Snared

by Ed James

  “Come on.” Vicky pressed the buzzer and nodded at Considine. “You lead.”

  Considine stood up taller and nodded. “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  The door was answered by a middle-aged woman, wisps of smoke from her cigarette misting the entranceway. “Can I help?”

  “Looking for an Irene Henderson.”

  “Aye?”

  “Is that you?”

  “It is, aye.”

  “Can we ask you a few questions?”

  Irene stared at Reed as she sucked on the cigarette, the tip glowing orange. “This about those wankers who put me in the bin?”

  “It is, aye.” Reed nodded, stepping in front of Considine. “These detectives are investigating crimes in Dundee that might be related to yours.”

  Irene leaned against her front door and exhaled through her nostrils, red lines of scar tissue tracing up her nose. “You still haven’t caught who did that to me. Why should I care about anyone else?”

  Vicky nudged Reed to the side. “Ms Henderson, I’m Detective Sergeant Vicky Dodds. I’ll give you two choices. Talk to us here or at the police station in Dundee.”

  Irene stabbed a finger at her own chest, her pink t-shirt rippling as the flesh underneath wobbled. “I’m the victim in all of this. I don’t want to speak to you, here or in bloody Dundee.”

  “Ms Henderson, the people who committed the crime against you haven’t been apprehended. We believe we may have some leads in the case.”

  Irene folded her arms. “Like what?”

  “Here or Dundee. Which is it?”

  “Fine.” Shaking her head, Irene pulled the door fully open. “In you come.”

  Vicky followed her down a tight corridor. The cream, textured wallpaper was marked in a few places. The lounge was at the end, the small room stinking of stale cigarette smoke, the air thick with it. A carriage clock ticked away on the marble mantelpiece beneath a landscape painting — men in straw hats tending to a boat on a river, the canvas dark and brooding.

  Irene sat in her armchair in the window, reaching over to a bronze ashtray in the middle of a long coffee table covered in a brown and ivory checkerboard pattern. She picked up a cigarette that had been carefully stubbed out so as to be relit. “Do you mind?”

  “We do, as it happens.” Vicky perched on the front edge of a sofa, Considine slumping alongside. Reed remained standing. She got out her notebook. “Tell us what happened the night you were taken.”

  Irene sighed and put the cigarette back on the ashtray. She stared out of the window, eyes narrowing further, then glanced at her ashtray. “Sure I can’t have a fag?”

  “Once we leave.”

  “This is stressing me out just thinking about it.”

  Vicky held up a finger. “Once we leave.”

  “Right, right.” Irene took a deep breath, eyes on the cigarette. “People ask me if I regret what I did. I don’t. That cat had it coming to it. The little bugger used to walk right through my garden. I used to chase it off but it’d be back doing its business the next day. It knew what was coming to it.”

  Vicky exchanged a look with Considine. The woman was unrepentant, even with an entire country lambasting her for her behaviour. “Did you see a car that night?”

  “Aye, right before it, a car pulled up outside the door.”

  “This is the black car you mentioned in the statement you gave to DC Reed?”

  “Aye. I was feeling pretty edgy, as you can imagine. I’d had all this hate mail since it was all over the bloody papers. I went to the door and opened it on the safety chain thingy. Three people were standing there wearing balaclavas.”

  Vicky frowned. “You’re sure there were three?”

  “Aye. Three. One of them grabbed me, taped my mouth up and shoved me in the back of the car. They drove me to the other side of town and dumped me in the bloody bin outside a factory.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Not really.” Irene sniffed and rubbed at her nose. “There was definitely one woman in the group, though, I remember that.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What about the others?”

  “I’d say there was a man, for certain. The third one, I don’t know.”

  “Were they androgynous?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they could pass for being either a man or a woman.”

  Irene scowled. “Like a trannie?”

  “No. A cross-dresser is a man wearing the clothes normally associated with a woman, but I’m talking more in terms of build, you know, smaller, no obvious curves or bumps.”

  Irene shook her head. “I didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “And nobody saw this happen to you?”

  Irene laughed. “This is Fife, sweetheart. Nobody sees anything.”

  “This car you saw. What kind was it?”

  “Just a black car driving very fast.” Irene nodded at Reed. “That’s what I said when the officers came round. Wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  Vicky showed her the sample photos of the cars from the other sites. “Was it like any of these?”

  Irene looked long at them before shaking her head. “Sorry. Can’t remember. It was dark. Didn’t get that good a look at it, like I told him and his mates.”

  “But it was black?”

  “Aye.”

  “And it was a saloon like these?”

  “I think so.”

  Vicky held up the pages again. “But not like these?”

  “These ones look too fancy.”

  “So it was a cheaper make?”

  “Could’ve been, aye.”

  “Right.” Vicky scribbled it down. “You said you got a lot of hate mail?”

  “Aye, and cat shit through my letterbox.”

  “Was any of the mail particularly threatening?”

  “It was all particularly threatening. That’s why I gave it to the police.”

