Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  “Yes, sir. On it now.” The sergeant wheeled smartly around and left Corstorphine to his thoughts. This case was far from being solved by the close of the day; if anything, it was getting murkier by the minute.

  Corstorphine stood in front of the crazy board, trying to process what Frankie and Hamish had told him. Oscar was capable of murder; he had no doubt of it – had the reporter found information about his past and was going to publish? Oscar wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know he’d been abused as a child, so he may have killed her just to shut her up. He would have been around twenty then, strong enough to overpower her. What was June Stevens doing in the glen if she wasn’t going there to kill herself? Corstorphine thought this was becoming less likely by the minute. Then there were the discrepancies in Hamish’s description of the scene and the old DI’s memories. If Hamish was able to drive under the tree, then there couldn’t have been the boulder she’d have needed in order to reach the noose – and dead people don’t clear up behind themselves. He hesitated, just for a brief second, then added DI Brian Rankin’s name to the board. There was something that just didn’t feel right about the investigation into the reporter’s apparent suicide. Why the old DI would have wanted to protect Oscar, though, that was a question he couldn’t even begin to answer.

  Frankie called an old friend on the hands-free as she pulled into the council car park. “Hi, Susan? Yes, it’s me, Frankie. Yes, far too long. I’m here on official business, actually. Can you meet me at reception? I’m looking for any records you may have on the old orphanage on City Road, lists of the children staying there, staff – that sort of thing. Great. I’m here now, see you in a minute.”

  She was shown into one of the rooms down in the basement. The council offices were built in the ‘60s: brutalist concrete architecture standing like a Soviet slab in the middle of the town. The building was crying out to be demolished, windows rusting and leaking, damp patches adorned walls and ceilings – even the staff had an unhealthy pallor: white skin, listless gait. They reminded her of zombies, creeping around a decaying building waiting for any kind of death to provide release. She shrugged off the depressing image; at least she had managed to find a job that had some sort of purpose. Her friend Susan was once a good-looking young woman, vivacious and fun to be with – at least that’s how Frankie preferred to remember her. Now she was old before her time, drained of vitality. She still attempted gaiety as she joked with Frankie, talking about old times, but they both knew those days were never coming back.

  “You’ll find a list of the children social services took over when the orphanage closed.” Susan produced a manila folder from a battered filing cabinet with a magician’s flourish. “There’s not much on the staff, the Catholic Church dealt with all that.”

  “How do you mean, ‘dealt with that’?”

  “They were responsible for running the orphanage before it closed down, so they employed everyone there. We didn’t have any responsibility towards the staff, just towards the children – you know, school places, healthcare, that sort of thing.”

  “Was there no oversight of the orphanage? Health and safety checks?”

  “Sure. There would have been annual inspections and we kept an eye on the children, made sure they were being fed OK, sleeping arrangements were adequate.”

  “Were there ever any complaints?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did you ever hear of any of the children alleging improper touching, abuse? Were they ever beaten?”

  Susan looked shocked. “Nothing I’ve ever heard of. No, nothing like that ever went on there. I’m sure of it.” She folded her arms, in a subconscious act of protection against such an allegation.

  “Do you mind if I take a copy of this?” Frankie held up the list of children transferred from the orphanage to the council’s social services.

  Susan looked doubtful. “You really need a warrant before we allow sensitive information to be taken.”

  “Yes, well, I could get a warrant if needs be. I’m just wanting to check a few names against the list – how about I just keep it for a few days and then shred it. Guide’s honour?” Frankie held up her right hand, thumb crossed against her little finger, the others held straight.

  Susan smiled, the childish promise they’d both made as young girls fresh in her mind, as if it were made yesterday. “Go on then. Just don’t let anyone else know where it came from or my job’s mince!”

  Frankie left the council building with the newly-printed sheet tucked protectively into her body against the strengthening wind. She suspected Susan already thought her job was mince, but her mind was already attending to the first name she recognised on the list.

