by Ed James
“You’re not disagreeing with me, are you?”
MacDonald chuckled. “I’ve seen your car, boy racer.”
Karen looked out of the passenger window.
“I just like a fast car, that’s all.”
“A boy who likes a fast car. A boy racer.”
Considine shook his head. “Whatever.”
Karen turned back to glare at them. “Have you two finished comparing dick sizes?”
MacDonald shrugged. “Just about.”
Vicky cleared her throat, regretting starting the whole thing. “Anything happened here?”
“No.” MacDonald glanced at the time display on the dashboard. “We’ve been here half an hour and there’s been no movement.”
Vicky opened the door. “Back in a minute.” She got out of the car and dialled her mother.
She answered this time. “That you, Victoria?”
“It is, Mum.”
Out of breath. “What is it?”
“I’m going to have to work late tonight.”
“I see.”
“Come on, Mum, you know how it is.”
“I thought I’d stopped all this when your father retired.”
“Can you just look after Bella till I get back?”
“When’s that going to be?”
“Late, I imagine.”
“I’ll put her to bed and wait at yours till you get back.”
“Thanks, Mum. You’re a lifesaver.” Vicky closed the phone and got back in the car. Considine and MacDonald both had their arms folded.
Karen looked around. “Who was that?”
“Mum. Oh, I saw Colin earlier.”
“So I gather. He texted me, said you were up to your psycho bitch stuff with some disabled guy.”
“He wasn’t disabled. He was just obese.”
“You’re not denying the psycho bitch stuff, though?”
Vicky laughed. “Too late now.”
The Airwave on the dashboard crackled. “Control to DS MacDonald. Over.”
MacDonald grabbed it, holding it up to his mouth. “Receiving.”
“Car with plates matching your search pattern’s heading your way.”
“Thanks.” MacDonald pocketed the Airwave and turned round. “Time to go.”
At the junction with the Perth Road, a dark red Fiat slowed as it turned the corner into the street, headlights shining, before pulling in by the house.
“That’s him.” MacDonald opened his door and got out, leading them over to the car. He rapped on the passenger window as the engine switched off. It wound down. “Mr Muirhead?”
“Aye?”
MacDonald got out his warrant card. “Detective Sergeant Euan MacDonald of Police Scotland. Can we have a word?”
“What’s this about?”
“Better discuss this inside, sir.”
Muirhead got out of his car and locked the door. He was medium height, maybe late thirties with a slight paunch and a shaved head. “Look, what’s this all about?”
“Is your wife home, Mr Muirhead?”
He shook his head. “She should be home soon.”
“Right.”
They were lit up by another set of headlights. A cream Fiat 500 stopped in the street at the entrance, the right indicator still flashing.
MacDonald grabbed Muirhead. “Is that your wife?”
“A-a-aye.”
“I’m on it.” Vicky jogged to the car, Considine following. She held out her own warrant card, waiting for the window to crawl down. “Polly Muirhead?”
The woman in the car nodded, eyes wide.
Vicky opened the door. “We need to speak to you.”
“Okay.”
“Move the car forward, please.”
Polly stalled the car before eventually getting it to jerk forward, parking just behind her husband.
Vicky looked at Considine. “I could just see her making a run for it there.”
“Aye, and I don’t fancy our chances with your motor.”
“I suppose yours would have been better, right?”
“Aye.” Considine shrugged. “The Python can nail most cars in a dead heat.”
Vicky rolled her eyes. “At least you’ve not got pet names for parts of your anatomy.”
Considine paused and raised his eyebrows.
Chapter Thirty-One
Vicky sat at the interview room table, the smell of Brian Morton’s stale sweat still lingering. She nodded at Considine to lead.
He cleared his threat. “For the record, please state your name and occupation.”
“Fergus Duncan.” Without looking up, Polly Muirhead’s lawyer tapped at a high-end mobile phone. His face was covered in acne even though he looked late twenties. He wore a dark pinstripe suit with a bright orange tie. “I’m a lawyer, employed by Gray and Leech.”
Considine cleared his throat. “Mrs Muirhead, for the purposes of the tape, can you state your full name and occupation?”
Supposedly in her mid-thirties, Polly Muirhead had a woman’s face on a girl’s body, her boyish figure not rounded with curves like Vicky’s — no danger of those tiny breasts making her look fat. “Polly Morag Muirhead. I’m a solicitor at Gray and Leech in Dundee.”
“Do you understand why you’re here?”
“No.”
“We’re investigating a kidnapping perpetrated by a group who may or may not have an animal welfare agenda.”
“And?”
“We believe you may be attached to that group.” Vicky produced a similar document to the one she’d shown Brian Morton, this time tracing the accounts to the Muirheads’ IP address. “We believe both you and your husband were active on this particular site and both commented on a video showing the kidnap victims.” She handed them some stills from the video.
Polly’s eyes shot up. “You think I did this?”
“Do you deny being a member of xbeast?”
