by Ed James
“I’m an accountant.”
“Where do you work?”
“Whitehall Crescent.”
“Were you in the office this morning?”
“I was.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
“My secretary, I suppose. I had some client meetings.”
“You do realise the seriousness of this, don’t you?”
Muirhead nodded. “I understand. But we haven’t done anything.”
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Vicky stood outside the interview room next to the one they’d just left, scowling at the door. Her gaze flicked to MacDonald. “What’s he up to?”
“Duncan? No idea. Give him the benefit of the doubt — maybe he’s looking after his clients’ interests?”
“And you think we’ll have better luck with Polly?”
He nodded. “She’s the weak link. Meeting her in the worst of the rooms is all part of the plan.”
“When did you work out there was a worst room?”
MacDonald shrugged. “First day. I went for a wee wander round the station, trying to get my bearings and discover the lay of the land.”
Duncan opened the door, waving his phone at them. “We’re ready.” He turned around and entered the room.
Vicky sat across from Polly and started the tape recorder, waiting for the entry beep to finish. “Interview commenced at fourteen thirty-one on Wednesday the second of April twenty-fourteen. Present are myself, DS Victoria Dodds, and DS Euan MacDonald. Also present are Polly Muirhead and her lawyer, Fergus Duncan. Mrs Muirhead, can you please detail your movements on Sunday afternoon from eleven in the morning until six at night?”
Polly took a deep breath. “We went for a drive to Dunfermline. My sister lives there.”
“Can she vouch for your whereabouts?”
Polly nodded. “I’d certainly hope so.”
“Hope so?”
“My client means yes.”
“We will of course check with her, so you may wish to revise that.”
Duncan’s finger hovered over the screen of his mobile, now sitting on a folded sheet of paper. “Why would Mrs Muirhead wish to do that?”
Vicky glared at Duncan. “Mrs Muirhead, your husband gave a ‘no comment’ response to the question of where you were on Sunday. Why do you think that would be?”
Polly shrugged. “I think my husband doesn’t trust the police.”
“Why?”
“You’re clearly trying to pin something on us.” Polly hugged her shoulders tight. “Fergus, I’m feeling quite stressed by this.”
Duncan tapped at his phone’s plastic case. “Noted.”
MacDonald stared at Polly then her lawyer. “If you feel stressed, imagine what Graeme Hunter and his family are going through. They were trapped inside a pair of tiny cages for over twenty hours. Mr Hunter lost most of his nose.”
“So?”
“Mrs Muirhead, do you deny any involvement in their abduction?”
“Of course I do.”
MacDonald pulled out a sheet of paper. “Do you know a Marianne Smith of Cupar?”
Polly swallowed. “Maybe.”
MacDonald pushed the sheet across the table. “We believe you sent her a message on the xbeast forum. The message read, ‘How is Cupar this time of year?’ This was sent three days before a Ms Irene Henderson was found trapped in an industrial bin in Cupar, of all places. There were several messages of support for the actions posted by a user account seemingly owned by Ms Smith.”
“And what’s this got to do with me?”
MacDonald gave them another sheet. “A witness gave us descriptions of her assailants. There was a woman, a man and someone else. Was this Ms Smith, your husband and yourself?”
“What proof have you got?”
“Ms Smith lives in Cupar. She posted a message in support of the attack and she sent you this message.”
Polly clasped the collar of her cream blouse. “I saw this story in the papers. That woman got what was coming to her. I don’t think anyone can disagree with that. I tell you one thing, though — the papers gave her air space. The stuff she was saying about cats turned my stomach.”
“And you deny any involvement?”
“Listen, Sergeant, I’ve got sympathies with PETA. It doesn’t mean I’ll blow up a vivisection laboratory.”
“So you deny it?”
Polly shook her head at him before nodding at Vicky. “I’ve already spoken to your colleague here. My professional time is divided between client work and pro bono work with certain charities. While being personally rewarding, it also yields far more positive results for any causes I believe in than shoving some daft woman in a bin. I’m trying to educate the wider public, not trap them.”
“So you deny your involvement in the abduction of Ms Irene Henderson and her subsequent entrapment on the fifteenth of November twenty-thirteen?”
“I wasn’t involved.”
“Were you and your husband accomplices in this action?”
“I wasn’t. My husband wasn’t, to the best of my knowledge.”
“What do you mean by ‘to the best of your knowledge’?”
Polly narrowed her eyes. “What do you think I mean?”
Duncan tapped his phone. “Can you please clarify your questioning, Sergeant?”
Vicky sighed. “The alibis covering both of your clients are either absolute or they’re not. The fact you’re putting a caveat around it surely puts the veracity into doubt?”
Duncan smiled at MacDonald, his eyes thin. “Sergeant, please move on with your questioning.”
MacDonald cleared his throat. “Did you and Mr Muirhead abduct Mrs Rachel Hay from Invergowrie and entrap her in a steel cage in a unit in the Dryburgh Industrial Estate in Dundee?”
“No, we did not.”
“Did Mr Muirhead and Marianne Smith commit the crime?”
“To the best of my knowledge, my husband wasn’t involved.”
