by James Oswald
‘Did any of the women say anything, sir?’ He had his notebook out, and even though Janie could see he’d not written anything down, it was an effective prop. Fielding clearly liked being called sir too.
‘The redhead called me a paedophile, which is gross slander, I’ll have you know. The rest of them were just screaming like witches. Horrible racket, wasn’t it, lads?’ Fielding finally turned to his companions. Janie noticed that none of them looked too happy about being dragged into the conversation, with the exception of the younger man. Maybe he had less of a reputation to lose, or maybe he hadn’t yet understood what his being associated with Fielding might mean.
‘It was like they were zombies or something. Ken that movie wi’ the pod people? Had Spock from Star Trek in it, aye? The first Spock, ken? No’ that new chappie. What’s it called?’
‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers?’ Janie had to admit she was impressed the man would know about an old movie like that. He seemed more the football and beer type. Then again, it was never a good idea to judge a person solely by their appearance. Or even the company they kept.
‘Aye, that’s the one. See that fella at the end, how he kind of points and screams? That’s what they was like in there.’ The young man nodded his head in the direction of the conference room. His companions looked embarrassed to be seen out with him, but he seemed to be warming to his theme.
‘Would you be prepared to make a statement, Mr . . . ?’ Janie let the question hang, hopeful that the young man might give her his name. Fielding had other plans, however.
‘I’m sure there’ll be time for that later. When you’ve pressed charges against the miscreants.’
‘You’re a lawyer, Mr Fielding, so I’m sure you understand how these things work. My job is to collect evidence and build a case before charges can be brought. If you’d like to give me a list of the names of everyone who attended this evening’s meeting, I can take statements from them all. This is, after all, a very serious breach of the peace.’
Something close to anger flitted across Fielding’s face. Janie could feel the change in the atmosphere, too. Almost as if his temperature had spiked and was heating the air between them. And was it her imagination, or had the bar suddenly gone very quiet?
‘I’ll expect to be kept informed of developments, Detective Sergeant Harrison.’ Fielding put heavy emphasis on Janie’s surname in a ham-fisted attempt to intimidate her. He knew who she was, it said, and he’d make sure she’d pay if he didn’t get what he wanted. She merely stared at him, even though what she really wanted to do was punch him in the face. A condescending smile, a silent count of ten. That’s what the boss would do. She’d only got as far as seven when Fielding broke.
‘Come on, lads. Let’s go find somewhere a bit more private, aye?’
Janie stepped aside as the group all stood to leave. Most left unfinished drinks, but the young man with the better than average knowledge of seventies cinema quickly downed the remains of his pint before joining them. She gave him a little nod as he hurried to join the others, and he smiled back nervously. In moments they were gone.
‘Well, that went OK, wouldn’t you say, Lofty?’
DC Blane looked down at her as if she was mad. ‘You know he’s going to make a formal complaint, right? And he’s mates wi’ the chief constable?’
Janie wiped her forehead, surprised to find a slight dampness there. ‘Aye, I do. And he probably will. Just hope it hits the right desk. I was kind of getting used to being a sergeant.’
19
All Detective Sergeant Janie Harrison wanted to do was go home, have a long, hot shower to wash away the dirty feeling that talking to Tommy Fielding had left on her skin, and then collapse in front of the telly with a takeaway curry. She knew if she did that though, the report-writing and paperwork would be waiting for her in the morning. They were already scheduled for an early briefing and case review on Cecily Slater, and there was a report for the Procurator Fiscal to be prepared regarding Steve Whitaker too, so with a weary sigh she cadged a lift from a passing squad car and headed back to the station.
Late shift had settled in by the time she arrived, which meant that hopefully the canteen wouldn’t be too busy. She needed coffee, and possibly chocolate, if she was going to get the paperwork squared away in less than an hour. Passing the corridor that led to the holding cells, she heard something that wasn’t so much a commotion as . . . singing? Never one to ignore the siren call of curiosity, she changed course and went to see who had such a fine voice.
