“I’m DC Frankie McKenzie. I was wondering if you may be able to help me?”
“Have you brought it with you?”
“I’m sorry. Have I brought what with me?”
“What’s that? You’ll have to speak up. Oh, one moment.” He fumbled with his ears, retrieving two hearing aids and took them over to a large magnifying glass attached to the end of the counter. “I’ll just be a minute,” he advised, turning on a light and concentrating on replacing two small button batteries. Satisfied his hearing aids were working, he inserted them back into his ears and smiled beatifically up at Frankie.
“Sorry, my dear. What was that again?”
Frankie took a deep breath and started again. “My name is DC Frankie McKenzie. I’m a detective at the local police station. We’re looking for someone to help us with one of our cases, someone who understands clockwork mechanisms.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I’m a horologist. Been working with clocks for nigh on sixty years. What’s wrong with the police station clock, is it running slow?”
She wondered if the only clockmaker in the town was going to be of any help. “It’s not the police station clock.” She said each word with emphasis, speaking slowly to avoid misunderstanding. “We have a crime which we believe involves a clockwork mechanism. Would you be able to look at what we’ve found and advise us?”
“Clockwork mechanisms?” He said the words as if he doubted her sanity. “You say the crime involved a clockwork mechanism?”
“That’s right.” Frankie began to think up ways of terminating a conversation that had the potential to continue in circles for hours to come. The small shop was restless with sound, manic ticks emanating from the smaller clocks and watches, to the statelier measured tick, tock issuing from the larger timepieces. Somewhere out the back, a clock chimed three o’clock, completely at odds with reality.
“Well, of course I can help!” The shopkeeper peered up at her, indignation shining from each pebble lens. “There’s nobody knows more about clocks than I do.” He held his chin for a moment, “unless you go to Manchester. There’s a very good group of horologists in Manchester.”
“We’d rather keep it local if we can,” Frankie answered.
“Well, bring me what you’ve got and I’ll have a look.”
“Thank you, Mr…?” Frankie realised she was talking to his back as he disappeared back into whatever room was behind the counter. No answer came back from her query, quite likely he hadn’t heard her. She tugged on the door and the spring-loaded bell announced her departure from the shop.
At the station, Corstorphine assembled the team in front of the crazy board. The minister and Oscar’s pictures both took pride of place and a new photograph adorned the board in between both mugshots. A young woman, long auburn hair framing an intelligent face. Her name was displayed under the photograph – June Stevens.
“Morning, all.” Corstorphine found this opening remark faintly reminiscent of the days of black and white TV, but only Hamish was old enough to have even heard of Dixon of Dock Green, and he had a humour deficit. “Just to update you all, we have found bone gears and a 1997 papal coin at both the scene of Oscar’s death and in the rubble at the bottom of the bell tower where the minister of St Cuthbert’s died. We need to find whatever connects these two murders. The only working hypothesis I have is from the date on the coins, the year June Stevens was found hanging from the tree in Glen Mhor. I believe her death may be linked to these other two murders, but for the time being we have no corroborating evidence that can back this up.” He pointed at June’s photograph, her face smiling confidently into the camera lens. “If any of you have any ideas how these two are connected, now’s the time to speak up.”
The only answer was a shuffling of feet as the rest of the team looked at each other. Corstorphine pursed his lips. They had to make progress or risk being side-lined by the Inverness detectives as soon as the story broke.
“OK. Here’s what I’m proposing. The killer planned these deaths meticulously. No forensics evidence was found at either scene, so they know enough about police procedures to wear protective clothing. The gears we’ve found, I believe they were used to create the mechanisms that killed both of our victims. Forensics provided this diagram, showing how the bell rope could have transferred energy via the large bone wheel to the hacksaw.” Corstorphine pressed the keyboard space bar, and the sketch of a Heath Robinson device appeared on the screen behind him.
“So, the minister was the cause of his own death – that’s sick!” PC Lamb stared with fascination at the screen.
Corstorphine wasn’t too sure what the PC meant by ‘sick’. That generation tended to turn words on their heads, and he had a feeling that his own interpretation might be at odds with what Lamb meant. He decided to let it pass. “Yes, Lamb, it takes a certain mindset to create such a scenario. Unfortunately, the mechanism found at the tree was completely destroyed, but we hope we may have identified someone who may be able to piece it together.” He looked towards Frankie with hope.
“Yes, sir. I’ve talked to a local clockmaker. He’s offered us his help in trying to discover how the mechanism may have worked. I’ll take him what we’ve found once forensics give us the all clear on handling the evidence.”
“Thank you, Frankie. There are a number of lines of investigation I want to follow, and small as our team here is, it goes without saying I want all of you to work on these murders to the exclusion of everything else. You’ll be aware that the Courier has somehow managed to find out nearly as much about these murders as we have. If I find anyone has been speaking to the press, you’ll be out of the force and minus a pension before you can draw a breath. Do I make myself clear?”
A muttered ‘Yes, sir’ came from the gathering, all finding anywhere to look rather than catch Corstorphine’s eye.
