by Grace Monroe
‘I don’t know about you lot, but I’m starving.’
I looked at Joe in amazement, how could he be hungry at a time, and more importantly in a place, like this? I was furiously chewing menthol gum to take my mind off the smell of death. Joe was thinking of cheeseburgers. It took me a few moments to realise that he had actually cleverly deflected attention away from Patch and his embarrassment at Jack Deans’ innocently intended comment.
Joe took the orders for food and Patch directed him to a nearby café. Sauntering through the morgue oblivious to the metal gurneys and huge refrigerators, Joe calmly held the list in his hand and left the building.
There are no deaths that we know of since 1990
I looked at those still assembled for confirmation.
On 7 May 2001 there was a break-in at Fettes Police Headquarters. The perpetrators were alleged to have been the Animal Liberation Front. Police sources denied anything had been taken
‘It’s from this time on that the rest of us start to get involved.’
At 9.30 a.m. on 10 May 2001 Jack Deans received a tip off regarding the stolen files. He was directed to a dustbin, where he found photocopies of the stolen papers. The papers referred to a photograph album
At 10.30p.m. on 10 May 2001 Jack Deans was arrested under Section Two of the Criminal Justice Scotland Act 1980 and detained for six hours, the maximum length of time that the police could hold him without charging him. He was released pending a formal complaint, which never came
‘Is there anything else you’d like to add, Jack?’
‘I wrote a very straightforward news report on the break-in. I was sacked. My piece was never published. After that, rumours were circulating that I was a neurotic drunk, obsessed with conspiracy theories. I couldn’t get another job.’
In an attempt to hide my discomfort, I turned to the whiteboard. Jack had neatly summed up my opinion of him, and he hadn’t finished yet.
‘I don’t care how unpopular my views are–the murders of these girls would have been solved years ago if there was no cover-up.’
Avoiding Patch’s eye, Jack turned to refill his coffee mug. Incensed at the slight to Patch’s reputation, I stepped in to defend the Professor.
‘Patch is one of the finest forensic pathologists in the world–there are just some cases you can’t solve, Jack.’ My voice was high and wavering as I struggled to convince myself. But another voice in my head sowed doubt by reminding me of a much more recent cover-up that I knew all about–the one Patch had performed at Lord Arbuthnot’s post-mortem. He deliberately withheld information about the Lord President’s drug abuse from the tape recorder–but surely that was different? After all, the fact that he was a junkie had nothing to do with his death.
Jack’s hands were raised in a conciliatory fashion.
‘Look all I am saying is let’s keep our minds open to the possibility that important people are involved.’
On 3 February Fishy received the album anonymously
On 10 February Fishy requests “the bodies in the bag” files from central filing
On 17 February Fishy has a meeting with Assistant Chief Constable requesting that the files on the dead girls are reopened. Request denied
On 19 February Fishy has a meeting with his immediate superior and is advised his promotion is stalled
On 22 February he is transferred out of Leith and demoted to traffic control
On 2 March Fishy’s credit card details caught in Operation Bluebird. The card had been stolen, and used on a child porn site Motive–to discredit him?
‘As you know, I tried to get the files from central filing, a few days ago–and I was told they were missing. The computer record shows that they were lost when we transferred to the new building, ten years ago,’ added Fishy.
‘But you borrowed them out a few months ago,’ I said.
Fishy dropped his head onto his chest, and rolled it round, causing the neck-bones to crack softly. His tension eased he spoke again like rapid gun-fire.
‘I’ve hit a brick wall, Brodie. The sergeant’s attitude is that computers never lie. There’s gossip all round the station about why I’ve been transferred, so no one’s willing to help me.’
Laughter wafted into the room, as two porters exchanged a joke in the corridor outside. No smiles cracked our faces.
Furiously I resumed writing on the board.
