McAdams didn’t look up. ‘Have you ever contemplated your own mortality, Callum?’
‘He’s doing some spreadsheet thing so he can combine their list with the data we got from the council tax people. At least then we’ll know what’s officially sitting empty. But again: the trust were paying full whack for an abandoned building, so who knows?’
‘Ever stood at the edge of a grave and thought, “This will be mine soon. Maybe not this one, but one just like it”?’
‘We’re going to need a whole heap of bodies on it – visit every single property the trust owns and see what we can see.’
‘“For what is man, but doomed to die? / And here within the earth to slumber, / Till naught but bone remains of him, / The merest breath of gods gone by.”’
‘That’s cheery. Pam Ayres again?’
‘Stephen P. Dundas, you ignorant spud.’ He squatted down and tossed a little clump of dirt at one of the Smurfs. ‘Well?’
‘Ow!’ The Smurf turned, clutching its head with a purple gloved hand. ‘What the hell was that for?’
‘Have – you – found – anything – yet?’
‘Looks like female remains.’ He pointed at twin lines of pale grey, just protruding above the black earth. ‘That’s a forearm, radius and ulna. Going by the scarring, she broke her wrist at least six times. See how it’s a bit zig-zaggy? That’s because it wasn’t treated, just left to heal on its own.’
McAdams grunted. Nodded. ‘Any buttons or zips? Bits of clothing?’
‘No. If she was wearing anything when she went into the ground, must’ve been all natural fibres. It’s long gone.’
‘Same as all the others then.’ McAdams stood. Dusted off his hands as he marched out of the tent. ‘Seven female bodies, one male. All the women went in naked, but there are buttons and zips in with the man’s remains. The women’s bones are covered in scars, but not his. What does that tell you?’
Callum closed the tent flap. ‘He was a rush job.’
‘Show your working.’
‘They’re all in deep graves, five-foot down at least. Far as we can tell, he was about two, that’s probably why the badgers got at him. The women were prepared for burial – stripped, probably washed. He was just tipped in, fully clothed.’
‘I’ll buy that.’ McAdams unzipped his SOC suit and stood with his arms spread wide, steam rising from his chest. ‘I want X-rays of all the skulls – see if we can get a match off dental records. And get them to run stable isotope analysis too. How long have they been buried here, how long were they kept here before that, where did they come from? Then we go through every missing persons’ report till we find a match. I’d put money on the male remains being Jeffries, but let’s widen the net a bit, just in case.’
‘Sarge.’
‘Urgh …’ He let his arms drop and turned, staring out at the SOC tents. ‘Seven women. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for them?’ McAdams shook his head. ‘I don’t think they were prepared for burial: those chains in the basement have been there a long, long time. They were shackled down there. Naked in the dark. Beaten, raped, and brutalised for months. Maybe even years.’
A depressing thought, but probably right.
‘And then, when he was bored with them, he didn’t bother stopping: he kept on going and beat them to death. Then buried them in his back garden, and went out to get a new one. Because that’s what women are to him: disposable.’
‘Sounds lovely, doesn’t he?’ Callum kicked at a little knot of brambles, still clinging on to the muddy ground. ‘You think maybe Monaghan grew up here? That’s why he turned out the way he did?’
‘Who knows? Maybe it was always in him? Or maybe you just can’t live through something like that and not come out broken.’ A frown. ‘Suppose it doesn’t matter in the end.’ McAdams pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll tell Mother, you go get the car warmed up.’
Major Incident Room Two buzzed with the low murmur of voices. A dozen officers sat at the desks, half in uniform, half plainclothes, all staring towards the front of the room as Watt pointed his wee remote at the projector on the ceiling. The screen behind him filled with a spreadsheet – all bars and colour-coded bits and numbers and addresses.
‘This is every property N.E.T.H. own within a fifteen-mile radius of Oldcastle. I’ve ranked each by distance from where Ashlee and Abby Gossard were abducted, where the grey Peugeot Bipper appears on the CCTV system, and where it disappears off again.’
