Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  Rachel lost her words again and Tony slipped his arms round her, sensing her mounting distress.

  ‘Go on, if you’re ready to.’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s okay. He had always kept an eye out for the case and for Laurence Paton. For years, it seemed not to bother him as much. Or at least I thought so. But in the last year . . . he hasn’t been well, not himself at all, and he keeps talking about the Lake of Menteith and the girl. He’s really not well, Tony. I’ve been kidding myself that he’s getting better, that he’ll be okay, but he’s not.’

  ‘What exactly is wrong with him?’

  She breathed deep, composing herself before answering but still choking on her words.

  ‘Alzheimer’s. They say it’s at a relatively early stage, certainly of its detection, but the symptoms seem to be progressing quickly. He’s moved out of the house and into a home. He’s always looked after himself with no problem since my mum died but . . . well, it’s his decision.’

  ‘And you’ve known about this for how long?’

  ‘Christ, Tony, don’t give me a hard time over it, please. I’ve known for over a month but I’ve been in denial, I suppose. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but, if you remember rightly, you weren’t exactly forthcoming with details about your own parents either, were you?’

  It was a low blow but she was right. Winter’s mother had died when she was hit trying to save him from a speeding car. He was only five and had been playing in the street when he shouldn’t have. He knew it was his fault, no matter what anyone said. His father followed suit less than four years later, dead from chronic liver failure and a broken heart. When they’d first met, Winter had let Rachel believe that his parents had both died in a car accident. He’d always reasoned that was preferable to telling her the truth – his unwavering belief that he had killed them both – and admitting it was the source of his unhealthy interest in death.

  ‘Yes, okay,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve apologised for that enough, don’t you think?’

  ‘I just thought you might understand why sometimes it’s difficult to tell other people about your parents.’

  ‘I do,’ Winter conceded, pulling her closer in. ‘So how bad is he?’

  ‘Bad enough. He doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone else but this Inchmahome case is eating away at him. It could even be the trigger for his condition.’

  ‘Trigger?’

  Rachel rubbed at her eyes and let a sigh slip wearily from her lips.

  ‘No one knows what causes Alzheimer’s. Beyond the fact that the principal factor is old age, no one knows why some people get it and others don’t. They think that smoking increases the chance of developing it. They think that high-blood pressure and high cholesterol levels are risk factors. They think that stress can cause it. They think but they don’t bloody know.’

  She was getting louder and losing the fight to control the anger that was rising inside. She exhaled noisily and continued.

  ‘There’s two proteins that they suspect gather in clumps in the brain and cause the problem. One is beta-amyloid and they’ve been talking about that for years. The other is tau protein and the research on it is relatively new. Either way, they think that stress can cause neuropathological changes that lead to the formation of the proteins. Prolonged stress over something like this bloody case could be enough to trigger it.’

  ‘It isn’t genetic then?’ Tony asked.

  Rachel fired him a glare that fizzled and faded almost as soon as it had flared.

  ‘Probably not. Well they don’t know but it doesn’t look like it. Less than ten per cent of cases are genetic. The problem is that they don’t know what causes the other ninety per cent.’

  ‘You’ve been doing your homework then?’

  She offered a sad smile.

  ‘Yeah, just a bit.’

  Rachel turned her eyes away from him and stared out of the window, gathering herself.

  ‘Either way, I have to give him some kind of peace and . . . And I don’t know how long I’ve got left while I might still be able to do that. The rate of deterioration seems to be rapid and he might not be able to take in what I tell him.’

  A silence settled on them again. They both stared out of the window, watching the mist that was forming round the rim of the lake, seeing it rise and close in on the island. Neither of them could take their eyes off it.

  ‘So,’ Winter finally said quietly. ‘This Laurence Paton, your dad’s main suspect, where does he live now?’

  An oddly cold look passed over Rachel’s face.

  ‘He lives in Stirling and teaches English at the High School. He and his wife stay in a mid-terrace house just walking distance from the city centre.’

