Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  “Hi, Molly, how are you keeping?” He kissed the woman whose inquisitive face had turned into a welcoming smile as she recognised Corstorphine.

  “Och, I’m fine, James, and you’re looking more handsome every time I see you!” Her face crumpled into well-worn laughter lines. It was their standing joke that she was on the verge of leaving her husband to run off with the new DI. At least Corstorphine hoped it was a joke.

  “I’ll bring through a pot. You two must have lots of catching up to do.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, busying herself with cups and saucers – the old mugs being returned to the cupboard in deference to the arrival of a guest.

  “How are you keeping, Brian?” He settled into a plush armchair, noticing the old DI struggling to lower himself into his chair.

  “Och, me, I’m fine. Overdid the gardening yesterday so my back’s giving me gyp. What’s the latest on that terrible affair with Oscar? The paper’s calling it a murder.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You remember the reporter who died at the same spot – June Stevens?”

  Molly came in with a tray, cups and saucers rattling as she lowered it onto a small table. Her head lifted as she overheard a name she recognised. “That poor lass. Such a terrible thing.” Molly shook her head in disbelief that anything so tragic had happened in their quiet little town.

  “Now, Molly, don’t go getting upset. It’s all ancient history now – the poor girl is in a better place.” Brian patted her arm. “You’d better leave us to talk – police business.”

  “Police business,” she said disparagingly. “You’ve been retired seven years, Brian, I shouldn’t think you’re going to be of any help to James at all. Don’t you go exhausting him, James. He’s still recovering from doing all that gardening yesterday.”

  They waited until she’d left them before Brian spoke. “Why are you bringing that old case up, James, thought you’d have enough on your plate with Oscar’s death?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. I think there may be a link between her death and Oscar’s.”

  Brian’s jaw dropped, surprise written across his face. “Linked? How do you mean? Was Oscar’s death a suicide as well?”

  “Not quite. Someone left a coin at the scene which was minted in 1997, the same year that June Stevens was found hanging from that tree. I’m fairly certain Oscar’s death wasn’t a suicide, just need to check a few facts with you if that’s alright?”

  “Aye, happy to help in any way I can.” The old DI indicated the tray to Corstorphine, encouraging him to help himself. He took a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk. “Have a Tunnocks as well, they’ll not keep forever.”

  Corstorphine shook his head, wondering if Tunnocks teacakes did indeed possess some innate quality that made them close to immortal. Certainly, the ones his mother used to keep in a jar were manufactured before use by dates were even invented. “No, thanks. Got to watch the figure.”

  Brian settled back in his chair. “So, James, how can I help you?”

  “I was going over the old case notes on the June Stevens suicide. You were lead detective on that.”

  “Aye, that’s right. It was a terrible affair, such a young age to want to end it all.”

  “That’s the thing, Brian. How certain are you that it was a suicide?”

  “Och, there wasn’t any doubt. She’d been behaving very strangely in the last few months of her life, keeping that daughter of hers locked up in the house. There was no evidence of foul play, nothing that forensics came up with. No, it had all become too much for the lassie. Such a shame, these days she would have had help. It was a different time back then.” He took a sip of tea, followed by a bite from his teacake. “No, it was as open and shut a case as I’d ever seen.”

  Corstorphine carefully sat his teacup back on its saucer and looked steadily at the old inspector. “There are some things about the case I don’t understand.”

  “Fire away. It was some twenty years ago but my memory’s still working.”

  “How do you suppose she climbed the tree to fix the rope? I had to climb onto the Land Rover roof before I could get up into the lower branches.”

  Brian looked askance at Corstorphine. “She was a good bit younger than you are, James, and fitter.” He looked into some faraway point as if recalling the scene. “Aye, I think she threw the rope over the branch and tied it that way. Sort of thing kids do all the time when they’re making rope swings. I did the same myself as a lad, just need to tie one end to a stone or stick and throw it over the branch.”

  Corstorphine nodded. “Aye, I can see that might be possible. Nothing we can validate now without seeing how the rope was tied.”

  “No, that’s true enough. Forensics had the rope, of course. I wouldn’t imagine that they’d still have it, but it may be worth checking.”

  “I’ll do that. Another thing, what did she use to climb up into the noose? I couldn’t see anything in the photographs taken at the time?”

  Brian puzzled for a moment. “I think there was a boulder or something. She must have dragged it to the tree and stood on it before jumping off. The track’s still in use so it would have been moved to allow vehicles access to the site. Yes, that must have been it.” He nodded to himself before finishing the teacake in a second bite. “Forensics weren’t the power in the land that they are now. Whoever was first on the scene would have cleared the track for the emergency vehicles.”

  “Who was first on the scene, do you remember?”

  “Aye, Hamish. Hamish McKee. He was just a constable back then.”

  “OK. Thanks, Brian, that’s been a help. Always good to hear first hand.”

  “Glad I’ve been of assistance. Anything else I can help with just call, you know where I live.”

  Corstorphine finished his tea and rose out of the chair. As he made his way to the front door he turned back to ask a final question. “The daughter, what happened to her?”

