He rotated the hourglass around, searching for any other inscriptions, any clue as to who may have imprisoned him in this cold stone cell. Those were the only words, carved almost imperceptibly into the side of the smooth black wooden base. Suffer The Little Children – he felt a sudden relief as he recognised it was just a biblical inscription. Why leave an overlarge egg timer with a biblical reference to children here with him? A headache started over his left temple, pulses of pain throbbing through his head. His hands left his chest to hold his head, holding it tight as if that might lessen the feeling that his brain was attempting to force its way out of his skull. A groan of pain escaped his dry lips, causing the dogs to pick up their heads from the cold flagstone floor, watching him with an intensity that would have frightened him had his eyes not been screwed tightly shut against the agony.
The children. He’d not thought of the children for years now, ever since the orphanage had closed. He had hoped the sickness would go away with the temptation and until recently that had seemed to be the case. It was just as well, a man in his position being caught with child porn on his computer. It didn’t bear thinking about. Just the idea of being locked up in prison with those he’d put away – marked out as a judge and a paedophile – he wouldn’t have lasted long. That thought alone was enough to deter him from visiting those sites on the dark web where he knew he could find ready access to the most depraved material.
People would never understand – he loved those children. He knew they wanted it as much as he did. He started crying, lost in a well of self-pity at the thought that he might die here, alone and unloved. No tears fell, he had none to offer.
As the hours wound on, he entered a delirious state. He entered a world where he held all the power, where nobody could stand in his way, where he had friends in very high places and they all shared the same secret. They had all had their favourites at the orphanage, safe behind their shields of respectability, safe behind the Sisters of Holy Mercy who took special care to beat the sin out of those children who seduced men like him. “We were the victims.” His voice was a faint croak.
Who had done this? Who had the temerity to do this to him? Anger replaced the pity and self-loathing. When he got out of here someone would pay, he’d make sure of that. The headache that had incapacitated him lessened as he fell into a fitful sleep.
It was a dream, he knew it must be a dream because the thirst he felt was bearable. He was in the orphanage; the staff and nuns bowed deeply as he entered. Someone must have spent a fortune on the building since his last visit. Walls and ceilings shone with colour, gold pillars soared heavenwards to carry a domed roof that would rival any Italian cathedral. Young children carried gold platters towards the dais where he reclined, bringing him grapes, fresh fruits and glasses of ruby-coloured wine. The dais felt uncomfortably hard under his buttocks, the thin material of his toga scarcely sufficient to cushion the cold marble, but he magnanimously refrained from complaining as he stretched out a hand towards the fruit and wine. The children came closer and another thirst made itself known, but he brushed that aside. The food and drink were beginning to intoxify him in their proximity. Although the platters were being brought closer, his hands were never quite able to grasp the drink he craved above all other appetites. He commanded them to come closer still. He could feel their bare feet treading on his legs as they approached until they were walking on his chest. They must be close enough for him to reach the platters now. Why couldn’t he touch the wine glass that hovered so close to his face?
He wasn’t sure what had woken him. The first hint of dawn cast a faint light into the cold store and he opened his eyes, struggling to unglue them from the crud that threatened to seal them shut, then wider again as he saw the dogs were close. Too close.
“Sit down, DOWN!” The voice, usually so effortlessly commanding, came as a pathetic squeak. The dogs growled, a sound from low in their bodies. Their eyes had become wild; normally submissive, they now stared at him as if he were prey. He lashed out with a foot, only to receive a bite on his calf. The dog increased the pressure, jaws forcing teeth deep into muscle as the laird started a high-pitched scream. The first flow of blood was all the encouragement the other dog required. It jumped onto the prostrate laird’s chest and pushed past his feeble attempts to ward it off with weak arms before biting him in the neck – an ancient programming taking over from the deceptively thin veneer of domestication.
