PC Martin appeared around the other side of the house, no Wardrobe. She grinned at them. ‘He’s got something!’
Logan hurried over through the ruts of dirty brown earth. The Labrador was lying down beside the wall at the rear of the property.
PC Martin bent down and ruffled the dog’s ears again. ‘Who’s a clever boy? You are. Yes you are!’
Wardrobe’s tail thumped against the frozen earth.
‘Well, well.’ Logan turned and smiled at the project manager. ‘Looks like we might have found your missing sparky after all.’
‘There’s definitely something there.’ The IB technician pulled his white facemask off, revealing a big salt-and-pepper moustache and a face like a squeezed sponge.
They’d had to rip the chipboard floor up to get at the concrete underneath, piling the wooden sheets against the walls in jagged layers so he and his assistant could wheel the ground-penetrating radar kit slowly around the part-built house.
Logan peered at the GPR screen. It was a ripply mix of blacks, dark blues, and greens, with an orange and white blob in the middle. Squint your eyes and it could almost be a body, lying curled up on its side. Or a squid. Or a radioactive angry amoeba. ‘What if it’s not?’
Mr Moustache tapped the screen. ‘Head here, legs, and that’s an arm.’
DI Steel shoved Logan out of the way. ‘Let me see…You sure?’
The man shrugged. ‘Eighty percent.’
‘Dig it up.’ Steel hauled at the crotch of her SOC suit. ‘Don’t see why we’ve got to wear these bloody things, like huge great albino bloody Smurfs. Poor sod’s buried under three feet of concrete, what the hell are we going to contaminate?’
‘Because, Inspector,’ came a voice from the doorway, ‘we do not treat our crime scene as if it were the January sale at Primark.’
Dr Isobel McAllister stepped down from the front door onto the bare concrete, carrying a small stainless steel briefcase. She wore the same white paper oversuit as everyone else, but somehow she managed to make it look stylish. She nodded at the moustachioed IB man. ‘Where is it?’
He described a rough oval with his finger.
‘I see. And are we certain the remains are human?’
Mr Moustache shrugged again. ‘Cadaver dogs react to decaying meat, so it could be anything.’ He stomped a bootied foot on the grey floor. ‘Might be a pig, might be a deer, but there’s something dead under all this lot.’
Steel scowled at him. ‘You told me eighty percent!’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Peter,’ Isobel placed her metal case on the floor and popped it open, ‘I need you to help me mark out the body.’ She produced a measuring tape, a box of white chalk, and what looked like a bag full of ten pence pieces. Then she and Mr Moustache laid out a six-inch grid in pale-blue chalk over the rough area of the body, and marked each intersection with one of the shiny silver coins. When that was done they ran the GPR kit carefully across it, Isobel taking notes in a small pad.
‘The body is…’ She pulled a stick of white chalk from the box and, checking her notes, outlined a crouching figure at her feet. ‘Here.’ Isobel smiled down at it. ‘You know, in all the time I’ve been a pathologist, I’ve never seen a body chalked up at a crime scene. Like being on the television, isn’t it?’
Steel leant over and whispered in Logan’s ear. ‘Aye, only a hoor of a lot more boring.’
Isobel selected another stick of chalk. ‘So we need to cut…here.’ A perfect rectangle of red, never closer than twelve inches from any point on the body.
The inspector rocked back and forth on her heels. ‘Right, McRae, you nip out and grab a couple of jackhammers, and—’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Isobel clunked her case shut again. ‘I will not have my crime scene turned into a building site.’
Steel cast an eye around the ripped-up floor and exposed wooden frame of the part-built house. ‘Hate to break it to you…’
‘You know what I mean. I want this section of the floor cut away and brought back to the mortuary. We’ll create a secondary crime scene there to examine the remains.’
Logan looked down at the slab. ‘Don’t think that’s going to be possible.’
The pathologist narrowed her eyes. ‘We need a secure and sterile environment, Sergeant. Otherwise—’
‘It’s got to weigh, what, half a ton?’
Mr Moustache ran a hand across his bristly moustache. ‘Actually, that much concrete’s going to be closer to two and a bit.’
