Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  “Thank you, Sierra four-five. We’ve already been notified that there has been an incident, that’s why you were sent there. Can you provide a level of detail above the obvious? Over.”

  PC Lamb frowned at his radio transmitter. He could imagine the sarge doing a whisky tango. Feeling more upbeat he continued, “It’s the minister. Looks like the bell came down on top of him. Over.”

  “What’s his status? Over.”

  PC Lamb had seen his status and it wasn’t good. “He’s dead, sarge, he’s a dead ringer.” Why had he said that? Something told him the sarge wouldn’t appreciate his humour. “Over.” he added quickly.

  “Your career will be over if I hear you say that again. Secure the scene. We’ll have to send in the DI. Just wait there and keep anyone not wearing a uniform out of the church. Over and out.”

  PC Lamb clipped the transmitter back into place on his uniform and began herding the more inquisitive members of the public out of the graveyard. He spotted the young woman reporter from the local paper, waving her phone at him as she approached. His mood lifted; they’d shared a few drinks just the other evening and he thought he might be in with a chance. He straightened his back in case she took an impromptu snap and wondered if he could get the words bell and end into the newspaper report without incurring the sergeant’s wrath.

  VI

  SUNDAY 11:43

  Corstorphine stood in the shattered doorway of the bell tower, surveying the damage wrought by a 575kg cast bronze bell falling 30 metres. Parts of the minister were still recognisable, those arms and legs that protruded from beneath the bell. He went to scratch his head, remembering belatedly that he was wearing a safety helmet, and his arm fell back uselessly at his side.

  “Jesus!” Frankie’s offering had little to do with the sanctity of the scene. “Have you seen the timber?” Her hand pointed at an upended oak beam, buried in the dust and rubble, the exposed end pointing back up the tower. It had been sawn almost completely through, just a ragged line of torn timber paid testament to the point at which the tensile strength had failed.

  Corstorphine nodded. “That’s not what bothers me.” She frowned at him, puzzled, then followed his line of vision to see what he was focussed on. The rubble-strewn ground was covered in a fine layer of white dust, plaster turned into clouds where the ceiling immediately above their heads had been pulverised. It took her a while to see what concerned him, then she saw it – a fragment of a gearwheel, too small to be part of the bell-ringing mechanism. The similarity to the gearwheels they’d collected at the Hanging Tree was clear.

  “Jesus!”

  “I really don’t think he’s going to help us, Frankie, no matter how many times you invoke his name.” Corstorphine shone a flashlight into the tower, the light catching quartz crystals in the stonework which shone briefly like stars, tiny pinpricks of diamond light in an otherwise dark, square universe. He slipped the torch back into his pocket. “There’s nothing more we can do here until the tower’s made safe. See if the church can be secured, I’ll get hold of the forensics team again.” Corstorphine turned to leave. “Put a rocket under the building surveyors when they get here, we need the body and bell removed and a fingertip search of all the rubble. I’ll see you back at the station.”

  As he left the scene, Corstorphine puzzled over what possible link could exist between the town bully and a minister. Was there even a connection to be made or was someone randomly killing for the sheer hell of it? Either way his workload had just increased dramatically. He keyed the number for the Inverness forensics team on the way to his car, this could be another first for them.

  Frankie stood in the doorway for a while longer, staring at the bloodied remains of the minister’s extremities splayed under the cracked church bell. She was thinking along the same lines as Corstorphine – there had to be a connection, but what possible link could there be? She told PC Lamb to stay put and not let anything other than the minister’s remains and the bell be taken out of the church, handing him more reels of blue and white police tape with instructions to put a cordon around the entire scene of crime. Quite how they were going to extract the minister was one problem she was glad to leave to the ambulance and fire services, now waiting outside until the building was declared safe.