15 August Lord Arbuthnot/Alistair MacGregor murdered before midnight
16 August Kailash Coutts arrested in the early hours
16 August Brodie attacked on Arthur Seat–assailant unknown
19 August Kailash Coutts gave Brodie a photograph that purported to be Brodie in the same death pose as Laura Liddell
Around 20/21 August Frank Pearson drugged, and hung–left for dead. Method Auto Asphyxiophilia. Motive to discredit him and kill him? Evidence recovered: two coffee mugs and a disc
‘The coffee mugs did give me two sets of prints–one is definitely Frank Pearson’s but the other set is not listed in any database that I have access to,’ explained Patch.
‘The murderer’s evaded capture for over twenty years. You didn’t expect that he would be lying in his bed waiting for us–did you?’ I held Patch by the shoulders seeking to reassure him.
‘You’re right. One thing’s for sure–the bugger’s nae dunce.’ His cheeks crinkled as he attempted to smile.
‘The disc–what about the disc?’ I asked him.
‘We’ll look at it together–after the briefing.’ Nodding at me to continue, Patch resumed his seat.
Impatiently I started to scrawl again.
22 August Brodie given Rohypnol at a Writer to the Signet function: Motive–to discredit her or to kill her
‘I can’t make head nor tail of it…’ Joe shouted from the door, like a pack-horse laden with coffee and bagels. Jack and Fishy scrambled over the pile of scattered papers to get their order. A double espresso was all I could handle, hot dark-brown and bitter, like jump leads it gave my system a jolt. Leaning against the wall I savoured the burning sensation as it fell down my gullet.
Rubbing his neck as he stood examining the whiteboard, Joe seemed to fill half the tiny room.
‘As I said, I’m buggered if I can understand this…’ His hand slapped the board. ‘But there’s one person who does.’
‘Who’s that then, Columbo? The killer by any chance?’ Jack cynically drawled at him.
No one spoke as we looked at each other expectantly–Glasgow Joe barely glanced at Jack all through his expletive-filled rant on how it was odd that the word ‘journalist’ wasn’t an anagram of ‘wanker’–but I knew the way he thought, so I spoke up.
‘The missing girl. But we don’t even know where she fits in, where in the time frame, Joe?’
I was now slapping the whiteboard too.
‘Is she at the start? In the middle? Or is she the end?’
‘Brodie, we don’t even know if she exists.’
I threw Jack a look that was supposed to silence him. I needed to believe. Joe reached over, and not too gently pushed me.
‘We know some things. You know that your jacket’s hanging on a shoogly nail, Brodie, and, you…’ he looked at Jack Deans, ‘should know that self-pity never got anybody anywhere.’
‘Much as I’d like to sit here and take life lessons from an acknowledged piss-artist, there are actual facts to consider,’ said Jack. ‘There was no mention of a missing girl in any of the papers I’ve seen.’
I turned my attention to the unofficial police presence in the room. ‘Fishy, when did you first hear about the “missing girl”?’
‘Laura Liddell’s granny told me.’
My heart sank. ‘I suppose she didn’t tell you her other theory?’
He shook his head. ‘No, what was that?’
‘Only that Laura was the missing girl.’
‘But she’s dead.’
‘Correct–but Maggie has been living in hope since she went missing.’
Joe interrupted at the same time as whacking himself on the head with the palm of his hand: ‘Christ, Brodie, I can’t believe I didn’t remember–Maggie also said a posh man had come looking for the girl before Laura was born–so she knew the key to all of this wasn’t Laura. I’m so sorry–she must have said it when we were in the kitchen. Does that matter? Does that help to make any sense of it all?’
Fishy waved his hand dramatically at the whiteboard. ‘I don’t see any of us making sense of this–there isn’t any to start with.’
Suddenly deflated I sat down to finish my coffee that was by now cold. I needed a break, my body and mind were knotted like pretzels. The sound of a ringing phone cut through my consciousness. Patch almost elbowed me in the nose as he reached across to answer it.
‘Professor Patterson speaking.’
