Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  “Thanks, Hamish. That’s been a great help.”

  “Glad to help, sir.” Hamish shook his head in sorrow, “There’s nothing worse than losing a child, sir.” Seconds ticked by without the sergeant moving from his seat until he shared a sombre look with Corstorphine. “Nothing.”

  The desk sergeant got back to his feet, his steps slow and deliberate as he made his way back to the front desk. Corstorphine watched as he left the office, wondering whether Hamish was referring to the dead reporter’s child or if there was a personal tragedy nearer to home. How well did anyone know the people they worked with, day in, day out? He knew the old sergeant was married, that they didn’t have any children – had they lost a child themselves, in childbirth or to illness? He pursed his lips, aware for the first time since losing his wife that he never really talked to anyone anymore, that his world had collapsed in on itself so much that he inhabited a lonely universe with room only for himself and a ghost. Corstorphine put that unsettling thought to the back of his mind before he opened the bulging file and started reading.

  XI

  MONDAY 15:00

  The Courier’s offices occupied the first floor of a substantial stone-built Victorian building, one of the many built following the construction of the railway in the mid-19th century. The ground floor that used to house giant cast iron printing presses was now home to a budget supermarket; garish window decorations announcing bargains in primary colours and fun fonts. Frankie sat in her car, watching the steady stream of shoppers as they negotiated automatic doors with reluctant children, buggies and bags. The gamekeeper’s comments had rerun in her mind as she drove to the newspaper offices – the sheriff and Oscar being hand-in-glove for years. True enough, not one complaint for violence had ever stuck and yet everyone knew he was a vicious bully. What possible reason could the sheriff have for protecting him, and why did he hire Oscar as the estate gamekeeper when he could have had any number of experienced candidates? Frankie looked up towards the first floor windows with trepidation. She wasn’t looking forward to talking to the press, and even less keen to see what they’d put into print for tomorrow’s edition after she’d talked to them.

  The young woman who met her at reception was slightly familiar, she’d seen her somewhere before. Frankie was good with faces, but it was her clothes that made her stand out – more European casual chic than anything readily available in the high street. She proffered a hand, her elegant, long fingers clasping Frankie’s in a light grip as she welcomed her. “Hello, I’m Josephine Sables. I have an office where we can talk privately. This way.”

  She turned and walked back down the corridor, although Frankie wasn’t sure that the verb ‘walk’ did justice to the balletic glide of the figure she followed, contrasting, she felt, unfavourably with the stolid gait she herself exhibited. Josephine’s name had been pronounced in a French style and matched the light trail of perfume she left in her wake. She stopped at a door, holding it open for Frankie to enter. Inside was a table dominated by a large Apple iMac screen, a filing cabinet adorned with a vase of plastic flowers and two swivel chairs, one of which Josephine immediately occupied. She motioned towards the remaining chair and smiled encouragingly at Frankie as one would to put a child at ease. “How can I help you, Ms?”

  The word hung in the air, a row of z’s fading into silence as if a solitary bee had just left the room in search of nectar. “McKenzie. Detective Constable Frankie McKenzie.”

  “Ah. Detective.” The word was elongated, rolled around in her mouth as if she was tasting it before repeating it in fluent Franglais. “Is this to do with the murder in the glen?” Her eyes came alive with interest, hazel-brown eyes that held Frankie’s in a penetrating gaze.

  “You could say that.” Frankie felt uncomfortable under such direct observation and decided to cut to the chase. “What I’d like to know, Josephine, is where you got any idea that this may have been a murder and not just a suicide. I see you’ve printed the story in today’s Courier. What makes you so sure? You’ll look pretty stupid if our investigations show it’s a suicide.”

  Josephine’s expression didn’t change. “We have our sources. It’s important to us at the Courier that we tell the truth to our readers. Are you denying this was a murder? I’d be more than happy to quote you on the record if we have been given incorrect information.”

  Frankie cursed inwardly, this wasn’t going at all well. “We are not in a position to confirm or deny whether this was a murder. All I’m asking is that you refrain from printing allegations which are unsubstantiated and which could adversely affect our enquiry.”

  “What if our stories are substantiated?”

  “What do you mean? Only officers concerned with the investigation would be able to confirm any findings, the rest is hearsay.” Frankie paused, aware she’d been given a steer. “Are you being given information by one of our officers?”

  “My sources must remain confidential, you know that, Frankie.”

  Frankie was thinking her name sounded so much more attractive spoken in a French accent. She shook her head in exasperation. “Look, all I’m asking is that you let us do our job without making it even more difficult than it already is.” She thought rapidly, identifying the probable source for any leaks shouldn’t be that difficult. “We can help each other here. I’m willing to let you have first knowledge of any real developments we make on this case, but I want something from you in return.”

  Josephine sat back in her chair as if in consideration, but Frankie could see she’d taken the bait. “What can we do for you?”

