A Deviant Breed (DCI Alec Dunbar series)

by Stephen Coill

  Tyler watched with amusement as the two young constables tried their best to look unfazed by the task, and yet at the same time, struggled to contain their excitement. This was grown-up stuff. This was proper police work, the kind of action they had only ever seen on TV before, and certainly had not expected to be engaged in so early in their careers.

  ‘Spot him, give me a sit-rep, and back off the minute one of the others tells you that they has eyes on him – got it?’ Falk instructed. They nodded and eyed each other. ‘If he so much as makes eye contact with you – back off and pass him on.’ They nodded again. ‘And whatever you do – don’t engage in conversation with him, or anyone else if you can help it. Okay?’ More nodding. ‘Right then, Posh Spice, you’re up first,’ he said singling out the girl, who had tried to dress down her smart trouser suit, swapping the blouse for a T shirt, her jacket for a designer fleece zipper, and by dragging a woolly hat down over her stylishly crafted coiffure. ‘One Direction,’ Falk growled turning to the eager young man.

  ‘Green Day,’ he protested.

  ‘Not with that hair-do, how do ye fit it under yer hat? Never mind, I don’t care. You’re mobile with DC Reece and the bad news – he has the worst taste in music ever! – You two,’ he continued turning to the TF officers. ‘Draw straws, one of you is mobile with DC Donald once we get Posh Spice on site and him out of there, the other is on the pushbike.’ The taller of the two Task Force officers snatched up their car keys and grinned triumphantly. Falk eyed the other. ‘You look like you could use the exercise – and don’t forget to wear a helmet – remember the Assistant Chief’s Cycle Safe Campaign.’

  ‘Anything you want to say, ma’am?’ he said, turning to DI Tyler. She shook her head.

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ Falk added, clapping his hands.

  ***

  Inevitably Dunbar was running late, and blamed the traffic, not the fact that he had not allowed enough time having decided his course of action on the hoof. Fortunately Zoe had no lectures to attend, and was both famished and in a forgiving mood. Not wanting to risk bumping into Geary or Holmquist at Dundee University after Tyler’s conversation with the latter, he lured his daughter off campus with the prospect of Michelin-starred fare.

  To save time she made her own way into the city and met her father at The Playwright in Tay Square; a neat, unfussy restaurant of clean crisp lines geared towards theatre-goers. A series of flatteringly-lit mug shots filled one wall, portraits of stars of stage and screen. Dunbar recognised some but not many. Elspeth, being an avid fan of the theatre, or at least she made out she was, could probably name a few more. An avid fan of the theatrical social scene was nearer the truth, but in all fairness, she displayed a more convincing appreciation of the theatre than he did. Or perhaps she was just acting them off the stage?

  Zoe had decided to forgo a starter and ordered her main course with a bottle of foreign lager with an unpronounceable name that translated to – expensive. Dunbar picked the first fish dish he came to on the menu and asked for tap water. He had never trusted the bottled water industry – or fads. Why pay pounds for something he had been drinking for free since childhood?

  ‘Come here often?’ he joked.

  ‘Durhh, student! We work in these sorts of places, we don’t eat in them. But I’ve heard good things so, cheers, Dad,’ she responded raising her bottle. He chinked his glass of water against it.

  ‘How’s Elspeth?’

  She always asked, but why? She didn’t really care; hence he always got the feeling she was fishing, expecting him to announce a separation. It had happened too soon for Zoe. She felt that he had rushed into marrying Elspeth, and in a way he had. After all, he entered her life in a headlong rush; drugs raids are like that. But any time would have been too soon for his daughter after the tragic drama that was her mother’s death.

  Elspeth had been winding down after work, over a bottle of Chablis, with a couple of girlfriends when the police burst into the bar. Shocked at first, then entertained by the ensuing melée, she had been happy to supply the rough-hewn but handsome acting-detective inspector with her personal details. They went on their first date the following week and married eighteen months later, after his promotion to detective inspector. Once again it was a quiet registry office affair, without a blessing – and he certainly did not receive Elaine, Jim or Zoe’s. He saw little enough of his daughter as it was, owing to the demands of his career, but, having been poisoned by her grandparents’ bias, Zoe took an instant dislike to Elspeth, and had refused to sleep under the same roof as “that woman”. As a consequence, the limited time father and daughter spent together eroded to fleeting moments at school gates, sports days, annual leave and his rest days. And only then if Elspeth had made herself scarce.

