Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  “What does it do?” Frankie asked, her attention completely absorbed by the industrious apparatus standing on the counter in front of her.

  “Well, I don’t have all the parts, of course, so I’d have to guess, and if I had to guess, I would say that it is a timing mechanism designed to operate this lever after a period of approximately one week from setting it.” He pointed at a piece of bone that jutted out of the mechanism. “It may have been holding this in the air.” He bent down to retrieve the bone harpoon that they’d first spotted on the track under the tree.

  “Why would someone go to so much trouble to make a harpoon fall out of a tree? It doesn’t make sense?”

  “I read in the paper that the young gamekeeper was killed by a snare?”

  “That’s right.”

  The old man peered at her through his glasses, eyes magnified alarmingly. “Well then, that bone could have pulled the snare down into place, ready to catch the young chap unawares.”

  Frankie looked at him with surprise, even the most unlikely line of enquiry sometimes produced results. “Thank you. Thank you,” she repeated. “A week, you reckon, for this to run its course?”

  “I’d say so. ’Course, I’d really have needed to see the whole thing before it was smashed, but judging by the weight of the rabbit, the approximate length of the drop and this drive gear, it’s the best I could extrapolate. The rabbit acted as the weight, you see. In this case a dead weight. The wire would have been wrapped around this drum, which is itself part of the main wheel. Then the teeth here on the main wheel engaged with this centre wheel, which typically drives the hour hand in a clock. These other gears form part of the escapement mechanism, although in this design the horologist has opted for the more modern balance wheel rather than a pendulum – most likely because the pendulum ideally needs to be encased for protection. You didn’t find a metal disc anywhere near the tree, did you?”

  “We found a coin. Is it important?”

  The clockmaker adopted a pleased expression. “I thought so, something had to act as a balance wheel.”

  Frankie felt that she was getting out of her depth. “What’s a balance wheel?”

  “It’s a gearless disk, usually made of metal, that oscillates under the applied drive from the clock mechanism. There would have been a small coiled spring wire attached to the coin – you should see a weld if you look at it under a microscope – that acts to limit the rotational travel in each direction, pulling it clockwise, then anti-clockwise in a predictably timed manner. If I’m correct you’ll see a small hole drilled through the middle of the coin, this is where the rest of the mechanism was attached.” The clockmaker started to get into his stride. “This was the most difficult part to repair, so many small components with some of them still missing. You should have called me in to search the site. I’d know what I was looking for!”

  “I’m sorry. If we’d known someone had left a handmade clockwork mechanism attached to the snare, we’d have obviously called you out first.”

  The clockmaker didn’t understand irony. “You weren’t to know. Shame though, it really is a most accomplished design. Such artistry.”

  Frankie decided to get the conversation back on track. “Do you know anyone who could construct such a device?”

  He peered even more closely at the re-assembled mechanism as if it might show him something previously hidden from sight. “No. There’s nobody I know who could design something like this and carve it out of bone. The trouble is, bone splinters so easily, you have to understand what you’re dealing with. It becomes even more difficult with older bones, they fracture if you carve without care. No. Nobody in this country is capable, I’d say.”

  “OK. Thanks anyway. Is there some way I can transport this? We may have to use it as evidence.”

  “I’ll get you a box and some packing material. You’ll have to be gentle with it, it’s just on a temporary jig.”

  He packed the clockwork into a box, filled it with bubble wrap and sealed it with tape. “That should do you for now.”

  Frankie was leaving when a thought occurred to her. “You said nobody in this country could have built it. Is there someone you know about who doesn’t live here?”

  “France. There used to be a clockmaker in Toulouse called Henri Dupont. He made some unique clockwork mechanisms out of bone. It was something of a speciality for his workshop, although his designs were too macabre for most people’s taste.” He paused as Frankie struggled with the box and her notebook, laboriously writing down the name. “He died 5 years ago. A shame to see such an innovative clock artisan go. Still – time and tide…”

  XXI

  WEDNESDAY 13:19

  Corstorphine drove the police Land Rover into the glen, turning off at the fork where the metalled road surface led all the way to the laird’s big house. The style was Victorian gothic; mock battlements adorned the roof and twin circular towers enhanced the castle-like look of the place. He drove straight in through the open, tall wrought iron gates into the courtyard, parking on loose gravel in front of a substantial double wooden door.

  It was at least a year since he’d last been here, overseeing a security check for the insurers as well as the more nervous types in the judiciary administration. A quick glance upwards reassured him that the security cameras were still in place, nestling improbably beside stone gryphons and lions the original architect had specified as decorative touches. The doorbell consisted of a metal handle, attached to a length of cable that rang a bell in what Corstorphine supposed would originally have been the butler’s room. He gave it a pull and a faint clanging could be heard jangling from the centre of the house. Whilst he waited for the laird to make an appearance, he wondered why anyone would want to live in such an enormous old house in the middle of a deserted estate. Back in its heyday there would have been ten, twenty staff employed at the house. The butler, chef, gardeners, serving maids – enough to fill a small village. Now there was just the laird, and the occasional cleaner. Used as Corstorphine was to being on his own, it wasn’t something he would ever have actively sought for himself.

