Remember Me 1

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  McKenzie thanked her.

  “McLeish, you’re up next.” McKenzie nodded at him.

  “Thanks,” McLeish said, moving forward and swapping places with Wishart at the whiteboard. “I went to visit the school secretary in her office at the new school – which is incidentally very nice. Anyway, she’s given me a list of all the staff she has a record of going back forty years. Names, subjects they taught, duration of employment. She’s cooperated fully. I also got a list of former Headmasters as you requested. In particular we’ve identified the one who was the headmaster for most of the time that Ronald Blake and David Weir taught at the school. I have his contact details ready for you. I tried calling him but there’s no answer. By the way, after serving as Head for about fifteen years, he moved to live on the Island of Coll. It’s way out there in the Hebrides. Almost completely off the grid.”

  “Interesting. I’ll have those details immediately after this meeting, please. I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

  “No problem. Anyway, I’ve built a spreadsheet, and I’ve started going through it, trying to make contact with as many past staff as possible. McRae’s top of the list after the old headmaster. As discussed by phone. It’s going to be a tough job. At the moment, there’s only myself and Lynch. I could do with some help.”

  “Understood, but until Operation Crown is over, it’s just the two of you. Nothing I can do about it. Sorry.” McKenzie replied. The answer wasn’t ideal, but the decision was above his pay grade. “Thanks, McLeish. Appreciated.”

  McKenzie nodded at Brown, his partner.

  “Elaine, anything interesting to share?”

  She stood up.

  “My two tasks so far have been to liaise with both forensics and Gary Bruce. Starting with Bruce, this afternoon we went on a long tour of the inside perimeter of the site, searching at great length to find any possible routes of entry onto the campus. As suggested, we looked for false panels. We also walked the outside perimeter looking for low walls, adjoining rooftops, ladders, trampolines, tree branches… anything and everything that could possibly help someone to get over the fence, although realistically speaking we’ve got to remember that the victims were probably forced against their will and could not be carried over such a large fence. They’d probably put up some sort of resistance, and the people living around the edge of the school would surely see or hear something.” She paused, looking for questions, but there were none.

  “Okay, so we also then took another look at the schematics and plans for the campus to see if there was any possible tunnel into the school from outside, and there was nothing. To be honest, there’s no possible way into the school except through the new entrance that Gary’s team has built at the front of the school. Having spent the best part of today chasing this up, I’m completely stumped by it. Short of parachuting onto the roof of the school, I can’t see how it was done.”

  For a moment, just for a moment, Brown could see that some of the team were actively pondering the possibilities of how someone could parachute onto the roof of the school without being seen.

  “I was joking.” Brown laughed. “But, actually, I suppose we do have to look at all the possibilities, because at this point in time, we’re clueless as to how it was done.”

  “Unless Gary Bruce has got something to do with it?” McLeish volunteered. “Maybe they didn’t break in: perhaps they were allowed in or led in?”

  McKenzie stared at McLeish. Yet again, he’d come up with an alternative angle that couldn’t be discounted. McKenzie stood up, and walked to the board, contemplating adding Bruce’s name to the list of suspects.

  “Okay, that’s a good point.” McKenzie admitted. “But for now, we’ll leave his name off the suspect list. Mr Bruce is in and out of this room, and right now, I don’t want him seeing his name on the list. Everyone just remember that it’s there, okay? And it might not be Bruce. It could be one of his employees. They’re all suspect.”

  Nods all round.

  McKenzie gave the floor back to Brown.

  “Moving on to Forensics, I’ve got a few interesting things to report. Firstly, Forensics has indicated that both victims had the same traces of brown dirt on their trousers. It appears they were both sitting down in the same place, possibly on the ground, or somewhere which was covered in wet dirt. It confirms that before they were brought to the locations where they were individually killed, they were at some point both in the same place, somewhere. They’re now looking at the soil types, and trying to narrow it down further.

  “They’ve also confirmed that both bodies have similar burn marks on them, which are consistent with those that might be experienced as a consequence of being pushed rather forcibly by a cattle prod.”

  “I’ve asked if we can narrow the type of cattle prod down, and identify who might have access to one, but it appears they’re widely used by many farmers, and aren’t controlled. In other words, anyone could get hold of one, if you really want one.”

  “They’ve also now said that both bodies had lacerations and markings on their wrists or ankles which could indicate they’ve been handcuffed or shackled in some way for an extended period of time.”

  “Also, forensics have informed me that they have found what they believe to be some form of writing on the forehead of Ronald Blake. It looks like it was written in felt pen. Unfortunately, they can’t tell what was written, because Blake’s sweat washed almost all the writing off, but they think they can make out a couple of letters – R, E, M, and that it was written in red. They’re going to see if they can find anything on David Weir’s forehead too, but because there was not much left of it, that exercise is not straightforward. I didn’t ask for any more details on that part.”

  “The killer wrote something on his forehead?” Lynch asked. “Whatever it was, that could be hugely significant. The killer would have wanted us to read it. It could have been some form of message?”

  “Sadly, we were too late. If it was meant to be a message, the killer used the wrong type of ink to leave a permanent note.” Brown replied, then continued.

