Dead Man's Grave

by Neil Lancaster

  9

  Max and Janie were soon away from the murder scene having stripped off their forensic kit, bagged it in self-seal bags and handed it to the taciturn detective who logged the items into his book. It detailed all the many items of evidence, known as “productions”.

  ‘Want me to drive? No disrespect, but I’m better than you,’ said Janie, yawning as they stood by the car.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Again, no disrespect, but yes, driving is one of my things.’ She smiled.

  ‘Then be my guest. I prefer two wheels to four.’ Max tossed the keys, which Janie caught.

  ‘DI Smith seems smart,’ Janie said.

  ‘She’s being careful with retaining the forensic suits. Not everyone does that,’ said Max as they pulled away back towards the A9.

  ‘I guess that because this will be a massive, headline-making case she’s being all belt and braces. Makes sense to me,’ Janie said.

  ‘Certainly does. Plus, you have to factor in the Hardie family. What will they make of this?’

  ‘They’ll want retribution, whether that’s through the courts or their unofficial methods. I’m knackered. How long back?’

  ‘Same as it took us to get up here,’ said Max, looking at the evening sun that was beginning to dip closer to the distant horizon.

  ‘Devastating sarcasm, Detective Sergeant,’ Janie said, yawning once more as she drove into the boundary of Latheron.

  Max said nothing but chuckled softly as they entered the small village and she reduced her speed.

  ‘I’m hungry and you made me miss my dinner out tonight. This job is ruinous for trying to establish relationships.’

  ‘Now that’s most definitely true. Who was the lucky mannie?’

  ‘Who said anything about it being a man?’ Janie said, straight-faced, turning to look at Max.

  ‘Sorry, I …’ Max stuttered, his face flushing.

  Janie broke into a grin at Max’s obvious discomfort.

  ‘It was just an internet date, anyway. Strange as it may seem, I’d rather be here right now.’

  ‘Not too many cops say that to me, so I’m flattered, pal.’

  Janie said nothing, all her attention on the pavement to the left of the village.

  ‘Come on, I was being nice,’ said Max, pretending to be hurt.

  ‘Check out the guy up there on the bench. He looks just like the guy that Duncan described,’ said Janie, slowing up and pointing to a small figure who was sitting on a low bench outside the middle house in a row of cottages, set back and above the road and behind railings. Janie slowed some more, eventually drawing up alongside the kerb. Max looked hard at the small man, noting the collar-length tangle of greasy hair and the soiled work clothes. The man raised a can of beer to his lips as he looked directly at Max.

  ‘I think we’ve found Willie from the pub. Good spot, Janie. Come on, let’s have a word,’ said Max opening the door.

  ‘Shouldn’t we report this in and wait for the MIT?’

  ‘No time like the present.’ Max crossed the pavement and climbed the five steps that led up to the terrace of cottages.

  Janie unbuckled her seatbelt with a sigh and followed Max up the steps.

  ‘Willie?’ Max said as he approached the seated man.

  ‘Aye, who wants to know?’ The man stared into the distance and took another deep draught on the tin of beer.

  ‘Police. I’m DS Craigie; this is DC Calder.’ Max produced his warrant card and showed it to the small man, who continued watching the sun begin to dip out of sight.

  ‘I always sit here at sunset. Best view in Latheron – just look at it,’ he said, in a soft local accent. His eyes were deeply set, very dark and had something in them that Max couldn’t fathom.

  ‘It’s a fine view. Can I ask you about the man you gave directions to in the inn in Dunbeath a day or two ago?’

  Willie said nothing but simply lifted the can to his lips and drank a little more of the strong lager.

  Max looked at Willie’s clothing. His blue overalls were frayed and thin at the knees and his boots were worn down so much that the steel of the toecap poked through the battered and scuffed leather. They were spattered with muck and rust stains, as were his trousers. His fingernails were encrusted with dirt as they gripped the can. He looked like he hadn’t seen a bath or a shower for many a day.

  ‘Willie?’ Max said, softly.