The last words spoken by the laird consisted of a wet bubbling as air mixed with the sudden release of blood. Death did not come quickly, even hastened as it was by the dogs ripping chunks of flesh off his still struggling body. The animals were driven mad by thirst, drinking the salt-laden blood in desperate gulps in an attempt to satisfy that basic need. In the end, it only hastened their demise.
The dogs lay listless, panting in a pool of the laird’s blood which already was starting to congeal on their matted fur. Their stomachs were full, for now, but the thirst remained. The laird stared at the blood-spattered white walls, eyes unseeing. His body resembled a badly butchered carcass, white bones protruding from red flesh. Mercifully the dogs had not eaten his face, but the expression that remained was not one that anyone witnessing it would easily forget.
On the floor, the hourglass still counted down the hours. It was at least a day out in its calculation of how long the laird had left to live – but then, death by dehydration is not an exact science, especially when you’ve added two Rhodesian Ridgebacks and a box of salted crisps into the equation.
Outside, the sun made leisurely progress behind the trees, sinking towards a horizon turned blood red. The dogs were unable to appreciate the poetic symmetry of colour bestowed on the interior of the cold store as the light turned to a diffuse ochre. As Thursday drew to a close, they lay stiff, cold and lifeless next to their butchered master on the bloodstained floor.
XXIV
THURSDAY 08:17
Frankie was driving the patrol car to Glasgow, allowing Corstorphine the luxury of being a passenger and free to work through his thoughts as they drove to Barlinnie. Last night had been a revelation for him as he shared a meal with Jenny; they had talked completely naturally for three hours without any of the awkwardness that had accompanied their first meeting. She’d made him laugh several times, which was akin to a miracle given the stress he was under, and the conversation had flowed as easily as the drink. She’d asked him about the murders, nothing surprising there since the whole town was avidly buying copies of the Courier and following the orphanage allegations in as much detail as the paper was allowed to print.
He’d let it slip that they’d found bone mechanisms at each scene, the words escaping his mouth before he was able to stop himself. He’d shrugged it off, fairly certain the Courier had already covered this anyway, but she’d been fascinated. In hindsight, he had told her too much. Normally he didn’t ever drink more than a small glass of wine with his meal, preferring not to be faced with the wrong end of a breathalyser at the end of an evening, but the drink just kept flowing and he had ended up booking a taxi for them both. Memories of a lingering farewell remained at the front of his mind and he smiled at the recollection like a teenage boy remembering his first kiss.
Jenny had quizzed him about the orphanage, looking for more detail than the salacious comments attributed to Margo. He had had to explain that the matter was under investigation and he was unable to offer any further details. She had been content with that, understanding that he was working on the case and couldn’t give details whilst a case was live. She’d said as much. Patient confidentiality she called it, in her profession.
The radio came alive with the sergeant’s call sign, bringing him back to the present. Corstorphine pulled the microphone free from the cradle and answered. “Sierra one-four receiving, over.”
“We’ve had a call from the Inverness Court, sir. The sheriff’s not shown up and nobody can reach him. They’ve asked us
to investigate. Over.”
He exchanged a look with Frankie and spun his finger around. She put on the siren and looked for a place to turn around.
“Whisky tango, we’re making our way to the laird’s house now. Who’s on duty this morning, over?”
“PC Lamb, over.”
Corstorphine rolled his eyes. “Send him out there now, Hamish. We’ll join him in about an hour. Over and out.”
A burst of static provided the only response. Frankie had spun the car in a U-turn and was speeding back up the road, flashing blue lights clearing the way. Corstorphine called Barlinnie, advising that they wouldn’t be interviewing Simon Battle that day. A sick feeling had settled in his stomach; there had been something amiss yesterday when they’d been at the laird’s house, he knew it. Why hadn’t he insisted they undertake a more thorough search of the grounds?
“Do you think he’s alright, sir?” Frankie asked, eyes focussed on the road ahead.