  It struck him as strange, how the job that did so much to drive them apart, was now drawing them together.

  ‘Ye know Elspeth – busy,’ he answered blithely.

  ‘I don’t really but, up in Aberdeen again?’

  ‘Geneva last I heard, but who knows, Texas, Dubai, Moscow?’ He shrugged and eyed her knowingly, having made his point. ‘Racking up the air miles,’ he added.

  ‘Do I detect a soupcon of bitterness, Dad?’

  He frowned and studied her. She was growing up, using grown up words. It felt good to be chatting over lunch, like adults, even if she couldn’t resist sniping about his wife. ‘No, it’s her job.’ Was that an honest answer? ‘But I do get lonely sometimes rattling around that house.’ That was. ‘You should stay next time you’re down our way.’

  She nodded and said, ‘Yeah,’ but not very sincerely. ‘So what really prompted this?’ she asked, before pressing her glass to her lips.

  ‘Can I no’ visit my daughter without having an ulterior motive?’

  ‘No, you can’t. You’re in the middle of pretty bizarre murder case. Quality time, –Zoe did that irritating finger hooking thing as she emphasised those two little words. – ‘with me, has never been a feature of our relationship during any of your previous major investigations. At least not that I can recall anyway. So what’s up?’

  That stung; probably because it was true. ‘Okay.’ He tensed; she sensed it. She was his daughter after all. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near Braur Glen or Doctor Vasquez until we’ve put this thing to bed – especially Vasquez.’

  Her eyes widened and mouth hovered open, her beer poised in her hand not to reach her lips. ‘Is he – are you – Seb!?’ she gasped.

  ‘We’re looking at him, but ye cannae tell anyone that. I mean it, Zoe, nobody!’ She nodded, still struggling to take it in. ‘What do you know about him?’ he asked.

  ‘Seb?’ she repeated, still struggling with the idea that he was her dad’s number one suspect. Dunbar nodded. ‘He was my history tutor, in my first year. And –’ she hesitated.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, he was really pissed off at me when I switched to archaeology. Don’t know why. The following term he took off to Edinburgh the minute they offered him the position he has now.’

  ‘I imagine he has rejection issues,’ Dunbar offered, without expanding.

  ‘I do remember he lobbied real hard for his place on the dig.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely, Geoff Coulter, his replacement here, was – still is – a bit pissed off about it. But to be fair, the Border Reivers are Seb’s field of expertise – at least for the last –’

  ‘Let me guess, nine years?’ he cut in.

  She nodded. ‘Thereabouts – maybe a bit longer than that, not sure, so don’t quote me.’ She suddenly eyed him suspiciously. ‘We are off the record here, right?’

  ‘What? Of course, yeah – off-the-radar, love. I shouldn’t even –.’

  ‘Fair enough, soz!’ she cut in. ‘Yeah, so, where was I? Oh, yeah. Prior to that he was more yer Picts an’ Celts kinda’ guy.’

  ‘Do you have much to do with Allyson Holmquist’s research?’

  ‘Sort of, being involved with the B
raur Glen dig. Why?’

  ‘I understand she has information on her database that will link Sebastian Vasquez to Archie English.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She has his and Archie’s DNA profiles. I suspect they are brothers – or at least share the same mother,’ he replied.

  Zoe was flabbergasted and sat bolt upright. After a moment her pretty eyes hardened and bored into his. ‘You want me to find out, don’t yer? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I’m – I had every intention of warning you off Vasquez but was on my way to Arbroath, and thought, why not do it in person? I thought it would be nice to meet for lunch.’ Arbroath had not actually featured in his plan but, considering it now formed part of his deception, perhaps he should. Arbroath was only another twenty or thirty minutes further north. Why not? What if his suspect’s parents did tip off their adopted son? Would that be such a bad thing? It might force Vasquez’s hand, cause panic, maybe draw him out.

  ‘Arbroath?’ she repeated suspiciously.