Duncan glanced up from his mobile, a frown etched on his forehead. “What’s xbeast supposed to be?”
“It’s the message forum where this video was posted, entitled Animal Rites. Your client has a user account there.”
“That’s a strong accusation.”
“We’ve got proof.”
“I’m sure this sort of thing can be tampered with.”
“This trace is sound.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Vicky turned to Polly. “Do you deny having a user account?”
Polly exhaled. “Fine, I’m a member of the group.”
Duncan leaned over and whispered to Polly, who stared into space for a few seconds before shaking her head. “My colleague — sorry, my client — wishes to make it clear that, while she does indeed have a user account on the website in question, she is categorically not affiliated with any terror groups.”
“Very well.” Vicky opened her notebook. “Mrs Muirhead, did you post the video?”
“No.”
“Did you post a reply stating ‘They didn’t go far enough’?”
Polly swallowed. “Yes.”
Vicky leaned back in her chair. “Why did you post that?”
“It’s a personal belief. I’m against animal cruelty. I’m a vegan.” Polly shrugged. “I work in law, yes, but I give half of my time pro bono to animal welfare charities. This is supported by my employers. My husband pays our bills and I give most of my salary to charity.”
Vicky pointed at her notebook. “You’re saying you think these people should have been murdered?”
Polly stared at the ceiling. “I’m saying they got off lightly. Being filmed naked in a cage is nothing compared to the crimes committed by that woman.”
“Which woman would that be?”
“Her name is Rachel
Hay.”
“How do you know her name?”
“It said so on the video file.”
Considine tapped the table. “Did you do this at work?”
Polly shook her head. “At home. I was on my lunch break — it’s a five-minute drive.”
“At the back of two?”
“I had a client conference until then. I’m allowed a lunch break, after all.”
Vicky flicked back through her notebook, unfolding a still from the video’s metadata. “You said it was Rachel Hay who perpetrated the crimes and not her brother?”
Polly nodded. “That’s correct.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I already told you. It was on the file.”
Vicky held up the screen grab. “It just says ‘Rachel and Paul’.”
Polly gripped her left shoulder. “I’ve never heard of her brother but I know about Rachel Hay.”
“What do you know about her?”
“She’s the pug breeder who was in the papers, isn’t she? That’s the real crime you should be investigating. I can’t believe she’s not rotting in prison for what she did to those poor animals.”
“Have you ever spoken to Mrs Hay?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Dundee, I presume.”
“Where were you between three p.m. and midnight on Wednesday?”
Polly glanced at Duncan. “I was at work until about six. Mr Duncan can confirm that.”
He nodded. “That’s correct.”
“And after that?”
Polly bit her lip. “I met my husband and we went for dinner with some friends.”
“And after dinner?”
“We went to the Rep.”
“The theatre?”
Polly nodded. “Yes.”
“What did you see there?”
“And Then There Were None. It’s based on an Agatha Christie novel. It was very good.”
Vicky scribbled it down. “And you were definitely there?”
“I’ve got the ticket stubs in my purse if you don’t believe me.”
“We’ll need to take them in as evidence.”
“I see.” Polly sighed as she rummaged around in her handbag, retrieving her purse. She unclipped it and hand over two tickets, the paper torn at the edges.
Vicky checked the stubs — they looked genuine. “Who were the friends you were with?”
“Simon and Emma Hagger. They live in Barnhill.”
Vicky made a note — another Considine task. “Do you know a Brian Morton?”
Polly narrowed her eyes. “Should I?”
“He’s another user on there.”
Polly coughed. “Well, other than my husband, I’ve no idea who anyone is on there. It’s entirely anonymous.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shut the door, Stephen.” Forrester leaned against the edge of his desk and looked around at the team, all huddled in his office, getting warmer by the second. “It’s Friday night, I’m knackered and I’m going to the pub for a pint after I’ve told Raven where we’ve got to.” He glanced around the room. “So, where have we got to? Mac?”
“Finally got the NCA information in, sir. Nothing active relating to animal cruelty cells operating in Scotland or the north of England.”
“Fantastic. What about this video?”
“Looking to find who posted it. Zoë’s identified a set of users who posted comments in response to it and we’ve now spoken to all of them.”
Zoë was almost hiding behind a filing cabinet. “I haven’t matched any more users to IPs yet, sir.”
Forrester rubbed his chin, his hand rasping against the stubble. “Let me get this clear. They kidnap Rachel and Paul and film them as they try to force them to have sex. Then they post it on some weird little website where only nine people can access it. Right?”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
Zoë blushed. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Sorry.” Forrester held up his hands, looking from officer to officer. “It was a general question.”
“It’s not clear.” MacDonald smoothed out his blue tie. “We assume a terror group’s behind this.”
“Precisely, Mac. A terror group would shove it on YouTube and get the press and news all over it, wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe.”
“Who’ve you spoken to?”
