Snared

by Ed James

  “I got it yesterday afternoon at the back of five.”

  Considine worked at the machine for a few seconds. “Right, got it.”

  Vicky swivelled the machine round and checked the email. She frowned. “There’s no sender.”

  “I know.” Anita rubbed at her left shoulder. “That’s one of the things that made me suspicious.”

  “Not enough to stop you clicking on it.” Vicky scowled at Anita. “Did you send it to yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Get Zoë on it.” Vicky handed the machine back to Considine. “Why did you open an email that wasn’t from anyone?”

  “Look at the subject.” Anita leaned forward, forehead almost kissing the desk. “‘Rachel Hay’s crimes’. Are you telling me you wouldn’t open that?”

  Vicky stared up at the ceiling. A couple of the beige tiles were missing in one corner. She looked back at Anita, who was squirming in her chair. “Ms Skinner, clicking on the link is one thing. That would’ve put you right on our radar anyway. My IT analyst is looking into this. She’ll trace your IP address to the site’s access logs. If you’ve been up to anything else on there, you need to tell us now. And I mean everything.”

  “I just clicked that link.”

  “We will find out.” Vicky took a breath. Move on. “Now, have you done anything with this?”

  “Maybe.”

  Vicky shut her eyes. Great. She opened them again, glowered at Anita. “What have you done with it?”

  “I published the story on my blog.”

  “Your blog?”

  “Aye, it’s a Dundee news site. My take on news stories.”

  “What did you publish?”

  “The truth.” Anita pointed at her laptop. “That video and what was in it. You’ve been hiding that video from people — it happened last Thursday, for crying out loud.”

  Vicky rubbed her tongue across her teeth. “How many people read your blog?”

  “A couple.”

  “So two?”

  “Maybe more. Not more than ten, anyway.” Anita rubbed at the sleeve of her t-shirt. “They’re all journalists and editors, though. And it publishes onto Twitter and Facebook automatically.”

  “Christ.” Vicky looked back at the ceiling, noticing a flicker from the dull strip light. “So you decided to publish the video despite the clear message at the press conference this morning not to disseminate any information?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would someone not involved in the crimes do that?”

  Anita stabbed a finger in the air at Vicky. “Because you lot are hiding something.”

  “What are we hiding?”

  “The messages. You’re trying to deny any animal cruelty angle to this. You’re treating it as a kidnapping.”

  “We are, are we?”

  “Look, I’m a journalist. I’m just looking for the story here. If you’re burying something, that’s a story.”

  “We’re not burying anything, Anita. We’re protecting people.”

  “I need to be sure of that.”

  “Seems to me if someone was involved, publishing the message would be exactly what they’d do.”

  Anita held her gaze. “I’m not involved.”

  “So why publish the story?”

  Anita held her head in her hands. “I’m trying to make a name for myself. It’s really hard out there these days. Papers are sacking people left, right and centre. My blog’s the only thing I’ve got since I got made redundant. My hits went through the roof when I posted it. My phone’s ringing constantly.”

  “Thought you said you only had ten people reading it?”

  “Normally. My hits were over fifty when I last checked.” Anita looked up at them again. “Listen, I thought if I got myself known to other journalists, maybe on the TV, it might have —” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Sounds a bit like a fairy story to me.”

  “I swear it’s the truth. I’m going to get chucked out of my flat. I can’t afford my rent.”

  “So why come in here?”

  “One of the people I spoke to was a guy from your press office. He advised me to speak to you. Reckoned I’d not made myself popular with you lot.”

  “You know what you’ve done here, don’t you? You’ve let the world know about these videos.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  As he marched across the office, Forrester pointed at Vicky then at the whiteboard before going into his room.

  “Gather round. Briefing time.” Vicky went over to the whiteboard, waited as the others assembled.

  Forrester joined her, one hand stuck in a packet of Quavers, the other clutching a white mug, the odour of burnt coffee wafting up from it. “I’m bloody starving.”

  “Don’t they have shops in Livingston?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice. Mac managed to get us totally lost there and back. Bloody nightmare, that place. It’s like Glenrothes without the Fifers.”

  Vicky laughed. “Did you get anything out of them?”

  Forrester lifted the bag up and tapped his nose. “All in good time, Sergeant.”

  The rest of the team had assembled around the area, with MacDonald perched by the printer, arms folded.

  Forrester cleared his throat. “Right. Thanks for staying late. I’ve got an update with Raven in fifteen minutes, so we’ll get through this sharpish, okay?” He nodded at MacDonald. “Mac, do you want to give an update on what we did in Livingston?”

  “The National Wildlife Crime Unit were actually pretty helpful. Got a couple of officers on secondment from the Met’s National Domestic Extremism and Disorder Intelligence Unit.” A grin flickered across MacDonald’s lips. “That’s a mouthful. Few possibles they’re going to email through to us but I’ve not checked my inbox yet.”

  Vicky tapped at Terror? on the whiteboard. “Are they going to treat this as terrorism?”

  Forrester shook his head. “They’re happy with the arm’s-reach approach. They’ve seen what we’ve got and they reckon this is small beer. Until we get evidence of a wider group, or a deeper plot comes out, they’re happy for it to be a ‘CID crime’, like that means something.”