  Frankie took a deep breath. “There was a reporter on this paper back in 1997. Her name was June Stevens.” She watched Josephine in vain for any flicker of recognition. “We believe she was working on a story just before she committed suicide. Is there anyone we can talk to who was working with her at the time?”

  Josephine shook her head. “The Courier has only ever had two reporters on the books at the same time since the turn of the century. I’ve been here just over six months. I replaced the previous chief reporter who retired last year. The only other reporter is the junior, straight out of high school. He’ll last a year at most, then another youngster will take his place.” She smiled conspiratorially at Frankie. “We take them on as apprentices, a government scheme that allows us to pay them minimum wage. Someone has to write up the hatched, matched and dispatched.” Her smile returned even more broadly, pleased to have learnt a new turn of phrase that sounded almost poetic when spoken in a foreign tongue.

  “Would you have her notebook, or a copy of any notes she may have left from that time?”

  Josephine made a note on a pad lying open on the desk between them. “Suicide? I can have a look in the archives. Why is this important? How does it connect to the murder?”

  Frankie let the word ‘murder’ slip this time. “We don’t know if there is a connection, but we have to investigate the apparent coincidence of them both dying at the same location.” She looked directly into Josephine’s eyes so there was no room for any misunderstanding. “We found a coin under the tree, it hadn’t been there for more than a few days. It was minted the same year June Stevens died, that’s why we need to look into any connection. You can’t use any of this in your reporting, you understand?”

  The reporter nodded just once, quick and efficient. “We are a reputable newspaper, Frankie, and would not want to compromise your investigations in any way.”

  Frankie relaxed slightly, maybe this was going better than she’d initially thought.

  “Tell me, did Oscar come as he died on the tree?”

  “What did you say?” She thought she’d misheard the question, or Josephine’s grasp of English wasn’t as perfect as it had first appeared.

  “I wondered if he died with an erection, whether there was semen on his underwear. I’ve heard that this can happen when a man dies on the gallows.”

&
nbsp; Frankie looked askance at the reporter. There were limits. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that – and if I did I would be the last person to tell you.”

  Josephine looked unperturbed at her outburst. “Well, what can you tell me about the murder of the minister?”

  Frankie’s moment of self-congratulation at her handling of the press evaporated before it had a chance to attain any sense of permanence. “What do you mean, murder?” Her words sounded like bluster, even to her own ears.

  The reporter’s smile reminded Frankie of the look a cat gives a mouse when it has been allowed to escape, only to have a clawed paw impale its tail. Her eyes were inquisitive but also possessed a calculating edge that hadn’t been there before. “Frankie.” Her name was spoken like a gentle reprimand. “We’ve already been told the roof timbers had been sawn through, and I do not think the minister was capable of climbing up the bell tower without assistance.” Josephine adopted a conciliatory tone. “We have to tell our public what we know, otherwise we are no better than those national newspapers that sell pictures of fake breasts along with fake news.” Her hands reached across the table towards Frankie, the act of a supplicant searching for something. “We can help each other, Frankie. I promise to pass on whatever we discover if you can keep me as up to date with developments as you can. This story will go national, you know that. Soon there will be reporters all over the town, and they won’t care who or what they trample over in search of a story. You give me exclusive access and in return we can make the story more sympathetic, show the police in a better light”

  Frankie felt as trapped as the mouse. “What are you going to print about the minister?”

  Josephine nodded, pulling her hands back across the table to flick over the Mac keyboard, almost silent keystrokes punctuating the silence in the room. “The next edition will be in the shops tomorrow. If you have a line of questioning that the public may be able to help with, fine – we’ll print a request for help.” She stood up, announcing that the interview was over. “In the meantime, I’ll start searching for June Stevens’ notebook for you. Do you have contact details?”

  Frankie passed over a dog-eared business card with her phone number and took a pristine card from Josephine in return. As they walked back down the corridor Josephine lifted an A3 sheet from a printer. The headlines screamed Minister of St Cuthbert’s crushed under Church Bell. It was folded in half before Frankie could read any further, Josephine passing it to her almost conspiratorially before opening the door that led out to the street. “Thank you for visiting me, Frankie. I’m sure we can work well together.”

  As the door closed and Frankie stood looking back up at the Courier offices, she wondered who’d been interviewing whom? Making her way back to the car, Frankie made a mental shortlist of whoever may have been feeding the paper information. It wasn’t Corstorphine, it sure as hell wasn’t her – that left the sergeant and the two uniforms. The only other sources were the fire crew and the building surveyors. Christ, it was a mess! As soon as the print hit the newsstands tomorrow the proverbial shit would hit the fan. One thing she could agree with Josephine on, two unusual murders happening this close together in the same town would bring the major papers and broadcast news reporters to the town in droves. She returned to the station, one part of her mind running through how she was going to tell Corstorphine that the press were all over the story, the other part wondering how a French woman came to be working as a reporter on a provincial Scottish newspaper.