  Vicky reached into her bag, retrieving a copy of one of the poison pen notes. “Was there anything like this?”

  Irene squinted at it. “Can’t remember, sorry. I got a load of mail when the story was in the papers and again after what happened to me.”

  “Okay, that’s helpful.”

  Irene picked up her ashtray. “Can you let me have my fag now?”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Considine eased his Subaru onto the Tay Road Bridge, electronic dance music playing at a low volume.

  Vicky watched the wide river foaming beneath them, a few small boats bobbing in the brown water beneath the dark clouds. The car juddered as it powered over the long bridge punctuated with tall lights, its sister rail bridge curving away to the left. Dundee sprawled on the hill at the end, the high-rises of her youth now replaced by dockside developments. On the hill to the left, the new Wellcome and uqTech buildings flanked the older university tower. “Seems like every year there are less multis.”

  “You mean fewer.”

  “Fewer?”

  “Fewer multis. Less doesn’t apply to numbers. It’s like it’s less cloudy, but not there are less sheep on the hills. There are fewer sheep. There are fewer multis.”

  Vicky raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you, Stephen.”

  Considine shrugged.

  “So anyway, there are fewer multis every year in Dundee.”

  Considine nodded. “And that’s a good thing. Pain in the arse having to climb the stairs to the top of one of them when the lifts are knackered — and they’re always knackered — only to find whichever scumbag you’re after isn’t even in.”

  Vicky chuckled as she tugged at her ponytail. “I took Bella to see them get torn down last year.”

  “Felt good to see them d
emolished, didn’t it?”

  “Made me feel a bit better about Dundee. The number of times I did that in the arse end of the Hilltown when I was in uniform . . .”

  The car stopped vibrating as they crossed to the Dundee end of the bridge and descended to street level.

  Considine glanced over. “So, do you think these cases are linked, Sarge?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “I knew it when we went over last week.”

  Vicky scowled at him. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “Not my style. Besides, that Reed guy’s a total fanny. You need hard evidence to use against a prick like him.”

  “And you’ve got this evidence now, have you?”

  “Feels like we’ve got more evidence in the last two hours than he’s stuffed in that big case file of his.” Considine shook his head as he stopped at the lights outside the train station. “Useless wanker.”

  Vicky’s phone rang — Karen. “Hi, Kaz.”

  “Hey, Vicks. You seen MacDonald?”

  “You were at the briefing, weren’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, if you’d been listening, he and Forrester have gone to Livingston to speak to some farming cops or something.”

  Karen tutted. “Right, that’s where they’ve gone.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “It’s these cages. That guy’s just left. Reckons there’s only one supplier in the UK. I’ve called them and got a credit card number. No joy with it, I’m afraid. Card was stolen. Happens all the time.”

  Vicky swapped the phone to the other hand. “Go on.”

  “Turns out they delivered the cages to the building on Dryburgh Industrial Estate, though.”

  “When?”

  “Last Monday morning.”

  “Did they use a courier firm?”

  “Aye. A local one.”

  “Thank God. I was expecting someplace in Edinburgh or bloody Glasgow. Where are they based?”

  “West Pitkerro Industrial Estate.”

  “Just behind Sainsbury’s, right?”

  “Right. Will I meet you there?”

  Vicky stared through the window at the familiar mill buildings of the Marketgait to her left. “I’ll see you in the car park. We’re just about back at the station now.” She glanced at Considine and spoke louder. “I’ll get DC Considine to drop me off. He’s got a fair amount to write up after our visit to Fife.” She ended the call and noticed a text from Forrester. Can u stay on tonite? Back@5ish. DF Not a mention of the five missed calls from her. She put her phone away, glad she could actually stay late-ish for once.

  “Can’t I come to the courier firm, Sarge?”

  “You’re getting good at listening to half a conversation.”

  “It can help.”

  “No. I want that statement written up and I want you to go through the file in detail. I don’t trust what Summers has done with it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Scott Keillor?”

  The man in a brown and orange uniform stopped loading stuff into his van and looked Karen up and down. His goatee was streaked with white hairs. “Aye. Who’s asking?”

  She showed her warrant card. “Police Scotland. DC Karen Woods and this is DS Vicky Dodds. Your manager said we’d find you here.”

  Keillor’s lip turned up. “Right, so this is why I got called back in from my round?”

  “I did offer to meet you elsewhere.”

  “Did you, now?” Keillor flashed a smile. “Okay. How can I help, ladies?”

  “We prefer ‘Officers’, if it’s all the same.” Karen put her card away as her face tightened. “We’re investigating a kidnapping and we understand you delivered an animal cage to unit seventeen at the Dryburgh Industrial Estate. Is that correct?”

  Keillor frowned. “When would this’ve been?”

  “Last Monday. The twenty-fourth.”

  “Right. Give me a sec.” Keillor reached into his van and retrieved his PDA, stabbing the stylus against the screen. “Bloody thing.” He stabbed harder. “Right, here we go. Aye. Delivered it in the afternoon.”

