by Val Penny
“Ah fuck! I touched the toe. It's all bugs and worms. God's sake, help! I can't stand. Can you not give me a hand up, Sir Peter? Your stuff's over there an' in this wee hole.”
He pointed vaguely into the gloom. Then Jamie screamed louder as he realised what the hole was: the mouth of the corpse.
“Fuck! The stuff's gone down that mouth.” Jamie retched again, and squealed. “This is bloody grim. Please get me up.”
Jamie knew Sir Peter was angry with him, less because of the theft, and more because he had got a Bill through the Scottish Parliament, to secure paid employment for the likes of Jamie Thomson. Too many would laugh at Sir Peter now, saying they always knew that these boys were not worth the effort.
Sir Peter made no effort to assist Jamie, who watched as the older man took his smartphone out of his pocket and called the police.
“Sir Peter Myerscough here. I'm at my golf club: Merchants. I need to report a break-in and a death. No, unconnected. No, the break-in was at my house but I gave chase. I caught up with the thief here at the course in the rough. He tripped over a corpse. A woman's corpse, by the looks of it. No, it's been here a while. Certainly not today; a few days, probably, not weeks or months. Jamie Thomson is the thief who broke into my house, he stumbled over the corpse as I was chasing him. Yes, literally! Oh, and I think he's broken his ankle. We might need an ambulance too. Serves him bloody well right, as far as I'm concerned.”
“Look, Sir Peter, I'm just an opportunist thief,” began Jamie. “I'm a victim of the recession we've been having. Honest, mate, I wouldn't hurt a fly. You know me an' my pop. I'm just an honest jobbin' house-breaker. Like father like son, you know? I just needed stuff to sell for cash, what with my pop being in the big house, and that's all about it.”
“Have you been reading the Financial Times, Jamie?”
“No, but I watched Tonight. That's what they said, between Emmerdale and Corrie, and it's all so true. I've to support our family with Pop being out of the game.”
“What about your work? Remember I got you that job here?”
“Aye, but not being funny, like, but that's not much money and not what'll keep my mam. She's got needs that minimum wage cannae match.” Jamie winced as he moved slightly and became aware of his ankle again.
“Oh, please! Your mother, the lovely Janice, has been living in Malaga with Lenny 'The Lizard' Pratt for the last year and a half. What on earth made you choose my house, anyway? You ungrateful turd! I pulled such a lot of strings for you to get a gardening job at this club. You have let me down so badly. Indeed, this will make me a complete laughing stock.”
“Aye, we've been through all that, Sir Peter, but it was your police cronies that put my pop away. I've got expenses to meet, meantime, you know.”
Sir Peter shrugged, and turned towards the sound of approaching voices.
Chapter Three
“Over here, boys,” Sir Peter called. “This is the bastard who broke into my house. He's thrown my valuables about there somewhere, and down the mouth of this corpse. I think he discarded some of my valuables as he ran from the house too. Moron.” He indicated direction of his items with a dismissive wave. “Boy's broken his ankle, most likely. He shouts enough. The body's underneath him; a woman's body, looks like. We'll need to get it removed, don't you think? Don't want it holding up play at the course.”
“Evening, Sir Peter. It's all right; it's in the rough. No need to worry yourself about the glorious game. We will deal with it.” DI Hunter Wilson spoke dryly, emphasising the 'we'.
Hunter Wilson stood five feet ten inches tall, four inches shorter than Sir Peter. His straight brown hair framed a serious face. He eyed the Justice Minister solemnly, with piercing blue eyes.
“We're just waiting on the CSIs. We'll need to send them into your home too. And you caught the lad in the act, I believe? You made a good run from the house, sir.”
“Ah, yes, well, I like to keep fit. Daily jog, gym workout and all that.”
The self-satisfaction irritated Hunter as much as it always had when Sir Peter had been his boss and Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police Force. Hunter noticed, with some satisfaction, that the former Chief Constable was beginning to look his age.
“So, Detective Sergeant Wilson, isn't it? You’re in charge? Good, a safe pair of hands. Get rid of this little bugger for me, will you? I suppose he'll have to go to hospital?”
“Detective Inspector now, Sir Peter,” Hunter said.