“Good. Right now, we have two murder investigations under way and next to no suspects in the frame. The national newspapers are likely to catch wind of this today and as sure as night follows day they will be turning up here tomorrow, sniffing around for a story. Unless we want to look totally incompetent, we better have something substantial to report by the end of the day. I don’t have to say that the top brass will also be taking a special interest in our performance, so it’s in all of our interests to crack this fast.”
He pointed to Hamish, standing at the back. “Hamish, you were first on the scene at the site of June Stevens’ death. I want you to dig out your notebook from that day and you and I will go over the details like it was a fresh investigation. Frankie, I was talking with DI Rankin yesterday, he mentioned June Stevens’ daughter was taken to the old orphanage on City Road after her death. She went missing from there after a few months – look into her disappearance and find out what you can about the orphanage. Lamb, McAdam, I want you to talk to anyone locally you can find, who worked or stayed at the orphanage. Get me names, dates and anything of note. I also want you to find out if anyone has moved here recently. Don’t be too obvious about it but any new faces, I want to know about them. Any of you find anything, straight to me. If I’m not available, contact Frankie. We’ll get together at 16:30 for a debrief and update.” He dismissed them, glad to see the team moving with a fresh sense of purpose.
Sitting at her desk, Frankie started looking into the orphanage. A local history site provided her with the name of the organisation responsible for the children’s welfare, a Catholic Order known as the Sisters of Holy Mercy. The orphanage closed in 2000 when the local authority took over responsibility for any waifs and strays. It had been put up for sale and over the following ten years the building had deteriorated to such a dangerous state that the council used a compulsory purchase order to have it demolished. The site was finally sold in 2013 to a private developer for a substantial profit and a block of upmarket flats now occupied the site. Frankie puzzled over the name, Sisters of Holy Mercy
– it sounded familiar. Her phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. She picked it up, introduced herself and recognised the French accent on the other end of the phone immediately.
“Detective Constable Frankie McKenzie?”
“Speaking.” Her response was brusque, she didn’t have time to deal with the reporter’s questions today. “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping I could help you.”
“What have you got?”
“Margo McDonald paid us a visit yesterday, wanted to tell us her side of the story. Did you know Oscar claims he was sexually assaulted as a child?”
Frankie frowned at the receiver. “Margo told you that?”
“Yes, and I believe her. More to the point, she told me who it was that abused him.”
Frankie reached for her notebook and pen, trapping the phone between her shoulder and cheek to free up both hands.
“Who?”
“The minister of St Cuthbert’s and members of staff connected with the orphanage that used to be on City Road. The one run by the Sisters...”
“Of Holy Mercy.” Frankie concluded for her.
“I see you are two steps in front of me. This is Margo’s story. It’s going in tomorrow’s paper, together with a back story on the Sisters.”
“What’s the story about the Sisters?” Frankie asked urgently before the reporter could hang up.
“The Sisters of Holy Mercy have been associated with child abuse at a number of orphanages throughout the UK and Ireland. There have been successful prosecutions, both against individual nuns as well as visiting clergy and dignitaries who treated the orphanages as their personal hunting grounds. Nothing has ever been reported locally but if this follows the pattern elsewhere, we might expect anyone who has been abused to come forward after we publish. I thought you should know.”
XIV
TUESDAY 11:05
Frankie put the phone down and glanced towards Corstorphine’s office. He was bent over some paperwork, taking notes as he read. This couldn’t wait.
“Sir?” She stood at the threshold of the office, waiting for his permission to enter.
“What is it, Frankie? I’m expecting Hamish in any minute.”
“I’ll be quick, sir. I’ve just had the reporter from the Courier on the phone.” Corstorphine’s eyes performed a parabolic sweep of the office ceiling. “Margo was in with them yesterday, told them Oscar was sexually abused as a kid. They’re publishing her story and claiming staff at the orphanage were involved in some paedophile ring. She named the St Cuthbert’s minister specifically as one of the abusers.”
Corstorphine’s eyes locked with hers as he processed the information. “Hamish mentioned two days ago that Oscar had accused the minister of abusing him, he was just starting at school at the time. They treated it as a child’s fantasy, attention-seeking behaviour from a disturbed child, only Hamish wasn’t convinced Oscar was lying even though nothing came of it.”
“Is it the sort of thing a five-year-old child would invent, sir?” Frankie’s voice betrayed her outrage.
“Things are different now,” Corstorphine started to explain only to be cut short.
“He’d not have told Margo the same story if he’d made it up. How does that fit with his ‘big man’ image? It’s not something he’d mention unless…”
“Unless it was true?” Corstorphine finished the sentence for her. “Possibly. Or he’d made it true by dwelling on a false memory. Either way, the minister is beyond our reach now.” He rubbed his fingers across his temple as if attempting to alleviate a headache. “Hamish made the point, if Oscar was seeking revenge on the minister, who killed Oscar? Added to which it looks very much as if they were both killed by the same person.” He shook his head in frustration. “No, there’s more to this, but the link has to be investigated. What do we know about the staff at the orphanage?”
