“Nobody is above the law, Brian.”
“Yes, they are, James. Some people are untouchable, no matter how bad the crime. Look after Molly for me, will you? She never knew anything about this.”
“Brian! Brian?” The phone was dead. “Shit!” Corstorphine grabbed the patrol car keys and ran for the door, turning on his heel as he remembered the crowd of reporters out front. “Frankie! With me, fast!”
Corstorphine spun the tyres on the car park tarmac in his hurry to get out, only to be prevented from exiting the station car park by a large van equipped with a satellite dish. He turned on the siren, gesticulating wildly to the driver to get out of his way. The sound attracted a throng of reporters waving microphones and cameras at him in an effort to gain a scoop on the town murders, hemming them in even tighter.
By the time he’d cleared the car park they’d already lost five precious minutes.
“You don’t think he’s going to do anything stupid, do you, sir?” Frankie’s worried face stared straight ahead as if willing the car to travel even faster through the town centre.
“I don’t know, he sounded… strange. Get out of the fucking way!” A mobility scooter had frozen on the crossing before them, the driver staring at the patrol car in shock. Frankie gestured for him to move on out of the way, and they sat impatiently as the rider struggled to engage gear. By the time they reached the old DI’s house twenty minutes had elapsed and Corstorphine’s mind was not put at ease by the sight of Molly standing distraught in the road.
“It’s Brian. The garage. There was a shot!” Frankie caught Molly as her legs buckled under her, arms waving weakly towards the house. “Help him, James. Please. Oh God!”
Corstorphine tried the garage door, it was locked. The windows were grubby, covered in dust which he managed to partly clear with his sleeve. What he saw didn’t make him feel any better.
“Frankie. Get an ambulance here, fast!” Putting his shoulder to the door he threw himself against it. The whole building shook in response, but the door held. He took a run at the door and it finally burst open, Corstorphine almost falling over the old DI’s body as he flew into the garage. Brian Rankin wasn’t going to be giving a statement, not with the top of his head missing.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Corstorphine spoke the words loudly, precisely, clearly. He knelt down and lifted the gun out of the old detective’s slack fingers with a pen, dropping it carefully into an evidence bag. “Where did you get this from?” He didn’t expect a reply.
“Brian!” The scream of anguish came from the open door, Frankie holding onto Molly, pulling her back.
“There’s nothing we can do, Molly. I’m so sorry.”
Molly cut him short, her words like daggers. “What did you say to him, James? What have you done to make him do this to himself, to us? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Her voice broke into meaningless sounds, grief piling upon grief as she struggled to make sense of the blood and brains she’d seen spread over the garage floor and wall. She turned into Frankie, arms wrapped around her as if seeking a safe anchor in a world turned upside down.
Corstorphine reached out to comfort her, the gun in his hand still visible in its plastic bag. He withdrew and left her with Frankie. He was the last person she wanted to see.
“Christ, what a mess.” He spoke the words under his breath as he climbed into the police car. “What a fucking mess.” A feeling of guilt washed over him like an oily tide. Brian would still be alive if he’d only taken him into custody first thing. There had been enough evidence to hold him with William Booth’s statement, never mind the other supporting statements. A misplaced sense of loyalty had encouraged him to let Rankin go, a gesture towards a friendship that had existed since the day they’d first met. If anyone was guilty of Rankin’s death, his culpability played a large part.
He left the two women wrapped in each other’s arms, acutely aware of Molly’s accusing eyes following him as he drove away.
XXX
FRIDAY 14:10
Corstorphine met Hamish’s questioning expression as he pushed past the huddle of reporters crowding the police station entrance, ignoring the clamour of questions and waiting until the sergeant had locked the door behind him before answering his mute query.
“Brian’s dead. I found his body in the garage.”
“Brian? Dead? What happened?” The questions tumbled over each other, words uttered in disbelief. “God. Poor Molly! What happened, was it an accident?”