‘About three times as much as my car. Can you imagine trying to get it down the corridor and into the cutting room?’
Isobel cocked her head to one side for a moment. ‘Agreed. We’ll need a second location. Somewhere with forklift access. Running water. And refrigeration.’ She grabbed her metal case and stood. ‘In the meantime, I want this block cut, not hacked out of the foundations.’
17
A thin stream of misty rain fell through the gaping hole in the ceiling, sparkling in the harsh glare of the IB’s arc lights. Logan peered up through the severed joists at the heavy sky and the huge metal hook lowering down into the house.
Outside, the roar of the crane’s diesel engine had replaced the deafening judder of the jackhammers. So much for Isobel’s insistence that her crime scene wouldn’t become a building site. The foundations were too thick to cut through cleanly, so they’d had to excavate the rectangle she’d marked out on the concrete by hacking a foot-wide trench around it, the rubble all heaped up in the corner against a mound of pink Rockwool insulation.
Nearly a dozen IB technicians stood in little clumps around the outside of the room. A pair of them wandered the ground floor, one with a high-definition video kit, the other with a huge digital camera – its flash flickering in the confined space.
Two IB technicians threaded thick steel rope through four heavy eyelets bolted into Isobel’s concrete slab, then fiddled about with connectors and spanners, fitting a big metal ring to slip over the big metal hook.
DI Steel’s stale cigarette breath washed over Logan’s cheek. ‘Wish they’d get a shift on, I’m bursting for a slash.’
Logan shifted his feet, watching as the IB hooked the block up to the crane. ‘You think it’s him? Polmont?’
‘You’d better pray it is, amount of man-hours we’re wasting on this.’
‘Just seems a bit quick, doesn’t it? They kill him Monday, bury his body in the foundations…what, Monday night? Leave it to set. The soonest they can start building is Tuesday.’
He pointed at the house, the brick-clad ground floor, the gaping hole in the roof where the IB team had to cut away the joists. ‘How did they get all this built in four days?’
‘Kit houses, aren’t they – all prefabricated units. They’re no’ building the thing from scratch, just sticking it together like a big fuck-off Lego kit. Good team of builders, and you’d be moving in before the end of the week.’
‘Right, before we begin,’ Isobel took her place at the headend of the hooked-up slab, ‘I want you all to remember that any evidence we have here will be clinging to the underside of the concrete. Everything is to be collected and analysed.’
She nodded at one of the albino Smurfs, who unfurled a long sheet of the ubiquitous SOC blue plastic. Another Smurf grabbed the other end, then they both held up a thumb.
‘Norman?’
The tech with the HDTV camera squatted down, focussing on the jagged edge. ‘Rolling.’
‘You may begin.’
One of the IB team mumbled something into a bulky radio handset and the rumble of diesel got louder – the hook slowly pulled upwards, hauling the steel ropes tight. There was a loud crack, then the slab of chalked-up concrete juddered out of the foundations. It had to be at least three feet deep.
Smurf Number One shouted, ‘Hold it!’ and the crane’s engine eased off, the slab hanging two feet above the rest of the foundations. Then Smurfs O
ne and Two slid the blue plastic sheet under the rectangle, pulling it tight. ‘OK…’
The engine roared again, and the block rose jerkily into the air, clumps of black-brown earth falling in stinking clumps.
The two cameras swarmed in, taking shots of the block’s underside. Clack, flash, whine…
A large chunk of sticky earth gave way, thumping down on the stretched plastic sheet, exposing a leg, dangling out of the concrete from the knee down. Blue jeans stained almost black. A battered Nike trainer, the filthy white plastic stained with dark brown blotches. A flash of ankle, porcelain white on one side, a tidemark of reddish-purple on the other with a smear of waxy-yellow – pressure pallor where the skin had been in contact with the ground, the cells and capillaries too compressed for blood to pool.
Definitely a body.
Thank Christ.
Isobel waved, and the slab jounced to a halt, swinging gently back and forth. She put a hand out and steadied it, then peered up at the underside. ‘Hmm…’
Steel hunched over, hands on her knees, looking at whatever Isobel was looking at. After a beat, Logan joined them.