“And Ms Smith?”
“I couldn’t comment either way. She’s an acquaintance at best.”
“Did you and Mr Muirhead abduct Mr Paul Joyce and entrap him in a steel cage in a unit in the Dryburgh Industrial Estate in Dundee?”
Polly rolled her eyes. “No, we didn’t.” She waved a finger in the air. “And I’ve no knowledge of whether my husband or Ms Smith were involved.”
“Did you and Mr Muirhead attempt to force Mrs Hay and Mr Joyce to have sexual intercourse while trapped in the cage?”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Did you post a video of this act online?”
“No. The only knowledge I have is from the TV news last night.”
“Did you and your husband break into Hunter’s Farm in Barry, abducting Mr Graeme Hunter, Mrs Rhona Hunter, Miss Amelie Hunter and Miss Grace Hunter, subsequently trapping them in steel cages?”
Polly smiled. “No, I did not.”
“Did you force Mr Hunter’s nose against a hot knife machine?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you witness the act?”
“No. I wasn’t there.”
“Do you know Brian Morton?”
“No. Who is he?”
“He’s another member of the xbeast forum.”
“Well, I don’t know him.”
“Are you in any way affiliated with the Phorever Love commune near Redford?”
Polly glanced away.
Duncan checked his watch, cleared his throat and pushed a document across the table. “I wish to place it on record that my clients are lodging a formal complaint with Police Scotland as to their treatment here.”
Vicky inspected the first sheet, full of arcane legalese. “On what grounds?”
“One, corporate sensitivity an
d two, violation of human rights.”
MacDonald scratched the top of his head. “Mr Duncan, your clients are suspects in three abductions and possibly a murder.”
“My clients have provided alibis for two of them and yet you persist in bringing them back in for questioning. This is harassment and I would appreciate it if you’d please terminate this interview.”
Vicky complied, her stare burrowing into Duncan’s skull as she did so. “This isn’t the end of the matter.”
Duncan smirked. “You probably want to check with your bosses before you make such brash statements.”
Chapter Eighty
Vicky slammed Forrester’s office door. “You got a minute?”
“Come on in.” Forrester put his phone on the desk. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve just been in with the Muirheads. They backed up each other’s story.” MacDonald gave him Duncan’s letter before sitting. “Copies have supposedly been sent to the Chief Constable and to Pask.”
“I’ve heard about this.” Forrester looked up at the ceiling, then back to MacDonald. “We need to let the pair of them go.”
“You sure?”
“I am, Mac.”
“We can’t let them get away with this.” Vicky ground her teeth. “He’s playing games with us.”
“Vicky, believe me, I know where you’re coming from. Have we got anything on them?”
“Supplying a false alibi?”
“Have they actually done anything with the case, though?”
“At the moment, their movements while these crimes were being carried out — including Micky Scott’s murder — are completely unaccounted for.”
“I’ve just come out of an hour and a half of political nonsense and arse-covering with Pask, Raven and Greig. This comes from the top and I mean the very top. Until we’ve got hardcore evidence against these people, we’re to lay off them.”
Vicky folded her arms and leaned back against the door. “And you’re happy with this?”
Forrester blew air up his face, shrugging. “What can we do? Unless we get some direct evidence implicating them in these crimes then we’ve been told to let them go.”
“We’re getting somewhere with Marianne, sir, and that’s the same evidence.”
“I know, Vicky, I know, but an email or whatever isn’t enough.”
“Come on, sir. You told me to arrest them. If we do that, we can search their home. That’s where we got all the evidence against Marianne Smith.”
“Look, Marianne’s idiot lawyer isn’t the one making official complaints to the Chief Constable’s office. Fergus Duncan is.” Forrester scratched the back of his head. “We need to let them go. They’ve got alibis.”
“False alibis. They’ve lied about their whereabouts.”
Forrester took a deep breath. “Let them go.”
Vicky hit the desk. “Come on, sir.”
“Mac, can you put surveillance on them? Buchan and Kirk. One on each, okay?”
“Get on it right now, sir.” MacDonald left the room, shaking his head.
Vicky folded her arms. “What about the couple who provide the other half of the alibi?”
“The Haggers? I was thinking of getting some uniform to scare the shit out of them.”
“This is bollocks, sir.” Vicky looked around for a bin to kick. “Corporate sensitivity? Really?”
“One of the alibis for the Muirheads concerns a Gray and Leech client, I’m afraid.”
“Jesus Christ. Is the client Marianne Smith?”
“No, it’s someone a bit more high profile than her, apparently.” Forrester smiled at Vicky. “You might think I’m a useless bureaucrat but I did push back a fair amount on this. Even you’ve got to admit we’re fishing a bit with them. We’ve got to prove they’re dodgy, and not the old-fashioned way, either. No-one can push back on solid evidence, corporate sensitivity or not.”
“For what it’s worth, sir, I never said you were a useless bureaucrat.”
“But I’m still a bureaucrat, right?”
Vicky shrugged. “Someone’s got to do my admin, I suppose.” She got to her feet.