“Suicide. He shot himself in the head.”
“Shot himself?” The desk sergeant was reduced to parroting Corstorphine’s words back at him, standing frozen in shock. Hamish noticed the evidence bag for the first time as Corstorphine withdrew it from his pocket.
“Can you put this somewhere safe? Frankie’s with her. She’ll stay until the body’s been dealt with. Molly’s sister is on her way, she’ll be well looked after.”
The desk sergeant carried the package as if it was contagious, the plastic bag gingerly held pinched between finger and thumb. Corstorphine sat down heavily in his office chair, head bowed in exhaustion, propped in his hands. Four people had now died in the space of the last seven days, five children were being exhumed from shallow graves – how many more bodies would be found before this was over? He logged into his computer, searching through the ever-growing list of emails and dismissing each one as he opened them. Nothing new from forensics, nothing on the search for any orphanage children who’d left and by all accounts had disappeared without trace, nothing on June Stevens’ missing daughter – Abigail Stevens. “What was it you knew, Brian? Why kill yourself?” The questions fell on empty air.
Corstorphine crossed over to the incident board, drawing a diagonal red line for Brian Rankin’s death on the top row where he shared space with Oscar, the minister and the laird. He replayed the last call he’d had with Brian before the line had gone dead. Brian had specifically named Lord Lagan from the House of Lords. Had he made this final confession knowing he was about to kill himself? One last attempt to make amends after hiding the truth for so many years? This was the same name that June Stevens’ notebook contained. If someone so senior was involved in child abuse, it would explain the lack of prosecutions, a blind eye being turned. It would also explain Brian’s behaviour in covering up the abuse, even his reason for covering up June’s murder if he had been leant on hard enough. His eye fell on the five children’s black and white photographs at the bottom of the board, two of whose bloodied bodies Brian Rankin had seen and kept quiet about. What if the lord’s particular peccadillo had caused the death of some of his victims? Was that why only two of the survivors had named him? Had Lord Lagan purposefully crushed the life out of those small bodies for some sick thrill? Corstorphine felt anger seething just underneath the surface – they’d need to do more than lean on him to keep him quiet.
With a single-minded focus, he concentrated on the crazy board. Of the alleged abusers only Lord Lagan remained alive; the last of the names provided by William Booth and Simon Battle. At least that was sufficient confirmation that the name in the reporter’s notebook was worthy of investigation. Staring at the laird’s photograph, Corstorphine was taken back to the conversation he’d had with Frankie just four days ago, although it seemed a lifetime away. She’d mentioned the gamekeeper, John Ackerman, saying that the sheriff had it coming, that he might be in danger. He’d dismissed it at the time, had taken Ackerman’s warning as bravado, and then they’d found the laird’s body. The gamekeeper had already been eliminated as Oscar’s murderer; his alibi held for the week during which the snare must have been set, although he’d been placed at the laird’s house on the day of his disappearance. Did he have the ability to design the laird’s trap and put it into place in the weeks before his death? More to the point, Corstorphine had not only failed to protect the laird, but had given Brian sufficient time to arrange his suicide. And there was the last pot
ential victim staring haughtily out from his position next to the laird – Lord Lagan. Was he as safe as Corstorphine thought? Tucked away in his London home or sitting in the House of Lords? A sudden premonition came to him and a chill ran down his spine as he searched online for the Inverness Ball, a gathering of the great and good of the Highlands. It was to be held that same night and Lord Lagan was almost certain to be in attendance. If the killer knew all of his other victims’ moves so well, surely he’d be cognisant of the fact that Lord Lagan always had an invite to the ball? He checked his watch, 14:20. The ball was scheduled to begin at 19:00 that evening, in a big marquee in the grounds of the Strathcarron Hotel. If his hunch was right, there would likely be an attempt on Lord Lagan’s life tonight. He had to be there, if only to see if he could recognise someone who might be the murderer.
