by T F Muir
‘—when he said he saw something moving on the rocks.’
‘Where exactly was Mr Murdo when he saw this movement on the rocks?’
The entire office, it seemed, turned to face Chief Superintendent Smiley, who stood as still as a statue, smirk replaced by tight lips that warned everyone she meant business.
Mhairi said, ‘On the East Scores, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I know that, DC McBride. But what I’m asking is – how far away was he when he first saw something moving?’
Mhairi fumbled through her notes.
Gilchrist said, ‘That’s not important, ma’am.’
Smiley’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh really, DCI Gilchrist? How someone happened to notice movement on the rocks in the pitch black of a winter’s morning? And you don’t think that’s important? Did he have infra-red eyes? Night-vision binoculars? Would you care to explain?’
‘What I said, ma’am, is that—’
‘I know what you said.’
Gilchrist returned her look, seeing in her stiff-backed posture her need to stamp her authority on the Office. But the tension in her eyes gave her away, and the tiniest flush that crept from the collar of her blouse and coloured her neck exposed her vulnerability. Here was a woman in a mostly male-dominated profession, who had worked her way to a position of responsibility – and was rumoured to have her eye on greater aspirations – who felt the only way to command respect in her new job was to demand it.
Rather than inflame the confrontation, Gilchrist said, ‘Mr Murdo walked down the steps from the East Scores and on to the beach to check what he had seen, ma’am. The weather was wild at that time in the morning, so he wasn’t able to reach it. He did say in his statement that he thought it might have been a body, but it could just as easily have been a piece of flotsam.’ He gave a short smile, and added, ‘Moonlight. And a break in the clouds. That’s what helped him notice something moving, ma’am.’
‘And you’ve read his statement?’
Skimmed through it, more like. But he said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She gave a tight-lipped nod. ‘Carry on.’
He turned to the whiteboard and tapped the headshot. ‘She was wearing nothing more than jeans and a sweater—’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Mhairi?’
‘We found a black Nike running shoe close to the body. Size six. It looks like the right size, but we’ll get that confirmed.’
‘Laces?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Done or undone?’
‘Undone, sir.’
If you were dressing a dead woman, and put a pair of trainers on her, would you tie the laces? More than likely, Gilchrist supposed, but it did lend credence to the other shoe slipping off in the sea. He carried on with his briefing, identifying priorities – ID the most critical – assigning individuals to specific tasks, and couples for door-to-door interviews. He always encouraged his team to fire questions amongst themselves, ask the obvious or outlandish if they had to. Better to engage by brainstorming, than to sit back in silence.
About twenty minutes into his briefing, he noticed to his surprise that Smiley was no longer in the room. Since their confrontation – if it could be called that – she had monitored his briefing in silence, a mute overseer taking in everything and offering nothing. He knew it should not trouble him, but it did, the fact that she had challenged him so blatantly in front of his team, then backed down with surprising non-contention.
He hoped she didn’t feel as if he’d made her lose face.
For if she did, she could make his life a misery.
CHAPTER 4
By mid-afternoon, the wind had dropped, the skies had cleared, and the sea was about as calm as it would ever be for November. The SOCOs had scoured the rocks and cliff face at low tide, and found nothing of interest – as Gilchrist had suspected – and a search team had failed to find the other shoe, if indeed there ever had been the other shoe.
The woman’s body had been photographed and examined on the rocks by the SOCOs, then bagged and transported to the police mortuary in Bell Street, Dundee. Dr Rebecca Cooper was at trial in Edinburgh for most of that morning, giving evidence over an apparent suicide – a man missing for six days had been found dead in a village stream – but insisted she would start the post mortem herself that afternoon. Despite Gilchrist’s requests to have one of her assistants take over in her absence, she refused, even ending his call mid-sentence; post-affair professional relations were always a problem.