  Winter looked at her thoughtfully, taking in her words.

  ‘Okay. I understand how you would know where he lives and works. But how do you know what kind of house it is?’

  Rachel hesitated, seemingly deliberating. In the end she held his stare, admitting no need to feel any guilt.

  ‘I know because I’ve been to his house. And I’ll be going back.’

  CHAPTER 8

  In the summer, Callander bustled with tourists and its main street was thick with cars inching along in the vain hope of finding a place to park. It was no more than forty minutes or so north of central civilisation yet it qualified as a Highland town, drawing hordes of visitors who were either too lazy or too short of time to go to the Highlands proper.

  The winter months were different though and the lesser spotted elderly tourist was more likely to be dodging sleet or snow showers as they investigated the woollens, the tartans, the fudge, the bric-a-brac and the tat. The town returned to the keep of the locals, who were grudgingly glad to have it back to themselves.

  It took just one visit to the Crown Hotel for Tony and Rachel to learn what they needed to know. They left the car where it was and walked briskly towards The Waverley further along the road, glad of the heat the extra movement was bringing to their bones. The snow-covered Ben Ledi towered over the town and it didn’t need much imagination to see that soon some of the snow would be falling at ground level too.

  The Waverley was busy with a Sunday lunchtime crowd and a room off the bar was packed with football fans watching the live game on a big screen. The noise and the heat inside the pub were such a contrast to the street they’d just come from that Tony and Rachel just stood there for a moment letting both wash over them. The spell was broken only when Rachel nodded towards the end of the bar where a man stood polishing glasses. He had a shock of white hair that made him look older than the fifty-odd years she knew him to be. Wearing a navy blue V-neck jumper with a white shirt underneath, he was chatting to customers and nodding at whatever was being said.

  ‘Go on then,’ Rachel said, sensing Tony’s conflicting interest in the football match and making his mind up for him. ‘It’s probably better if I talk to him on my own anyway.’

  ‘You sure? Just shout if there’s a problem,’ he told her.

  ‘My hero. Get us both a drink, then go.’

  Winter shouted up a pint for himself and an orange juice for Rachel, handed it over and started to move towards the shouts of the football fans.

  ‘Hang on,’ she stopped him. ‘Who’s playing?

  ‘Rangers against St Mirren,’ he grinned.

  ‘Great,’ she murmured ironically. ‘Will you manage to behave yourself?’

  He smiled again. ‘I’ll do my best but no promises.’

  Winter was a die-hard Celtic supporter and had been known to let his mouth run away with him while watching football in a room full of Rangers fans. And the chance of there being many St Mirren supporters in a pub in Callander was miniscule.

  Rachel shook her head at him ruefully and turned back towards the bar. The white-haired man was now serving customers and she manoeuvred her way through the crowd till she was standing at the bar near him. A couple of the locals eased aside to let her in, accompanying their hospitable gesture with a barely
disguised leer.

  ‘Thanks,’ she told them. ‘Brrr, it’s freezing out there.’

  ‘Nice and warm in here with us,’ one of the men said with a laugh, the whiff of lunchtime beer evident on his breath. ‘You on your own?’

  ‘Nah. I’m a football widow,’ she told them with a bob of her head towards the lounge area. ‘He’s over there.’

  ‘More fool him,’ the other one laughed. ‘I saw a bit of it earlier. Terrible game.’

  ‘I’m just glad to be inside for the heat,’ she replied. ‘We’re staying out at the Lake of Menteith and it’s baltic out there. They reckon the lake could freeze over again if this weather gets worse.’

  Subtle it wasn’t but then understated wasn’t in her game-plan. There wasn’t time for that.

  ‘Aye, it’s brass monkey weather, right enough,’ said the taller of the two, a brawny farmer-type with a ruddy complexion that didn’t come just from working outdoors.

  ‘Ach, it’s no that cold, Dazza,’ the guy to her left chipped in; he was slightly shorter but broad and with equally florid cheeks. ‘I barely bothered with a coat this morning.’