  “Was it signed for?”

  Keillor stabbed at the PDA again. “Aye.” He handed it to Karen.

  She inspected the device. “This is just a squiggle.”

  “That’s one of the better ones, believe me.” Keillor prodded the screen with the stylus. “You recognise that name?”

  Karen returned the device to Keillor, eyes on Vicky. “It’s sent to Paul Joyce.”

  Vicky groaned. She nodded at Keillor. “Can you remember who signed for it?”

  He took a deep breath, arms folded and staring at the ground, kicking at the loose grit. “Can’t remember much, no.”

  “Mr Keillor, this is a serious case we’re investigating. Anything you can remember would be helpful.”

  Keillor rubbed at his goatee for a few seconds. “I think it was some bloke in a hoodie. Had a scarf on, too. One of those Take That ones, you know, all tied back?”

  “So you didn’t see much?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “You didn’t think it odd you couldn’t see his face?”

  “It was cold. Dundee in March is like that. I didn’t think much about it, no.”

  “What about height and weight?”

  “Sorry. You wouldn’t believe how many people I see every day.”

  “Was it definitely a man?”

  Keillor shrugged. “Could have been a big lassie, I suppose.”

  “So they were tall?”

  “Aye, five eleven, maybe six foot.”

  Karen handed him a card. “Thanks for your help, Mr Keillor. Should you remember anything, please give me a call on either of those numbers.”

  Vicky led them back to Karen’s car. “Think you’re in there, Kaz.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You should make it harder to get your number.”

  “I’m a married woman.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Says the woman who’s meeting Mr PE Teacher tonight.” Karen turned the key as she did up her seatbelt.

  Vicky bit her lip. “Aye. I’m having another crisis of confidence about it.”

  “You mean you’ve not thought about it all day?”

  “Except for when you remind me, no.” Vicky sighed. “Do you honestly think he’s interested in me?”

  “He’s called you, hasn’t he? Well, texted.”

  “Yeah, does that mean something, though? Surely if he was interested he’d have called?”

  “You’re quite intimidating.”

  “Am I?”

  “Aye.”

  “Bloody hell.” Vicky’s phone rang. Forrester. She tugged her seatbelt on before answering it. “Afternoon, sir.”

  “Can you do me a favour? Been stuck in bloody Livingston all afternoon. Just got back in the car and my phone’s filled up with messages. There’s a journalist in the station needs speaking to. She’s been there a few hours.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  I’ve been here for over two hours. You do know that, right?” Anita Skinner folded her arms, her wristwatch sliding up to the middle of her forearm. She was mid-thirties, tall and athletic. Her green eyes seemed to shimmer in the lighting of the interview room. “Can you just get on with it?”

  “Okay. That shouldn’t have happened. I can only apologise.” Vicky smiled, trying to disarm her. “I need you to take us through your story from the start, please?”

  “Okay.” Anita took a deep breath, eyes closed. “I’m a freelance journalist. I’ve done work for all the nationals. I was at your press conference this morning, doing work for the Record. Just after that, I received an email linking to some video footage relating to the case you briefed us
on.”

  “It just fell into your hands? That’s very convenient.”

  Anita reached across the table, pawing at her laptop in front of Considine. “Are you implying I’m involved in this?”

  “Are you?”

  “I swear I’m not. Look, why would I come in here voluntarily if I was involved in this?”

  “A diversion?”

  “Come on.” Anita rubbed at her forehead. “If you’d just look at my laptop . . .”

  Vicky leaned back in her chair, scowling at Anita. “What I want to know is how a journalist managed to come by footage from the darkest corner of the internet.”

  Anita grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged at it. There were streaks of silver in the dark brown. “I’ve told you, I was sent the links in an email.”

  Vicky folded her arms. “Anita, I don’t know you from Eve, but you’re really in trouble with this, okay? We’re investigating anyone who’s accessed those videos or been active on that forum. The fact you’ve volunteered yourself is immaterial. It might hold some sway with a jury, but not me.”

  “And I’ve told you. Someone just sent me the links. If you look at my laptop, you’ll see.”

  “Would you click on anything you received?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The site you were on is a haven for child pornography. If you’d clicked on anything else, we’d be charging you with some pretty serious crimes.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “I swear. I shouldn’t have clicked on the link.”

  Vicky stared at her before glancing at Considine. “Constable, can you power up the laptop, please?”

  “Sure.” Considine snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. He opened the evidence bag and took out the laptop, a black machine looking a good few years old. He pressed the power button, eyes locked on the screen as the machine whirred. “What’s the password?”

  “It’s ‘Anita two thousand’ with a four at the start instead of the A and an exclamation mark instead of the i. The two thousand is letters — zed, oh, oh, oh.”

  Considine tapped at the keys. “We’re in.” He drummed his fingers on the case. The plastic near the spacebar was rubbed smooth. “Which email is it?”