The custody sergeant sat at his desk in the room where people were processed before being detained. Mostly the cells were filled with drunk and disorderly young men, and if they sang at all it was generally football chants and out of key. The song Janie could hear was pitch perfect and quite haunting, although the echo from the cells meant she couldn’t quite make out any of the actual words.
‘What’s going on, Tam?’ she asked. ‘Someone arrest a choir outing?’
‘I should be so lucky. It’s those bloody women from the protest. Soon as we asked them to stop screaming, they started singing instead. Can’t say it’s not an improvement, but I’d rather they just shut up altogether.’
‘The protest?’ Janie peered down at the sergeant’s desk, trying to see the names written on the register. ‘Who’ve you got, then? I’m just back from trying to calm down the aggrieved Mr Fielding.’
‘Rather you than me. He’s a right bastard that one. Heard he plays golf with the chief constable.’
‘Aye, so people keep telling me.’
‘You’ll be wanting a look at this then, I guess.’ The sergeant turned the register around and lifted the top, blank page so that Janie could see the names beneath. She picked up the clipboard, leafing through the pages. Six women, varying ages.
‘What’s going to happen to them?’
‘The usual. They’ll get a caution and then sent on their way. If they turn up at the hotel again, then we’ll maybe arrange a wee visit to the Sheriff Court.’
Janie went to put the clipboard back down again, then the last name registered a vague memory. ‘Isobel DeVilliers? Where have I heard that name before?’
‘Oh Christ, her.’ The sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘What a temper, aye? Rest of them are peaceful as anything you like, but her? I’d lay odds on her being back here within the day. Bloody English.’
‘Ah, come on, Tam. What’s it the First Minister said? If you want to make Scotland your home, you’re welcome?’
The custody sergeant half shrugged, half shook his head. ‘She’s a posh one, too. They’re always the worst. Think they’ve more to prove. Aye, she tries to hide it wi’ her swearing and those rubbish clothes, but you can tell good breeding a mile off.’
DeVilliers. Janie was sure she knew the name. And then in a cascade of memories, she did. It explained the fleeting glimpse she’d caught at the protest the first time she’d been there, too. Not the person she’d thought it was, but her younger sister. Half-sister. Someone who had every right in the world to be angry, particularly at men like Tommy Fielding.
‘You processed these yet?’ Janie waved the clipboard about.
‘No’ just the noo.’ The custody sergeant narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why?’
‘If I was to take this one . . .’ Janie gently unclipped the sheet with Isobel DeVilliers’ details on it from the small pile ‘. . . off you. That’d be one less for you to worry about. The awkward one and all. And I’d owe you, right?’
The sergeant narrowed his eyes even further, his bushy eyebrows merging into one. ‘You’ll take her away? An’ you’ll make sure she doesnae go breaching the peace again?’
‘Guide’s honour,’ Janie said, hoping he wouldn’t know she’d never been a Guide, and that Isobel DeVilliers would take advice from someone she didn’t know. She waved the sheet of paper gently while the custody sergeant made up hi
s mind. In the end it didn’t take long.
‘Aye, OK.’ He stood up, fetching a set of keys from a chain on his belt. ‘An’ if you can get that other lassie to pipe down, I’ll see about letting the rest of them out too.’
Seeing her led out of the corridor where the cells were and told to sit in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lined up along the far wall, Janie was struck by just how much Isobel DeVilliers looked like a younger, angrier version of Con Fairchild. She had the same nose, same cheekbones, her vivid red hair cut spiky short, eyes blazing with righteous fury. She wore the standard uniform of the street protester: overlarge cotton khaki jacket sewn with a few unidentifiable badges, baggy black cotton joggers worn more for warmth than style. The bead bangles looped around her wrists were a slight nod to hippy culture, although the effect was somewhat ruined by the custody sergeant having taken the laces out of her Doc Marten boots. Tam told her to wait, then he turned to Janie, winked, and left the room. DeVilliers slouched in the plastic chair, legs spread wide like a teenage boy on the underground, head tilted back and gently thud, thud, thudding against the wall behind her. She paid Janie no heed whatsoever. Being detained clearly didn’t scare her, which suggested it wasn’t a new experience.