  ‘Yer arse, Kenny,’ Dazza responded. ‘It’s freezing and they say it’s going to get a lot worse, eh? I read that there’s some big cold front coming over from Russia.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Narey shivered. ‘So how cold does it have to get before the lake freezes? I’ve always fancied going over to Inchmahome if it does.’

  ‘Och, it needs to be like minus ten for a few weeks,’ Kenny told her. ‘It’s nowhere near that. Mind you, if it does freeze, then you should be careful about walking over to the island.’

  The man seemed to have timed his remark just as the barman walked by them to serve someone at the end of the bar nearest to the door. He threw a dirty look in Kenny’s direction, clearly having picked up on what he said.

  ‘Why should I be careful?’ Narey asked the two men. ‘What am I missing?’

  Kenny and Dazza exchanged supposedly cryptic smiles over her head.

  ‘Steady, Kenny,’ Dazza warned him in mock seriousness, raising his voice slightly. ‘You’re stepping on thin ice now.’

  Kenny sniggered, seemingly enjoying his pal’s joke. The barman didn’t seem quite so amused though, looking back at them suspiciously from the till.

  ‘Come on,’ Narey persisted. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Oh, it’s no joke,’ Dazza said solemnly. ‘No joke at all. There was a deid body found on that island.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Och, it was nearly twenty years ago now. You probably won’t remember it, young thing like you.’

  Narey swallowed down the answer she’d rather have given and instead smiled at the man, fluttering her eyelashes at the compliment.

  ‘So tell me then, what happened?’

  The two men glanced conspiratorially at each other, looking around as if making a show of checking no one else was listening – no one except the white-haired barman. They moved in closer on either side of Narey on the pretence of sharing a secret.

  ‘Well . . . it was the winter of ’93–’94,’ Dazza began, slightly louder than was necessary for any would-be conspirator. ‘A wee lassie, not all that much younger than you, was found battered to death on Inchmahome. Her heid was caved in. Terrible sight, so they say.’

  ‘She’d walked over the frozen lake, you see,’ Kenny took up the story. ‘Never made it back. Poor wee thing. Murdered in the old priory. Blood and broken bones everywhere.’

  Narey let a shudder visibly ripple through her, her shoulders shaking in a girlie manner sure to encourage them to continue their tale of gore.

  ‘So who was she?’ she asked, lowering her voice as if joining in on their intrigue.

  ‘No one knows,’ Kenny told her. ‘Never identified. Her face was bashed in so no one really knew what she looked like.’

  ‘Never found out who killed her either,’ Dazza added with a barely concealed grin. ‘He’s still out there somewhere.’

  Narey dutifully squirmed. She wasn’t the only one: the barman had his back half-turned to them but she saw him wringing the life out of a pint glass, rubbing at it with a towel as if trying to wipe the logo from it.

  ‘You hear all sorts,’ Kenny confided, leaning in towards Narey, clearly revelling in the story. ‘I was told it was one of them paedophile rings. Tried to kidnap her but it went wrong and they had to murder her.’

  ‘Nah,’ Dazza disagreed. ‘She was too old for that. I heard talk of her being a gypsy girl. There were definitely a good few Romany families who were in the area. The word is the deid girl was one of theirs and that’s why no one ever came forward.’

  ‘And what do you think of that?’

  ‘Could be,’ Kenny conceded. ‘Folk say how she was a Romany princess who had been determined to marry her lover, except that he wasn’t a gypsy and so her father killed her.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Dazza nodded enthusiastically. ‘I was talking to a bloke in here who was adamant that she was a gypsy girl. He said it was some other gyppo guy that had killed her – the one her family wanted her to marry. Certain of it, so he was.’

  Kenny shrugged, seemingly unconvinced. ‘Paedophiles. That’s what I heard. She was a runaway, living rough and the bastards killed her.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ Narey lamented. ‘It must have been horrific.’

  ‘Aye. Months before she was found,’ Dazza agreed, half an eye on the barman standing just a few feet away. ‘Horrible.’