  “Lastly, moving on, Forensics have identified a drug being present within the blood of David Weir, which they are trying to identify for us by tomorrow morning. They think that when he fell from the roof of the school, he was high as a kite. He probably didn’t know what was happening to him.”

  “And Ronald Blake? Was he drugged too?” McLeish asked.

  “I asked, they weren’t able to say yet. Anyway, that’s all I have for now.”

  “No news on how long Ronald Blake was on the cross for?” Wishart enquired.

  “Sorry, not yet. That’s another thing they can hopefully tell me tomorrow.”

  McKenzie stood up and moved to the front.

  “Okay, boys and girls, if you’re not going to the Ball tonight, I want you home for a rest, and some relaxation. If you take a bath, make sure you have a notebook handy to capture any ideas or Eureka moments. We need all the help and ideas we can get on this one. And then we’ll all meet back here tomorrow at nine-thirty sharp. I’ll give you all a lie in till then.” He smiled, jokily, knowing it was no lie-in at all.

  “Guv, are you sure there’s no way you can talk some sense into Fettes? We need more people on this. If someone else gets murdered… ”

  McKenzie raised his hand.

  “DS Wishart, as long as we try our hardest, there will be no blame and NO guilt felt by anyone on this team if another body turns up. Frankly, this is a ridiculous situation. We can only pray that Operation Crown concludes as quickly as possible. In the meantime, as soon as this meeting finishes, I’ll be on the blower to DCS Wilkinson to insist we get an undercover armed team covering us and the party goers at the Reunion tonight. There’s a high possibility the killer will show up, and we’ve been warned to expect more victims.”

  “What about the school?” McLeish asked.

  “Mather is still on the team. He’s covering the night shift. Before we came in,
Anderson managed to pull a few strings in Portobello and he’s going to have a couple of uniforms helping Mather to patrol the perimeter and inside of the school site. And the dogs will be out in the playground. No one is getting in here tonight, that’s for sure.

  “Anyway, for everyone going to the Reunion tonight, we’ll meet in the foyer of the new Portobello High School at about 7.45pm. I’m afraid there’ll be no alcohol drunk tonight, no matter how tempting it is. We’re all going to need our wits about us. See you there.”

  McKenzie clapped his hands together. Meeting adjourned.

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  17.25

  “Ma’am, with all due respect to the Queen, I also have a real threat I’m trying to deal with here. Two dead so far, with a real possibility of more to come, and a high likelihood that it could be within the next few hours. What I’m asking is NOT unreasonable, and I think you appreciate that. So, please, can you authorise and pull whatever strings you need, to ensure that my team and the School Reunion event this evening is supported by an appropriate team of armed officers. As you see fit, Ma’am.”

  McKenzie finished his diatribe and took a deep breath. They’d been at it already for several minutes, with the impatience on both sides growing.

  DCS Wilkinson wasn’t happy. She’d lost the argument, and she knew it.

  McKenzie could almost hear the steam hissing out her ears.

  “Four officers, undercover, arriving at 6.45pm. And just let’s hope no one assassinates the Queen tonight, or we’ll both be going to the Tower.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.” McKenzie replied, smiling slightly.

  There was a moment’s pause, and then DCS Wilkinson offered an olive branch.

  “So, what are you wearing to the ball, tonight? Are you going fully kilted up?”

  “Yes, actually I am.” He replied, wondering how his superior knew.

  “Campbell, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask, given that I might be forgiven for being an English woman, working north of the border.”

  “And what’s that, Ma’am?” he asked, noting her use of his first name to still the waters.

  “What’s actually worn under the kilt?” she asked. “If you excuse me for asking.”

  McKenzie hesitated, and then replied in one sentence, before summarily hanging up.

  “Nothing Ma’am. Nothing’s worn beneath the kilt. It’s all in perfect working order.”

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  17.35

  Mark McRae heard the approaching footsteps and tensed, quickly closing his eyes and attempting to avoid the sudden onslaught of light as the trapdoor was opened.

  He knew that if he controlled the amount of light that entered his eyes, by slowly opening his eyelids, he might be able to quickly adjust to the light.

  At the very least, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

  As soon as the trapdoor opened, a draft of fresh air assailed him, the sweetness of it stirring his senses and making him realise, possibly for the first time, how good fresh air actually smelt.

  If he ever got out of this hell hole alive, he would never take fresh air for granted again.

  Slowly opening his eyes, he could make out his captor coming backwards down the stairs from the trapdoor above, his head covered with the mask as normal.

  He was a huge man. Broad across the shoulders, and a slim figure. He obviously kept himself in good shape.

  The man turned and came towards him, the cattle prod in his right arm.

  For once the man didn’t turn the light bulb on, leaving them both relatively in the dark.

  As he approached, the man in the Indian mask lifted the cattle prod towards Mark, who immediately fell forward onto the ground in an act of total supplication. By this time, Mark’s reactions were automatic.

  His captor had trained him well.

  “I just wanted to let you know that it’s your turn next, Mr McRae.”