McAdams leaned over and whispered in Callum’s ear – breath sticky and sour. ‘Because colouring it up like a rainbow is going to sodding help.’
‘As you can see here,’ Watt poked a button on the remote and a little red dot shone onto the screen, ‘I’ve cross-referenced the dataset with council tax records. Everything marked with a grey arrow is currently registered as vacant.’
‘I bet he was touching himself when he put that together. Never seen anyone so turned on by spreadsheets before.’
Mother stood and held up two bits of paper, stapled together. ‘Pair up. Each team of two takes one of these. You visit every property on your list and you look for anywhere that could be used as a smokehouse. That includes big sheds, by the way.’ She stuck her list back on the pile and handed everything to the nearest uniform. ‘Best estimates are that it takes at least a week to cold smoke a whole human being. The neighbours are going to notice something like that. Ask them.’
The uniform took one of the stapled lists and passed the rest on.
‘If you see anything, and I don’t care how tenuous or irrelevant it seems – if it makes your spidey-sense tingle, you call it in. Understood?’
Everyone nodded.
‘Ashlee Gossard is thirteen years old. There’s a chance she’s still alive, but it’s getting smaller every minute. You can save her.’ Mother gave them all a big smile, then pointed at the door. ‘Now get out there and make me proud.’
Callum, Dotty, Watt, and McAdams stayed where they were till everyone had filed out.
Soon as the door closed behind the last two-person team, Mother slumped back into her chair and rubbed at her face. ‘Urgh … Someone tell me it’s all going to be OK.’
McAdams picked up one of the remaining lists. ‘How many properties are we looking at?’
‘Tell me we’re not just clutching at ghosts here.’
‘Northeast Ecclesiastical Trust Holdings Limited own six hundred and twenty-four properties all over Scotland: from a block of flats in Kirkcaldy to a B-and-B in Cromarty, via a chip shop in Oban.’ Watt wheeched his laser pointer across the screen again. ‘I’ve marked commercial properties with a skull-and-crossbones. Fifty-two of them, in total.’
A grunt from McAdams. ‘Assuming Monaghan had access to their list of properties at some point. Assuming he’s been smoking them locally and not off up the coast in Buckie or Fraserburgh. Assuming he hasn’t just built himself a DIY smoker somewhere deep inside Moncuir Wood, or the Swinney, or Holburn Forest. Assuming. Assuming. Assuming.’
Mother let her arms fall by her sides. ‘Thanks for that, Andy. I feel much better now.’
‘Glad I could help.’
‘Does anyone have anything constructive to say? Any ideas at all? The floor’s open.’
Franklin was sitting at the back, arms and legs crossed, face tight and angry. ‘Public appeal. Any suspicious behaviour. Have you seen smoke coming from your neighbour’s shed on a regular basis?’ She bared her teeth. ‘Heard any screaming lately?’
Mother frowned at her. ‘OK … Well, I’ve got a media briefing at ten, and that’s on the list. But you know what’s going to happen: every well-meaning citizen, idiot, and attention-seeking special-little-snowflake will be ringing up within the hour. And they’re only giving me ten support staff to man the phones. So that’ll be fun.’ Back to the rest of the room. ‘Anyone else? I will literally consider anything at this point.’
Dotty held up her hand. ‘I’ve bee
n looking for any connection between Monaghan and Jeffries, and if there is one, I can’t find it. So how did Monaghan get access to all these Northeast God-Bothering Trust properties? Even they didn’t know what they owned till we made them look.’
Watt rolled his eyes. ‘He doesn’t have to have access to all of them, just a couple. Obviously.’
‘Don’t you “Obviously” me, you gingery wee—’
‘Children! That’s enough.’ Mother stood. ‘We stick with the plan, till someone comes up with something better. Rosalind: you and Callum take a list. Dorothy: you and John clearly need to spend some quality time together—’
‘Aw, sodding hell …’ Dotty folded her arm over her head.
Watt bared his teeth. ‘I’d rather staple my scrotum to a leaky tumble dryer full of angry wasps.’