  Once back at the station, Corstorphine added the minister’s name, the Reverend Simon McLean, to the crazy board. His marker stood alone and unconnected, in death as well as in life. Sighing heavily, he drew a rough gearwheel in the middle of the whiteboard, linking it to Oscar and the minister. Somehow, they had to be connected. He keyed his computer into life, brought up Oscar’s case notes and searched for the minister on the police VALCRI system. Quite why their inconsequential Highland station had been chosen to trial the new European software was a mystery, but at this stage Corstorphine was glad to use any tool at his disposal. Unsurprisingly there was nothing. The minister had led a blameless existence as far as the police were concerned, not even so much as a parking ticket. He tried entering bone gears as a key word, again nothing. Corstorphine sighed again, staring at the computer screen as if force of will could entice it to impart some meaningful clue. The screen remained devoid of inspiration and Corstorphine switched the computer off in disgust and pulled on his jacket. The forensics report from Oscar’s death was due in tomorrow and there was nothing he could realistically accomplish by staying here on a Sunday.

  He took a well-used detour on the drive home, stopping off at the Indian take-away to collect an early dinner. Once back at his house, Corstorphine switched on the TV, collapsing into a settee large enough for three and commenced forking mouthfuls of chicken tikka masala and pilau rice directly out of the tinfoil trays. The programme was something to do with antiques, the presenter a curious shade of orange like some overgrown oompa loompa. Delighted pensioners oohed and aahed over china ornaments and silver trays, trying to achieve the impossible trick of not realising they were on television. He let it all wash over him, the images and voices a substitute for company, a way for him to pretend that his loneliness was just an illusion. It wasn’t meant to be like this – he had never expected to be faced with nothing but his own company day in, day out. The two murders were a relief in one respect, something tangible to fill his time. If he concentrated on work, he had less opportunity to dwell on himself – a subject of diminishing interest and growing depression.

  Monday morning brought the rain, sheets of water falling from leaden grey clouds and adding to the air of despondency that lay over the police station as they held the morning briefing. Corstorphine stood in front of the crazy board, the two recent deaths of Oscar and the Reverend Simon McLean sharing pole position at the top. Margo and the gamekeeper, John Ackerman, held the centre of the display – subject to further enquiry. Both were tenuously linked, in both Corstorphine and Frankie’s view, to the gear wheel he’d drawn yesterday; it was a modus operandi not suited to either of the two suspect’s characters or abilities. The full team were in attendance; PC Philip Lamb accompanied by an older constable, PC Bill McAdam, and Sergeant Hamish McKee. Frankie stood beside him, waiting to add what little she could to the briefing.

  “As you all know, Oscar’s body was found in the Hanging Tree on Saturday, on the track to the gamekeeper’s cottage in Glen Mhor. We’re awaiting the forensics report from the scene, but it seems most likely that someone, or some people, set a snare for him.” Corstorphine fiddled with a remote control and a picture of Oscar’s final moments appeared on the screen beside him. “Death would have been instantaneous. He was on his quad bike when he hit the wire snare, so the force of the impact almost sliced his head off.”

  “I’ve just had my bacon butty and tomato sauce.”

  “Lamb!” The sergeant’s disapproving voice cut across anything else the young constable was going to offer in terms of commentary.

  “It’s just as well you were present at the next death then, Lamb, otherwise this pict
ure might have really spoilt your breakfast.” Corstorphine keyed the next slide and the incongruous grouping of the shattered church bell and what was left of the minister filled the screen. The image was more like a cartoon depiction than that of a real death – two legs and an outstretched arm visible under the massive bell. It was only the volume of blood that brought the picture out of the realms of humour back into grim reality. Corstorphine found he was pausing to allow Lamb time to interject another quip and hastily continued.

  “The minister of St Cuthbert’s died yesterday morning when the church bell fell on him. We’re at an early stage in the investigation, but I can tell you the timbers holding the bell in place had been sawn through deliberately.”

  “What’s this got to do with Oscar, sir?” PC McAdam voiced the question they all wanted to ask.

