Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  “No, sir. These people have only provided signed statements because for the first time in their lives they aren’t scared. They aren’t scared of the sheriff or the local thug now they’re both dead, and they aren’t scared of us any more.”

  “Preposterous. What do you mean, scared of the police?”

  “They reported the abuse when it began. First to the nuns, who accused them of lying before punishing them for their imagined sins. Then they told the only other person who could help. They told Brian Rankin, who did nothing. Worse than that, he witnessed five children who died at the orphanage and allowed them to be buried in the grounds so that no pathologist’s report, no investigation, was ever made. That’s the link between the murders, sir. Both the laird and the minister have been accused of historic abuse and it’s my belief a former orphan is taking their revenge.”

  “Are you quite alright in the head, Corstorphine? The laird and minister abusing children? The DI burying bodies in the orphanage grounds? Do you realise quite how far-fetched this all is?” The Assistant Chief adopted a conciliatory air. “Look, I think the stress of the last week with all these murders has been too much for you. I’m relinquishing you of your position with immediate effect. We’ll get some psychiatric help arranged for you before we have a proper enquiry into your handling of this case. Quite honestly, Corstorphine, I think this may be the end of the line for you.”

  He made to stand up before Corstorphine spoke. “You may want to reconsider that, sir, bearing in mind that Brian confirmed all this with me before he died.”

  The Assistant Chief stood, one hand in the process of placing his cap back over his receding hairline.

  “He gave you this in writing?”

  “No, sir.” Corstorphine could almost feel the wave of relief that passed over the Assistant Chief. “But he confirmed the name two of our witnesses have in their signed statements as an alleged abuser. And a suspect for the unexplained deaths of five small children whose bodies I believe are buried in the former orphanage grounds – Sir Archibald Lagan.”

  The ACC froze, confirming Corstorphine’s suspicions that he knew more about the orphanage than he liked to admit.

  “I can have you sectioned.” The threat was real. If he couldn’t be shut up by the normal chain of command then a word in the right ear from the Assistant Chief Constable would be enough for Corstorphine to be facing padded cells for the foreseeable future, pumped full of enough drugs to never form a coherent sentence ever again.

  “You could, sir. Is that how you threatened Brian?”

  The Assistant Chief made a few unnatural noises. It appeared speech was temporarily beyond him. Corstorphine wondered whether the defibrillator was fully charged, just in case he’d have to use it.

  “You cannot possibly be serious?”

  Corstorphine sat in silence, not sure if this was a question requiring an answer. He suspected not.

  “Are you suggesting I had, in any way, prior knowledge of what may have happened at that orphanage?” His eyes had narrowed, searching Corstorphine’s face for a clue as to how much information had been uncovered.

  It hadn’t escaped Corstorphine’s notice that the Assistant Chief hadn’t denied threatening the old detective. “And what’s the nature of this attempt on Lord Lagan’s life tonight? Is this another of your mental aberrations?”

  “I have good reason to believe that whoever the murderer is, sir, they will take the opportunity of the Inverness Ball to make an attempt on his life. Can I suggest that DC Frankie McKenzie and I attend the event, just in case we can spot anyone who may be the suspect? I strongly advise that Lord Lagan does not attend the event and is provided with police protection until we have identified and apprehended the culprit.”

  “I don’t want you or any of your team anywhere near the Inverness Ball! You’ve gone too far this time, Corstorphine. These are serious allegations and you’ve put them into the public domain. The force could be made liable for damages, at the very least. You’ve put me in an impossible situation. You could find yourself facing not just disciplinary action, Corstorphine. You could end up in the High Court.” The Assistant Chief stood up, glowering down on him. “Where are these statements, man? I want every copy now! And any so-called evidence.” His fingers twitched with impatience.

  “I’m sorry, sir. All the statements and evidence are secured in the evidence locker and Hamish McKee has left for the day. We can get them to you tomorrow?” Corstorphine tried a winning smile. The expression on the Assistant Chief’s face told him he needed to work on that.

