“Are our guests still in the cells?”
Hamish shook his head before replying in his languorous way. “No, sir. Once the reporters had cleared off, they decided it was time to go.” He looked momentarily flustered, “Did you want me to keep them here, sir? I thought they were free to come and go as they pleased?”
“No, it’s OK, Hamish. They weren’t under arrest.” He couldn’t think of anything else to ask them even if they had still been waiting in the cells. A chilling thought had just occurred to him even as he spoke to the sergeant. “Pass me the evidence locker key, Hamish. I didn’t get a good look at the weapon before I bagged it.”
The key was handed over and he retrieved the gun in its plastic evidence bag, turning it over to reveal an inscription carved into the wooden stock. The writing was in the same flowing script he’d seen written on the hourglass and plaque. He read it with some difficulty through the plastic cover.
You’ll know when it’s time.
The gun had been given to the old DI by the murderer, knowing that he’d be implicated eventually as the murders were investigated. Corstorphine experienced the same feeling he had had at the first murder scene; that he was being played. Each death was meticulously and cold-bloodedly planned and executed, each murder following the next like clockwork. Brian would have had the chance of fighting this in court, of proclaiming his innocence or risk being convicted and sent to prison. The old DI must have known he’d be found guilty of abetting in the unlawful burial of the children, at the very least, and he’d have known what to expect as a copper behind bars – especially if any connection to child abuse was mentioned. So, Brian had had Hobson’s choice. No bloody choice at all. The murderer might just as well have held the gun to the old DI’s head and pulled the trigger. He called Frankie on the radio, hoping she was still at his house.
“Frankie, Corstorphine here. Can you ask Molly if Brian had delivery of a package recently, one that may have contained the gun? There’s an inscription on the stock, looks like it’s our same murderer who sent it to him. Over.”
Frankie’s response came back, requesting time to talk with Molly. He added the photos he’d taken with his mobile to the crazy board and included one of the gun stock whilst he waited.
“Molly said he had a shoebox-sized parcel delivered about six months ago. Says she only remembers because he was evasive about what it contained. He’d said it was a pair of shoes, but he hadn’t shown them to her until a few days afterwards which she’d found odd. Not as odd as him buying shoes from France, though.”
“Why did she think they came from France?”
“The box had French writing on it.”
“Did she keep the box, or the stamp? Anything that we can use as a lead?”
“No, sir. I asked her that. It went straight into the recycling. Sorry.”
Corstorphine sighed, another possible lead closed down. “OK, Frankie. How’s Molly bearing up?”
“You’re not flavour of the month, sir. She seems to hold you responsible for his suicide, says you pushed him to it. There’s family turned up now, sir. I’ll just make sure they’re all OK then head back. Over.”
Corstorphine signed off and sat down heavily at his desk. Four people dead within a week, five children’s bodies awaiting forensics to exhume them and still no real idea who the murderer could be. Was it only seven days ago this had all started? It seemed like an eternity, and somewhere out there was a murderer who knew how each of the dominoes was going to fall before the first death had even occurred. He felt seriously out of his depth; a small town detective facing multiple murders and a serial killer who was running rings around them all.
With a heavy heart he opened the file that Josephine had left for him, a transcription of June Stevens’ last notebook entries detailing her suspicions and interviews. As he reached the final words, she wrote her concerns about meeting with Oscar in such a remote location. He knew now why her behaviour had changed in the weeks before her death. She had known the extent of the abuse, who was covering it up and how much she was putting herself – and her daughter – at risk by continuing with the investigation.
“You could have helped her, Brian. She didn’t need to die, hanging from that bloody tree whilst Oscar taunted her. You could have stopped all this.” His words fell uselessly on the empty air. Too little, too late.
XXXI
FRIDAY 15:42
Frankie met Hamish as he was leaving at the end of his shift. “How’s Molly coping?”
He paused at the police station entrance, one hand holding the door open for her. “As well as can be expected. It’s come as a huge shock to her. Brian was hardly the type you’d expect to have been mixed up in anything like this.”
“Or someone you’d expect to shoot himself.”
Hamish shook his head at the futility of a life so easily extinguished. “I never had a clue he was involved in any of this, Frankie. He was always one of the straightest coppers I’d ever met, a real gentleman. I cannae believe it’s happening.” He endeavoured to find words adequate enough to describe his sense of bewilderment at the events of the last few days. “Any of it.”
“Did you know he was the one who took June Stevens’ daughter to the orphanage after her mother was found dead?” Frankie still couldn’t bring herself to say murdered, as if accepting there had been yet another murder might in some way cause the entire town to unravel. Was the small Highland town really that close to the edge? Perched on the edge of an abyss where societal norms collapse and people exact revenge for whatever wrongs had been committed in the past? She struggled to make sense of it, as they all did. One murder would have been bad enough; four deaths in a week felt like they were facing the end of days.