  ‘They always said he would come,’ said Willie, with a half-smile that displayed stained and crooked teeth. He looked wistful and satisfied, his eyes still strangely distant.

  Max looked again at the reddish-brown marks on Willie’s boots, and in that instant, he knew.

  He knew for sure that he was looking at Tam Hardie’s killer.

  10

  Max sat on the bench next to Willie with a sigh. ‘Ah, Willie, what have you done, man?’

  Willie just raised the lager to his mouth and drained the contents, letting forth a contented belch as he crushed the tin in his small hand.

  ‘What had to be done, Sergeant. What had to be done. What I was told to do.’

  ‘Max …’ began Janie, her face suddenly pale, her eyes widening, but Max winked and gave her a calm look.

  ‘Told you what, Willie?’ said Max, his voice soothing.

  ‘The Leitch name, Sergeant. I had to protect it from the bastard Hardies. It was written by my father, and then his father before him. The Leitch name, you understand, no?’ Willie Leitch closed his eyes and smiled, just a touch.

  ‘How did he die?’ asked Max, quickly miming sending a text message to Janie, who didn’t need telling twice and reached into her pocket for her phone. She began to compose a message.

  ‘The same way his great-great-grandfather died.’ Willie let out a tiny giggle, a low, throaty cackle. ‘Don’t you think it’s ironic? Hardie gets killed with the Hardie cutlass that killed his ancestor.’ He giggled a little more, the sound sticking in his throat and prompting a rasping cough. He spat on the tarmac.

  ‘Is it inside?’

  ‘Aye it is. Will I have to come with you?’ He opened his eyes, fully displaying the dark, clouded pools. Max was slightly alarmed to see the expression on the man’s features.

  It was triumph.

  ‘Yes. You’ll have to come with us,’ said Max, gently. ‘You’ll not cause us any problems, no?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. Our quarrel was with Hardie, not you, and that quarrel is now finished. Hardie was a thief and a bastard, and my great-great-grandfather was within his rights in killing him all those years ago. I wasn’t going to allow this Hardie the satisfaction of finishing their feud. It dies with him now. My great-great-grandfather told me what to do. They can all rest now.’

  Max paused for a moment. ‘Best say nothing more, now. Let’s sit and enjoy the last of the sun, okay?’

  ‘Aye, you’re a good man, Sergeant.’ Leitch closed his eyes, a half-smile on his face. He projected utter, serene calm, and it was disconcerting that this small and apparently unthreatening man had, just a day or two ago partially disembowelled Scotland’s most feared gang boss.

  They all sat there, in silence, the last of the day’s sun warming their faces. It was almost peaceful, with the distant whisper of the North Sea just audible on the soft breeze. The absence of wind meant one thing. The midges began to fly, first a few, all drawn to the carbon dioxide being breathed out by the three of them. Max resisted the urge to swat, knowing it would do no good. Willie was oblivious to the tiny insects crawling all over his face.

  Two unmarked cars screeched to a halt outside the property and DI Sally Smith and two of her colleagues quickly alighted from the lead car and hurried up the steps and across the tarmac.

  ‘Max?’ DI Smith’s eyes were confused.

  ‘Sally, this is Willie Leitch. He just confessed to Hardie’s murder. He’s told us that the weapon used is in the house now. I’m leaving it to one of your guys to make the arrest, preferably one who was not near the grave. He has as
sured me that he won’t cause a problem and I’m sure he’s telling the truth.’

  Sally nodded to one of her colleagues who approached Willie and gently took hold of his arm and eased him into a standing position. A pair of handcuffs appeared and were secured around the man’s wrists. He was compliant, his face relaxed and calm.

  The officer led him away to the car, formally arresting and cautioning him as they slowly got him into the back.

  Sally turned to Max. ‘This was unexpected. How?’ she asked.

  ‘Janie saw him, Boss, not me. The landlord at the inn in Dunbeath mentioned Willie was unusually helpful directing Hardie. We drove through and he was here on his bench enjoying a beer. We stopped to speak to him, and he just fessed up.’

  ‘Fessed?’ Sally looked slightly puzzled.

  ‘Sorry, confessed.’ Max smiled.