First, though, the press would have to be dealt with. Corstorphine opened the station door and stood on the step, watching as the reporters and camera crews surged towards him like piranhas in a feeding frenzy. Corstorphine gave the press a few seconds to settle, cameras jostling for position and reporters arranging themselves in a self-imposed hierarchy, then he started. “Thank you for your patience. I’m Detective Inspector James Corstorphine and I’m leading the investigation into the recent murders. I’d like to make a brief statement and then I’ll take some questions.” He took a deep breath, looked straight ahead and began.
“We are following a number of lines of enquiry in respect to the unlawful killings of the Reverend Simon McLean, Minister of St Cuthbert’s; Oscar Anderson, gamekeeper at the Mhor Estate; and Sheriff Anthony McCallum, owner of same estate. It is also my sad duty to inform you that my predecessor, Detective Inspector Brian Rankin, took his own life this afternoon.” He waited for the hubbub to quieten before continuing.
“I am unable to tell you much about the enquiry for operational reasons, but I can tell you that we are also investigating allegations of historic child abuse at the local orphanage which was run by the Sisters of Holy Mercy prior to 2000. We have been provided with the names of individuals that we will be wanting to interview and are asking for anyone who either stayed or worked at the orphanage to get in touch with us.”
“Is this connected to the murders, Inspector?”
“We have reason to believe that there is a strong connection between the murders and whatever happened at the orphanage, yes.”
“Were any of the victims involved?”
“All murder victims, as well as retired Detective Inspector Brian Rankin, had regular involvement with the orphanage.”
“Had they been accused of abuse, Inspector?”
“I’m unable to answer that question.”
“Do you have a suspect for the murders, Inspector? Are you not worried that more deaths may occur until you catch the murderer?”
“We are pursuing several lines of enquiry, that’s all I can tell you at the moment. Thank you for your time.”
A question cut through the noise, the distinctive French accent making it stand out from the hubbub. “Inspector. Is it true that June Stevens, the Courier reporter found hanging in the very same tree that Oscar Anderson died on a week ago, was investigating child abuse at the orphanage back in 1997, the same year she died? Can you tell us what happened to her daughter and the other children reported missing from the orphanage? And is this in any way connected to the search for children’s bodies in the old orphanage grounds?”
Corstorphine fixed her with a steady look. “No further comment.” He ignored the increasing clamour of calls requesting more and left, closing the station door behind him. Josephine had carried out one task he’d asked of her, putting this information into the public domain. It was a risky manoeuvre but once it was broadcast the story couldn’t be kept under wraps any longer. He owed that much to the children. A full and fair investigation into the abuse they had suffered without any possibility of shutting Pandora’s box now it had been opened.
“Hamish. You’d better radio Lamb, warn him that a load of reporters are heading his way. Tell him to tape off the entrance to the gardens, we’re on our way.”
“Sir?” The desk sergeant held his hand over the phone. “You may want to take this before you go. It’s forensics, they’ve made a mistake with the bones.”
Corstorphine pointed towards his office, grabbing his phone as the call was routed through.
“Corstorphine. What have you got?”
“Afternoon, Inspector. We’ve had the report back from the DNA lab. Those bones you asked us to test, they weren’t cattle as originally thought. They’re human.”
He sat in stunned silence for a few seconds as the enormity of the words hit home. “Human! How can you make such a basic mistake?”
“The bones had been carved. Our first diagnosis is made on bone shape. Any technician here will recognise human skeletal bones. It becomes a lot more complicated when the bones have been worked like this. We shouldn’t have let the report go out to you without confirmation from the DNA analysis, but one of our junior technicians was overly anxious to give you something as soon as possible.”
Corstorphine swore under his breath, the day was going from bad to worse. “What can you tell me about the bones? Are they from the same individual?”
“They come from five individuals. The finger bone we collected yesterday evening from the lock in the laird’s cold store was the first indication that we were dealing with human remains. That’s what made me chase up the DNA results in the first place, get them to fast track the tests.”
