Despite not being a Gaelic speaker, he had memorised the lineage of Scotland’s monarchs by rote as a schoolboy. If Dunbar had not chosen law he almost surely would have opted for history and, in that instance, would have eventually specialised in the Scottish medieval period and just as likely, as his daughter does, studied at Dundee. On occasion, such as now, when his job forced him to explore the iniquities of violent and abhorrent crimes, he sometimes wished he had taken that academic path.
The Kirk of St Dabíd I (St David I) in Bentock, ‘Dabid mac Maíl Choluim’ to give him his true patronymic, although in need of more than a little TLC, was quaint and the shabbiness somehow added to its rustic charm. In its present form it had survived fairly unchanged since the late seventeenth century apart from having electricity installed – and a tungsten padlock and chain on the door; since the bell that had tolled for four hundred years was stolen in the late 90s; to sell for scrap no doubt.
As Dunbar and Tyler waited for the others to arrive, he wandered around its decrepit dry-stone walled perimeter admiring the views. Every so often he would stop to read a headstone and wonder what silent, unspoken secrets had been taken to that particular grave. We all have them. No silence today though. The persistent cack of rooks provided the chorus for the solo caw of a carrion crow perched on the weather vane, in turn accompanied by the hiss of a thin but resentful wind through the Yew Trees. Taken together, an ominous soundtrack to the grisly duty they were about to undertake. Briony Tyler sidled up alongside him.
‘Welcome or omen, Inspector?’ he asked, shielding his eyes to look skyward. Before she could answer, the guttural rumble of a tractor and clanking of chains on metal caught both their attentions. It also brought the team minister outside there being no resident clergy any more of course.
The nearby manse had been sold off in 2006, to a retired couple from Lancashire. The minister looked uneasy. Her lips still moved but no sound emanated. Offering prayers on behalf of the man they were about to dig up, he wondered. It hardly seemed right. Praying for the departed soul of a man, who – according to the DNA evidence had sexually abused his own daughter and got her pregnant, but of course they were keeping that detail under their hats for now. Only Dunbar’s team, Donnie Salkeld and Professor Holmquist were privy to that information, possibly Geary and Vasquez as well. If Dunbar had been inclined to pray – it would have been for no more surprises.
***
The ground around the Kirk bulged with centuries of the dead. According to the minister, Fraser and Alice English had been the last people so granted the honour. It had no doubt been Fraser English’s influence within the diocese that had secured their hallowed place; lain to rest, side-by-side, under a shared headstone in a shade of an ancient Yew.
In 1978, the adjoining paddock, where many years earlier the incumbent minister’s pony would have grazed, had been consecrated to accommodate the deceased from the three parishes of Bentock, Spinney Burn and Lowford. According to the minister, the English family plot had been reserved long before it was needed. There remained still a space originally intended for their daughter, Morag, but now reserved in the name of Archibald Fraser English.
The epitaph on the headstone read: Pure of soul, pure of heart, rest eternal, never to part. Dunbar imagined a right unholy row had been going since the old degenerate’s wife reached the Pearly Gates and asked for a phone and a direct line to perdition.
The gravedigger was a broad-backed farm labourer from Lowford called Bruce Dougan, who was rather unimaginatively known as Digger by all about according to the minister. Mercifully for him, his employer had granted him use of the farm’s mini-digger, provided the diocese paid for the diesel of course. But with forearms like hams to go with that broad back, he looked like a man who could shift soil as efficiently as any machine.
Rocking on his heels, as if testing the underlay of a carpet, Digger announced, ‘I can tell ye’ tha’ noo – this grounds bin messed with.’ He pecked at it with the toe of his safety-boots and raked the surface of the slightly overgrown plot with his heel before going to work. ‘Aye, turf weren’t cut reet afore it was dug, see – a canny mess it is too. Ach! I know folk that would kill te get a plot in the precincts o’ the kirk.’
‘Who says they haven’t already?’ Dunbar quipped.
Digger eyed the DCI suspiciously.
‘Messed with recently?’ Tyler asked.