Seven months had passed since he and Cooper ended their affair, and it irked him greatly that he still found himself drawn to her. He had always seen it as an affair, the ever-present threat of it ending any moment with the soon-to-be-but-not-quite-yetdivorced Mr Cooper forever on the periphery. So, when he’d found himself listening to the tone of a dead line, he assigned Jessie to follow up with Cooper for the PM report.
Meanwhile, he would focus on trying to identify the woman.
Five teams of door-to-doors were well into their enquiries, having started at homes closest to the castle. But early reports were all negative. The discovery of the woman’s body was now being reported by the media, and Gilchrist ordered an E-fit image of the woman’s face, and an appeal to be put out on local and national TV news channels asking for anyone who might have seen her or have knowledge of her to contact their nearest police station. A toll-free number scrolled along the bottom of the screen like ticker-tape; callers were encouraged to use it with anonymity.
The MCA – Maritime and Coastguard Agency – was contacted for maritime charts of Fife and Tayside coastal waters, and experts consulted to determine where a body washed up in St Andrews might have originated. To add to their difficulties, an easterly wind recorded in excess of seventy miles per hour in places made calculations more difficult. Without knowing exactly how long the body had been submerged, they could be talking about a maritime area in excess of one thousand square miles.
With these numbers, they might as well stab a pin at a chart.
Hopes were momentarily raised when the same name cropped up three times within an hour – Mary Blenheim from a dairy farm near Ladybank – who had not been seen for four days. A mobile unit was assigned to check out the callers, until a woman identifying herself as Mary Blenheim phoned to confirm she had moved to Edinburgh to live with her new man. Lothian and Borders were contacted to confirm her new address, only to report back two hours later that she was indeed Mary Blenheim, and that her likeness to the dead woman was uncanny – if the latter changed her ethnicity to black Jamaican. Gilchrist considered having one of his team follow up in a few days to charge the callers with wasting police time.
In the meantime, he had more important issues at hand.
By 5 p.m., the incident room had received calls from fifty-six people claiming to recognise the dead woman. Four were obvious crank calls, and of the remaining fifty-two, seventeen said they had seen her in some shop, or bank, or in passing, and no, sorry, they didn’t know her name or where she lived. Each of the places where the woman had allegedly been sighted was marked with a red tack pinned to a map on the incident room’s wall. The East Neuk village of St Monans seemed to have the most sightings.
DC Mhairi McBride was the first to put her head on the block.
‘Four people say they saw her walking down Braehead here, sir,’ she said, and tapped the map. ‘Two, past the primary school here.’ Another tap. ‘But ask yourself, if she was seen at these locations, where was she coming from? I think she might have been living in the holiday park.’ She tapped the map again. ‘Here.’
Gilchrist raised his eyebrows. A caravan park might suit the profile of someone new to the area – annual visitors up for a week or two during the summer months, or for some peace and quiet during the off-season. Someone from out of town might explain why no locals had come forward with definitive ID. Still, he had limited resources, stretched at the moment on door-todoors, and had no doubt that Smiler would be keeping an eye on the budget.
But he could reassign one of the door-to-doors to the caravan park in the morning.
‘I know we’re tight on resources, sir,’ Mhairi said. ‘But I could have a look around the caravan park tomorrow.’
He nodded. That was a possibility. But he still had questions on the evidence they’d gathered thus far. ‘How are you getting on with her clothes?’
‘The sweater and jeans are your common or garden gear sold in a gazillion shops throughout the UK.’
He waited. ‘And?’
‘And that’s about it, sir.’
‘So you’ve found nothing?’