  XV

  TUESDAY 13:15

  Corstorphine finally took delivery of the bone gears and associated paraphernalia found in and around the Hanging Tree, together with a more detailed forensics report. The bones were thought to be cow skeleton, although they’d sent a sample for DNA testing to confirm. Forensics had suggested Corstorphine check local slaughterhouses to see if their waste disposal systems were up to scratch, then the animal waste companies that plied a living out of abattoir scraps. There were no fingerprints; no foreign material apart from honest Scottish mud and heather and hence no need to quarantine the fragments. If he wanted to try and put the gear fragments back together he was welcome, as long as he remembered they may well be required as part of the eventual prosecution case.

  He examined the collection of clear evidence bags. Each gear must have been painstakingly carved tooth by tooth from an original piece of bone, with the largest wheel constructed from a large bone. Corstorphine wrestled with his memory – the scapula? To design, create and install something like this was a work of genius; genius or insanity. He put the evidence bags to one side. Frankie could take them to her clockmaker, see if he could make sense of the parts.

  The crazy board beckoned, with fresh red lines connecting Oscar to the orphanage. The next step was to see whether the minister had any historical contact with the orphanage. Corstorphine tried to find a pattern, one that might tie Oscar’s death to the minister’s or connect the orphanage to June Stevens – apart from her missing child which was another line of investigation altogether, and which apparently implicated DI Brian Rankin. The Courier was going to print Margo’s allegations of child abuse at the orphanage, he hoped they had a good legal team to cope with the Catholic Church’s response. Surely any abuse of some twenty years ago, if it really had occurred, would have surfaced by now? Those children would now be adults, twenty, thirty years old or more – some would surely have spoken out.

  The Courier with the story of Oscar’s abuse at the hands of the minister and the orphanage staff would be out by now, on the front page for sure. Corstorphine grimaced as he recalled Frankie also mentioning that the article would include a line on police brutality, which wasn’t going to play well with the Assistant Chief Constable. Four days since Oscar’s death and they still hadn’t managed to identify a suspect, apart from the Inverness gamekeeper. If Frankie’s clockmaker managed to show that Oscar’s snare might have been set more than a week ago, then they could have him back in for more questioning. Until then, his alibi held water.

  Corstorphine’s instinct told him that the orphanage was the key to the whole mystery, but the religious order had long since left and of those who were still alive and traceable – how many would be willing to provide any evidence?

  His attention was drawn to the front desk. Hamish’s usual slow and world-weary tones had changed into something more upbeat, tinged with a reverential quality as if he was welcoming a head of state. ‘Perhaps the Queen is reporting a missing corgi?’ Corstorphine allowed a rare smile to part his lips. His wife had been a lifelong Republican and stood there now, face lit with a cheeky grin. He blinked and she was gone, but Hamish’s voice was approaching, complete with, “Yes, sir. I’ll fetch him now, sir.”
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  The desk sergeant’s face appeared around the door, completely blocking Corstorphine’s view of the suited character standing impatiently at reception. “What is it, Hamish?”

  “It’s Reginald Lagan, sir. He’s the MP for…”

  “Yes, thank you, Hamish. I’m aware who our Member of Parliament is. What does he want?”

  “He wants to speak to you, sir. Shall I send him through?”

  Corstorphine shook his head. “Not in the middle of a murder investigation. I’ll see him in reception.”

  Hamish looked askance at the thought of the MP having to remain in reception but led the way meekly back to his front desk. A tall, expensively dressed man stood on the other side of the glass, his impatience at being kept waiting evident by his restless stance. Corstorphine sighed; the man was an imbecile. He’d met him at a number of civic functions, once had even sat next to him at a formal dinner. A more vacuous peacock would be hard to imagine, hair dyed jet black and oiled, a colourful handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his fitted suit. How he had managed to pass selection and win the ward on behalf of the Conservatives was a question Corstorphine often returned to every time he featured on the news.