  ‘Yeah, to see good ol’ Seb’s adoptive parents.’

  ‘He was adopted?’

  ‘Another of those off-the-radar details, got it?’ he said firmly. Zoe nodded. ‘He was adopted within days of being born, by a couple from Arbroath, Mr and Mrs Vasquez. I have reason to believe that his birth mother was also Archie English’s mum.’

  She fell silent and sipped her beer. ‘And Professor Holmquist has that evidence?’

  ‘Yeah, I believe so!’

  ‘But she won’t let you have it?’

  ‘There are legal obstacles, and according to her, ethical implications.’

  ‘She’s right and you know it.’

  He agreed but did not say so. ‘I can get them – the legal way, but it would take time, and a little more evidence to connect Vasquez to the murders than I have at present.’

  ‘If I get kicked off my course if –’

  ‘Then don’t take that risk,’ he cut in. ‘I might be wrong.’

  ‘Just a quick look – a yea or nay? That’s all you need?’

  ‘If you can do it without compromising yourself – it would be a great help.’

  ‘I can’t – but I know someone who can.’

  ‘You can’t tell anyone why,’ he cautioned.

  Zoe nodded her understanding; he called for the bill and checked the time. She scowled, reached across the table and grabbed his wrist.

  ‘Isn’t that Pop’s watch?’

  He turned his wrist so she could see it better. ‘Yeah, he wanted me to have it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was worried he’d stick it on a Yankie, or piss it up the wall if I didn’t take it.’

  Her eyes welled up. ‘You don’t think he’ll –’ She could not bring herself to say it, and he didn’t want to hear it. He shook his head but couldn’t be sure. Surely after Maggie, his dad would not put them both through that again.

  ‘I wish –’

  ‘Me too, Zoe – me too.’

  They finished their meal in silence.

  21

  He had just joined the A92 heading east for Arbroath when the call came that saw him clamp his magnetic light on the roof, throw a U-turn and head south again. Whatever Mr and Mrs Vasquez may or may not have told him would have to wait.

  The TF officer who had been trailing Vasquez on the bike had been knocked off it and badly injured by a tourist in a hire car who had become confused by a set of temporary traffic lights at a contraflow system. Posh Spice was first on the scene. She had screeched ‘officer down’, rather melodramatically into her covert mike, as if he had been dropped by a villain’s bullet, rather than a bewildered Canadian septuagenarian in an unfamiliar compact-car with a ‘stick-shift’ and its steering wheel on the right. Fresh from her first-aid course, Posh Spice diagnosed concussion, but had quietly feared it may be something more serious. She had been unable to rouse the officer, and he was bleeding from his left ear.

  As a consequence of the accident occurring on one of the city’s main arterial routes and in the middle of road-works, it caused gridlock. Almost immediately, traffic paralysis spread to the adjoining streets and everything ground to a horn-blaring standstill. Falk was completely hemmed in, and the ensuing chaos had a knock-on effect. Within seconds DC Donald found himself ensnared as well. Vasquez’s distinctive cycling helmet disappeared beyond a bus as he weaved unhindered through the chorus of car horns and curses.

  Duck, as DC Donald was more familiarly known, pulled over and mounted the pavement. Ignoring the protests of pedestrians and a car-hating environmentalist in particular, he lumbered off through the crowds to try and salvage the situation.

  Despite his best efforts, the other probationary constable Falk had tagged ‘One Direction’ could not keep pace on foot with Vasquez’s bike. As per Falk’s game plan, the third car being driven by the second TF officer, covering the opposite side of the campus, proved hopelessly out of position and unable to take up the pursuit, and by the time he had navigated his way around the traffic-jam to Vasquez’s address, there was no sign of him; just One Direction, hands on his knees and head down, sucking in air. Whether Vasquez knew it or not, he had given them the slip, and appeared to have taken off in a hurry. His bike had been abandoned on the footpath and his car was nowhere to be seen.

  A sweating and breathless One Direction pushed his mike to his mouth and radioed in. ‘Sorry but we’ve lost him, sarge – we’ve lost him.’

  ‘Fuck him! How’s Jimmy?’ his TF partner snarled over the airwaves.