MacDonald appeared at the door. “Just got a call through from Control, sir. The Fixit DIY shop on the Kingsway has just got a poison pen note.”
Chapter Eighty-One
Colin, I’m starting to think you’re involved in this somehow.”
PC Woods shook his head as he leaned against the panda car. “I might have to log you as suspicious as well, Vicks.”
Resting against the car, Vicky nodded across the car park at the looming DIY store, corrugated steel painted grey and orange, wind battering the row of trees shielding it from the road. “What’s happened here?”
Woods held up an evidence bag containing the poison pen letter. “Turned up in their mail this morning.”
Vicky took it off him and read it. Yr Birds of Prey display is immoral. Stop it. Now. Or else.
“Pretty weird, eh?”
“The ‘or else’ bit worries me.” Vicky folded her arms. “Bella had a tantrum here at the weekend. She wanted to see the owls.”
“Kaz told me.” Woods nodded. “Cameron did a similar trick a few weeks ago. Little bugger. I was just wanting to get some nails and Karen had taken Ailish out to her pal’s. ‘I want to see the owls, Daddy!’ Christ.”
Vicky handed the note to Considine. “Get this verified by Forensics, would you?”
“Will do.” He put the sheet in his charcoal-grey document holder and did up the zip. “Why have they switched to warning people all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know. Did anyone see anything?”
Woods shook his head. “Got Soutar going through their mail room looking for an envelope. I doubt this has been franked and put through the Royal Mail.”
“Agreed. Have you spoken to the guy who runs the display?”
“Had a wee word, aye. He’s a total scumbag. Not budging.”
“And the manager?”
“Wee gadgie from Monifieth. Done well for himself, mind. Reckon he knows how to handle himself in a fight.”
“Come on.” Vicky set off towards the birds display, stopping to let a white van past. The display was quiet, just a pair of kids in school uniform staring wide-eyed at the birds chained to their cage, their grandfather holding out a fiver.
The proprietor swaggered over, shoulders jerking with the exaggerated movement. His leather coat almost touched the ground, covering his sky-blue Manchester City top and beige cargo pants. Greasy hair long at the sides, a straight fringe at the front. He sniffed, eyes on the grandfather’s money. “You the police? The detective ones?”
“That’s us.” Vicky showed her warrant card. “And you are?”
“Kyle Ramsay.”
“Have you had any threats before?”
“Why would I?” Ramsay flapped open his long coat, arms wide to take in the full extent of his empire. “Perfectly respectable business I run here.”
“Not everyone might agree with what you’re doing.”
“Listen, I paid a small fortune for these birds. I own them, all right? Nobody tells me what to do with them. Nobody.”
PC Soutar appeared with a man in a suit, both frowning at Ramsay’s rant.
“I pay my way, okay? Me and my birds aren’t harming anyone’s kids.”
“I don’t think that’s the issue, Mr Ramsay.”
“What is?”
“People might deem your display to be cruel.”
“Cruel?” Ramsay snorted. “I’d like to see them threaten me, I tell you.”
“What would you do if someone threatened you with your life to stop you doing this?”
Ramsay gave a ‘come on’ gesture — arms held out, fingers flapping towards him. “I’d like to see them have a go.”
&
nbsp; Vicky realised they’d get nowhere with him, but persisted. “Has anyone threatened you, Mr Ramsay?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Aye.” Ramsay glanced at the grandfather. The fiver was now folded in half. “I better go and speak to these people, all right? They’re the ones paying for my time, after all.”
“Fine.” Vicky turned to the manager and led them away from the display. “Do you run his place?”
“Graeme Christie.” Tall, skinny, face full of acne even though he looked late twenties. He held out a hand.
Vicky shook it. “DS Vicky Dodds. I believe you found a note?”
“Aye. Been over it with your colleagues here. Didn’t see who delivered it.”
“Was there an envelope?”
Woods grimaced. “Not that I saw. Just checked with the mail room but they’ve not got it. Must’ve been binned. Bit of a long shot, I suppose.”
“No problem.” Vicky focused on Christie. “What’s your company’s view on this threat?”
He shrugged. “The display stays.”
“Is that your view or the corporate view?”
“Came down from the Chief Exec. He’s the one who came up with the idea in the first place.” Christie held up a hand. “Before you ask, our headquarters are over by Camperdown Park.”
Chapter Eighty-Two
Considine kept the Python right up the tail of the lorry as they skirted round the Kingsway, the old ring road now deeply ensconced in the heart of Dundee. “I hate it when lorries overtake. Slows the rest of us down.”
“It happens, Stephen. We’re not exactly in a hurry.”
“Really? Why are your hands drumming on the dashboard?”
Vicky stopped, unaware she’d been doing it. “Right.”
“Who knows what’s going to happen next, Sarge? Sticking people in cages is one thing, but they’ve chopped someone’s nose off and killed someone now.”
“We don’t know if it was them who killed Micky Scott.”
“All the same, they might blow that place up.” He turned off the dual carriageway, straight into an industrial estate.
Vicky glanced back over the road at the cinema, the one she’d taken Bella to a few times. “You think that’s likely?”