  He keyed the door release and stepped through into the reception area, neatly blocking the entrance as the politician confidently strode towards it, as if locked doors never applied to someone as important as him.

  “Mr Lagan, sir, what can we do for you?”

  The politician had to step back to avoid Corstorphine, flustered at being denied entrance to the station.

  “James. Pleasure. Call me Reginald. Not as if we haven’t met.” His hand shot out in a well-practiced manoeuvre, leaving Corstorphine no alternative but to begin a handshake that was overly strong and seemingly never-ending. He wondered if the short bursts of sentences were an affectation. As a politician he was certainly able to pontificate in long, flowery language whenever placed in front of a microphone.

  “Do you have somewhere we can talk, in private?” Lagan’s eyes indicated Hamish, who was watching the interchange with great interest.

  “I’m sorry, Reginald. The office is off-limits for the time being whilst we investigate these murders. We can talk here, or if you prefer we could take a walk, get the benefit of the rare Scottish sunshine?”

  “Good idea. Just need to run some things past you.” He waved in what he must have thought was a matey way to Hamish as they headed out of the police station. “Good day, Hamish, keep up the good work!”

  “Sir,” came the response.

  “What can I help you with, Reginald?” Corstorphine repeated the question as they walked along the road.

  “Yes.” He looked around him as he walked, checking whether anyone was in earshot. “Thing is, these murders have caused a bit of an upset.”

  Corstorphine nodded sagely, willing him to get to the point. “Indeed. We’re all working flat out to try and resolve the cases as quickly as humanly possible.”

  “Good, glad to hear it.” There was a pause as they approached another pedestrian. The MP turned on his ‘winning’ smile, a strange rictus that lay somewhere between a baboon threat and cheerleader grin. “Good day. Lovely weather.”

  The pedestrian’s expression of distaste was sufficient for Corstorphine to surmise he had most probably voted for any party but the one that had returned his companion. It didn’t seem to register with Reginald, who waited until they were alone again before continuing. “Thing is, I was talking with the Assistant Chief Constable at a private meeting yesterday.”

  Corstorphine knew that both the politician and the ACC belonged to the same Inverness Lodge, the euphemism for private meeting being one of their ritual-laden Freemason dinners. Here it comes, he thought, a private message from the Assistant Chief delivered on a platform so far untraceable by normal means.

  “He’s concerned you are wasting your time with the Stevens suicide. Heard through the grapevine. Asked me to point out the priorities in getting this sorted. Save him making it official, didn’t want it looking bad on your record.”

  Corstorphine absorbed the command, threat and dangling carrot with equanimity.

  “That’s very kind of you, Reginald, making a special trip.”

  “No, no. I was coming over anyway. Have a surgery in a short while. Listen to the people I represent. No, I just offered to pass it on as I was going to be here anyway. My pleasure.”

  Corstorphine was sufficiently well-informed to know that the ACC held the post of Senior Warden or whatever ridiculous title he had, and that he was several levels up on the MP who in all probability owed his job to the murky machinations of the Lodge. So, he’d been told to pass on a message and like a good errand boy had delivered.

  “I’ll let the Assistant Chief Constable know that our focus is on finding the killer before anyone else is found murdered. Thank you again for passing this on.”

  “Not at all. My pleasure.” He made a show of looking at his watch, a self-important man with things to do. “Look at the time,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “Must dash. Love to the wife.”

  Corstorphine watched his progress as he strutted down the road before entering the town hall, where another crowd of flunkies would be anxiously awaiting his arrival with tea and biscuits. He hadn’t been particularly bothered about his parting comment – passing his love onto a wife who’d been dead for five years. The man was, as he knew, an imbecile. The message from the ACC however, now that had been a deliberate attempt to steer the investigation away from June Stevens’ death. Why should that be? Corstorphine was never going to be a top-flight detective, he lacked the showman’s flair or the shameless appropriation of his team’s work as his own. This was why he’d been posted to a quiet backwater where nothing ever happened. Ever used to happen.