  “That’s what we’d like to know, Bill. I can’t give you any more detail at the moment, truth is we are as in the dark as the rest of you, but there are common elements to both deaths that make me believe there is a strong link. Do any of you know of any connection, however obscure, between Oscar and the minister?”

  The small group looked at each other, puzzled expressions and shaking heads giving Corstorphine the answer he had been expecting.

  “OK. Keep a lid on the rumour factory, I don’t want word getting out that we think there’s anything connecting these two for the time being. At the same time, see what you can find out about the both of them, just in case there’s something that can help us in the investigation. That’s all. I don’t want to hold you back from your work.” Corstorphine held out an arm to stop PC McAdam from leaving. “Bill, we need to pick up this gamekeeper – John Ackerman. I want you to accompany Frankie and bring him in for questioning.”

  “I understand, sir.” McAdam turned towards Frankie. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “No time like the present, Bill. We’ll see you in a couple of hours, sir.”

  Corstorphine watched them leave and realised the sergeant was still in the briefing room. He stood awkwardly, as if some internal and unresolved conflict was occupying his mind.

  “What is it, Hamish?” Corstorphine quizzed the desk sergeant.

  Hamish indicated Corstorphine’s office. “Do you mind if we talk in there, sir?”

  “No, of course not, come on in.” He shut the door behind the sergeant and motioned him to take one of the spare seats. Corstorphine sank into the old leather chair as the sergeant started speaking, each word carefully considered before the next word could appear.

  “There may be a link, sir, but I’m not sure if it’s going to be of much use to you.”

  “Anything you can give me at this stage is a bonus, Hamish. I’ve damn little to go on, and don’t hold out much hope that this John Ackerman is going to fill in any of the blanks for us. What’s on your mind?”

  The sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the frown on his forehead deepening. “When Oscar was five years old, he’d just started school. Well, he was the same as all the other kids as far as I could tell. I used to go around the local primary schools introducing myself as the local bobby, and I remember Oscar because he wanted to try on my helmet – almost lost him in there!” Corstorphine smiled in encouragement, he had no idea where this story was going but he listened patiently.

  The desk sergeant continued. “It was several months after he’d started school when there was a bit of a stushie. He’d told one of the teachers that the minister had been ‘touching him’. There weren’t the same procedures to follow back then, and the whole thing was dismissed as a malicious prank. DI Brian Rankin, your predecessor, carried out an investigation and found nothing in it, nothing at all. The minister was quite upset for months afterwards, had a few meetings with Oscar’s parents and the teachers. Oscar was given a fair larruping by his dad – they were members of the congregation, so Oscar’s behaviour must have been mortifying for both his parents at the time. The thing is, I always had my doubts about it. No smoke without fire as they say. Not that there was ever any evidence,” he added quickly.

  Corstorphine nodded in response, child abuse was not something that anyone would believe of a minister back then – how times change.

  “What I’m trying to say, sir, is that nobody believed the wee five-year-old boy at the time.” He looked at Corstorphine in a way that reminded him of someone seeking contrition. “With all the stories you hear today, I’ve sometimes wondered, what if he was telling the truth? The minister’s dead now, so we’ll never know, but Oscar was a fine wee lad when he started school and after that he turned into what he was. I’d hate to think we had a part to play in that, sir, by never believing the wee lad.”

  “As you say, Hamish, it’s too late now. If you want my opinion, Oscar was a bad apple from the start – I wouldn’t put it past him trying to get the minister into trouble just for the hell of it.” He stood up, signalling the end of the conversation.

  “If you say so, sir.” The sergeant got to his feet, doubt still evident on his face. “And it doesn’t really help you though, does it? Oscar would have been the one looking for revenge, but he’s already dead.” He left the detective’s office, heading back to his habitual position at the front desk. Corstorphine sat in silence, the sergeant’s words repeating on a loop inside his mind. It was a tenuous link at best.