Between the clumps of mud and concrete was the partial outline of a man, lying twisted, three-quarters hidden by the grey mass, that one leg dangling free. A thin trickle of yellow-green liquid spattered onto the blue plastic below. It smelled like meat left too long in the fridge.
‘So…’ Steel’s voice was muffled behind her mask. ‘You fancy declaring death so we can get this circus on the road?’
Isobel didn’t even look around. ‘We will proceed at the pace required for the proper preservation of evidence, Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d—’
‘You think it’s our bloke?’ Steel scooted forward, probably trying to get a better look, getting a face full of tumbling dirt instead. ‘Sodding monkey bollocks…’
One of the IB laughed – the sound quickly dying as Steel glowered around the room. Much shuffling of feet and looking at something else.
That last fall of dirt had exposed a hand, the fingers nearly white, the knuckles stained purple with hypostasis.
Logan stepped in close, staring at the grubby hand. A pair of small ragged holes punctured the palm, surrounded by dark purple bruising. Black earth and grey concrete were wedged in under the fingernails.
‘Sergeant.’ Isobel pushed him firmly to one side. ‘Please try to stay out of the way.’
‘He tried to claw his way out.’ Logan turned his back on the body. ‘He was still alive when they buried him.’
18
It was getting colder. Logan stood in the open doorway, his SOC suit covered in dust – going dirty grey in the misty drizzle. The crane was a huge scuffed yellow thing, borrowed from the building site, a yellow light on the cab roof flashing gold and darkness through the rain. The bitter smoke tang of diesel exhaust pulsed out in great clouds as the foundation slab was slowly lowered onto a waiting flatbed truck.
Smurfs One and Two had secured their blue plastic sheet to the block with at least three rolls of silver duct tape, wrapping the whole thing up like a morbid Christmas present. Now they guided it carefully onto a framework of wooden posts, keeping Steve Polmont’s remains from being crushed against the metal truck bed.
The truck’s rear end sank as the huge chunk of concrete settled into place, the suspension groaning. Two more techs unhooked the crane, strapped the block into place, and drove it away.
Smurf Number One peeled off her mask, then her SOC suit hood. She ran a hand through her brown and grey hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, then looked up to see Logan watching.
‘You’re that DS aren’t you?’ Her voice steamed out around her head and a smile creased her round face, wrinkling up the eyes. ‘The one who had to eat human flesh?’
Logan tried not to grimace, he really did.
She stuck out a gloved hand. ‘Doctor Jessica Frampton, forensic soil science. This is Tony, my assistant.’
Smurf Number Two nodded, one eye not really pointing the same way as the other. ‘Wassup?’
‘Right, yes.’ Logan shook the proffered hand, then nodded at the truck’s taillights, fading into the distance. ‘So, you’re the concrete specialists?’
‘Soil. They won’t get a lot of trace evidence off the body – any fibres will be all on the outside of the clothing, bound up in the concrete – but the soil…’ She winked, not letting go of his hand. ‘The soil always has a story to tell, don’t you think?’
‘Erm, OK.’ Logan tried to back away, but her grip was solid.
‘Tell me, do we really taste like chicken?’
Awkward silence.
‘I think I’d better…’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the house. ‘You know.’
Smurf Number Two, nodded. ‘Later.’
Dr Frampton finally released Logan’s hand. ‘The soil never lies.’
‘OK…’ And he was free.
DI Steel was waiting for him in the CID pool car, dribbling smoke out her nose. She flicked a nub of ash into the footwell as Logan stripped off his SOC suit and chucked it in a bin-bag. He rolled the whole lot up and threw it in the back.
‘Who you speaking to?’
Logan slid in behind the wheel. ‘Some creepy soil science woman and her pet monkey.’
‘Ah, Dr Framptonstein and Igor the Dude.’ Steel shrugged and had a dig at her crotch. ‘She’s no’ as bad as she seems, just a bit enthusiastic, you know?’ Putting on a Hammer House of Horror accent for, ‘De soil is de life! Bwahahahahaha…’
They watched the pair shuffle back into the crime scene house, both carrying shovels. Off robbing graves.