‘—give you a chance to bond. And maybe act like grown-ups for a change. Wouldn’t that be nice?’ Mother clapped her hands together. ‘Off you go.’
‘Arrrgh. Fine.’ Dotty wheeled herself from the room. ‘But if I end up killing him, it’s your fault.’
Mother waited until Watt snatched a stapled list from the pile and stomped out after her, before grimacing at the ceiling – both hands curled into claws. ‘Arrrrgh …’
‘Oh, you love it really. Our book is reinvigorated: we have fresh leads to follow. The readers know a big reveal is coming soon and are relishing every page.’ McAdams picked up the last remaining list. ‘Want to take your car or mine?’
She sagged. ‘I can’t. I’ve got a dozen of DCI Powel’s cases to review, teams to organise, updates to hear, rotas to organise, overtime to authorise, budgets to work up, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera …’ Mother scrubbed a hand across her face. ‘Could Reece have picked a worse time to go AWOL?’
Callum stared down at the tips of his shoes.
Don’t get involved.
Don’t say anything.
‘Pff … Anyway. No point hanging about here feeling sorry for ourselves. We’ve got a missing teenager to find. If she’s even still alive.’
Callum held the picture of Ashlee Gossard out again. ‘And you’re sure you’ve not seen her? Or her mother?’
The crooked lady in the twinset shook her head, setting free a little flurry of dandruff from her long grey hair. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. Thanks anyway.’ He waited till she’d gone back inside and shut her door before dragging a red pen through address number four on the list.
Franklin was already behind the wheel by the time he got back to the car. Still wearing her best Everyone-In-The-World-Needs-To-Die face.
Oh joy.
He slid into the passenger seat. ‘Come on then: who climbed up the drainpipe and crapped down your chimney?’
‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Have I done something? Because I don’t remember doing anything.’
She wrenched the steering wheel around, executing an angry three-point turn. ‘We’re just out here chasing our backsides.’
‘Only you’ve been chewing a wasp all morning.’
She scowled across the car. ‘You’re all the same, aren’t you?’
‘Ah, here we go. Let me guess: Mark?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
The terraced street gave way to another one, winding back towards the centre of town. ‘Suits me.’ He checked the list for address number five. ‘Hang a right here, then left at the end of the road onto St John Crescent.’
More identical, depressing, featureless houses. Sulking beneath the rain.
Franklin banged her hand on the steering wheel. ‘I mean, look at us. Going round and round, achieving nothing. How’s that supposed to help Ashlee?’
‘Well, if you‘ve got a better idea, we’re all ears.’
‘The question we should be asking is: who killed all those women?’
‘Fair point.’ He nodded. ‘My money’s on Paul Jeffries. Those bodies have been buried at least twenty, thirty years, right? And Jeffries did time for rape. When he gets out of prison he pretends he’s put all that behind him and found God, but it’s all just a front. He’s still a raping little wankmonger, he’s just learned how to keep his victims from going to the police.’
‘By keeping them chained up in the basement. Then burying them in the back garden when he’s done with them.’ Franklin took the turning onto St John. More horrible little houses. ‘Which begs one more question.’
‘Who killed Paul Jeffries and stuffed him into a shallow grave in his own private cemetery?’
She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Monaghan?’
‘He’d only be a kid at the time. More likely Jeffries was part of some sort of ring and he had a falling out with one of his nasty friends.’ Callum pursed his lips. ‘Course, if this was a film, it’d be one of his victims’ husbands. Jeffries gets careless and leaves a clue behind. Our man tracks him down, tortures and kills him, then buries him in his own back garden. And if it’s a good film, he finds and saves his wife just in the nick of time.’
Franklin groaned. ‘All hail the great male hero!’ A snort. ‘Sexist piggery. Why can’t it be one of the victims’ sisters doing the rescuing? Or maybe one of the women escapes and gets revenge on her abuser. Why does it always have to be a man saving the day?’
‘True. We are horrible.’ A smile. ‘Just look at your Mark.’
And just like that, the muscles in Franklin’s jaw were clenching again.