  ***

  ‘Find him!’ Dunbar yelled as he sped down the M90 at twice the legal speed limit. ‘Oh and, Falk – keep me posted on PC Hewer’s condition.’ That had been an afterthought. He should have asked before discussing anything else, really. Some considered him detached; he called it immersed – a singular train of thought; they were probably right though. But that quality was why he was good at what he did, and after all, he was hunting a serial killer. It was not as if the job was without risk; a TF officer like PC Hewer knew that, he consoled himself silently, if only to ease his sense of guilt.

  As the constable’s plight briefly intruded into his thoughts, Dunbar eyed his phone with a faint smile. He might be a single-minded bastard, but at least he knew the officer by name. Lower ranks appreciated that. They might wear numbers on their uniforms but nobody likes being thought of as one. DI Tyler was showing signs of becoming a very effective 2i/c; she had thoughtfully sent him the officer’s name by text.

  ***

  As frustrating as Vasquez giving them the slip was, it was not the reason Dunbar had turned his car around just north of Dundee and raced south again. Dr Thomas R. Ferguson had failed to return home from a meeting at New College the previous night. It was very much out of character according to his distraught wife. The emergency call operator had not made the connection between Mrs Ferguson’s missing person report and the ongoing murder enquiry. Why would she? In fact, in accordance with the operator’s manual, she had politely but firmly instructed the missing man’s wife to call back on a non-emergency number. An adult male, who had failed to return home after a night out, did not, without evidence of foul-play, warrant tying up the 999 line. Fortunately Neil Conroy had spotted the missing person report on a trawl through the past twenty-four hours incident logs. It went some way to making amends for his previous, but now possibly fatal oversight.

  ‘Find out who else was at that meeting, and who was the last person to see him,’ Dunbar ordered, as he joined the creeping swarm that was commuter hell on the A720 Ring Road. Even the pulse of his magnetic blue strobe was having little impact. It was that time of day. Everybody wanted to be somewhere else, and in the shortest time possible. Grudging commuters slowly but surely began to edge left and right to allow him to squeeze through, but he was making painfully slow progress.

  ‘Neil’s already done that, sir,’ Tyler reported. ‘It was one of those meetings about meetings, with some oth
er trustee members according to the college’s diary secretary. Unfortunately she had no information regarding who attended – just that six gentlemen had. ‘We’re still trying to track down the guy in whose name it was booked.’

  ‘Okay, oh, and put every patrol down Braur Glen on high alert,’ he added.

  ‘Sorted! I’ve sent dog-handlers into the area as well, just in case, and asked for search team officers to be notified that they’re on standby.’

  ‘Excellent, but tell them to keep it low key, we don’t want to scare the bugger off.’

  ‘They’ve all been briefed, the area’s ring fenced – well, as far as available manpower will stretch. We’ve got every spare body I could muster out there.’

  ‘Good work. I’m chewing my steering wheel on the ring road. Keep me updated. If anything comes in that I can divert to instead of crawling into the office, call me, immediately.’

  ‘Yes, sir – and sir.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The Chief Super and Super will be joining us in the murder room any moment.’

  ‘Ach! Well, we can all rest easy then,’ he snarled sarcastically.

  Funny how they had kept their distance until now; apart that was from the less-than-constructive-tick-box-senior-officers’-review they had conducted. Positioning themselves either for a share of the laurels, or so as to pass blame if it all went pear-shaped.

  ***

  By dawn Vasquez’s car had still not been traced, nor had he returned home. Similarly, nor had Dr Thomas R. Ferguson.

  ***

  Far from where all the police resources were concentrated, a gamekeeper had been checking his pheasant pens near Crosswood Reservoir, in the Pentland Hills. In a state of near hysteria he had dialled 999 to report a grim discovery – a burnt body chained to a fire-blackened spruce. The emergency operator had done her best to reassure and gently tease information from him, but suffused by terror and panic his frantic report had degenerated into a tinny nervous chatter. A recording of their exchange was relayed to the murder room. It reminded Dunbar of tin cans being dragged behind a car as the bride and groom sped off on their honeymoon. Despite his babbling incoherence, they had nailed down the location: a plantation, south of the reservoir – visible from the A70 access gate.