Digger shook his head, ‘Nae lass, not these past couple o’ months at least, but more than that, I’d nae like te say.’ He looked it over again and turned to her. ‘But I can tell ye this – I’ve never left a grave in as sorry a state as this. Take a look in’t cemetery if ye dinnae believe me. Take pride in my work! Nothin’ less than the deceased deserve.’
‘Amen to that,’ the trendy minister said. Dunbar wondered what odds he would have got on her appointment being vetoed if old Fraser English had still held sway in the parish. He could not imagine him approving of women preachers, especially ones with a spiky and boyishly short purple rinse and ‘Ban the Bomb’ symbol earrings.
‘Ye could play bowls on’t turf after I’ve backfilled a plot,’ Digger bragged, as he plonked his bulk down on the machine’s seat. The minister nodded her agreement and said something that was drowned out by the metallic clatter as the bucket’s teeth dug into the ground.
Dunbar had been fully expecting an indignant Archie English to turn up. He had opposed the exhumation, in a predictably confusing wordy letter to the authorities, without resorting to a legal challenge; which in itself was interesting, if not altogether unexpected. Was there more to his protest than the understandable distress of having one’s loved ones final resting place disturbed? As far as Alec Dunbar could tell, Archie was a man with the emotional range of a tea-bag so there had to be something else driving his objections, and why had he not sought legal advice? Too stupid? Too tight fisted? Was he simply acting out his part in the unfolding drama his discovery at Braur Glen had initiated? Making sure his name also appeared in the annals of the bureaucracy these events always generate, as well as in the investigations of both archaeologists and police alike?
The gist of his missive was to place on record his objection as sole heir to the English estate. That would be the modest annuity his grandparents left and a small mortgage-free terraced cottage then. After that it dissolved into a confused diatribe about honouring the family name and disrespecting the solemnity of his devout grandparents’ final resting place. Reading between the lines, it was all about Archie. None of this would be happening but for his discovery at Braur Glen. Look-At-Me or LAM syndrome, as Dunbar called it.
Archie was certainly revelling in the press attention. Getting his face in the paper had been a tremendous thrill and Dunbar suspected that he had become a prime source for Ruth the Truth. He also wondered how long it would be before she began to regret giving Archie her card. Tyler already had; Archie was hardly ever off the phone to her, leaving voicemails and texts enquiring as to how the investigation is progressing. Archie might explain the probing questions Ruth kept wrong-footing the hapless press-officer Christina Dean with, but that was not terribly difficult to do, with or without insider relevant information. Ruth’s questions though were framed in such a way that suggested to Dunbar that she had another source; one within his precincts.
He had been meaning to have a quiet ‘off-the-record’ word with Ruth. The enquiry had reached a sensitive stage, and the last thing he needed was a member of the press giving his quarry a heads-up by splashing across the front page a detail only the killer and police would know. He really should make a point of gagging her but somehow could not seem to find time in his schedule to track her down.
As he watched the bucket of the digger inch nearer with incredible precision, Dunbar began to dread what they might find. If the body in the casket still had its head, what then? He could do without another twist to an already complex case and yet more expensive DNA tests. They had yet to challenge Archie over the DNA comparison tha
t proved the skull was that of his father and grandfather. It was a card he would rather not play until they had cause to interview him under caution and get his responses down on tape, and a lot closer to charging somebody for Wilson Farish’s murder. Nor could he trust that Archie would not go and blurt that information to Ruth the Truth. For all Dunbar knew, whatever was or was not in that grave might not come as a surprise to Archie.
Digger eventually abandoned the machine after reaching a depth of around four and a half feet. Not wanting to damage the casket, he jumped into the hole with a shovel and put that strong back and those impressive forearms to work. Within seconds Dunbar had to call a halt when Digger’s shovel thudded into something soft. The gravedigger scraped at the soil some more and exposed what looked like shirt material and a telltale smell immediately filled the air. Digger looked up at Dunbar with a sickly expression. The DCI nodded and gestured for him to continue. Digger reversed his shovel and raked off a little more soil with the blade, yelped, cursed and bolted from the grave.
The added twist Dunbar had feared had materialised. A headless corpse lay on top of Fraser English’s coffin. The exhumation would have to be completed by Eugene and Laughing Boy, who had been on standby to take over once the casket lid was exposed.
