ‘You know the kind of place I’m talkin’ about, where the girls sit in the window showin’ off the goods, yeah?’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Remembered it an’ thought to meself, perfect! Me own gotcha’!’
‘Catchy,’ Dunbar answered drily, if uncertain of the meaning. Probably a computer geek thing. It sounded much like terminology, as favoured by the tech-heads at HQ.
‘Is, innit? The ol’ lady’s turned me from greaser to geek.’ Banty tapped the screen. ‘Here’s yer geezer look. MI hasn’t been in for six weeks, an’ I remember him now. Needed a personality reboot; a moody mature student type. All beard, hair an’ chunky knits. Spilt his latté over the keyboard. Made him leave a deposit, but the twat nevva’ came back wiv’ the balance.’
‘CCTV?’ Dunbar asked, looking around the place.
‘Nahh, used to but – put too many punters off.’ He nodded in the direction of the two students and lowered his voice. ‘The gaff’s frequented by wanabe hackers, conspiracy freaks an’ illegal immigrants here on student visas. They get twitchy about that surveillance shit.’
‘If he comes in again, stall him and call us,’ Dunbar handed him a card.
Banty rested a hand over his Horde tatt. ‘Proper out of me’ comfort zone ‘ere, Chief. Grassin’s a big no-no, don’t ride with the boys no more, but still bound by our honour code. Know how it is? You took an oath.’
‘And if he cuts someone else’s head off? Or digs up another grave to steal body parts ‘cos you don’t feel comfortable about telling me?’
The biker’s eyes popped then instantly narrowed into slits. He recoiled and rolled backwards on the chair’s castors. ‘Fackin’ hell! Grave robbin’, an’ choppin’ ‘eads off?’ Dunbar nodded. ‘That’s Burke an’ Hare shit that – well nasty!’
‘Well nasty – so call me.’ At that Dunbar left. He stepped out of the door and looked back. That had gone easier than he had hoped for once he had clocked the tattoos, and in particular The Horde tag. He could not imagine any other self-respecting member of that gang being as cooperative. Banty was either a very much reformed character, or a wanabe himself, and if it was the latter, woe-betide him should he ever cross their path wearing their patch on his skin. If he is a deserter from their ranks, his fate would be no-less precarious. Banty might not take their “ride till you die” motto literally, but as far as Dunbar understood their code, th
ey do!
***
Donnie Salkeld’s report was in his tray. Wilson Farish had been doused with lighter fuel, before being knocked over and his own booze added fuel to the flames, possibly in an attempt to try and mask that fact. Searing to the inside of the mouth and throat indicated that he was alive when alight and that he had inhaled some of the accelerant’s fumes which then ignited. Dunbar skipped over the detailed description of how the head was removed having seen Donnie’s re-enactment in the path-lab. Farish had also been suffering from chronic emphysema and cardiomyopathy. So mercifully, the likelihood was that he died within seconds of being engulfed. He also had a slight contusion to the left side of his head indicative of a very hard punch or being struck with something. He had not fallen, he had been knocked down. That was a fact and the Braur Glen enquiry was now officially a murder investigation; time to brief the team again.
***
With everyone up to speed Dunbar got down to some more reading. Professor Holmquist’s stable isotope tests had revealed where the victims originally hailed from. No surprise that the skull was a local to the border region of East Lothian. Had they got that authority to exhume the remains of Archie’s grandfather? He wrote the question onto his ‘to do’ list. And victim two originated from coastal Norfolk. Interestingly though, she had run a sample of his DNA through the genealogy of Scotland database that she had been slowly building and established a match. Murray’s ancestors were indeed Scots. Not only that, from the North East. Amazing how they can do that these days and a tremendous tool for any homicide detective to have in his kit. He wrote another note: ‘Confirm where Kenneth Edward Murray hailed from.’ Yet another boring paper chase for DS Conroy but if it proved fruitful when backed up by the science they could be certain of the victim’s identity. Holmquist had a theory of course, that despite the science and her genius Murray’s genealogy had little relevance to the case. His ancestors were probably fish filleters that followed the Scottish herring fleet through the season from Peterhead to England’s south-east coast. The ports of early to mid twentieth century East Anglia saw the ‘fleet followers’ arrive in droves, and some of them never left.
He had some trawling of his own to do, through the mind-numbing minutiae, but sadly he learned little else that he actually understood. A copy of the Oxford Dictionary of Science might have been useful. He looked up and scanned the office, caught Tyler’s eye and waved for her to join him. She scooped up a copy of the Herald and wandered through.
‘I’ve been thinking, sir –’
‘Good! That’s one of the qualities I look for in detective inspectors,’ he quipped.
‘About the other night –’
‘Forget it, Ellie has,’ he cut in dismissively.
‘I meant – our wee team sesh. As the new girl, I gained a lot from the informality of it. Getting to know the boys a wee bit better over a beer and chat. I wondered if we should make it a weekly or even a monthly thing.’
He understood perfectly what she meant, but gone were the days of pouring pints and nip chasers down his neck. In the past it had been de rigueur for every Edinburgh detective. The city’s pubs were where detectives went for ‘the crack’. It was part and parcel of the job, whether as a means of strengthening bonds, or simply winding down after a hard day chasing villains or their shadows. To his certain knowledge Falk and his ilk still did, and good on them, but having the DCI along might cramp their style. And another thing, he had destroyed one marriage riding that Merry-go-Round, and with age, his capacity for beer had diminished, which was probably a blessing in disguise when he looked at some of his contemporaries.
‘I think you should – sometimes, Briony but –’
‘But!?’