  Corstorphine was also deep in thought. The file that the desk sergeant had brought him posed more questions than answers. His predecessor, Inspector Brian Rankin, had retired seven years previously. It was his name on the report into the June Stevens suicide that Corstorphine had been studying, an errant eyebrow raised higher as he devoured the contents of the document that Hamish had deposited on his desk. The forensics report was light at best, glossing over the woman being found hanging from the lower branches of the old oak in the glen, cause of death – suicide by hanging. There was no mention of any vehicle. Did the old DI think a young mother would abandon her daughter, carry a heavy rope the length of the glen and then manage to effectively kill herself? The photographs embedded in the file neglected to show any item she could have used as a step to position the noose around her neck before kicking it away. Come to think of it, he had only been able to reach the lower limbs of the tree by using his Land Rover as a makeshift platform, so how the hell had this poor girl managed to climb the tree and tie the rope unaided? Then there was the witness who reported the death, some Australian tourist apparently, who had never been identified, calling from a public call box. By rights he should have been a person of interest, but no real attempt had ever been made to trace him. The more he read, the more uncomfortable he felt.

  Corstorphine leaned back in his leather seat, cradling the back of his head in his arms. The report contained witness statements which all broadly agreed that June Stevens had been behaving oddly for several months prior to her apparent suicide. None of the witnesses had suggested she was depressed, the words they used had been distracted, worried, frightened. One report had described how she had suddenly become overly protective of her daughter, refusing to let her out to play with friends, describing her as ‘a prisoner, locked in the house’. These were not character statements that he’d associate with a potential suicide, more descriptive of someone suffering from a mental illness. In which case, she may have taken her own life whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed. He glanced up as Frankie’s car entered the car park at the rear of the station. The case was long closed, it would be a devil of a job to try and go over the evidence this far on – and there was no way his superiors would sanction anyone digging over ancient history without solid evidence that the original case had been mishandled. Anyway, Corstorphine told himself, there probably wasn’t anything to connect the girl’s suicide to Oscar’s murder – just a coin found at the scene which by chance was minted on the date of her death.

  He glanced up at the office clock, it was coming up to four. He stood, pulling on his coat as Frankie entered the office. “How did you get on?” Corstorphine could see from her face that he shouldn’t expect an answer he was going to like.

  “I met with the reporter, a French woman called Josephine Sables. She knows about the church bell timbers being sawn through. It’s going to be in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Corstorphine took the folded sheet of A3 as if he was handling something poisonous, opening it out to reveal the story. “Shit! Who’s been feeding her the information?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Could be one of the team, or it could be the fire crew – or even the building surveyors. Either way, the cat’s out of the bag. She’s asked for exclusive information in return for finding out what June Stevens was working on.”

  “Has she now?” Corstorphine shook his head in frustration, he should have gone to the paper himself. “What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t. Thought I’d run it past you first.” Frankie decided to get all of the bad news out of the way at once. “She mentioned that the nationals will take note of two murders happening in the same small town this close together.”

  Corstorphine sighed heavily, placing the A3 sheet face down on his desk as if he could hide the story for a while longer. “I guess it was unavoidable, a snared gamekeeper and a minister killed by his own church bell. We’ll have to tighten up our act, Frankie. The Assistant Chief is going to be all over this as soon as the national press get wind. We’ve tomorrow at best to make some progress, after that we’ll be tripping over bloody reporters and film crews.”

  Frankie hesitated, unsure whether the reporter’s strange question had any bearing on the case. “One other thing she said, sir.”

  Corstorphine paused, wearing what Frankie termed his impatient face.

  “She asked whether Oscar died with an erection, whether he’d ejaculated as he
died.”

  The detective’s eyebrow responded accordingly. “What sort of bloody question is that?”

  “I don’t know, sir, couldn’t see why she wanted to know.” Frankie walked over to her desk to cover her embarrassment. She had the remnants of a Scottish Presbyterian upbringing still flowing in her veins and the subject material was difficult for her to discuss.

  “French, you say?”

  “Yes, sir, certainly sounded French.”

  “Well, that explains that!” He said this dismissively, closing the conversation down, much to Frankie’s relief, and grabbed his car keys, thinking furiously. Time was closing in on their investigation and they still hadn’t had the results from the belfry. “I’m going to pay a visit to Brian Rankin, go over some of the details in the June Stevens suicide just in case there’s a connection. You chase up the forensics report on the church. I hope to God we find something tangible to report, otherwise it’s going to get bloody uncomfortable here.”

  Frankie watched him leave, feeling the unvoiced reprimand in the set of his shoulders as he turned away from her. The newspaper hadn’t been handled well, she knew the leak of information had infuriated him, but what could she do once the journalists had the story? She sat at her desk and keyed in the number for the Inverness forensics team.

  XII

  MONDAY 17:09

  “Come on in, James. Molly’s just put the kettle on. You’ve time for a tea?”

  Corstorphine shook the old DI’s hand, stepping into the hallway of an anonymous bungalow on the outskirts of town. The area was full of retired folk, the neat postage stamp gardens and manicured hedges evidence of those with hours to kill and nothing much to fill those hours.