‘You weren’t kidding about always getting the weird ones, were you?’ Tyler said softly, before turning away..
***
What should have been a fairly quick procedure now threatened to take up the rest of the day, so Dunbar left Tyler in charge, who was not best pleased. Not because she had been lumbered with supervising a potentially critical evidence gathering exercise. That promised to be fascinating. No, the source of her displeasure was the idea of hitching a ride back with E-BeeGeeBee. His almost manic intensity, lack of humour and holier-than-thou sermonising freaked her out. According to her, bar the paedophilia, he would have got along very well with Archie’s grandpa and Dunbar could only agree.
Meanwhile he headed back to Edinburgh and an unusually frosty reception from Detective Superintendent Terry Watt.
‘Ahh, y’er back I see,’ Watt had said, when they met in the foyer. ‘Perfect timing, Alec – it’s almost as if you knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘That Adrian Moody’s on his way to Holyrood to be anointed by Minto Almighty,’ he hissed, bitterly.
‘Like I said – horses for courses.’
‘Aye, that ye did – who else did ye say it to though? That’s the burning question around Fettes Avenue, Alec mon.’
‘Just figure of speech, never given it a thought since that meeting. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sir – but I’ve been fairly busy.’
‘But not so busy you couldn’t leave an inexperienced subordinate to supervise things down at Bentock.’
‘It doesn’t take Sherlock bloody Holmes to oversee the continuity of evidence gathering from a hole in the ground, sir. And you know how Eugene hates having me breathing down his neck.’
‘SCHU was oor baby, Alec, we –’ he whined, looking around.
‘Ours!?’ Dunbar interrupted. ‘If memory serves I was the last in line when the music stopped in a game of pass-the-parcel.’
‘Is that so? Well! Away an’ claim yer’ prize then.’
Dunbar checked his temper. ‘It didn’t even have a decent acronym when you dumped it into my in-tray, sir!’
Terry Watt bristled. ‘We presented the protocols.’
‘Well, it looks like we did a good job of selling it, because appointing Adrian Moody means it’s got the green light.’
‘But we did the all the donkey work –’
‘We!?’ he repeated, still miffed that Watt had made no contribution whatsoever and yet had stolen the greater part of the glory.
‘– the administrative and operational standing orders,’ Watt continued, ignoring his interruption. ‘And Strathclyde’s Deputy Chief gets the director’s job.’
It made perfect sense to Alec Dunbar. From the outset it was the director’s position with the new Serious Crime and Homicide Unit that was always destined to go to an officer of that rank. Their own former Deputy Chief Constable had very little CID experience and might have been better advised not to apply in the first place. Furthermore, having dispensed with so many senior posts already since the amalgamation, it was highly unlikely that they would promote someone into the post and so Adrian Moody struck him as an obvious choice.
‘Been doing a wee bit o’ lobbyin’ on the QT have ye?’ Watt asked, with a sly look in his eye.
‘No!’
‘Nae!? Ah, well, the Minister has asked for you personally to meet with him and – Mr Mean-an’-Moody.’ Even saying the man’s name seemed to leave a bad taste in Terry Watt’s mouth. ‘This very afternoon. I told them you were doon the way, exhumin’ a grave,’ Dunbar was genuinely surprised but Watt was still in conspiracy mode. ‘But lo and behold, yer’ back!’ Watt checked his watch. ‘And in good time to make that meeting. Coincidence!? I don’t think so.’
Dunbar decided not to grace Watt’s paranoia with any further denials. The fact that his proposals had been adopted was enough. As for why he alone had been summoned to Holyrood he could not imagine. Actually he could, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He placed a quick call to the Minister’s office, and after what felt like an age, Agnes, the humourless guardian of the Justice Minister’s gate, confirmed his presence was desired if it was convenient. It was!
***
Lawrie Minto stepped around his desk and welcomed him like a long lost friend, with a broad grin, familiar tone and extended hand. Dunbar was wary and tried not to read anything into it. Minto had a reputation that reached far beyond the halls of Holyrood. It was said he could hide a haymaker behind his handshake, and agree with every word you said but still win the argument. Was he about to be lauded or teed up?