“I certainly hope so, Frankie. I certainly hope so.” Corstorphine had an image of the crazy board in his mind’s eye as they sped back along the road they’d just travelled. In his imagination a red line was being drawn through the laird’s name even as he thought about it.
Lamb was waiting for them on the gravelled drive, standing to attention in his uniform.
“Sir!” He attempted a salute as they climbed out of the car, only to be fended off by Corstorphine.
“Never mind that. Have you found anything?”
Lamb looked doubtful. “Only this, sir. I saw these tracks yesterday when I was looking for signs of that gamekeeper’s vehicle.” He led them out of the courtyard onto the metalled road.
“What are we looking at, Lamb?” Corstorphine asked, casting his eyes around in an attempt to see anything of note at all.
“These tracks here, sir, the ones going down the forest track.” Lamb pointed at a muddy track that entered dense conifers. “They look like they might belong to the laird’s Land Rover. Thing is, sir, they only show a single vehicle. If he’d come back this way the tracks would cut across each other.”
Frankie crouched down to inspect the tracks more closely. “I think he’s right, sir. Do you think he drove down here and then had an accident?”
Corstorphine had a concern that this was exactly what had happened, although he wouldn’t be placing any bets on it being an accident. “Does anyone know where this track goes?”
They both shook their heads and Lamb pulled out his iPhone to try and load Google Earth, only to discover that 3G and 4G didn’t exist in the glen.
Frankie inspected the depth of the ruts left by the passage of a vehicle. “We’ll not get the car down here, sir. If we did manage any distance, we’d probably end up getting stuck.”
Corstorphine had to agree, the patrol car wasn’t up to off-roading. “OK. Lamb – you stay here, see if you can spot anything else that may assist us finding the laird. Frankie, we’ll go back to the station and pick up the Land Rover and some maps if we have them.”
Back at the station Frankie logged onto her screen and loaded Google Earth, zooming in on the laird’s house in an effort to see where the forest track went. She had to give up. The track split several times, making the network of paths that she could detect through the extensive tree plantations more like a maze. The map that Corstorphine had dug out from the office shelves didn’t deign to show anything as ephemeral as a forest track.
“We’ll just have to split up once we’re in the trees. Ask Hamish for the short-wave walkie-talkies, they should be good for around 10 miles, so we can at least keep in touch.” Corstorphine checked the back of the Land Rover for police tape and the first-aid kit. Both were present. Frankie jumped in the front with three walkie-talkies clutched in her hands.
Corstorphine checked the dash clock as he swung out into the high street. “OK. We’ve around 4 hours before the sun starts going down. If we haven’t found his Land Rover by then, we’ll have to call out the helicopter tomorrow morning, perform an aerial search.”
“We can’t call them out now, sir?” Frankie asked.
“No. We’re not even into an official missing person enquiry yet, and the ACC has to approve any helicopter use out of the regional budget. There’s no way he’d even look at it unless the sheriff has been missing for at least 24 hours.”
They scooped up Lamb from the big house and entered the gloom of the forest. Trees were planted so densely together that he needed the lights on full beam to follow the path. The air temperature had dropped by several degrees, the sun’s heat unable to penetrate the thick pine foliage. They came to the first fork in the track. Lamb pointed out tyre impressions still evident in the soft earth, so they continued for a mile on a potholed track, the Land Rover pitching and yawing like a drunk at sea. Before long, the track headed up the steeper side of the glen, the trees starting to thin out and let some welcome light back. Another split in the path appeared, and once again Lamb climbed out to check for signs of recent passage.
“It’s no good, sir. The ground’s too hard and stony to take any imprint. He could have gone either way.”
“You take the left, Lamb, and we’ll continue on this track. If you find anything, see any recent tracks, call us on the short-wave. Here,” he threw a roll of police tape out of the window. “You’ve heard of Hansel and Gretel, I take it?”
“Sir?”
“Just mark which way you’ve gone with strips of tape on trees, rocks, whatever. So we can find you if we have to.” Frankie instructed him impatiently.