‘Isobel DeVilliers?’ Janie asked, beginning to regret the course of action she’d committed herself to. The young woman barely reacted, tilting her head forward just enough to get a glimpse of her before leaning it back against the wall again.
‘You don’t look like a lawyer,’ she said.
‘That’s because I’m not. Detective Sergeant Janie Harrison.’ Janie crossed the room, resisting the urge to kick Isobel’s legs together, and sat down in the chair beside her. ‘I worked a case with your sister earlier in the year.’
A slight exaggeration, but it got the result she was hoping for. DeVilliers sat up straight, pulled her jacket down where the lapels had ridden up her neck, brought her legs in together and started paying attention.
‘Con’s my half-sister,’ she said, and even her accent was the same.
‘Half-sister, sister. It’s no matter. She’s my friend, so I’m helping her out. By helping you out, Isobel.’
‘It’s Izzy. Only my dad calls me Isobel. My real dad, that is.’
‘Well, Izzy. I’m sure he’ll be proud of you getting yourself locked up in a police cell. Isn’t he some kind of justice of the peace or something? Be a bit embarrassing for him, his youngest arrested. I dare say Con won’t be too happy either.’
Izzy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve told her?’
‘Is that the first thing you think of? Really? I’d have thought you’d be more worried about spending time behind bars for public order offences. Could be time in jail for what you did.’
Izzy folded her hands across her chest, upper lip twitching as she tried to suppress a sneer. ‘You lot would do that, would you? Lock us up while trash like Fielding are free to spout their hate and get paid for it?’
Janie rubbed at her nose, feeling the oncoming itch that heralded her allergic reaction. It might have been something Izzy was wearing, but the girl didn’t look like she’d had a bath or shower in days, let alone shoved on some aggressive deodorant. Far more likely the custody sergeant was a fan of Lynx body spray.
‘No. Us lot wouldn’t. Between you and me,’ she leaned in a little closer, lowered her voice, ‘I’d be happy to see Fielding and his little band of half men run out of town. Your noisy protest outside his hotel’s not exactly making that easy.’
‘It’s not my protest. I’m just there to help. What he does is wrong, you know?’
Janie stood up, sniffed back the sudden runniness in her nose. ‘I know. Come on.’
Izzy looked at her, confusion wiping away the anger. ‘With you?’
‘Well, unless you want to stay here. Reckon the custody sergeant will be back soon, get you processed and charged. Into a cell until you can be taken to the Sheriff Court.’ Janie made a show of checking her watch. ‘It’s late now, so that’ll be tomorrow.’
‘Fuck that.’ Izzy was on her feet and halfway to the door before she seemed to notice her boots were loose. ‘Any chance of getting my laces back?’
Janie caught up with her, opened the door and ushered her out. ‘Probably best we pick you up some new ones, eh? I’m chancing my luck enough as it is.’
20
The group of officers sitting around the conference table was much smaller than McLean would have liked for a murder investigation team. Detective Constables Stringer and Blane sat at the far end, DS Harrison and DS Gregg on either side of them. He’d hoped to entice DI Ritchie, and possibly even Detective Superintendent McIntyre into the case review meeting, but both were apparently on the other side of the country. Instead, Ritchie had sent along two of the new intake of detective constables, both looking a bit shell-shocked, and terribly young. Had he been like that, when he’d first made the move to plain clothes? Barely needing to shave of a morning? Probably.
Not that either of these two needed to shave. Jessica Bryant had come through the fast track, not long out of university. Her colleague, Cassandra Mitchell, had transferred in to SCD from Traffic. McLean hoped they survived being thrown in at the deep end.
‘OK then. I think that’s everyone who’s coming.’ He cast a glance at the open office door, even though he knew nobody else was going to walk through it any time soon. ‘Let’s get down to business. Cecily Slater. This case is going nowhere fast.’