  He waited a few more minutes without any response, not unduly surprising as there were no other vehicles to be seen. There hadn’t been an answer to the landline either and the answering machine hadn’t worked. Corstorphine decided to take the opportunity to have a look around. He could always claim he was undertaking another security check if the laird reviewed the CCTV footage, only to find him peering through the windows. There was nothing of any note to be seen at the front, but around the side a small window had been smashed and the frame lay open. Senses suddenly alert, Corstorphine checked his mobile for a signal – unsurprisingly there was none. He keyed the radio. “Whisky tango, this is Sierra one-four, are you receiving, over?” A burst of static was his only reply.

  “Bloody hills!” One of the disadvantages to living in one of the more scenic and wild areas of Scotland was that radio transmissions were unreliable at best, especially when hemmed in on all sides by mountain-sized chunks of granite. He returned to the car, putting on his latex gloves, hi-vis jacket and belt complete with the tools of his trade – torch, cuffs, pepper spray and truncheon. If whoever had entered the house through the window was still there, then he’d just alerted them by ringing the doorbell. There was nothing else for it but to climb in, a feat more easily visualised than accomplished – especially with all the equipment hanging from his waist. After a short struggle, Corstorphine stood in a cloakroom, its door wide open, giving a clear view of the empty hall. He shouted into the empty space. “Police! There’s nowhere to hide so you may as well come out.”

  He listened, nothing but the sound of an empty building. “Sod it,” Corstorphine advised himself quietly, “I’ll have to search the bloody place.” At the back of his mind was the thought that this gave him the opportunity to have a good poke around into the laird’s life, unless whoever had br
oken into the house was still there. Moving as quietly as he could, Corstorphine explored the rooms on the ground floor, stopping when he noticed drops of blood on a door handle. Easing the door open without touching the handle he cautiously peered inside. It was a study – nobody there, although there were signs that someone had been rifling through the desk drawers – several papers littered the floor. He spotted the landline phone. Now he could call in reinforcements.

  “Hamish, it’s James here.” Corstorphine forestalled the desk sergeant’s lugubrious announcement to advise the caller they’d reached the police station. “Are Frankie and the constables there?”

  There was a short pause and Corstorphine could envisage the sergeant walking into the office to perform a headcount. “DC McKenzie has just arrived, sir, and PC Lamb is at his desk.”

  “Tell them to join me at the laird’s house in Glen Mhor and bring the forensics kit. There’s been a break-in and the laird is nowhere to be seen.” He replaced the receiver without waiting for an acknowledgement, the unwelcome thought that the laird’s disappearance was connected to the two recent murders running through his mind.

  Corstorphine continued searching the house, entering each room with the expectation that he was about to meet the madman who was responsible for the murders. When the last room in the house proved to be empty he let loose a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t have to face the killer on his own. The boot room beside the kitchen held two large empty dog baskets. The dogs would have put up a fight if someone had broken in, Corstorphine thought. Perhaps the laird had been out when it happened? Suddenly berating himself for being slow on the uptake, he headed for the cupboard which he knew contained the CCTV recorder – thankfully it was still running. He played it back, looking for signs of an intruder. Nothing for Wednesday. The house seemed deserted and the laird’s Land Rover didn’t make a showing on the camera facing the drive. Operating the rewind control until the cameras showed Tuesday morning, he played it at fast-forward. Again, nothing: no cars, no people. With a mounting sense of dread Corstorphine wound the recorder back to Monday. At last there was some normal activity to be seen; the dogs and laird rushing around as the speeded-up review accelerated through the early morning, until they left in the Land Rover at 07:13. The footage kept running until it finally picked up the intruder at 16:15. Corstorphine hit the pause button. A familiar face was clearly visible in profile – John Ackerman, the gamekeeper they’d interviewed that same day. He sped through the recording until another camera caught Ackerman leaving twenty minutes later, something bulky showing under his waxed jacket.

  Corstorphine looked through the papers scattered on the study floor whilst he waited for the rest of the team to arrive on site. There was nothing unusual, nothing incriminating. On an impulse he phoned the Sheriff Court in Inverness, checking when the sheriff was next expected to sit there. Thursday morning, came the disinterested response. He started to relax, allowing the sense of urgency that had overtaken him to dissipate. The laird had probably gone off somewhere for a few days and taken his dogs with him. It was likely that John Ackerman had taken advantage of finding the house deserted to get his own back and steal some of the family silver. Stupid bugger never even saw the security cameras, Corstorphine thought to himself. Strange the alarm didn’t go off. With that thought uppermost in his mind he checked the alarm system and the worry returned – it hadn’t been set. That could only mean that the laird had only been expecting to be out for a few hours or had forgotten to set the alarm.

  A blue strobe flashing through the downstairs windows attracted his attention and he opened the front door to greet Frankie and PC Lamb. “There’s been a break-in. He got in by breaking the ground floor window around the side. We need to dust the glass and frame for prints, although the silly bastard shows up on the CCTV.”

  “Anyone we know, sir?” Frankie’s question was straight to the point as always.