They sped on along the higher road, able to make better time since visibility had improved considerably. A crossroads appeared and Corstorphine stopped the car so they could both check the paths ahead.
“This one turns to mud just down here,” Corstorphine advised, “and there’s no sign of any tracks.”
Frankie walked back from the track she’d investigated. “He could have gone this way, sir. It’s too dry to hold any tracks for long.”
“You take that track, Frankie, and I’ll cover as much ground as I can this way.” He handed over a roll of police tape, wished her good luck and headed further off into the mountains. The estate covered hundreds of square miles, Corstorphine thought. They could spend days looking for him up here. At least the weather was in their favour. The hills would usually be covered in mist at this time of year with visibility next to zero. He motored on, jumping out at each fork and looking in vain for any sign that a vehicle had been before him. After a few more hours Corstorphine accepted defeat. If the laird had travelled along this road he’d left no sign of his passing and it would be getting dark soon. The last thing he wanted was to call out the mountain rescue to find Lamb and Frankie. He’d never be allowed to live that down.
Meanwhile Frankie was searching through dense woodland. The track showed evidence that a vehicle had been along it, but whether it had been the laird’s Land Rover and whether it was a recent track, she couldn’t say. Each time she came to a fork, she followed the path displaying the deeper tyre tracks, tying blue and white police tape onto conifer branches as she went. At one point she stopped, imagining she’d heard a vehicle. She listened intently for any sound that might percolate through the dense woodland, realising that her own breathing was all she could hear. No birds, no animals, not even insects disturbed the perfect quiet. She shivered, feeling suddenly uneasy. Conifer plantations were like graveyards, sucking up all heat and light and leaving nothing for the living. She checked her watch. 19:08. They’d been searching for hours. At best there was one hour of daylight left. Reluctantly she turned back on herself and walked as quickly as she could back to the track where Corstorphine had left her. Frankie keyed the short-wave radio. “This is DC McKenzie. I’m starting to head back to our rendezvous, sir. Nothing found along here. Over.”
Corstorphine responded after a short while. “OK, Frankie, I’ll just have to find
somewhere I can back up and turn around. Drawn a blank here too. PC Lamb, anything to report? Over.”
PC Lamb was about to answer in the negative when he thought he could see the outline of a building through the dense trees. He picked up pace, eventually entering a small clearing where a single-storey white building stood, with bars on the windows. The laird’s Land Rover was parked outside.
“PC Lamb here. I’ve found his Land Rover, sir, next to a small building. I’ll just take a look. Over,” he added eventually.
“Don’t touch anything. Let us know if he’s alright. Over.” Corstorphine had a brief moment when he thought that his pessimistic temperament was going to be proven wrong. He drove back down the mountain track, waiting impatiently for Lamb to respond.
Lamb shouted out to see if anyone was there. The silence that returned his call was sufficient warning for him to proceed cautiously, checking the trees for snares, the ground for traps. In this overtly cautious manner he approached the window, already suspecting that the spatters he saw covering the glass were blood. He reached into his belt, retrieved his high-powered flashlight and looked in on a scene of utter carnage.
“Fuck, fuck!” He looked around guiltily in case anyone had heard his involuntary outburst and was relieved to find he was still on his own. He walked around the building until he found a door and tried the handle, issuing a silent prayer of thanks when he found it was locked.
“Sir. I’ve found him. Over.”
Something in his voice alerted both Corstorphine and Frankie that this wasn’t the good news they were hoping to hear.
“What’s his status, Lamb? Over.” Corstorphine wrestled with the wheel as he drove as quickly as he could back down the hill through the dense conifers.
“Bit of a dog’s dinner, sir.” Lamb still hadn’t lost his knack for an accurate and graphic description of a crime scene. “Looks like the dogs killed him. There’s nothing left alive in there by the looks of it, sir, and the door’s locked. I can’t gain access. Over.”
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