  Oscar could have sawn the beam in the bell tower, although he’d have had to get past the locked bell tower door. But then the gears, in both murders. If there was a connection, who would have wanted them both dead? More to the point, what if there were other people on the killer’s list? Corstorphine was already facing an unprecedented crime wave. Any more deaths and his team would be put under the microscope.

  His email chimed, announcing the arrival of the Inverness forensics report – he scanned the document: no fingerprints, no DNA. There was a paragraph about the gears left in the tree, without any conclusion as to their use. One item leapt out at him. They’d performed a sweep with a metal detector around the bracken surrounding the tree and had found a single coin. The comment suggested it had only recently been left there as it was in near-mint condition, no obvious signs of handling were visible apart from a fine metal spiral attached to the centre. He looked at the photograph more closely. This wasn’t some loose change from Oscar’s pockets, it was a 1000 lire coin minted by the Vatican. The profile of Pope Paul II adorned the obverse, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Marlon Brando in the Godfather. Corstorphine printed the forensics report and stared at the photograph they’d taken of the coin, spinning the page to read the date stamped into the gold surface – MCMXCVII. He wrestled unsuccessfully with the translation of Roman numerals to something that made sense, before finally giving up and entering it into Google. The result came back as 1997. The next page of the report showed a picture of the reverse of the coin, a coat of arms bearing crossed keys were visible as well as the date written in Arabic numerals, confirming the Google translation. He leaned back in the leather seat, wondering if this was a deliberate message left for them to find. Did it signify a Mafia connection, or was there a link to the Catholic church? Corstorphine shook his head, that Godfather similarity must be clouding his judgement – even the Mafia’s reach wouldn’t extend to some rogue gamekeeper in a Highland glen. Oscar’s post mortem offered no clues either. Cause of death was a broken neck and severed windpipe; no other significant injuries were reported.

  Corstorphine leant back in his seat, imagining Oscar’s last few minutes. How had he not seen the snare? Had it been set overnight? That would explain why he hadn’t noticed it during the day. Driving down the glen first thing in the morning, the sun would have been in his eyes, he could easily have missed seeing the snare in the tree’s shadow. Then what was the point of all the bone gears, was someone leaving a message or were they part of the snare apparatus? Whoever had left it for him must have known that Oscar would drive right into it, they weren’t sim
ply trying to frighten him. Same with the minister. Dropping a bloody great bell on him from that height wasn’t offering him much hope of survival. Two definite murders, almost certainly the same killer – yet the murderer was careful enough to not be present at either death or, so far at least, leave any forensic evidence that could be used in a prosecution case. Either the murderer was incredibly lucky, or very, very careful.

  Through the office window he saw Phil Lamb adjusting his tie in the mirror he kept on his desk, then flicking an errant lock of hair back into place. The PC caught Corstorphine observing him, some sixth sense alerting him. Lamb waved at him, changing mid-wave into a slack salute and marched out of the office to pound the streets. Corstorphine sighed. How was he going to catch a murderer who left no trace when his only resource was a team of coppers eminently suited to a sleepy small-town patch? He had no delusions, the whole team were seen as second-rate coppers, including himself, left to police a backwater town and the surrounding area. Hamish was the oldest, hence most experienced cop there, but the desk sergeant needed a new adjective to describe the ponderous speed at which he undertook any activity. In effect he was already retired, propping up the front desk where his only excitement was dealing with the two or three members of the public who strayed into his domain each day. Phil Lamb was barely out of school, and it showed in his puerile behaviour – one day he might make a good cop but, for the time being, everyone had to be patient and teach him the ropes. Bill McAdam was a solid presence, a diligent if unimaginative policeman, a good man to have around if a drunk decided to take a swing at you, but he’d never make detective. Frankie was the only one he could rely upon for help with these murders, she was perceptive, a damn sight more perceptive than she let on. It would have to be the two of them – but they needed a break, just a bit of luck. The murderer would make a mistake, leave a fingerprint or DNA trace – they always did in the end.