‘Bonding and maintaining discipline, there’s a fine balance between the two for any supervisory rank, lass; familiarity breeding contempt, and all that!’
‘I know for a fact that nobody in that office holds you in contempt, sir – on the contrary. I get the impression that, despite Falk’s faux pas this morning, and the chewing-off he got for it, he would still walk through fire for you and –’
Dunbar knew it too but it was nice to have it reaffirmed. ‘Aye, in the past I’ve locked Monaghan up just for the hell of it – but.’ He eyed her knowingly.
‘You’re a boss now and have to look at the bigger picture’
Dunbar shrugged, then nodded. ‘I’ve reached that point on the ladder where I spend too much time at one of these.’ He slapped his palm down on the desk top. ‘And you’ll get there all too soon at the rate you’re going. Worst part of being a boss is that we spend our time telling others what needs to be done and not enough time doing it.’
‘But you do.’ She grinned mischievously, ‘Even with your limp, we’ve done as much legwork on this case as any of team.’
‘Thanks to you,’ he replied. She looked surprised by his response. ‘I was hostile to your appointment but to be honest – I’ve enjoyed having you along.’
‘Because you had to show me the ropes?’ He nodded. ‘And only that?’ She pressed.
He smirked. ‘Couldn’t have someone of a lower rank mentoring you. That would have seriously undermined your credibility.’
What was he getting at? ‘Not feeling all that credible right this minute but, in my defence, I like to think I’ve made my contribution,’ she said.
‘Indeed. What I’m trying to say is – that I miss the cut and thrust, but a DCI, especially an SIO, has to take a step back. Hell, I’m in danger of turning into Terry Watt, if they ever offer me a crown. You got me back in the game.’
‘You would have to put on a couple of stone,’ she observed.
‘Look! The team doesnae know you that well yet, so there’s nae harm in letting them get to know you. I, on the other hand, am seen as a high heid – a boss, and I cannae afford to get too familiar with them.’
‘Yes, I understand that, sir, but –’
‘It’s a basic tenet of natural justice that anyone with an axe to grind should not be given dominion over persons cited in a grievance.’
‘What axe to –?’
‘Drink loosens tongues, relaxes attitudes and unleashes demons in some. I’ve seen drunken DCs take a pop at detective supers’ under the influence of a few pints. And having put themselves in that situation, to save face, I’ve seen high heids initiate disciplinary proceedings the next day. Careers ruined, or at best blighted over what was supposed to be a beer and bonding session. You cannae take personalities out of the equation, Briony.’
‘I don’t imagine you ever doing something like that.’
‘I’d like to think not but – I’ve a fierce temper that has surfaced in drink sometimes.’ Tyler looked genuinely surprised by that admission. ‘Oh aye, I’m nae all sweetness and light, lass – and I have to be the last word on this landing. Lest they go over my heid to the likes o’ Terry Watt or worse, that arsehole, Molineux, an’ I won’t have that.’ She looked a little surprised by his sudden outburst about their commander. He shrugged it off, ‘Ach! I’m no’ saying it won’t happen. Put this case to bed and we’ll have a blow-out I promise. But I won’t, I cannot make a habit of it.’
Changing the subject she waved the local rag at him. ‘Have you seen the paper?’
He took it from her, saw the headline and read Ruth the Truth’s sensationalist opening gambit then folded it up again.
‘Press liaison doing a bang up job as usual. Who’s handling them?’
‘The Chief Super asked for Christina Dean.’
He groaned. ‘Is he shaggin’ her?’ Tyler looked shocked. ‘Well, I mean, the lass is a flake! Elspeth met her a few years ago at Merchiston Castle School, some pre-graduation careers bash or other, Christina’s an Old Girl but was representing a local PR company at the time.’
‘Elspeth’s alma-mater as well by any chance?’
‘No. Not even close. Elspeth got to where she is despite her education, not on account o’ it.’
‘Then s
he is to be admired all the more.’
‘Ach, aye! I tell ye’, if her star burned any brighter she’d be deemed an alternative energy source.’
Tyler chortled and once again it had a momentary unsettling affect.
‘Christina Dean tapped Elspeth for a job – nae chance! Anyway Christina’s name came up at a dinner party a while back and I told her she worked for us now. Elspeth said PL was about right for her.’ Tyler eyed him quizzically. ‘Public liability.’ Tyler snorted. ‘That unfazed act she puts on is just that. Trust me deployment of understatement rarely deceives, and seasoned hacks like Ruth aren’t easily fooled. They know that the real story lies somewhere in the gap between what is said and what isn’t. Beats me how she’s held on to her job as long as she has.’
‘Somebody’s got to do it.’
‘If you ask me we’re too fond of press briefings these days.’
‘Ahh but we live in an access-all-areas, media-driven world. Often as not, the public feel reassured by it and they certainly expect it.’
‘We’re homicide detectives. We’re not in the business of reassuring the public and shouldn’t. It lulls them into a false sense of security. We’re in the business of uncovering the ugly truth. Speaking of which.’ He checked his dad’s watch, pushed his chair back from his desk and waved an A4 sized document. ‘Let’s go dig up grandpa English.’
15
A church had stood on that spot in one form or other since Malcolm III sat on the throne of Scotland but was almost certainly not dedicated to his youngest son during his rule. Despite his atheism, Dunbar loved old churches and cathedrals, preferably when there was no service in progress. He studied the church board and wondered if the sign-writer had ran out of gold paint and left it at St Dabid’s, or simply didn’t fancy tackling the man’s full title.
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 22