“Aye. I guessed it was Brian who took her there. I didnae know for sure but he looked out for her. I thought it was out of Christian kindness, but all this has made me question everything.”
“You think he may have been abusing her?” Frankie asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
The sergeant turned towards her in shock. “Never! He’d never have hurt a hair on any bairn’s head. That’s what I cannae understand, why he’d cover up any abuse. It makes nae sense.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “That’s the thing that’s been bothering me the most. Brian was always going out at odd times during the day and more often than not he was going to the orphanage. It’s almost as if he was keeping an eye on the wee lass, turning up at random times to make sure she was being treated alright. It was like he felt he had an obligation to her, treated her more like a daughter. Does that make sense to you?”
Frankie could see Hamish had been affected by the old DI’s suicide. He’d worked alongside him for longer than any of them and the suicide had hit him hard too. “No, Hamish, nothing makes sense at the moment. Will you be in tomorrow?”
“Aye. The DI wants all hands to the pumps until this mess is cleared up. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She watched as he walked slowly down the road until he rounded the corner and was lost to view. Not everything was making sense, it never did in the beginning, not until enough pieces were found to build the jigsaw.
The DI was sitting at his desk, illuminated by the glow from his computer screen. He looked up as she entered the office.
“Did you manage to get anything more out of Molly?”
“No, sir. She basically went to pieces when her sister and husband arrived. I left them to it, not much else I could do. There was only the one forensics guy turned up and he didn’t stay long. The bullet had passed clean through the skull. He found it embedded in the garage wall. Pretty much an open and closed case from his point of view. He asked where the weapon was. I told him you’d taken it for safety.”
Corstorphine gestured to the only other chair in his office and waited until she’d sat down.
“I couldn’t have left it in place. I’ll
talk to forensics, explain the scene couldn’t be secured. The rest of the forensics team are digging for bodies in the old orphanage gardens. The ground radar detected five likely burial sites all next to each other.” He passed over a photograph of the plaque at the bottom of the young oak. “This oak tree had been planted on top of the bodies, either using the planting as cover for exhuming bones, or as a memorial at the grave site.”
“Exhuming bones, sir?” Frankie’s puzzlement reminded him he hadn’t updated her properly.
“Sorry, Frankie, there’s a lot on my mind. I had the head of Inverness forensics on the phone earlier this afternoon. The bones that they told us were animal bones were human. Children’s bones,” he added.
“The missing children?”
“Looks very much like it. It will take weeks to track down any living relatives, if they exist, before we can genetically match the DNA to each name.”
“So, the single bone in the laird’s lock?”
“Finger. Metacarpal. From a child’s second or third finger, they think.”
“That lettering, it’s the same as the lettering on the hourglass.” Frankie had spotted what he’d seen.
“Then there’s this. It’s on the wooden stock of the gun Brian was sent through the post.” He passed over another photograph, the lettering indistinct through the plastic covering but still clear enough to tell it was the same calligraphy.
“Same killer.”
Corstorphine put his hands to his temples, trying to alleviate the headache that had been growing over the day. “Yes. It certainly looks that way. They must have known Brian would commit suicide. Whoever we’re looking for must be in the town, Frankie. They know too much about each of the victims, their history, their habits. They can even predict how their victims will react. More to the point, they knew what went on at that orphanage and now they’re having their revenge.”
The radio interrupted him. It was PC Lamb. “They’ve found two bodies so far, sir. Both young children. Over.”
“How long do they need to complete the investigation, Lamb? Over.”
The radio remained silent for a minute until a burst of static announced Lamb’s response. “Going to take all night they reckon, sir. Do you want us to stay put? Over.”
Corstorphine swore under his breath. Of course, they’d take days over such a dig. Every scrap of soil would have to be examined for evidence and the remains dealt with respectfully – or as respectfully as could be managed.
“No. I’ve asked them to arrange for reinforcements from Inverness to man the site. They should be there within the hour. Both of you head back to the shop when they arrive. Call me on the radio if I’m not here.”
“Sir.”
Frankie waited until the radio quietened. “The five children. Do you think the murderer has made five mechanisms, one from each body?”
“We’ve only seen three deaths which involve any bone contraptions. Brian killed himself, so if you’re right there are two more potential victims.” He pulled the photograph of the gun towards him, peering more closely. “I can’t make it out. I’ll have to take the gun out of the evidence bag.”
Corstorphine returned seconds later with the clear plastic bag, pulling on latex gloves before laying the gun down on his desk. They both looked at it under the bright office lighting, the light wooden-coloured stock revealing itself for the first time under their scrutiny.
“That looks like it may be a bone handle.” Frankie voiced what they both thought.
“In which case, and if you’re right, then there’s one more target left for this maniac to kill. Get this weapon to the forensics team at the dig and ask them if they can prioritise matching each of the carved bones to the remaining child skeletons. Lord Lagan is going to be at the Inverness Ball tonight and if I’m not mistaken, our murderer is going to have a go at him. I’ll contact the ACC, tell him to secure the site.”