  Mark noticed the inflexion uttered on the last two words, turning the simple sentence into a chilling threat. His captor was mocking his career as a teacher, and the way he’d inflected on his name hinted at all this having something to do with his job.

  “For what?” Mark choked, as he tried to speak through the gag in his mouth.

  A searing pain immediately swept through his side.

  “Talk only when invited to. Otherwise, stay quiet.” The Indian commanded, retracting the cattle prod back having made his point.

  Mark writhed on the floor, biting hard on his lip.

  For a moment the Indian looked down at him, an evil laugh emanating from behind the mask, adding to the terror of the moment.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” the man threatened, and perhaps I’ll take you for one last walk. If you’re a good boy, that is. If not,” he paused. “You’ll get eternal detention, and I’ll make you stay behind after school, … for ever.”

  “Water. Some water please… ” Mark almost whispered. Begging as silently as he could.

  Another searing pain in his side was the only answer he got.

  This time, Mark passed out with the pain.

  Chapter 14

  Duddingston Road

  Edinburgh

  17.45

  “Barry, what on earth is that?” Irene Quinn screamed, pointing at the car sitting in their drive way. “And where the hell did it come from?”

  “That,” replied Barry proudly through the open window of their lounge, and after coughing a couple of times to clear his throat, “… is a 2019 Porsche Boxster!”

  “I KNOW it’s a Porsche Boxster… it’s got it written all over the tail of the car. I’m not a complete idiot! I meant, what is THAT, and what is it doing HERE!”

  Barry coughed again.

  “Think of it like a taxi. Or your carriage for the Ball this evening. ‘Yes, Irene, you too can go to the Ball!’ ” he answered, mimicking the best version of the Disney voice he could think of.

  “BARRY QUINN! You get out here NOW! What the hell have you done? And where the hell did you get it from?”

  A few minutes later Barry Quinn, survivor of over twenty years of marriage, but probably now heading to the divorce courts, appeared before his wife, tail between his legs, and slightly red in his face.

  “You didn’t seriously expect me to take you to the School Reunion Ball in our clapped out Ford Escort, did you?”

  “What on earth has got into you, Barry Quinn?” she said, stepping towards the red apparition on her drive-way. “Barry, you promised. You PROMISED you wouldn’t do anything like this. What are you trying to prove? What does this say to everyone else that knows us? We’ll be the laughing stock of… ”

  “No, we ARE the laughing stock of our year.” Barry interrupted, his face turning slightly red. “I’m Barry Bloody No Mates who never achieved anything in his life, and in over two decades didn’t manage to make it more than a mile away from the Secondary School. I just want everyone else who doesn’t know how pathetic I am to think, just for a moment, that I’m not the complete and utter failure that I am!”

  Irene Quinn turned from the car to her husband.

  For a moment her heart went out to him, and she felt an overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him and squeeze him tight.

  After taking a few deep breaths, that feeling was replaced with another. An urge to wrap her wrists around his throat and squeeze it until he turned blue.

  Instead, she stormed past him, tears running her cheeks.

  “I am not nothing, Barry. You’ve got me. And I AM not NOTHING. And our life is fine. Just fine. What on EARTH are you thinking?” She paused in the doorway, before turning and issuing one final torrent of emotion at him. “Send it back Barry. Send the bloody thing BACK!”

  -------------------------

  Duddingston Road

  Edinburgh

  17.55

  Iain Small sat on his sofa, talking with his friends about the video on WhatsApp which had gone viral. Everyone was watching it. So fa
r it had got over eighty-seven thousand hits. The video had been pulled several times, but someone kept re-posting it.

  “Poor bastard!” Iain said, shaking his head. “Do you think it’s anyone we knew?”

  “Dunno,” Kerrin replied, whilst staring at his wife who had just walked into the room topless and looking for her bra.

  “Everyone will be talking about it tonight. If someone knows who it is, then we’ll soon find out,” Iain suggested. “You know, these school Reunions can cause a lot of stress for some people. Some people worry about seeing their old school pals again. They’re scared that everyone will judge them for what they’ve achieved, or slag them off for being a failure.”

  “Are you thinking that this guy topped himself because he couldn’t hack the idea of going to the ball?” Kerrin wondered, whilst blowing his wife a few kisses and smiling at her. They’d just made love, and if Kerrin had his way, they would probably be doing it again, or at least trying, as soon as Iain got off the phone.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “It’s pretty pathetic really… I mean, dinnae get me wrong, but why get so stressed about it? Just don’t go to the bloody Reunion. There’s no need to throw yourself off the roof of the school.”

  “Kerrin, you’re a lucky bastard and you know it. You’ve got your own house, healthy kids and a bloody gorgeous wife. Okay, you’ve got a crap job, but in comparison with most folk, you’re really successful.”

  Kerrin coughed.

  “Okay, straight up, perhaps I do know where this guy was coming from. I mean, I did actually consider renting a really flash car for the weekend, and pretending it was mine. Just, you know… so that people would think… ”

  “That you were a prat? We all know you, Kerrin. Who were you trying to impress? Who?”

  There was a moment’s silence.