  ‘A bag of bones inside a red anorak,’ Kenny added coldly. ‘All broken up and left there to rot.’

  Suddenly all three jumped as the sound of breaking glass rang through the pub. The pint tumbler that was being dried had slipped from the barman’s grasp and shattered on the floor, sending shards flying to all corners.

  The two drinkers on either side of Narey grinned at each other as mocking jeers rose from the pub’s other customers.

  ‘That will be coming out of your wages, Bobby,’ Dazza laughed at him.

  Bobby Heneghan scowled back at his tormentors as he bent over the smashed tumbler, his hands shaking as he swept the glass splinters onto a plastic brush pan.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ he told them, an obvious tremor in his voice.

  A plump blonde in a pair of tight denims and a grey sweatshirt came round the side of the bar and squatted down beside Heneghan, slipping an arm round his shoulder.

  ‘It’s okay, Bobby, I’ll clean this up. You’re due for a break anyway. Go and get a seat and I’ll get Moira to bring you a cup of tea.’

  Heneghan nodded silently and got to his feet, slipping away without a backward glance and turning a deaf ear to the sniggers from the men beside Narey. The blonde stood too and glared at Kenny and Dazza.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ she hissed at them. ‘I’ve told you two a hundred times. This time I mean it: any more of that crap and you’re barred. Both of you.’

  The men had the good grace to look shamefaced but Narey doubted they meant it. She glanced over to see Heneghan sitting in a chair in the corner, his arms crossed across his chest. Kenny and Dazza saw her looking and let their faces lapse into spiteful grins again.

  ‘Don’t worry about old Bobby,’ Dazza sneered. ‘You’d think he’d be over finding a body after all this time.’

  ‘Aye, silly old sod,’ Kenny agreed. ‘How about we get you a proper drink and tell you more about the murder?’

  Narey smiled sweetly at the pair of them and let a single word slip quietly from her lips: ‘Arseholes.’

  Bobby Heneghan looked up to see Narey standing at his side, his eyes immediately falling back to the table and the cup of tea that had appeared in front of him.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know those guys and I didn’t realise they were winding you up. I’d never have . . .’

  ‘I know. It’s okay.’

  ‘No, really. I feel terrible about being part of that. They just started on about it and I . . . w
ell, I didn’t know. Was it you that . . . found her?’

  Heneghan nodded without looking up, reached for the tea and edged the cup to his lips.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down? I really feel like I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Forget it. It’s okay.’

  Shit, he was a stubborn old bugger. She needed to get him to open up.

  ‘It’s Bobby, isn’t it?’ she asked softly. ‘My name’s Rachel. Look, this isn’t any of my business but it is what I do for a living.’

  Finally, he looked up at her, a questioning look on his face.

  ‘I talk to people who have been through traumatic events to help them make sense of what happened and get to the truth.’

  ‘Like a counsellor?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve seen similar reactions many times, even years after the event that causes it. Have you ever been diagnosed, Bobby? Because I’d be sure you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  Heneghan’s mouth trembled as if he were going to speak but he didn’t find the words. Instead, he gave the merest shake of his head. Narey put her hand over his and squeezed it gently, bringing a sad smile to the man’s face. His eyes were tired and lined, nervously darting from place to place.

  ‘I know I’m just being a bit stupid,’ he said quietly.

  She squeezed his hand again. ‘Of course you’re not, Bobby. You have been through a psychological ordeal. It’s not about being strong or “being a man”. It’s about getting help to deal with it.’

  Heneghan sighed.

  ‘Those . . . those buggers at the bar are always taking the piss out of me about it and maybe they’re right. Maybe I should be over it by now. It’s not funny though. They should try finding a young girl like that – see how they like it.’

  Narey’s head flash filled with thoughts of Tony, camera in hand, and the peculiar pleasure he would take in stumbling across such a scenario. He would like it and that still bothered her.

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ she told Heneghan. ‘But how did it happen?’