  The old DI shook his head. “She was taken into care. No other family members came forward.”

  “Where was that, Brian? Where did she go?”

  The old DI hesitated as if he was searching his memory. “The old orphanage on City Road, the one run by the Sisters of Holy Mercy. Closed now, has been for many years.”

  “Where did she go after that?”

  Brian looked uncomfortable. “That’s something that has been worrying me all these years, James. She ran away after a few months, just vanished into thin air. We put out a nationwide alert for her, but she never showed up. I think her body must be out on the hills somewhere, poor lost lamb.”

  “Thanks, Brian. I’ll let you know how we get on.” He raised his voice, calling out to Molly who was still clattering around in the back kitchen. “Bye, Molly, thanks for the tea.”

  “Are you no’ staying, James?” A remote voice called back, “We’ll be having dinner soon, I can easily set another place.” She came into view, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “That’s very kind of you, Molly, but I really have to be going. It’s all a bit mad at the moment.”

  As Corstorphine drove away from the house, he caught a glimpse in his rear-view mirror of the old DI and his wife standing motionless on the bungalow porch, watching him until they were lost from view. He had a strong suspicion that the old detective was hiding something. His body language had betrayed him when he had asked about the missing daughter, the false searching for lost memories as if he was creating a story that Corstorphine would swallow. As quickly as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. He’d known Brian ever since he’d transferred here, a young detective learning the ropes as the old DI worked the last three years towards retirement. There wasn’t even a whisper that he was ever anything other than a straight cop, certainly nothing that Corstorphine had heard. Why then that nagging doubt that he was concealing something?

&n
bsp; He checked the dashboard clock, 17:44. Nothing he could do without the latest forensics. Corstorphine started to phone Frankie to check up on progress but hung up before completing the call and drove home instead. The day was almost done, and he needed to have a quiet place to think.

  Corstorphine lived in a semi-detached Victorian villa in one of the more salubrious parts of town, a house that had been chosen as a good place to bring up a family, three bedrooms for the children that never were. He dreaded coming home each day, the house silent and devoid of company. Corstorphine tweaked the thermostat up a notch to dispel the chill he’d felt on entering the house, the old gas heating creaking into life as radiators filled with hot water, companionable noises that helped maintain the fiction that he wasn’t alone. Out of habit, he checked the silent carriage clock on the mantlepiece, the hands frozen at the moment he’d dashed it to the ground after his wife had died – an outlet for the rage that burned his heart. On autopilot, he turned on the TV, tuning into the 24-hour news channel. He found voices filled the empty house more effectively than music.

  Sinking into his favourite armchair, Corstorphine nursed a large glass of single malt, ice clinking against the glass as he raised the amber fluid to his lips. Two murders in under a week, and the press would come sure as night followed day. He kept half an ear on the TV news, just in case the murders had reached the nationals. Nothing – yet. Drinking a toast to whichever saint was the patron saint of journalists, Corstorphine thought through the last few days, searching his mind for clues he might have missed, the common thread that tied the cases together. Before long, the potent mix of whisky, warmth and the comforting sound of the TV combined to lull him into a fitful sleep.

  It was night. A full moon hung large and silver in the velvet star-studded sky, lending a silver tint to Glen Mhor as if it had been freshly painted in ethereal colours. Corstorphine glided over the ground, an effortless movement which allowed him the leisure to admire the stars, feel a warm breeze upon his cheeks. Somewhere in the distance a tawny owl called, a familiar twit-twoo echoing down the glen. Corstorphine recognised the Hanging Tree as soon as it came into view and his air of contentment metamorphosed into a feeling of unease, growing in intensity as the tree drew ever closer. He tried to turn back and looked down to see that his feet drifted above the ground, caught in some invisible current that had him gripped fast. The path turned into a fast-flowing burn even as the thought occurred to him and he struggled to keep his head above the water. On one level, Corstorphine realised he was dreaming, but still he fought the current in a mounting panic as the burn changed into a river in spate, rocks flying past as he was tossed and driven towards the old oak. Suddenly he was thrown against the tree, fighting to disentangle himself from Oscar’s corpse as their limbs entwined like lovers and the water rose higher, threatening to drown him. He struggled free, somehow lifted out of the corpse’s cold embrace by rising waters to enter the green canopy above. As the waters quietened Corstorphine looked in wonder at the gears, moving together in common purpose, the rhythmic tick of the mechanism counting towards the hour in sonorous peels until the chimes struck.

  Corstorphine woke suddenly, the dream leaving him wondering for a brief moment where he was. His doorbell rang again, the sound a distant echo of his dream and he remembered every detail even as he staggered towards the front door, fighting the cramp which threatened to unbalance him at every other step.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir. I guessed you’d probably finished for the day, but I thought you’d want to see this.” Frankie stood on the doorstep, holding out a few A4 sheets for his inspection.

  “Come on in, Frankie,” he offered, taking the pages and studying them as he headed back to his seat. He held an email from the Inverness forensics department, confirming what they already knew: that the support timbers had been sawn almost completely through. Corstorphine skimmed through the report, taking note of the collection of bone gear fragments which the forensics team had managed to reassemble without any idea as to what they represented. He turned to the last page, a sharp intake of breath the only indication of his surprise as he saw the photograph of another Pope Paul II Vatican coin, the date 1997.