  “My men will be here at 10:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow. You and your team are to be here with all keys, passwords and anything else we require to take over this inept investigation and to begin an enquiry into you and this station’s activities. I’m going to have to apologise to Lord Lagan tonight. Don’t count on receiving a pension, Corstorphine.” He placed his cap firmly upon his head and paused in the doorway. “You’d better tell your entire team they’re all going to be investigated. You’re a disgrace to the force!”

  “Yes, sir.” Corstorphine was speaking to the door as it slammed shut, leaving him feeling more alone and isolated than the day his wife had died. He stood slowly, feeling the weight of his body as it overcame gravity and inertia. A foretelling of things to come, he thought to himself ruefully. Crossing to the other side of the desk, he switched the recorder off and stared at it for what seemed an eternity whilst his thoughts circled and collided against each other, forming dizzying patterns inside his head. He sat down, suddenly faint and sick with it all – sick from the murders and the hierarchy who were already trying to save their own skins by sacrificing everyone else. He could still see Brian’s body, crumpled on the garage floor, still hear Molly’s screams, see the accusation in her tear-stained eyes. He was responsible for Brian’s death – he should have arrested him at the outset, locked him in a cell where he’d still be now. He had omitted to do so only through a mistaken sense of loyalty, a gesture from one policeman to another. Too late now for regret.

  XXXII

  FRIDAY 18:22

  Lord Lagan adjusted his tuxedo in the full-length mirror, turning to admire his profile with a satisfied expression. A frown crossed his face, carving deep furrows in his high forehead, his eyes creasing into calculating slits. The detective’s words repeated in his mind – attempt on his life, serious allegations. Had someone from the orphanage said something? They were all supposed to have been silenced. His memories took him into forbidden territory – the rush it had given him as he squeezed the last life out of those children, the ones they had had to secretly dispose of. It would never do if that came to light. When he’d first heard of Oscar’s death it had come as something of a relief – no longer having to worry about what evidence the gamekeeper may have had, on him in particular. With that thug gone, perhaps some of the orphans may have felt brave enough to go to the police? And now the sheriff was no longer in play, he had no option but to submit to the indignity of an interview with some junior detective. At least the ACC was fighting his corner and he had a decent QC lined up to accompany him. He continued frowning at his reflection, pulling in his stomach until his paunch disappeared from sight. This was not very satisfactory. A string of murders making his life difficult. The frown left as quickly as it had arrived. In his experience every problem could be solved if you had enough money and power. He had enough of both to be all but invincible.

  The country house hotel where he was staying had been purchased on more of a whim than from any sound business calculation. Lagan had always liked the way the solid stone house owned the landscape, the largest dwelling by far on the single-track back road to Inverness. Set back from the road, the house sat implacably in manicured gardens. Scots pines lent height to the acres of level lawn, sheltering the house from the occasional strong winds that funnelled down the glen. The hotel revenue stream barely made a worthwhile profit, but
at least it offered some of the creature comforts he was used to enjoying in London. Where else could he rely on staff to be at his beck and call at all hours? The food was excellent, cooked imaginatively and expertly by one of the finest chefs in Scotland. He glanced out of the leaded glass bedroom window at the driveway and admired a Jaguar XS in Epsom Racing Green. He’d had the car delivered that afternoon, straight from the Inverness showroom. He felt an almost schoolboy excitement at the prospect of driving it to the ball; the smell of new leather, the powerful engine.

  A woman crossed the drive from the hotel car park, pausing to look at his car. He watched her as she circled it, studying the sleek lines. He could imagine her wondering who it belonged to, who had such impeccable taste in cars? She looked up at his window, catching him observing her and she gave a little wave before wandering off to her own car from which she extracted an overnight bag. Another guest – that was almost a full house! He smacked his lips together in satisfaction and headed down to reception, collecting the electronic key which had been left for him. As Lord Lagan operated the car remote, he didn’t notice the same woman sitting in her car, nor would he have understood what the device was that she held in her hand. She watched him drive off, her eyes fixed on his car as it swept down the tree-lined drive until it was lost behind a bank of rhododendrons. With a tight smile she turned the ignition and leisurely followed the Jaguar into Inverness.