Harrison spoke into the awkward silence that followed. ‘It doesn’t help much that she was dead for a week before anyone found her, sir. And everyone thought it was just a house fire, too. So we weren’t exactly searching for clues from the off.’
‘I know. And I’m not looking to lay blame anywhere. But we need to get a grip on things. Forensics haven’t turned up anything useful, there’s no CCTV in the woods, more’s the pity, and the only potential witness we’ve got is a cat who’s keen on eating but less so on talking.’ That got a murmur of laughter that died away as quickly as it deserved.
‘What we do have is a ninety-year-old reclusive woman who was viciously beaten, then doused in petrol and set on fire. That’s not something you do because you’ve been disturbed while burgling a house. That’s an act of hatred and rage, which suggests a killer who knew the victim.’
‘Suggests they were looking for her, too,’ DC Stringer added. ‘I mean, they knew where she lived and set out to get her. Nobody’s going to stumble on that place by accident. Especially not with the bridge collapsed. That would mean they planned it, so we need to ask why? And why now?’
‘Who stands to gain from her death?’ The question came from DC Mitchell, which at least showed some initiative.
‘That’s a question I’d hoped we’d have answers to by now, really,’ McLean said. ‘The cottage is part of the Bairnfather Estate, which I understand is largely held in trust. We need to tug on that string a bit harder, find out how it’s run. Carefully though. Lord Bairnfather’s a rich and powerful man who’ll no doubt complain if we poke our noses in where he thinks they don’t belong.’
‘Is that not up to us to decide, sir?’ Mitchell asked.
‘It is indeed. And since we’ve nothing else, I reckon we’ll have to follow the money. Think that’s your area of expertise, Lofty?’
The tall detective constable tilted his head in weary acknowledgement. ‘Aye, sir. I’ll get on that. Could maybe do with some help with the Whitaker case if I’m to concentrate on Slater, mind.’
‘Whitaker?’ McLean took an embarrassing moment to recognise the name. ‘Oh, the burned body in the basement. That was next on the agenda, actually. Where are we with that? Is it looking suspicious, or just weird?’
‘No’ sure, sir. Post-mortem’s not ’til later this afternoon. We’ve done some background on him though.’
‘Executive summary?’ McLean asked, ever hop
eful. Blane looked across at Harrison, who had already produced a sheaf of papers. Fresh from the printer, if the slight whiff of ozone when she shuffled them was anything to go by.
‘Steven Whitaker. Thirty-two years old. Married to Miranda, with whom he has— had a daughter, Senga Jane, aged eighteen months. Whitaker was investigated just over six months ago after his wife claimed that he had abused his daughter. His laptop was found to contain several hundred indecent images, mostly of pre-pubescent and very young adolescent girls being forced to perform sexual acts.’
‘How the hell didn’t we know this as soon as his name and address came through Control?’ McLean asked. ‘He should have been on the register, shouldn’t he?’
‘Hasn’t made it to court yet, so it’s all still under review. Whitaker’s defence claims his wife planted the images on the laptop, and since she has access to it that can’t be ruled out. There’s only her word he abused their daughter, too. No medical evidence, apparently. She got an interim order keeping him away from the child, and was in the process of suing him for divorce. He’d been charged on the laptop, but the case is complicated. Word is the PF was thinking about dropping it altogether, but in the meantime he was to keep away from wife and daughter.’
‘Hence living in a pokey wee basement flat in Meadowbank.’ McLean stared sightlessly at the closely typed sheets of paper in his hand. ‘We know where he worked?’
‘Aye. He was an electrical engineer, working on the St James site. The new hotel.’
‘A sparky?’ McLean pictured the burned remains. Could something electrical have done that? A question for the pathologist. ‘How about his last movements?’
‘According to the neighbour, he didn’t have people round to the flat,’ Blane chipped in. ‘She said she wasn’t sure, but she thought he got in about eleven the night he died. She’s a nosey old woman, mind, so I reckon she’ll be pretty accurate on that. Told me the smell woke her up, and she went down to complain about it at six in the morning. She saw what was left of him through the window. Control logged her call at ten past six, so that makes sense.’