  “So, no doubt these murders are linked.”

  “No, sir.” Frankie waited as Corstorphine pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight as he remembered the dream and sought whatever meaning lay behind the images still fresh in his mind.

  “Clocks!” Corstorphine almost shouted the word, his eyes now wide open. “Frankie, who do we know who repairs clocks?”

  She observed him with concern, worried that his outburst might be the first manifestation of a hitherto unknown mental illness. “Sorry, sir, I’m not sure I understand.”

  ‘The gears. I think I know why they were used in both murders. I think they are timing mechanisms. We need specialist help, Frankie. We need someone who understands clocks and gears, who can help work out when these were fitted and how long they ran before they completed their tasks.” He shook his head in exasperation. “They could have been fitted months ago. Until we can recreate the murder scene apparatus, we won’t be able to pinpoint when the murderer fitted the devices.”

  XIII

  TUESDAY 07:03

  Frankie stretched in bed, squinting at the nearby digital clock’s LED display until the numbers swam into focus. Another half hour before she had to leave for the morning shift. She attempted a stronger stretch, culminating the full extension with a fixed idiot grin at the ceiling. She’d watched a TV programme the previous evening where an inspirational Danish woman had insisted that the release of serotonin engendered by such an activity would help keep her happy for the rest of the day. She lay there, waiting patiently for the happiness chemical to work its magic whilst her mind was engaged with the two recent murders.

  Corstorphine had proposed that the gears found at each scene were part of a clockwork mechanism, a means of setting the events into motion without the murderer having to be present. Forensics had even come up with a plausible theory for how the bell rope may have been connected via the bits of gear they’d manage to piece together. Frankie had studied the drawing they’d made; the bell rope’s up and down motion transferred via secondary nylon lines found still attached to the top of the rope and how they could pull the large bone wheel one way, then back the other. The reciprocating action strong enough to pull the hacksaw back and forth across the oak beam, cutting from underneath so that as the wood weakened, it would naturally open to allow the saw blade deeper access.

  Who would want to murder the old minister? How was his death connected to Oscar’s? The coincidence of the same coin, the same carved gears being found at both crime scenes made it clear that the murders were linked.

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, glancing just for a second at the other, empty half and wondered how he was doing. It was like this most mornings; she was still surprised to be alone as she awoke. How many years had it been? Three years since the divorce, three years married. She knew this represented some sort of fulcrum in her life, a point of balance between one chapter and another. She knew other women of a similar age, too old for a casual fling – or at least old enough to find fault with themselves for scratching that itch; too young to reconcile themselves to living on their own for the rest of their days – and all with similar embittered stories to tell of breakup, betrayal, divorce.

  Corstorphine had it easy in some ways, death was so much cleaner than a breakup and society allowed you time to grieve. At least she didn’t have children, something her ex had been wont to throw in her face during the last tumultuous year of their relationship when love had been replaced by its evil twin. How had it all gone wrong? It was a question she asked herself most days, searching for the faults inherent in herself that had made his love turn to hate. At the back of her mind she knew that the fault wasn’t hers alone, but the days had turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into
years until they each blended into the kaleidoscope of their lives. Seen, but not seen. There, but not there – not really.

  Douglas had been the first to realise – a romantic at heart, he felt the lack of constant renewal, he needed that mantra of love repeated ad nauseum or he simply stopped believing. Frankie was content with his presence, a comforting occupation of her personal space. Unlike him, she didn’t worship at the altar of love and when the prayers stopped, she didn’t even notice. Perhaps that’s what made him grow so angry, her simple acceptance of him rather than a constant renewing of her avowed love – she’d driven him away by not loving him in the way he wanted to be loved. Stroked, kissed, held; he needed constant reassurance, like a child.

  Frankie stood, feeling warm carpet under bare feet. It was for the best, she wanted an equal partner – not a needy man-child. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, teeth bared for the electric toothbrush, she decided the Danish woman was speaking crap. This day would be the same as all the others, with a side helping of two murders that needed solving.

  The clock repairer’s workshop was sandwiched between a Chinese takeaway and a shop offering cut price mobiles and unlocking services. The street was home to a ragbag of such businesses: a couple of takeaways, a betting shop, a newsagents and a funeral parlour complete with purple plastic irises gathering dust in the sombre window. The word ‘dignitie’ was misspelled, leading her to worry how many gravestones in the town might present idiosyncratic messages to the living, cryptic comments about the deceased.

  Inside the shop window, a selection of wrist watches shared space with a carriage clock whilst, further back in the dim recesses, she could just make out a grandfather clock. Every timepiece displayed a different time, none of which agreed with her phone’s clock. For some reason Pink Floyd’s track Time started playing in her head and she dismissed it with irritation as she pushed the door open. A bell attached to the door on a coil of brass rang in tuneless urgency to announce a customer, and a humpbacked figure eventually appeared behind the counter, peering up at her through pebble glasses as if a customer was indeed a rarity.