  “Any idea why?”

  MacDonald smirked. “The fact nobody’s dead yet.”

  “We’ve got to keep in touch with them over the next couple of weeks. Hopefully this’ll just die out.” Forrester folded his arms. “Anything been happening here?”

  Vicky got out her notebook. “A few things. Considine and I went to Cupar to investigate what happened to Irene Henderson, who everyone seems to call ‘Cat Bin Woman’. The sighting of the car is as confirmed as we’ll get it. Looks like it pulled up on her street, some people in balaclavas got out and nabbed her. That’s pretty much it.”

  Forrester peered at the whiteboard. “Is there anything else we can get from her?”

  Vicky shrugged. “We’ll see. Summers and Kirk’ve been through the case file and I’ve got DC Considine going through it again. That’s pretty much it, as far as I can work it out.”

  “Fine.”

  Vicky nodded at Karen. “DC Woods, do you want to give an update on the cages?”

  “I confirmed that the cage used for Rachel and Paul was from the same manufacturer as the one at the hen farm. There’s only one supplier in the UK. Bad news is there’s no joy with tracing the transaction. It was reported fraudulent by the cardholder in Derby. He doesn’t look like he’s involved.”

  “Bugger.” Forrester shoved a few more Quavers in his mouth.

  “The good news, sir, is the cages were delivered to the unit at Dryburgh last Monday. That means we know when they started occupying the building and can widen our CCTV search.”

  Forrester crumpled up his crisp packet. “Good. What else?”

  “We spok
e to the delivery driver.” Karen did her tongue thing. “Didn’t get a good look at the person he dropped it to as he was wearing a hoodie and a scarf. Reckons they were about five eleven, maybe six foot. Most likely male.”

  “But not definitely?”

  Karen shook her head. “Could’ve been female.”

  Vicky tapped on the whiteboard above Male. “We’ve updated the description and I’ve got some uniform going round the industrial estate again.”

  Forrester glared. “Do any of the people we’ve interviewed so far meet that description?”

  “Not off the top of my head.” Vicky nodded at Considine. “Can you look into that?”

  “Will do.” Considine raised an evidence bag. “Just hot off the press — I’ve been through the hate mail she got. Reed had them couriered up from Glenrothes. Ms Henderson got a poison pen letter matching the other four.”

  Vicky glowered at him — why not mention it while they waited for Forrester? “Are you serious?”

  Considine nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Just sent it off to get analysed but I’m confident it’ll match. Doubt we’ll get anything from it, though.”

  “Good work, Constable.” Forrester picked at his teeth for a few seconds. “So these are linked cases, then?”

  Considine rolled his shoulders. “Looks that way, sir.”

  “So, when was this?”

  “Fifteenth of November, sir.”

  Forrester’s eyes widened. “So, they’ve been at this six months?”

  “Could be.”

  “Reckon this cat bin woman’s a trial run, Vicky?”

  “Probably. One thing that sticks out for me is there were three people in Cupar. Definitely one female. The most we’ve got at the others is a male and an androgynous person.”

  Forrester nodded slowly. “Is there nothing else from the chicken farm?”

  Vicky shook her head. “Sadly not. It’s so remote it just doesn’t get a lot of passing traffic. The news conference hasn’t yielded anything yet and the Forensic report isn’t complete.”

  “Disappointing. I got a call from that doctor — Rankine, is it?”

  “Aye.”

  “She says they doubt they’ll be able to repair Hunter’s nose. It’ll take years to make it look human again.”

  Vicky swallowed down the sour taste in her mouth. “Jesus.”

  “Tell me about it. Did you speak to that journalist?”

  Vicky nodded. “Anita Skinner. I did, sir. Wasn’t best pleased with being kept waiting. I doubt she’s involved but we should keep her in until Zoë’s finished with her laptop.”

  “Well, Raven’s just let her go.”

  “You’re happy with that?”

  “Aye. Reckons she’s just a greedy idiot.” Forrester shook his head. “Half of Scotland seems to have got that bloody email. She was the only one daft enough to publish it. That Media Officer boy, can’t mind his name, he’s been going spare trying to keep a lid on it. Had to get the Chief Constable involved, get him speaking to our friends in the fourth estate.”

  “So they’re not getting their message out there?”

  “Not quite. It’s like bloody Whac-A-Mole — hit one and another pops up.”

  “Nice.” Vicky looked at Zoë. “Did you get anywhere with the email she got?”

  “I was just about to have a look at it, ma’am. I’ll have an update tomorrow.”

  Forrester took a deep breath before checking his watch. “Right, I think we’ve made some good progress today, considering what we’re up against. Dismissed.”

  As the team broke up, Forrester cornered Vicky at the whiteboard. “Have you got any food in your desk? I’m starving.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Right. Hell of a business this.” Forrester did up his tie. “Off to get the other bollock toasted by Raven.”

  “He’s not that bad, is he?”

  Forrester raised his eyebrows. “You heard him after the news conference.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Vicky went back to her desk and put her coat on.