She picked up on his change in attitude. ‘Not nothing, sir. But I’m getting nowhere—’
‘Forget the caravan park. Finish what you were tasked to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He waited until Mhairi sat at her desk before he turned his attention to the map again. The caravan park was intriguing, but as he stared at the map he felt annoyed with himself for snapping at Mhairi. She was showing initiative, doing good detective work, even great, and was fast becoming a valued member of his team. But he needed everyone to complete the tasks he’d assigned them, or his investigation would spiral beyond his control. Of course, he was the wrong person to offer criticism. Look at how his career had plateaued due to his own maverick approach. Detective Chief Inspector was about as high up the ladder as he would ever make, and even then he felt fortunate to have climbed that far, having escaped demotion on a number of earlier cases. He decided he would have a chat with Mhairi later, share his experience, good and bad – hopefully explain the error of her ways.
Why have two careers ruined because of maverick initiative?
As he turned from the maps, Jessie signalled him over.
‘Just in from Her Highness,’ she said.
‘Which one? Cooper or Smiler?’
‘Haven’t seen Smiler since she sneaked out of here this morning. No, this is an early draft of the PM report.’
‘I thought Cooper didn’t do draft reports.’
‘She doesn’t, but I told her I was going to come to Bell Street and sit in her office if she didn’t give me something by close of business today.’
Well, he could see how that might work. The urbane Cooper and the brash Jessie were about as compatible as oil and water, but managed to maintain a professional relationship – only just.
‘So what have we got so far?’ he said.
‘Murder.’ Jessie scrolled down the screen. ‘Here we go. She was strangled. Cutaneous bruising on the neck consistent with compression of the throat. Cricoid cartilage fractured at the C6 vertebra, consistent with severe compression of the throat with intent to kill.’ She looked up at him. ‘You didn’t mention bruising.’
‘I didn’t see any,’ he said. ‘But her sweater didn’t help.’
‘Signs of a struggle?’
‘None obvious. How about toxicology results?’
‘Nope. They’ll come later. You’re thinking she was maybe drugged and couldn’t have put up any resistance?’
He was thinking that, and was again impressed by the speed of Jessie’s thought process. If the woman had been fully conscious, being strangled face-to-face almost guaranteed a fight-back.
‘What about under the fingernails?’ he asked.
Jessie mumbled as she read the screen. ‘Nothing about them yet.’
‘Hang on,’ he said, and walked to a rear window where he dialled Cooper’s mobile number. Outside, darkness had settled. Windows of homes beyond the boundary wall glowed from warmth within. How nice it must be to go home at the end of a fixed working day and put your feet up and watch the telly.
After twenty rings, he ended the call.
He dialled again. If Cooper saw the incoming call was his number, she might not pick up. But if she was still at the mortuary, working on the PM, she might see his persistence as a professional call – not that he’d been anything other than professional of late – and feel compelled to answer.
He killed the call, and dialled again.
It rang once.
‘Yes Andy.’
Even from just two words, he could tell Cooper was irritated. ‘Fingernails,’ he said. ‘Anything under them?’
‘Can’t this wait until I’ve written the PM report?’
‘Preferably not.’
She let out a heavy sigh, then said, ‘Nothing under the fingernails. So she didn’t put up a fight.’
‘Toxicology results?’
‘Should have those with you tomorrow.’
‘Any chance of getting them sooner?’
‘None.’
The line died.
Well, he supposed he had interrupted her. He glanced at his watch. He’d had nothing to eat since toast and marmalade that morning, and was more or less free until his debriefing in the Office at 7 p.m.
‘Hungry?’ he said to Jessie.
‘Trying to lose weight.’
‘I take it that’s a Yes?’
‘Yes, I’m hungry. And no, I’m not having anything to eat.’
‘Can you print out that draft PM report for me, then?’ He caught Mhairi’s eye and said, ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’
‘No, sir.’ She turned back to her screen.
Well, Mhairi could huff all she liked, but she would have to learn the hard way.
Jessie handed him the draft PM report – no more than half a dozen pages – which he flipped through as he strode to the door. ‘I’ll be back in thirty minutes,’ he said to no one.
The Criterion buzzed with the hubbub of an early Thursday evening; office workers wetting their throats at the end of a hard working day; students revelling in the possibility of an early start to the weekend; weather-beaten caddies wondering why that day’s cash was already running out.