We all held our breath, except Joe who started rummaging amongst the paper bags looking for something else to eat. Patch eyed him icily as he grabbed Fishy’s coffee cup and rescued his diary from the desk, flicking through the pages as he spoke.
‘I’ve pencilled it in–but I expect formal citation–in the usual course. Thank you.’ He ended the call and turned to us, looking primarily at me.
‘That was Crown Office checking my availability for a trial.’
I nodded at him.
‘The Kailash Coutts case–it’s up this week. They’ve had a cancellation at the next sitting of the High Court, and they want to put it in.’
Jack Deans whistled. ‘That’s quick.’
I was reluctant to show any emotion. ‘A petition’s got to be heard within 110 days–and as long as I have time to prepare my case, I can’t object.’
‘Are you sure you do have enough time?’ Jack asked.
‘Absolutely. It’s not a problem.’
Actually, I was fucked.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I couldn’t tell Jack Deans–or anybody really–that I hadn’t a hope in hell with this one. I didn’t have time, and with everything that was going on I was unlikely to be able to do my best for Kailash.
But that was the whole point I reminded myself; I wasn’t supposed to get her off. I was supposed to bury her as quietly as possible, or suffer the consequences. Roddie’s threats had been vague, but Lord MacGregor had made sure that I knew what I would get if I fell in step with their plans. From my first day at the Old College my mother had craved for me the red judicial robes; only then, she said, would she be satisfied that she’d done a good job. That twisted the thumbscrews a shitload more than anything Roddie Buchanan had ever spat at me.
‘You left one thing off your board, Brodie.’
I was pleased to note that Jack didn’t look smug as he pointed out my error. He lifted the black marker pen, and approached the whiteboard.
On 10 August Kailash Coutts received a photograph of Brodie, purportedly dead
On 16 August Kailash Coutts charged with murder and appears in Edinburgh Sheriff Court
The further information, although correct, didn’t clarify anything, it confused matters. It was tempting to view the Kailash involvement as coincidence, but that was only because I still didn’t know who the puppet master was.
My phone rang–the ring tone was the music to the Can Can–and I made a mental note to change it to something more appropriate. Out of a sense of respect for the dead I hurriedly answered it, expecting it to be Crown Office advising me of the court sitting for Kailash’s trial.
‘Hi, Brodie.’
I quickly cut him off; this was not a call I was willing to take in front of people. I excused myself, and walked outside. The corridors were filled with purposeful people living mundane lives. Porters ferrying medical specimens from wards to labs, auxiliaries in colourful uniforms wheeling tea trolleys round. It seemed as if ordinary life would be forever out of bounds now, and I couldn’t really explain why it bothered me now, because for a number of years I have been part of the underbelly of society anyway.
I found my usual escape route, the unalarmed fire door by Ward ten, and made my way out into the car park. The sun had broken through and hospital workers were sitting on the grass enjoying a quick afternoon break. I steeled my nerves and phoned Somie.
‘I knew you’d call back–you’re a lot of things but a coward’s not one of them.’
‘Why would I not call back? Do I have something to be afraid of?’ I asked him.
‘Not me for sure–but I can’t answer for the rest of the world.’
‘You’re not angry?’
‘It was quite funny.’
‘Funny–what was funny about Prather’s man discovering you naked and tied to a chair?’
‘You’ve got to remember, Brodie, that servants have been getting members of my family out of degrading situations for centuries–it’s nothing new. You’ll have to try harder next time.’
‘Did you just call for a chat and a laugh?’ Even if he had, I was grateful for the diversion.
‘No, I didn’t.’ His voice suddenly sounded serious. ‘What have you done to piss off Uncle Roddie?’
‘Which year do you want me to start with? To cut to the chase–I suppose we could consider me throwing up on Lord MacGregor’s shoes in the Signet Library last night, followed by an equally colourful vomiting moment in your uncle’s car?’
‘Yeah, I heard about that. Still classy I see. No, unfortunately it’s not old MacGregor. It’s more serious than that.’
Anxiety nipped my stomach.