  The car lived up to Lord Lagan’s expectations. The gentlest touch on the accelerator and he felt the soft leather seat pushing against his back, the headrest resisting his head’s inclination to roll back as the car leapt forward. It took less than an hour to reach the Strathcarron Hotel, and he turned into the hotel grounds with a sense of disappointment that this inaugural drive had been so short. Perched high up above the town, the hotel gave the impression of looking down its nose at the rest of Inverness. Built in the Victorian era by an enterprising local, the hotel had preceded the railway by only a few months, providing sophisticated accommodation for the sudden influx of fashionable tourists keen to follow in the Queen’s footsteps. Granite turrets lent a Scottish baronial feel to the place, reminding him of the Highland castle where he’d been raised.

  Lord Lagan parked in a bay that had been reserved for him, catching the watchful eye of a uniformed policeman who tipped his head deferentially towards him. At least the ACC had put a few bobbies on site, not that he seriously expected anyone to try and murder him. The policeman accompanied him as he entered the hotel, keeping a respectful distance until he met the reception committee. The ACC made immediately for him, discomfort at having to apologise for one of his detective’s actions written across his face.

  “Archibald, I’m sorry about this business with Detective Inspector Corstorphine. I’ve had a word. Obviously a misunderstanding somewhere along the line. The fellow’s not the sharpest tool in the box. I’ll be having my men take over the investigation tomorrow.” The Assistant Chief’s words came out in a torrent until his lordship raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Not your fault. The fellow’s just doing his job – I’m sure it will all be cleared up shortly.” He stopped as a waiter proffered glasses of sherry, the tray held in that peculiarly awkward way waiters present such things. He sipped it, a warm alcoholic glow spreading down his throat. The glass was lowered, held delicately between forefinger and thumb and slowly twirled as he studied the contents. “Although it’s a bloody inconvenience. I’ve had to call in my QC to accompany me. Do you have any idea what he charges per hour?”

  The ACC’s attempt at further mollification was interrupted as a gong announced the Ball was about to commence. Lord Lagan led the way down towards the large marquee set up on the hotel lawns, waiting until there was enough privacy to speak to the ACC without anyone else being in earshot. “You told me this investigation was being closed down. Why is it that the first thing I hear is this detective of yours calling me in for questioning regarding an investigation into historic child abuse?” The words were hissed, completely at odds with the warm, cultured tones he’d been using seconds before.

  “I told him not to reopen the case into the reporter’s death, but Oscar Anderson was found hanging from the same tree and he made the connection with the orphanage. Now the dead reporter’s notebook has turned up and the press have it.”

  “What’s in it? Is there any mention of my name?”

  The ACC looked decidedly uncomfortable, casting his eyes from side to side like a trapped animal seeking an escape. “It looks as if Brian Rankin gave Corstorphine your name before he shot himself.”

  Lord Lagan was silent for a few seconds as they entered the marquee, passing another uniformed officer standing stiffly to attention at the entrance. His voice was back to being mellifluous. “So only the word of a dead man?”

  “I couldn’t get my hands on the witness statements or the reporter’s notebook. There’s no knowing what they might contain.”

  Lord Lagan looked at him with distaste. “You’d better make this all go away, unless you want to be responsible for a defamation case. And I will sue!”

  The ACC attempted to pacify him, patting his arm much as one would a small dog, only to remove his hand hurriedly as he noticed Lord Lagan’s scornful expression. “I’ll personally be taking over the interview tomorrow, Archibald. Don’t worry, Corstorphine and his team won’t be having any more involvement from now on.”