  ‘Is he a fruitcake?’ Sally asked, incredulous.

  ‘Honest opinion?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A total nutcase. I think you’ll have to tread very carefully. I suspect he will be well known to the local health services. He said he was told to do it. He’ll need to see a doctor before interview, but I suspect he knew what he was doing. He seems pleased to have satisfied some old family honour, or something.’

  Sally exhaled, puffing her cheeks out and considering her options. She looked at her watch, before barking at a tall plain-clothed officer. ‘Right, get Leitch to Burnett Road, no way will Wick be able to handle this; we need him in Inverness. It’s getting late now. Get him booked in, all clothes forensically bagged, and get the doc along. We’ll also need a body map doing for him – fingernail scrapings and clippings, hair samples, DNA, you know the drill. No interviews tonight. By the time we’ve finished, it’ll be well late.’

  ‘No bother, Boss.’ The officer – a middle-aged, grizzled-looking detective – nodded.

  ‘Not teaching you to suck eggs, but make sure we get him assessed by the doc for fitness to detain and interview, and be ready to look for an appropriate adult. Last thing we need is the interview getting excluded.’

  The officer nodded again, turned and jogged back to the car, getting into the back alongside Leitch, who sat passively, his head slightly bowed, as if in prayer, as the car pulled away.

  ‘You think this seems too easy?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Far too easy, but we are where we are. What’s happening at the graveyard?’

  ‘Grave is now tented and fully secured. We won’t look to recover the victim until the forensic pathologist has been and done his thing. We may get a forensic entomologist along, if I can persuade her to leave the university. The fly larvae may confirm length of time in the ground, not that I think time of death is in question, but belt and braces, eh?’

  ‘Good plan. Despite what Hardie Junior has told us, we can never be sure. I wouldn’t trust him to lie straight in bed,’ said Max.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth. I’m throwing everything at this. We do a half-arsed job and the family will be all over us like a cheap suit.’

  ‘How about this place?’ asked Max nodding at the small cottage.

  ‘I think we’ll have a very quick walk-through, just in case there are any bodies or severed heads in there, but beyond that I’ll have a local uniform guard it until we can get PolSA in tomorrow. May as well do it properly. You want to take a quick look? You have more insight on this, particularly having met the family,’ said Sally.

  ‘Sure,’ said Max, aware that between the three scenes of the graveyard, Leitch and the cottage, her numbers were getting thin on the ground. Strange as it sounded, Leitch would be treated as a crime scene, as much as the graveyard. He potentially had crucial evidence all over his clothes and body, especially as they didn’t look like they’d been changed recently.

  ‘Aye, we can hang about a wee while. He did say that it was ironic that Hardie was killed with the same family cutlass used to kill his great-great-grandfather. If he’s telling the truth and it’s in there, you’ll want it for interview, I assume?’

  ‘Christ, what do we have here, some weird vendetta?’

  ‘It’s feeling that way.’ Max shrugged and smiled.

  ‘Okay, let’s suit up and walk through, literally what we can see on surfaces, nothing too deep. The worst thing we could have now would be that Leitch had someone tied up inside and we hadn’t at least had a quick look. Janie, can you be ready with a productions book just in case we decide to take anything?’ Sally looked at Janie, smiling.

  ‘No problems, Boss, gets us away from the bloody midges,’ Janie said with a resigned smile, swatting at the swarming insects.

  They all dressed in forensic suits, overshoes and gloves. As always, one set of kit per scene. The last thing they needed was a later suggestion that any material found inside Leitch’s cottage was brought in by them on their clothing.

  The cottage was small. Just two rooms on the ground floor, a small sitting room and a compact, old-fashioned galley kitchen with a tiny bathroom leading off it. Max was surprised at how tidy it was. There was so little stuff about inside the place. Leitch clearly had no regard for possessions. There was just a small television, a single armchair and a shelving unit that contained half a dozen or so paperback books. Looking on the wall there was a faded photograph of an impossibly young Leitch dressed in a naval uniform.

  ‘I never had him pegged as a serviceman,’ Max said, staring at the portrait.