“I’ve just come out of speaking to Sandy Muirhead. DS Dodds spoke to his wife, Polly. He gave us an alibi of being at the theatre. I’ve not managed to check it yet.”
Vicky nodded. “His wife gave us the same one.”
Considine raised his hand. “I’ll check them both out, sir.”
Forrester focused on Vicky and MacDonald. “Are these pair suspects?”
Vicky nodded. “Yes.”
MacDonald shook his head. “No.”
Forrester laughed. “Well, which is it?”
MacDonald gestured to Vicky. “You first.”
Vicky smiled. “When I interviewed her, Polly Muirhead suggested Rachel was the target, not Paul.”
Forrester screwed up his face. “Did she say why she thought they were targeting her?”
“The defective pugs she sold.” Vicky read from her notebook. “Polly’s aware of who Rachel is, plus she gives money and professional time to animal charities. I’d say she fits our profile.”
Forrester nodded before looking at MacDonald. “So, Mac, tell us why not?”
“Two things. First, they’ve got an alibi. Second, this is a lawyer and an accountant, not tree-hugging hippies.”
Vicky scowled. “Do they have to be?”
“It’d help.” Forrester narrowed his eyes at Vicky. “I’ll think about it. Anything more on these brothers of yours?”
“I think we should keep Brian in custody.”
Forrester stared at the wall for a few seconds. “I’ve had his lawyer on the phone shouting the odds about human rights. I said we’re letting him go. We’re sticking to that.”
“But, sir —”
Forrester held up a finger. “As I said, we’ve got surveillance in place.” He glanced at Kirk and Considine before looking back at Vicky. “What about his brother?”
“We’re putting surveillance on him, as well. It’s not like Brian will run away anywhere.”
Forrester leaned back in his chair. “Do we need surveillance on the Muirheads?”
Vicky raised her eyebrows. “You’re not letting them go, are you?”
Forrester shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve got nothing to charge them with. If we charged everyone who’d been stupid on the internet, half of Dundee would be in the cells.”
“There’s a difference between stupidity and what these people have been up to, sir. They’re all suspects.”
“We’ve got nothing tying them to the Dryburgh Industrial Estate other than some vague comments on a video file.”
“I still think we should keep Brian Morton in.”
MacDonald put a hand in his pocket. “Brian needs an accomplice to carry out the crimes.”
“What about his brother?”
MacDonald shrugged. “He’s got an alibi.”
“Had some uniform pop in to see his mate about it.” Considine tilted his chin down. “Boy lives in Fintry. Looks like John was at the Speedway.”
“Bloody Fintry.” Forrester cracked his knuckles. “What about these Fife kids, then, Mac?”
“Buchan’s in with them now, sir. Not had word since the second round of interviews. Doesn’t look like they’re involved — just a bunch of schoolgirls being daft on the internet.” MacDonald winked. “Like half of Dundee.”
Vicky folded her arms. “Zoë, did you get any joy unpicking that voice sc
rambler?”
“It’s called a voice changer, ma’am. I spoke to one of the guys upstairs about it. It’s next to impossible to descramble. That’s why they use them. It’s a complex series of Fourier transfo —”
Vicky held up a hand. “In English, please.”
“Okay.” Zoë licked her lips. “They’re basically doing stuff to the voice, like changing the pitch, distorting it, adding phase and ring modulation and so on. To descramble it back to the original, we’d need to know exactly what they’ve applied to it. Unfortunately, the only way to know is to have the original recording.”
“So it’s chicken and egg?”
“Right. Without it, we’d just be guessing. It could be worse than nothing. It might sound like someone it’s not. I doubt it’d be admissible as evidence.”
Forrester got to his feet. “Right. Let’s see how it goes with the surveillance over the weekend. Dismissed.”
The others got up and left the room, Vicky staying behind.
Forrester was putting on his jacket when he noticed her. “What is it, Vicky?”
“Can I keep Zoë on?”
“Approved. I’ll get her assigned for at least another week, okay?”
“Fine.” Vicky got to her feet, not used to it being that easy. “Have a good weekend, sir.”
“Aye, you too.”
Vicky left the room, bumping into MacDonald outside. “Euan.”
“Vicky.” He grinned at her. “What a first week, eh?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Fancy a drink?”
Vicky pursed her lips, sorely tempted. She checked her watch — just about enough time to make it home to tuck Bella in. “Sorry, I’ve got to head home, I’m afraid.”
“Just so’s you know, if you knock me back three times I’ll take it personally.” MacDonald held her gaze for a few seconds before looking away. “Anyway, I’ll wait and see if Forrester fancies a pint. See you on Monday, okay?”
“Have a good one.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Vicky sat on the edge of Bella’s bed, the room illuminated by the small Cinderella lamp on the pine chest of drawers. Disney posters filled the walls. “Night-night, sweet pea.”
Bella struggled to keep her eyes open as Vicky kissed her on the forehead. “Has Granny stopped shouting at you yet, Mummy?”