A tall, square-shouldered man in his mid fifties rose from his seat at the same time and turned to greet him with an easy smile. So this was ‘Mean an’ Moody’, Strathclyde’s notorious gang-buster. Dunbar had several friends in the CID at Glasgow and even the toughest of them spoke of Adrian Moody in reverent tones. Moody sported neatly trimmed, swept back salt-and-pepper hair and had the lightly tanned skin of someone a few weeks back from somewhere hot. He was holding a copy of the SCHU protocols. At least that’s what it read in gold lettering on the dark blue cover. The only resemblance it bore to the plain document he and Watt had produced was the acronym Dunbar had invented, above the words ‘Operational Protocols’ together with the emblem of the recently inaugurated ‘Police Service of Scotland’ also picked out in gold. It had undergone a makeover and morphed into a glossy brochure.
‘Alec, you know Adrian Moody of course.’
Dunbar turned and offered his hand. ‘Only by reputation, Minister. A pleasure to meet you, sir.’
‘Whatever it is you’ve heard about me, Alec – I’m much worse.’ He quipped, as he wafted the document in Dunbar’s direction. ‘You know, it put a few noses out of joint over our side, when we heard the Minister had handed this task to you. And one of those snouts was mine.’
‘To Superintendent Watt,’ Dunbar corrected.
Minto shrugged apologetically at Moody. ‘And there was I thinking you polis were all on the same side – ye is as precious and partisan as politicians, so ye are.’ He turned to Dunbar, adding, ‘Truth be told, I handed it to Bob Molineux, but it appears that by happy accident, it ended up in the right hands anyway.’
So it truly was a case of pass-the-parcel, Dunbar thought as Moody chipped in.
‘Whatever the route, it makes for impressive reading.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Moody flicked the pages. ‘I speak as I find, as you will learn. Like a schematic for combating organised crime, Alec. Don’t mind if I call you, Alec do you?’
‘Schematic! Before you factor in that unpredictable human element I guess, and I’ve been called a lot worse by senior officers, sir.’
‘
Aye, me too and yes, there’s always the human element to consider but still, an excellent foundation document on which to build a department that I intend to make the envy of police forces the world over.’
‘No pressure there then.’ Dunbar said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Please don’t misinterpret this as insubordination, gentlemen but, why am I here? Why isn’t the co-author Superintendent Watt in the room?’
Moody and Minto exchanged knowing looks. ‘Too modest, Alec. You’d ne’er get anywhere in politics with that attitude.’ Minto answered. ‘But yer mon Terry Watt – now he’s a different kettle o’ fish.’
‘I know Terry Watt. He worked under me in Bosnia on the mass graves job, and I use the word worked in the loosest possible terms.’ Moody added. ‘As a result, I’ve read reports submitted by him, and how can I put this? Terry’s ability as a wordsmith is – well, monostichous.’
‘Single layered,’ Minto added helpfully when he saw Dunbar frown. ‘I think Adrian’s suggesting his writing lacks depth, Alec. And your protocols lack nothing.’
‘Not trying to be a smart – Alec. Sorry, couldn’t resist,’ he continued, ‘but monostichous seemed the most appropriate adjective. And I’d read enough by the end of the first page to know that Terry Watt had never so much as touched the keys when this was being put together.’ He flicked through it again. ‘What with eight forces all wanting a slice of the cake, composition of the new unit was a thorny issue, until I read this. Your solution is elegant.’ Dunbar almost blushed. ‘A dedicated team based within the central belt between Glasgow and Edinburgh with –’
‘Ach! I know just the place,’ Minto cut in. ‘Near Chapelhall – Danza-Pak, a former storage facility o’ theirs – ample office space, kitchen, a wee canteen, shower and WC facilities, ample parking, big loading bay, security fencing, CCTV. Danish company, downsized and relocated to Copenhagen. Twenty full-time, half a dozen part-time jobs doon the swanny and the knock-on – suppliers, local small businesses – another half dozen or more maybe, a damned shame but –’ he eyed Moody, ‘Sorry, Adrian, you had the floor.’
A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series) Page 23