Detective Inspector who should be supping a pint and playing darts down at The Persevere Bar if it weren't for you, Hunter thought.
“Congratulations, well done. Well-deserved, I'm sure. It took a while, but you got there in the end.”
As soon as you retired, Hunter thought. Late for promotion then, and I'll be late for my darts match now. He struggled to hide his dislike for the former Chief Constable. Sir Peter's little dalliance with Hunter's sister-in-law hadn't helped.
“Aye, we'll arrest him and cuff him before we hand him over to the medics. You know how it goes, Sir Peter. We'll need to ask you to stay out of your home while we do our stuff. We have to get statement from you too, of course, Sir.”
“Let's leave the interview till the morning, shall we, Wilson? I'll take a room at the New Club tonight. Give your boys time to do their thing. Have someone call by my office at Parliament. I'll be there from about 8am and I'm not in the chamber until 10. I suppose you'll have to secure this crime scene too?”
“Of course, Sir Peter,” Hunter said, stiffly. “We’ll take care of it and do our job.” His inner voice added, Even if you are a turd.
Every time the Detective Inspector said “Sir” he thought “Bastard.” And Hunter could happily live without Myerscough's son being added to his team. He had heard the young Myerscough was nothing like his dad, that he was hard working, modest and quick. But, whatever anybody said, Tim Myerscough was his father's son, and Hunter was going to take some convincing. Another bloody Myerscough in his life was all he needed.
“Inspector? Hunter? Have you listened to a word I said?” The petite pathologist Dr Meera Sharma grinned at Hunter, dragging him back from his reverie. “You were a million miles away, weren't you?”
Perfect teeth. Intelligent, dark eyes. Hunter enjoyed coming back to the present with Meera in view.
“Yup, suppose I must have been. Didn't know you were on tonight, Meera. Thought it was your side-kick.”
“David's got a hot date with a birthing pool, so you got me. I hitched a lift with Samantha.”
“Samantha Hutchens as criminal photographer snapping the corpse, and you as the medic? The dream team! Fine by me, Doc.” He smiled warmly into those chocolate eyes.
“I’ve had the young man moved. Is the ambulance coming for him? He seems to think he's in trouble.”
“He's in a whole heap of trouble, Meera. Broke in to the former Chief's house!”
“Oh, dear me. The one that's now an MSP? Then the lad's right, he is in trouble.”
“Yup. Poor bugger. The thief, I mean,” Hunter smiled. “Anyway, the ambulance is on its way to take him to hospital, but we've arrested him for housebreaking and theft so far. Poor old Jamie Thomson. He's such a rotten thief, Saughton Prison should just install a revolving door for him.”
Hunter looked around and spotted DC Melanie Grant.
“Mel, you go with the young thief in the ambulance, will you?”
Mel scowled at him, but not even that could hide the dimples in her cheeks. As she nodded, her long dark curls were tossed about by the wind. Escorting Jamie was a rotten job, but somebody had to do it.
“Call George Reinbold over, will you?” Meera asked Hunter. “His team of CSIs can finish off here. I’ve done for now, but I would guess our lady was late 40s, maybe early 50s. Redhead. Don't know if it's natural yet.”
“Cheeky lady,” Hunter laughed.
“True,” Meera went on. “Bruising on the body, arms and around her neck. Most of the bruising is to t
he right side; could mean the attacker was left-handed. There’s bruising on the legs, too, and scraped knees. Maybe she fell trying to get away. Funny bruise on that hip. She got a real thump there. No bag, no phone. Looks like there's no identification at all. Anyone reported missing?”
Meera looked up at him as she began pulling off her gloves and stepping out of her boots. Tiny feet.
“Don't think so; not that I can think of immediately, anyway.” Hunter found himself smiling as he stared at her feet and quickly pulled his glance away. He blushed and changed the subject. “How many kids is it that David's got now?”
“This'll be five. She's a game girl, his wife. He claims he's going for a seven-a-side football team. Not sure he's told Chrissie yet, though!” Meera grimaced. “Anyway, I've done what I can here, so we're taking your lady away. At first glance I'd guess she's been here about a week, but with the cold weather we've had, it could be longer. I’ll be able to tell you more when we’ve examined her properly. Post mortem tomorrow at 2pm ok for you? I'm in court tomorrow morning.”