“The group running it were the Sisters of Holy Mercy.”
“Holy fuck! The same bunch that have been convicted of child abuse all over the world? How did this happen under our noses? Someone must have been aware of what was going on? Get a list of everyone working at the orphanage, from the gardener through to the Mother fucking Superior – and find as many regular visitors to the orphanage as you can. Try social services, they might have taken over the records when the orphanage closed.”
Frankie passed Hamish on the way out. He was carrying an old notebook, the type that bobbies carried on the beat back in the 80s. She grabbed her coat; the council offices were the only place that might still hold any relevant information about the orphanage.
“Come in, Hamish, sit down.” Corstorphine ran his fingers through his hair. The day was lining up to be a marathon. “Take me through June Stevens’ case, from the top.”
“Well, sir, we had a call come in at…” The desk sergeant consulted his notebook, a yellow Post-it hanging from the page he opened, “10:27 am. The call came from the old public phone box on the main road just opposite the Glen Mhor turnoff. A young male hiker informed us that a woman’s body was hanging from the old oak on the Glen Mhor track – he sounded Australian.”
“Why didn’t he wait for the attending officer?”
“He was asked to wait until I arrived on the scene, but when I arrived at the call box at…” the notebook was consulted again, “11:02, the caller had gone. I didn’t spend time looking for him, thought in all probability it was a hoax. The local lads had a thing about impersonating Australians at the time.” He noticed Corstorphine’s eyebrow start to rise and hurriedly continued. “I drove the squad car down the track, taking it easy because of the suspension, and when I got to the tree I saw her hanging there. I tried to get her down but could only hold her up by her ankles, so I drove under the tree and climbed up and cut the rope.”
“You drove under the tree. Are you sure?”
Hamish looked worried. “Yes, sir. I thought there may be a chance she could still be saved, so I had to get her down on the ground to loosen the noose and perform CPR.” He looked down at the floor, speaking quietly. “I was too late, sir. She was dead.”
“When did the DI get there?”
“Detective Inspector Rankin arrived at 12:20, sir. I called him in on the radio after I’d tried to save her. I had to drive almost completely out of the glen before I was able to get a signal, not that it’s any better now.”
“What investigation did he do – whilst you were at the scene?”
Hamish frowned, recalling the dreadful day. “He spent a while looking at the rope, said he thought she’d probably thrown it over the branch and then secured it. He asked me to look around, see if I spotted anything unusual. I remember he was quite keen to see if her reporter’s notebook had fallen out of her pocket, but there wasn’t anything that I could find.”
“OK, Hamish. Just one other thing. You didn’t have to clear the track of any logs or boulders to get the patrol car under the tree?”
Hamish shook his head. “No, sir. The track was clear – estate vehicles used it all the time, so it was kept well maintained.”
“Any marks on her body, had her clothes been disturbed – do you think there was any possibility she could have been raped before she died?”
The sergeant looked at Corstorphine, shock clear in his expression. “Raped? No, at least I don’t think so. That would have been picked up by the post mortem report, by forensics. Her clothes were dishevelled, but then again you’d expect that after you’ve struggled on a rope for a few seconds.” His eyes were still wide as he remembered the scene, remembered her face. “It was her expression, sir. I never want to see another corpse with an expression like that – it was as if she’d seen the devil himself.”
“Do you think it was suicide, Hamish?” Corstorphine asked the question quietly, watching him carefully as he formulated his answer.
The sergeant hesitated, h
is expression troubled.“I always thought there was something that didn’t add up, sir. I knew the woman, she never seemed the sort to take her own life – and she loved that girl of hers. It never made sense to me but I was just a constable then and the DI managed the investigation together with the forensics guys when they finally made it from Inverness. They said her death was a suicide, and I accepted that’s what it was. They had all the evidence, had investigated the scene.”
“Why the doubt now, Hamish? What’s changed from twenty-two years ago?”
Hamish’s eyes were troubled. “I’ve been thinking about the telephone call, about the Australian hiker. Nobody walks along that glen, it doesn’t lead anywhere. There’s nothing to attract hikers – not even a reasonable hill to climb.” He raised his head to look directly into Corstorphine’s face. “I think now that I recognised the caller’s voice. I think Oscar made the emergency call, faking an Australian accent, and I think Oscar may have killed her.”
“Why didn’t you say at the time? It’s a bit bloody late to raise your suspicions now!” Corstorphine’s voice rose, his frustration of the case manifesting as anger.
“I didn’t realise it at the time, sir. When I found the body, I believed that the call must have been genuine and, with the DI’s report saying it was a suicide, I never had cause to doubt my own version of events. Having to revisit her death now, all these years later, I just see things differently, sir. Things I may have been too green to notice at the time. People were saying she was mad, the balance of her mind was in question, it all made some sort of sense back then. Now I think she was more frightened than mad.”
“OK, sergeant. I’m sorry I raised my voice – this case is starting to get to me. Can you ask around, see if there’s anyone still living or working here that used to visit the orphanage? It’s time to get some inside knowledge of what went on in that place.”
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