  “Our friend, John Ackerman. Looks like he’s made off with something that he can readily exchange for cash. We’ll pick him up once we’re done here. There’s also some blood on the study door handle. Get a swab for DNA and remember to photograph everything.” He turned his attention to the young PC. “Lamb, have a look around outside, see if there’s any sign of a struggle, anything out of the ordinary.”

  PC Lamb turned neatly on his heel. “Sir! Right away, sir.”

  “And Lamb,” Corstorphine called to the departing constable’s back. “See if you can identify another set of tyre tracks outside the wall. Ackerman didn’t walk here but his vehicle doesn’t show up on the camera covering the courtyard. Looks like he parked outside the wall somewhere.”

  “You think there’s been some dodgy business with the laird, sir?” Frankie asked as she carefully collected the blood sample off the study door handle.

  “I don’t think so. Ackerman may be stupid but he’s not going to kidnap a sheriff. No, I expect he’s taken himself off for a few days somewhere. He’s expected in court tomorrow morning, I think we’re best to wait until then before going all out on a missing person search.”

  “What about Margo? Should we ask her if she’s seen him the last couple of days?”

  Corstorphine checked his watch: 14:14. Plenty of time to see Margo and then get John Ackerman in for questioning.

  “I’ll pay a visit to Margo now. When you and PC Lamb are done here, I want you to bring John Ackerman in. I’d like to see him explain what he was doing in the laird’s house after he’d been in to see us on Monday.”

  “That’s something else I meant to tell you, sir. The clockmaker managed to put together the bits of clockwork we found at the tree. I’ve left it in the office. He can’t be sure without having the original mechanism, but he’s of the opinion it would have been set around a week before activating the snare.”

  “Leaving Ackerman without an alibi. Good work, Frankie. I’ll see you back at the station, Can you make 16:00?”

  “Yes, sir, this shouldn’t take long, and we can do the fingerprint match at the station.”

  Corstorphine left them working the scene and headed back along the metalled road to the fork then followed the rougher track down to the gamekeeper’s cottage. He noticed the quad bike was still lying on its side in the burn, just before he passed the Hanging Tree still adorned with tattered strips of police tape. Margo came out of the cottage as he approached, closing the door behind her in a clear demonstration that he wasn’t likely to be invited in for tea or coffee.

  “Hello, Margo, how are you keeping?”

  “Fine. What do you want?” Her response was brusque.

  “Have you seen the laird recently?”

  “That slimeball. No, thank God. He was creeping around here Monday afternoon but I haven’t seen sight of him since.” Corstorphine could see that she was intrigued rather than attempting to hide anything.

  “What time was he here?”

  Margo shrugged dismissively. “No idea. I was in town when he came around. I left the door unlocked for him. Sometime in the afternoon.” She saw Corstorphine’s questioning look. “He’s convinced there was some book of grouse numbers that Oscar used to keep. Sounds like a load of rubbish to me, Oscar never kept note of anything. He wanted to look for it.”

  “You’ve been to the Courier recently.”

  Margo shifted uncomfortably on her feet, looking around her. “So what?”

  “Where did June Stevens’ reporter’s notebook come from?” Corstorphine asked the question quietly, watching her like a hawk.

  Margo’s eyes darted about in search of inspiration and finding none, she decided on the truth.

  “I found it in the shed.” She nodded in the direction of the locked shed. “Thought the Courier might want it, as it belongs to them really.” She looked pleased with herself for offering a justification.

  ‘Why do you think it was in the shed? A notebook belonging to a young woman who was
found dead, hanging in the tree?”

  “I don’t know,” she responded sulkily. “Maybe Oscar found it in the heather and stored it in the dry.”

  “What else have you found, Margo? You seem to know a lot more about Oscar and events in this town than you told us.”

  “I just remembered some things, that’s all. None of this is your business. I don’t have to tell you anything.” She spat the last words out defiantly, her low regard for the police evident in her expression.

  Corstorphine nodded tiredly. “That’s right, Margo, you don’t have to tell us anything. However, if you have any interest in helping us find Oscar’s murderer before he selects his next victim, I suggest you come to me first.” He shared a meaningful look with her. “So far, it’s people connected to Oscar that have been killed. You don’t want to become another body on the list.”

  Corstorphine drove back to the station, the image of Margo’s shocked awareness that she could be in danger fresh in his memory. “That really wasn’t kind, James.” His wife’s disapproving voice sounded in his ears. He decided to ignore it.

  XXII

  WEDNESDAY 16:12

  They sat in the interview room: Frankie and Corstorphine on one side and John Ackerman with his solicitor on the other. Frankie started the voice recorder whilst John Ackerman sat back in his chair, trying hard to look disinterested, but Corstorphine had caught the slight air of panic as he was brought back into the station.

  “You know why we’re here again, John?” Corstorphine opened the questioning with a leading comment, calculated to ramp up the stress at the start.

  “No idea. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Have you seen Mr Anthony McCallum recently?” Corstorphine countered.

  “Have you something to charge my client with, Detective Inspector? Otherwise we are just going to walk out of here.” The solicitor made a show of closing his file and replacing his pen in his jacket pocket.