Hunter smiled. “Fine. I can't think of anything I'd rather do immediately after lunch than watch you dissect a decomposing corpse.”
“That shows a singular lack of imagination, Inspector!” She laughed and wandered off to find the photographer. “Sam, I'll go back to wait at the car until you've finished getting your pics.”
The tall, quiet photographer swept her hair to one side and nodded as she continued her work. Hunter Wilson watched as Meera sauntered away, acknowledging him with a smile and a wave.
The ambulance pulled up shortly afterwards. DC Mel Grant pointed the paramedics in the right direction, although they could probably have worked it out for themselves. The air around Jamie was blue with his cursing.
“Is nobody coming for me? Fucking cuffs. My fucking ankle. Call an ambulance! I'm right sore. And my bum is wet. This grass is soaking. I'll catch my death, does nobody care?”
“No, Jamie,” Mel said. “Nobody gives a toss. You're the bad guy, remember?”
“Hey! Policeman! Ambulance! I'm being tortured by this copper. My new trousers are all dirty and wet. They'll be ruined. I'll claim compensation. Shit. And the ground is muddy and full of dead folk!”
The paramedics retrieved Jamie Thomson from the damp earth and Mel checked his cuffs.
“You coming with me, dear?” Jamie smiled at her. “No pretending you're my girlfriend. We've only just met. And, by the way could you take these off me?” He nodded at the cuffs. “I don't play S&M games on a first date.”
“You're a funny man, Jamie.” Mel laughed as she shook her head and followed the paramedics to the ambulance.
Hunter saw Mel leave. Then he turned to George Reinbold. He noticed the senior Scene of Crime Officer was now almost completely bald, but he stood ramrod-straight with his silver-tipped cane for balance. Hunter asked the old man to get another CSI team to attend Sir Peter Myerscough's house. George nodded. Hunter always wondered that in over fifty years George of living in Scotland, George had never lost his East German accent. He also knew there must be a good story as to how George got here from there as a teenager, but Hunter had never been entrusted with that information.
Thinking sourly about Sir Peter and his fancy house. Hunter imagined the MSP, malt whisky in hand. He was reminded about Sir Peter spending the night at his fancy club. PC Angus McKenzie was dispatched to secure the house. PCs are getting younger, mused Hunter. But whatever happened, Sir Peter was not going to be allowed back home to swig expensive whisky whilst directing the CSIs around his pad from the luxury of his massive bay window.
Hunter need not have worried. Sir Peter phoned the New Club to confirm his reservation, then left in a taxi a few minutes later. But when Hunter returned to his own small flat there would be no bay window, no whisky.
“Let's call time, people,” he shouted to the team. “No point in non-essential overtime with us scrabbling around in the dark. Charlie, your uniform guys secure this site, I've posted PC McKenzie at Sir Peter's home. We'll reconvene tomorrow. Briefing at 10am. Back to the ranch, boys and girls. Detective Constable Anderson, you will meet with me and come to the Scottish Parliament at 8.30, where we will interview the inestimable Sir Peter Myerscough MSP.”
Rachael Anderson nodded. Her long blonde hair, although tied in a tight bun, was struggling to release itself in the wind.
Hunter checked the area where the body had been found. It was cordoned off and secure. Tomorrow was another day, so he turned and walked quickly to his car. Maybe he would not be too late to call in at the pub for a pint, and at least catch the end of that darts match.
A shout and a rush of warm air greeted Hunter as he entered the pub. The rest of his darts team was already there, so Hunter would be playing last leg, again, as he had arrived late. Tom, the captain, caught sight of him.
“Hey, it's Clouseau! Good evening, Inspector. What kept you today? A corpse or cursing paper work?”
“Both.” Hunter grinned as he accepted a pint. This was more like it. Time with good friends instead of that piece of work, Sir Peter Myerscough.
“How are we doing?” Hunter nodded towards the score board.
Tom grinned. “We need you. Come on, Clouseau, you can save us.”
Hunter took his place at the ocky.