  ‘I can see it; check how tidy this place is. He looks scruffy but his home is clean and ordered,’ Janie said from behind her forensic mask.

  ‘Doesn’t make sense to me. Everything seems to be a contradiction,’ said Sally.

  Max looked across into the kitchen at the small dining table that was laid out with a plate, knife, fork and spoon, all ordered ready for a meal. Max opened the fridge, noting that it was completely empty other than three pre-packaged ready meals and several cans of strong lager.

  Sat on the scratched coffee table was a red, leather-bound A4 notebook, worn and battered-looking. The front cover bore no letters or indication as to what it contained, but its position in the centre of the table suggested importance. A blue ballpoint pen lay centrally on top of it. Max bent down to open it, setting the pen to one side. On the inside of the cover was a scrawled verse in spidery handwriting.

  The deil’s awa the deil’s awa,

  The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman,

  He’s danc’d awa he’s danc’d awa

  He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman.

  Max frowned, wondering what the old poem was about.

  He began leafing through the pages. A faded envelope was taped to the inside of the cover. It was cracked and yellowed with age, the tape barely fixing it in place. There was a single word written on the envelope in spidery handwriting in fading blue ink: Leitch.

  The pages of the book were densely packed with a barely legible scrawl that at first glance appeared just to be ramblings. Max only paid limited attention, but certain words jumped off the pages as he leafed through the journal. Quest, feud, Hardie, exciseman, and honour seemed to feature heavily. There were a number of yellowing and faded newspaper clippings, all seemingly journalistic pieces on the Hardie family and their suspected links to organised crime. This was golden, thought Max.

  ‘We have an insight into the mind of Leitch, right here. It’s a journal, of some kind. It reeks of paranoia and it looks like he has been waiting for Hardie to turn up for years. Your motive is here, written in Leitch’s own hand.’

  Sally let out a deep sigh as she looked over Max’s shoulder at the book.

  ‘What’s the deal with the poem at the front?’ she said.

  ‘Burns,’ said Janie.

  ‘What, as in Rabbie Burns?’ said Max.

  ‘Aye, Burns was an exciseman, you know, early version of customs and excise, about 1790, or so. Not a very good one, I seem to recall reading, and he wrote that poem about it. It’s still often sung at folk clubs.’ Janie began to tun
efully sing a few bars of the poem, before stopping, realising that Max and Sally were both staring at her. ‘Strange thing to have in a journal,’ said Janie, her cheeks colouring under her mask.

  ‘You’re full of surprises,’ said Sally. ‘Some poor bugger is going to have to sift through and copy that out. Leave it there; I’ll have it photographed. What’s in the envelope?’

  Max lifted the flap and slid out a folded piece of paper, brittle and yellowing. He carefully unfolded it on the table. The paper was cracked and aged, the ink fading, but legible. Max laid it flat on the table and they both read.

  Dearest James,

  As my life is now drawing to an end, son, so the time has come to pass on the torch that was handed to me by your grandpa, before his death.

  Manny year ago, in 1830, your grandpa, Hector Leitch, was forced to defend our famly from the villan Hardie when I was a wean. A corupt and evil man, working for the English King as a bastad, corupt gager.

  Hardie cam for Grandpa Duncan with his navy cutlass with murder in mind, as Grandpa Duncan would not pay his bribe, and Granpa Hector smash him arm with his stick. Hector then finish the bastad Hardie with his own cutlass. Afraid the rope, they hid the body in the old cematry at Ballachly under the grave never to be opened.

  The Hardie family are all bastads, but we stoppd them and there bully.

  We must ware that Hardie will return, for revenge, James. We must protect the family, boy. For honour, and for what is right. One day, Hardies will return to Caithness, and we must be ready, boy. Hardie remains where he belongs. In Hell.

  Go well, James.

  I’m proud of you.

  Pa.

  9th April 1890

  ‘Christ,’ was all that Sally said.

  Max shrugged. ‘A feud from 1830. A feud that could only have been carried on by people with mental illness. The press will go bloody mad for this.’