  They took their seats at the top table, greeting other dignitaries who joined them as the marquee filled. The sound of conversation took over until a glass was chimed in an unmistakable call for silence.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Please be upstanding for a toast to Her Majesty the Queen.” Chairs scraped on wooden flooring as the entire audience stood, glasses raised to the canvas roof.

  “The Queen.”

  Two hundred voices echoed the words, before the first of many glassfuls tipped down throats. As they retook their seats, waiters draped white cloths over their arms and carried bowls of soup to the top table, circling the diners and placing the bowls down in one unified movement. It was, Lord Lagan felt, almost like a ballet – each move rehearsed and smooth. Nothing he saw gave him any cause for concern that there might be a murderer waiting nearby.

  On the dance floor, six young dancers took position in readiness. Lord Lagan licked his lips as he stared at them, his eyes fixed with an intensity that he attempted to hide. Pre-recorded music began and the girls curtseyed to the top table before starting their routine, skirts whirling and tartan sashes a blur. He surreptitiously checked the other tables. People were engrossed with the food, the dancers or each other – comparing partners, outfits, company – the usual fascinations for those with nothing but time and money to waste. The entire event was making Lord Lagan feel slightly nauseous, as though these tempting morsels were put there to tease him, kindling an appetite that he’d managed to keep under control for many years.

  Outside, dusk was falling, and the hotel floodlights cast a yellow glow over the car park and immediate environs. A slight breeze ruffled the canvas, the flapping sound lending a soporific quality to the peace of the evening. The uniforms stood outside the entrance, grumbling amongst themselves of time wasted as the ceilidh band struck up for the first dance. A waitress came outside and beckoned them into the kitchen – a second tent attached to the main marquee where catering staff were starting to clear up after the meal. The policemen disappeared from sight, their mood greatly improved by the offer of refreshments.

  Above them in the car park, a figure looked down through binoculars as the men left their positions unattended. Leaving the safety of her car, she carried a small parcel under her arm and made directly for Lord Lagan’s new Jaguar. She keyed a remote and the doors unlocked, indicator lights flashing acceptance of the digital radio code she had cloned back at the country house hotel. In the space of a few seconds, she had removed the driver’s headrest and fitt
ed an identical fawn coloured leather replacement. The headrest slid neatly into place, twin metal runners engaging with the seat’s receptacles until it was positioned at exactly the same height. She closed and locked the Jaguar door, making her way back unnoticed to her own car, before driving off into the night.

  At the stroke of midnight, strains of Auld Lang Syne alerted the uniforms that the evening was drawing to an uneventful close. Lord Lagan made his way back to the Jaguar, swaying slightly on his feet as he fumbled for the key and sat in the driver’s seat. With a slight gesture of acknowledgement to the policeman tasked with accompanying him back to his car, he drove carefully out of the car park. The uniform watched him go, a feeling of resentment fading as he realised there were some people it was better not to breathalyse. At least he didn’t have to be the one acting as an unofficial taxi service for the ACC.

  Once out on the open road, Lord Lagan pushed his foot down to the floor, feeling the exhilarating surge of power as he was pressed back into his seat. Inside the headrest, an accelerometer detected the forward motion and triggered a small clockwork mechanism into life. It was comprised of readily available electronic components which worked silently, taking power from a couple of 9-volt batteries. The car and its driver hurtled along the main road, slowing down to take the smaller road which briefly ran alongside Loch Ness before heading onwards towards Loch Mhor and Lagan’s hotel. The clockwork mechanism bided its time, counting down towards a pre-set assignment as the car sped along the narrow road, past isolated whitewashed cottages. Then, without warning the electronic timepiece triggered a small but powerful solenoid, forcefully pushing a syringe through the headrest into the back of Lord Lagan’s neck. Simultaneously a syringe pump whirred quietly as it administered a small quantity of liquid through the needle and into his flesh.