Gilchrist worked his way to the bar, squeezed in between a pair of sozzled caddies with a smile and an Excuse me. Scottie was at the far end serving a couple of women, giving them his patter for all he was worth. If past experience was anything to go by, he could be tied up for several rounds. Gilchrist caught the assistant bartender’s eye; Martha, a history student at the University.
Gilchrist ordered a pint of Deuchars and a steak and ale pie, and managed to steal a seat at the window as a pair of American tourists – loud anoraks and white teeth a dead giveaway – settled their bill and left a cash tip. Outside, South Street pulsed with activity despite the weather. It might not be raining, but a cold wind that could cut bone was holding its own. Once seated, Gilchrist eyed the bar patrons, half-searching for Maureen and Tom. If he’d thought ahead, he could have met them here. But he was staying only until he ate his steak pie, so it was pointless calling them now.
He turned his attention to the draft PM report, annoyed that he hadn’t noticed bruising on the woman’s throat. Being wet and cold to the bone was no excuse, certainly not one Smiler would accept anyway, but it had contributed to his mistake. He sipped his beer. The hyoid bone wasn’t damaged, which can happen when the assailant’s thumbs press higher into the throat during the struggle. Damage only to the cricoid cartilage might suggest someone with strong hands – male perpetrator? – gripping the neck tight and squeezing the life from her, no need of thumbs for extra pressure. Of course, if she was drugged and already unconscious, her assailant could press his thumbs deep into her throat without fear of a struggle.
Was that unusual? He lifted the report from the table as his steak pie was placed in front of him. Just the smell of warm meat had his mouth watering. His mobile rang.
‘PC Tomkins here, sir. Sorry to trouble you.’
It took a couple of confused seconds for Gilchrist to place the name – the uniformed police officer who’d responded to his call for a domestic.
‘I’m calling about Mr Stevenson, sir. He’s been—’
‘Sorry?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Stevenson?’
‘Blair Stevenson, sir. The man you arrested this morning.’
‘Oh right, yes, how did that go? Did you a
lert the Social Services?’
A pause, then, ‘Well, no sir, his girlfriend turned up at the station. She’s now refusing to press charges. She more or less revoked her entire statement.’
Gilchrist gave a deflated curse. Abused women the world over seemed incapable of breaking free from their abuser, returning time and again to more abuse. It’s not like help was not available or hard to find. Social Services and a number of charitable organisations could protect these women, but importantly, protect the child.
‘But that’s not why I’m calling, sir.’
Gilchrist lifted his pint. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Blair Stevenson was admitted to hospital this afternoon, sir, suspected broken ribs and ruptured spleen.’
Ice swept through Gilchrist’s blood like a cold wind.
‘Said he was kicked on the ground by the arresting officer, and that he’s going to sue the police.’
‘And we believe him?’
‘He has a witness, sir.’
‘Who?’ he asked, but when the name came he was not surprised.
‘Jehane Marshall. His girlfriend.’
‘Thanks for calling, PC Tomkins.’
Gilchrist ended the call, and pushed his food away.
Outside, the night air burned as cold as his mood.
CHAPTER 5
10.17 p.m., North Street Office
St Andrews
Gilchrist felt an almost overpowering sense of déjà vu. Nothing had changed in the room. The desk and chairs were the same. The window blinds were the same – opened at a slight angle, raised a foot off the sill. Both bookshelves were the same, although if he was being honest, there appeared to be more books than he recalled. The same phone sat on the same spot on the same desk, its lead twisted and coiled over the edge as it always had done.
The only change was the person seated behind the desk, although it did not take much of an imagination to think that Chief Superintendent Tom Greaves might have morphed into Chief Superintendent Diane Smiley – who made a show of sniffing the air.
‘Do I smell alcohol?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, ma’am.’