  Karen winked at her. “Good luck tonight, Vicks.”

  MacDonald frowned. “What’s tonight?”

  “Nothing.” Vicky scowled at Karen as she picked up her bag. “Goodnight.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Vicky stopped outside the Stag’s Head and checked her watch — five to seven and no sign of him. She decided to wait for Robert outside what used to be the video shop.

  The daylight was just starting to die, the stream of traffic on Carnoustie’s long High Street navigating the single-file parking system that so infuriated her dad. There was a crane a couple of hundred metres away, involved in the demolition of her old primary school.

  Vicky looked at the Evening Telegraph she’d bought on her way along. The cover featured her face, looking fat, bored and out of her depth at the news conference. The column at the side had head shots of the victims in the case so far — Rachel Hay, Paul Joyce and Graeme and Rhona Hunter. This late edition even had Irene Henderson.

  A Volvo pulled in and flashed its lights.

  “Bloody hell.” Vicky leaned into the driver’s side. “Karen, what’re you doing here?”

  “Driving home.”

  “This isn’t the way to East Haven.”

  “Okay. I just wanted to meet this man of yours.”

  “He’s not mine.”

  “Not yet.” Karen checked her out. “You’re looking smoking hot.”

  Vicky held up the paper. “I don’t think so.”

  “Forget about that. You look ravishing.” Karen licked a finger and smoothed down Vicky’s hair at the side. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

  “Aye, I am.” Vicky looked at the ground. A ball of chewing gum was flattened out at the edge of the pavement. “I can’t handle any more rejection.”

  “You’ve had one date with the guy and you’re thinking of when he’ll dump you?”

  “I can’t help how my brain works.”

  “Sure you can. Just stop thinking things like that.” Karen gripped Vicky’s cheek between thumb and forefinger. “You poor thing. Most men would kill to have you, you know that?”

  Vicky laughed. “You’re such a bad liar.”

  “I’m not lying. You’re a good person.”

  “Maybe.” Vicky spotted Robert across the street as he entered the pub, his black leather jacket matching her own. “I’d better go.”

  “Was that him?”

  “It was.”

  “Nice bum.”

  “Christ, Kaz, don’t you ever stop?”

  “Never.” Karen flicked the indicator. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Vicky stepped back and watched her drive off, mouth dry. She waited for a break in traffic to cross the road and entered the pub.

  Robert was standing at the bar, phone in hand. He waved when he saw her. “Was just about to call you.”

  Vicky leaned against the bar, unsure whether to offer a hand, peck his cheek or what. She kissed him, lips rasping on his stubble. “I was waiting for you outside, as it happens.”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t see you.”

  “I spotted someone I knew across the street.”

  “Okay.” Robert put his phone away. “You look nice.”

  Vicky smiled. “Thanks. You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

  He laughed. “What do you want to drink?”

  “I’d say a glass of white wine but Carnoustie doesn’t do wine. Bacardi and Coke.”

  Robert turned to the barman, who was midway through pouring a pint of IPA. “Bacardi and Coke as well, please.”

  “I’ll bring them over, pal.”

  Across the empty bar, Vicky spotted a huddle of men her age, all beer bellies and bald spots, as t
hey watched the preamble to some football match on the large TV. She sat diagonally opposite, making sure neither she nor Robert could be distracted by the screen.

  Robert perched on a stool and thumbed behind him. “Do you know that lot?”

  She shrugged. “I think I recognise a couple of them from school. They’ve filled out a bit.”

  “I don’t imagine you have.”

  “Hardly.” Vicky looked around the room, frowning. “They’ve done this place up. We used to call it the Slag’s Bed when I was growing up.” She raised her hand in panic. “Not that I was the slag.”

  “Wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.”

  The barman appeared with their drinks.

  “Thanks.” Robert raised his glass before taking a gulp. “So, you grew up in Car-snooty?”

  “Not you as well. I hate it when people call it that.”

  “It’s what we called it in Arbroath.”

  She smirked. “I suppose everything’s relative.”

  “So did you?”

  “What, have a slag’s bed?”

  “No.” He laughed. “Grow up in Carnoustie.”

  “Aye. Kinloch Primary then the high school. I went to uni in Aberdeen.”

  “And you came back?”

  Vicky stared into her glass. “Aye, I did. Lived in Dundee for a bit. Got a job with Tayside Police as was, working up the Hilltown. My boyfriend at the time worked at The Courier.”

  Robert nodded before taking a drink, eyes locked on Vicky. “I’ve always liked the town.”

  “Even though we’re all toffs in Car-snooty?”

  “Even though.”

  “Is that why you moved here?”

  Robert took a drink, staring at the tabletop for a few seconds. “I moved to Carnoustie to get a new start. Aye. His wife died last year.”

  Vicky nodded, the nerve in her neck twanging. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was mercifully quick, to be honest. Cancer.” Robert stared into space. “With my uncle, it took years. It felt like we were keeping him alive for my aunt’s sake more than his. He was like a dog that couldn’t stop pissing on the carpet.” He took another drink. “With Moira, it was quick. There was no option of chemo. Died a month after she was diagnosed.”