Yeah … probably shouldn’t have done that. Seemed like fun at the time, but he was the one who’d have to suffer the ensuing foul mood.
Callum flicked through Watt’s list of properties: four down, sixteen to go.
Six teams of two, plus them, plus Dotty and Watt. Eight teams. Twenty buildings each. Hundred and sixty houses and/or businesses. Plus whatever odds and sods McAdams was looking into. ‘N.E.T.H. Limited have got a lot of interests in Oldcastle. And over six hundred properties Scotland-wide. Must be worth a fortune. Millions.’
Franklin just chewed on her sulk, glowering through the windscreen.
‘Right, opposite the chip shop.’
She thumped the steering wheel again. ‘I mean, where does he get off, dumping an ultimatum like that on me?’
‘Didn’t think there’d be so much money in Religion.’ Callum stuck the list back in his pocket. ‘Why don’t they just liquidate the lot and give the proceeds to the poor?’
‘What the hell happened to, “Your career is every bit as important as mine”?’
‘Mind you, it’s a trust, isn’t it? Do you think it’s all priests’ pensions and bishops’ investments?’
‘Are you even listening to me?’
A shrug. ‘Thought you didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘All the sodding same.’ She took the turning at the chip shop.
‘I get it: your boyfriend, Mark, is a dick who thinks whatever he wants is more important than what you want.’ The houses were getting bigger with every street. ‘And do you know why he thinks that?’
Franklin scowled straight ahead, mouth clamped shut.
‘Because he’s a dick.’ Callum turned in his seat. ‘And do you know what? He’s a merchant banker – that was your clue, right there. Take a left at the roundabout and it should be about halfway down.’
‘He wasn’t a dick when I met him.’
‘Yeah, well, you know the old saying: some men are born dicks, some have dickishness thrust upon them, and some achieve dickosity all on their own.’ He gave her a smile. ‘I’m paraphrasing a bit.’
‘I am not giving everything up to be a bloody housewife with a bloody pinny, two-point-four bloody children, and a Cocker Bloody Spaniel!’
Callum knocked on the passenger window. ‘That’s us there on the left, number thirty-two.’
She pulled into the kerb. ‘I’m not.’
Number 32 was one of Watt’s grey-arrow properties, all the windows sealed with
chipboard. The garden looked almost as bad as The Cloisters, only without the constant parade of Smurfs, brambles, and body bags.
Callum undid his seatbelt. ‘So ditch him. Tell him you’ve had enough of his crap.’
She chewed and chewed and chewed.
‘Someone I know gave me a very good piece of advice once. You want to hear it?’
‘No.’
‘You can just sit there, playing the tragic jilted hero.’ He climbed out of the car, turned, and stuck his head back in. ‘Or you can get off your moaning backside and do something about it.’
‘… absolutely sod-all. Well, except for the fact I haven’t throttled Detective Sergeant I-Do-Nothing-But-Moan Hodgkin. That’s an achievement all in itself.’
Callum winced as Dotty’s voice scraiked out in the background: ‘Oh, you think you’re such a delight, do you? You sour-faced, pube-bearded—’
‘Go roll yourself under a bus.’
‘I’ll roll my boot right up your—’
‘For God’s sake! Do you two never stop?’ He swapped the phone to his bad hand, freeing up his left to massage the ache growing between his eyebrows.
Mother deserved a knighthood, she genuinely did.
A manky old Renault parked itself next to the Mondeo, a chubby bearded bloke and a thin blonde rock-chick type getting out and having a stretch in the drizzle, before hurrying off across the lay-by. Making for the burger van that lurked along a bit from the public loos.
Dotty was the first to break the silence, obviously trying to sound light and cheerful. And failing. ‘What about you and Rosalind?’
‘Naught for seven. Thought we were on to something with a derelict house in Cowskillin, but nothing doing.’
‘Well … there’s plenty of time, isn’t there? Ashlee’s still alive. We’ll find her.’
‘Don’t be naive.’
‘I’m not being sodding naive!’
And they were off. Again.
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