  The ACC had just made three mistakes. Firstly, Corstorphine’s interest in June Stevens’ death had just been promoted to the top of his agenda. A death that looked like a cover-up at the time, which now was trying to be hushed up again with an untraceable directive from the top. Corstorphine didn’t take kindly to being told what to do, or how to do his job – not a character trait that the Assistant Chief Constable would have been familiar with, of course. He also wouldn’t know that Corstorphine would never let go of an investigation once he had his metaphorical teeth sunk into it.

  The third mistake he’d made was in choice of messenger. Reginald Lagan MP might be an idiot, but he knew who to please in order to stay in power. The ACC was a powerful man, there was no doubt of that, but for the MP to be willing to become his message boy, someone even higher up must be pulling some strings. Someone who had influence over both the police as well as an MP, and that had just lit a fuse under Corstorphine’s interest in Stevens’ death.

  He returned to the station and put through a call to the Inverness forensics lab. Their first response was to ask who else had just been found dead, and in what improbable circumstances. They told him they were running a sweepstake following the last two deaths in town, with a number of outrageous combinations – whoever got closest to both the person and the method of death stood to win a tidy sum. The forensics officer on the other end of the line was describing their first option in cheerful detail, coincidentally enough featuring the self-same MP he’d just met with, being clubbed to death with Parliament’s ceremonial mace when Corstorphine interrupted him.

  “Very droll, but if you don’t mind, we have work to do here. Can you send me the report on a death in May 1997? The victim was a female reporter. June Stevens, found hanging in an oak tree in Glen Mhor.”

  He could hear the percussive taps of a keyboard even through the telephone earpiece.

  “Here it is, June Stevens. I can’t let you have the official report without authorisation.”

  “I know that,” Corstorphine’s exasperated voice replied. “I’m just looking for the basics, cause of death, any
forensics evidence that needed further investigation.”

  “OK, let’s see. Suicide, hanging. That’s strange…”

  “What? What have you found?”

  “Nothing. That’s what’s strange. The report is pretty much non-existent. This is back in the days when we didn’t have to follow set procedure but even so, I’d have thought to have seen more on the report than this.”

  “So, there’s nothing you’re able to tell me?”

  “Sorry.”

  Corstorphine tried another tack. “Is any of the original evidence in store? Her clothing, scene photographs, the rope?”

  “No chance. The case was marked solved and we don’t keep anything beyond ten years. Not going to be able to help you, sorry.”

  “Yeah, OK. Thanks anyway.”

  He looked at his phone accusatorily. Why was nothing as easy as they made it seem in detective stories?

  XVI

  TUESDAY 14:25

  Frankie parked outside the butcher’s shop on the high street, taking advantage of having the patrol car to straddle double yellow lines with impunity. The morning sun had broken through, driving off the last of the morning chill. Shoppers stopped and chatted as they met, a cluster of coffee tables spilled out from the upmarket café down the road, lending a European feel to the town. She wished the sun could dispel the gloom that gathered around her shoulders like a shawl. Two deaths in a week tended to have that effect on her.

  “Hi, William.” The ginger-haired man turned around in surprise, still holding the marker pen he’d been using to price up meat cuts.

  “Frankie McKenzie! Don’t often see you in here. How have you been keeping?”

  She responded with a genuine smile. They’d been at school together, shared memories and lives that only those brought up in small towns would understand. She’d also stood up for him on more than one occasion when he’d been bullied at school – the ginger hair an open goal for some. William had been a quiet boy; she remembered him as someone on the periphery of things, never really one of the gang even when he was in a gang. He was simply one of life’s loners, although he seemed cheerful enough now, standing there with a belly that was just starting to show under his red and white butcher’s apron.