“What about questioning Lord Lagan, sir? Are you going to bring him in?”
Corstorphine nodded. “I have to warn him his life may be in danger. It’s in his interest to come in today.”
She left him alone in the station, searching the police database for Lord Lagan’s mobile number. The phone picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Lord Lagan? This is Detective Inspector James Corstorphine. Can I ask if you’re attending the Inverness Ball tonight?”
“Why do you ask, Inspector?” He managed to make the word inspector sound like something that was beneath his contempt.
“I believe that someone may make an attempt on your life.”
There was a pause. “What are you talking about?”
Corstorphine wondered at the lack of surprise, almost as if Lord Lagan was subjected to death threats on a regular basis. How many enemies had the man made?
“You’ll be familiar with the orphanage run by the Sisters of Holy Mercy?”
“I’ve heard of it.” His response was guarded.
“You were a regular visitor, Lord Lagan, up until the orphanage closed in 2000. I have written statements from a number of the former children who were resident there. They’ve made serious allegations against you, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to come in for questioning.”
“That will not be convenient. Do you have any idea how busy I am Inspector…?”
“DI Corstorphine, sir. I realise you’re a busy man, but you will have to come in for questioning, either under your own volition or in the back of a police car. Your decision, sir.”
The phone went silent again, Corstorphine could imagine the lord gauging how open to persuasion he might be. “What is the nature of these allegations?”
“I’m afraid I cannot provide any specifics, sir, but you would be well advised to have legal representation accompany you.”
“I see. Well, there’s obviously been some sort of misunderstanding. It’s too late for me to find the time today. Can we say tomorrow at 10:30am?”
“Yes, that would be fine, sir. Thank you for your assistance. As you say, I’m sure this is a simple misunderstanding that can easily be cleared up.” Corstorphine smiled as he imagined Lord Lagan listening to his words, unconvinced by the platitudes.
“So, this attempt on my life?”
“Probably nothing, sir, but I have to let you know of any threats. There have been a number of murders recently as you’re probably aware. Each of the victims had a connection to the orphanage. We’re just trying to make sure that anyone who was a regular visitor at the orphanage is given as much protection as we are able to manage until the murderer is caught. I’ll ask the Inverness police to provide a discreet presence.”
“Is this really a good use of limited police resources, nspector? It sounds to me as if this may be an overreaction.”
“That’s as may be, sir, but I don’t want to risk any more lives until we’ve caught the killer. I’d rather we were overly cautious at this stage, just in case.”
In case of what? Corstorphine really didn’t know. He had had no intention of having Lord Lagan in for questioning before the following day. The lord was going to be bait – the Inverness Ball was the trap and this was the single best plan he could conceive to catch a murderer who left no trace.
Corstorphine was locking his office door, preparing to leave, when he saw a car sweep into the station car park. Whoever it was had a uniformed officer as a chauffeur and was sufficiently high ranking that they waited until the driver opened the rear door for them. He was unsurprised to see the Assistant Chief Constable exiting the vehicle, pulling his cap over his head as he caught Corstorphine watching him through the glass. He waved a hand imperiously, indicating that Corstorphine open the door for him. Corstorphine sighed heavily, he’d known this was coming.
“What the bloody hell are you playing at, man?” The Assistant Chief was already well on his way to incand
escence. Corstorphine could imagine him watching the news broadcast, his face moving past traffic-light red and into purple heart-attack territory before commandeering a car to talk to him directly.
“Can we talk in here, sir? It will be more private.” Corstorphine pointed towards the interview room, indicating the uniformed driver with a tilt of his head.
The Assistant Chief marched in without acknowledging him, taking the interviewer’s chair. Corstorphine closed the door behind him, leaving them in relative privacy. His eyes flicked towards the voice recorder, left running without any indicator light announcing the fact it was still on record.
The ACC waited for Corstorphine to settle, his eyes narrowed to slits and his face an unhealthy colour.
“I don’t know where to begin, Corstorphine.” His hands slammed down on the table for emphasis before clenching and unclenching, mirroring his jaw. “What did you think you were playing at with that press interview? You know every press interaction is to be routed via Head Office. We have professionals trained for the job. You’ve made the whole Scottish police force look like a bunch of inept idiots. God knows, I was already making plans to relieve you of this murder investigation. How many are dead now? Three bodies, and you’ve driven Brian Rankin to suicide!” He shook his head, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “And now I’ve had Lord Lagan telling me you’re bringing him in for questioning. Under your watch you’ve allowed some lunatic to kill this gamekeeper, a minister of the church, the bloody sheriff himself and now Brian’s dead! What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?”
“We’ve had serious allegations...”
“What allegations are those, Corstorphine? The fantasy ramblings of a bunch of inadequate homeless people who are looking for a bit of publicity, looking for a payout like all the other cases they’ve read about?”
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