‘Brodie, I also wanted to say…I didn’t intend to harm you when we were younger and some of the things you said really bothered me–please believe me. Back then, Brodie, I felt…I don’t know what I felt for you, but I’ve never felt it since for anyone else. Maybe we should spend a bit more time together in the Octagonal Room and see if we can’t work things out?’ There was a large spoonful of contrition in Somie’s voice, but it didn’t last long before he was back to business. ‘Have you looked inside that dodgy bag again?’ he continued, allowing no room for me to answer him. ‘I pulled Roddie up about it this morning–his attitude is, as long as you toe the line, there’s no need for you to worry.’ He was trying to convince me, and his voice was smooth and soft as I’d always remembered it.
‘I’m not prepared to be Roddie’s poodle,’ I barked back, sounding just like one. ‘And whether or not I’ve been nosing about in some posh tart’s handbag is none of your business–you saw the licence; hoping there’s more to rub my nose in, are you?’
‘There’s a lot at stake here, Brodie,’ his voice urged in compliance.
‘More than you know, Somie.’
‘I’m not a daft laddie, Brodie–I’ll keep my ears open for you. In the meantime ask your flatmate why he’s been suspended without pay from the force.’
‘I’ve got to go.’ I ended the conversation and tried to sound emotionless. The walk back to the morgue was too short to solve my dilemma. If what Somerled had said was true, Fishy had lied–he hadn’t been demoted to traffic, and if he wasn’t going to work, what was he doing with his time? By the time I reached the entrance to Patch’s domain I had decided to support Fishy in his lie. He had stood by me for years, we had been through a lot of life’s experiences together–if he was lying, it would be for a good reason.
I opened the door and Patch started speaking immediately.
‘The photographs.’ Patch spoke in the manner of someone who had finally reached an important realisation and wanted the world to know.
‘There’s something I have to show you first,’ I said.
Patch’s mouth fell and his upper lip twitched, his moment had been stolen. My briefcase was more like a valise. I placed it on the table not bothering to push aside the academic journals or the scattered papers. Under the harsh artificial light, every crack and scuff on the worn brown leather stood out; but it was deep, and held almost as much as Mary Poppins’ bag. I took out the prize item.
‘Have you won the lottery?’ Joe whistled as I placed the Gucci handbag on the ta
ble. He was the only man present who appreciated it for what it was–probably due to having nicked a few in his time.
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Do I need to ask who it belongs to?’ Joe queried, his voice worryingly low. I shook my head.
‘I hope that’s not the bag she was carrying when she murdered that auld bloke.’ Joe’s eyes were fixed upon me. Imperceptibly to everyone else I hoped, I nodded–he caught the movement.
‘You stupid cow–have you not got enough folk to fight with without upsetting Crown Office and the Serious Crime Squad–that’s perverting the course of justice.’ He stomped round the table to shake me by the shoulder.
‘I know that. I do know the law.’
‘You could have bloody well fooled me,’ he replied, sounding miffed more than anything else. ‘Well–why did you do it then?’ I knew he would question me unrelentingly until I gave him the answer that satisfied him. I couldn’t do that, not here, maybe not anywhere, so his exasperation with me was likely to last some time.
‘Roddie set me up. He got it to me.’
‘You could have handed it into the police saying that it had just come into your hands. Or is it important–does it have anything that will help you?’
‘It has just come into my hands! I’ve not been holding onto it for days, Joe!’ My voice protested my innocence too loudly. ‘I only got it before I came here–I haven’t looked inside it yet–I wasn’t looking forward to what I might find,’ I confessed.
‘Fuck your ethics, Brodie–of course Kailash Coutts is guilty, and if the bag contains evidence to prove that, then you’ll just have to deal with it.’ Beads of sweat had broken out along Joe’s forehead, and his left eyebrow twitched as it always did when I put him under pressure.
‘There’s no motive for murder–and the evidence supports the defence that it was an accident.’ I was in defence lawyer mode now.