Steel pulled her seatbelt on. ‘Did a kidnap case with her, must’ve been seven, eight years ago. Banker’s wife got grabbed on the way home from Markies.’
Logan cranked the key in the ignition, and sent the pool car crawling down the rutted road, making for the site exit, drizzle gleaming in the headlights.
‘Course we knew who did it: Ronny Maguire, a scrawny wee shite with a face like a ruptured scrotum. Swore blind he was in Dundee when she went missing, but we found this muddy pair of boots in his garage. Frampton takes samples, and next day she’s back with three possible locations, all within about a hundred feet of these lay-bys on the A96.’ Steel took a long puff, rolling the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. ‘Bang on the money too.’
Logan drove past the last set of foundations, rear tyres squirming in the mud. ‘You found the banker’s wife?’
‘In a drainage ditch: all tied up, covered with a chunk of old carpet, raped and strangled. Ronny’d got the kidnap idea off the telly, thought he could make a bit of easy cash…’ Sigh. ‘Daft bastard never could keep his hands to himself.’ Steel slumped further into her seat. ‘Still, look on the bright side – only lasted three days in Craiginches till some public-spirited junkie kicked him to death.’
The car’s headlights swung past a grubby van with the Strathclyde Police logo on the side, windows glowing an opaque gold. ‘Hang on a minute.’ Logan bumped the car to a halt, undid his seatbelt and clambered out into the soggy gloom.
Steel leaned over in her seat. ‘Hoy, where do you think you’re—’
‘Just be a tick.’
‘Don’t—’
He clunked the door shut, muffling whatever came next, then hurried across and knocked on the van’s steamed-up window. PC Martin cracked the door open.
‘Can I not even get…Oh, it’s you.’ She pointed at the passenger seat, where Wardrobe was sitting, tail thumping against the dashboard. ‘I’d invite you in, but…’ Shrug.
‘Should he not be wearing a seatbelt?’
‘You’re letting all the heat out.’
‘Did you get anything else from the other houses?’
The constable raised an eyebrow, then turned to her dog. ‘Hear that, Wardrobe? Local plod think we’re holding out on them. Did you find another deid body
and not tell anyone about it?’
Wardrobe’s mouth fell open in a huge grin, tongue hanging out the side like a soggy pink bathmat.
PC Martin looked back at Logan. ‘Nope, looks like one corpsicle is all you get.’ She pulled a handful of prawn cocktail crisps from the packet in her lap, feeding them one at a time to the big yellow Labrador. ‘He likes cheese and onion, but it makes his breath stink. Doesn’t it, Mr Stinky?’
Bark.
She gave him another one. ‘Sniffed out every plot in the place and as much of the site as we could. Could be more remains out there, but with the weather that cold, frozen earth…’ She dug out more crisps. ‘Give it three weeks and you might get more seepage – aye, if there are any more out there.’
‘What about blood? Would he pick up blood?’
‘Not unless it was in a big bucket going fusty. Wardrobe’s a cadaver dog, he only does dead bodies. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s sodding freezing and we’d like to finish our crisps in peace before hitting the road. Long way from the Land Of The Sheepshaggers to God’s own Clydeside.’
‘I really don’t see how I can possibly help.’ The project manager ran a hand across his comb-over, straightening up the trailing strands as Logan eased the interview room door shut.
A gust of rain hammered the window, making the vertical blinds rattle. The misty drizzle had given up on the way back into town, replaced by driving needles of icy water. Making the streetlights bob and sway.
DI Steel looked up as Logan dumped the manila folder on the scarred Formica table and settled into the seat next to her. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae enters the room.’ She sniffed. ‘This it?’
Logan nodded.
Silence.
‘Are we nearly finished here? Because I have a development to run.’
Logan opened the folder and pulled out a handful of printouts. ‘We found a body buried under the foundations of one of your houses, Mr Brett. How many more are there out there?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘How many more bodies? You’ve got planning permission for four hundred houses, that’s a lot of concrete. The whole place could be a graveyard for all we know.’
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