Chapter Four
Annie was surprised that the house was empty when she got home. She knew Da would be at the pub; that was a given. But she thought Ma would be home. She wanted to sit down with her, quietly, and explain the situation now she had made her decision. Then, when Ma had calmed down, she and Ma would talk about how to tell Da her news. She was only sixteen and knew how he would react: not well.
Da was a predictable soul, but not a calm one. Annie smiled when she thought of her mother. Ma had already offered – no, insisted – that Annie should not break her news to him. Ma would do it when Annie had decided what she wanted to do. Annie could always count on Ma. Ma always knew what was for the best.
Even when she was little and the kids teased her about her red hair. Called her “Ginger”, or “Rusty”, or “Carrot Top”. Or worse. Then they called her “Spotty”. That really offended her. She had never had spots. But she did have a rash of freckles. How Annie loathed the tiny brown marks all over her face and arms. She lost endless nights’ sleep as she wept about having red hair and freckles, things she could not change.
But Ma had always made her feel better. She told Annie that only those the angels had kissed had red hair. She said the freckles were beauty spots and the other kids were jealous. Only the prettiest girls had freckles. Annie was older now, but part of her still wanted to believe that all Ma had said was true.
Her mother had red hair too, and green eyes. When Annie was little she always thought her mother was so beautiful. She still did. Everybody liked her Ma, Mary-Ann. Mary-Ann laughed a lot. Friends came to visit. The house was always busy. Even when Da was working, the house was busy.
Annie wondered where Ma was today. Today the house was not busy; it was empty. So Annie had time to sketch in peace, a rare treat.
She made herself a cup of tea and planned to work at the kitchen table. The Formica was split in places, as was the vinyl on the floor. The table would have wobbled a bit, but for the piece of kitchen towel folded up under a leg. The table was covered in toast crumbs and marmalade from breakfast. She cleaned the table thoroughly before she sat down to draw. She threw out Da's cigarette ends too. Her Da, Joe, was a heavy smoker, so the butts covered a saucer by his chair. It made the room smell nasty. Annie wrinkled her nose and wished, not for the first time, that he would put the cigarette ends in the bin. But he was not likely to start now.
Annie was happy as she took out her treasured pastels and began to draw. As she drew, she let her mind wander through the day and into the future. She drew a stylish dress in blue, covered in green and white dragonflies. A contrasting pashmina set off her design.
Deep in her own dreams she thought ab
out Frankie and hoped he would call. She knew he would be pleased to hear about everything. He was a lovely guy. He never teased her; he kissed her freckles gently. She hugged herself at the thought. He made her glad she had so many freckles, it meant more kisses. She drew and sketched and snacked the evening away. Cheese on toast here, an apple there, endless cups of tea. Annie hardly noticed the time. Then she glanced up at the clock and decided to go to bed before Da came home. That way she would be sure to avoid any arguments between her parents. She gathered up her design efforts. Annie knew her illustrations were improving. Annie had hoped to go to Art College or be a beautician.
She thought about whether that would be possible now. Then she went to bed. She would talk to Ma tomorrow.
***
Am I dead?
Joe thought he was dead. He woke up lying flat on his back on the lawn, his little legs folded across a low garden wall, his toes pointing to the sky, his hands in his pockets. He thought about opening his eyes, but the effort required to do that was too great. Joe decided against it.
He heard voices, people walking along the street. He began to giggle. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them. They couldn't see him. So funny. What were people doing out at this time of night? They should be in bed. Unless…? Police? Maybe they were police. Why did he think that? Because real people should be in bed, asleep. He did not know if it was the police, but whoever it was, he did not want them to find him. They might take him in. He could not think why anybody would be looking for him, but he knew it could not be good.
He lay really still, hardly breathing. He was so quiet. The voices retreated; they had not seen him. His black hair felt messy, and dandelion clocks tickled his ears. Joe started to giggle again. He did not open his eyes. He sneezed. Damn dandelions. The sneeze hurt his head. So he stopped and had a little think. First that news from Mary-Ann had floored him, then the beer floored him, now here he was on the floor.
He started to laugh, but it wasn't really funny. It was tragic. No wonder he'd lost it. He'd lost everything, everything he had left that really mattered.