“Jesus, so we have a serial murderer who carves his victims’ bones to make traps for new victims?”
“Not necessarily. The bones date to around twenty years ago. Another thing you should know, they’re all children’s bones. None of the skeletons had reached beyond puberty. I’m having the report finished now. You should receive it in your inbox by close of play today.”
“OK. Thanks.” Corstorphine spoke distractedly, his mind whirling at the ramifications of what had just been said.
“Sorry we let you down on the initial findings.”
Corstorphine muttered an acknowledgement and grabbed his coat. “Hamish, you hold the fort. Frankie will be back in an hour or so. Bill, you come with me.”
The car park exit had magically cleared following the press statement with just a couple of reporters making a lunge for their cameras as Corstorphine drove out. The site of the old orphanage gardens was just a few minutes away. As the entrance came into view, they could see it was already blocked by a phalanx of camera crews and reporters struggling to get the best position. PC Lamb stood implacably in the entrance, standing behind a line of white and blue police tape that nobody was willing to risk crossing. Corstorphine instructed PC McAdam to help Lamb man the entrance and dived under the tape to meet the crew of workers wheeling something the size of a small fridge over the ground. An umbilical of wires led to a man sitting on an upturned flight case in the middle of the gardens, laptop perched on his knee.
Corstorphine introduced himself, only recognising PC Lamb’s father as he lifted his head up from the display.
“Hello, James. Quite the circus you’ve got following you around today.”
“It’s not through choice, I can assure you. Police work is a damn sight easier without reporters pointing their telephotos in your direction. Have you found anything?”
Douglas Lamb pointed a finger at the screen, where a jumbled mess of lines and colours provided a complicated display. “This area outlined in red represents where the soil has been recently disturbed. I’d say you have five distinct pits that have been dug within the last year, possibly containing the bodies you’re looking for. We’re just finishing off the site now.” He stood up, arching his back to stretch. “Been sitting here for the last three hours,” he offered by way of an explanation. “Oh, and by the way, the boys found this, thought you’d be inter
ested.”
Corstorphine followed him across the lawn, now criss-crossed with deep tyre treads where the radar had been driven in parallel sweeps. He pointed to a young oak tree, green leaves freshly budding on the branches. It looked unremarkable, just a sapling, complete with stake and protective sleeve. Then he noticed the wooden plaque set into the ground, the words written in the same script that he’d seen inscribed on the hourglass.
They shall remember you
Inset into the wood was a papal coin. He didn’t need to check the date to know it was the same as the others, 1997. “Is this where the radar found the graves?”
A single nod confirmed his expectations.
“When do you think the ground was last disturbed?”
“Difficult to say, around a year ago probably. The tree would have been planted at the same time, near as we can tell. Do you think this is where they buried the children?”
Corstorphine nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the wooden plaque. The children would have been buried twenty years ago, but somebody had dug them up within the last year – to take the bones or make it easier to find the remains? At least the motive was now unassailable. But how many other people were involved and how in God’s name was he supposed to track them down before the murderer got to them first? He thanked Lamb’s father before excusing himself, returning the call to the forensics department at Inverness.
“Corstorphine here again. I need a team here asap. We have potentially five children’s graves to examine in the old orphanage gardens. I’ll text you through the location now. You’ll have to bring back-up to protect the site. The press are here in force and our team is too thinly stretched as it is.”
He stood looking at the oak sapling and its message in silent contemplation. Whoever the murderer was, it was someone who felt no compunction about digging up five children’s graves and removing their bones to carve into killing mechanisms. What sort of person was even capable of such an act? Were the bones selected as some twisted tribute? A belated memorial to each dead child? Corstorphine left the two constables looking after the orphanage garden site and returned to the station. Events had moved so fast, he’d hardly had a chance to think, with one thing tripping over the heels of the next.
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