by Lynne McEwan
‘Police?’ the man said suspiciously, his small, pale eyes darting between the officers. Strands of hair from his comb-over rose in the breeze like the crest of an angry bird.
‘DI Shona Oliver, Dumfries Police.’ She replaced the warrant card in her pocket and held up a pair of handcuffs. ‘We’re here for a chat. I’m not gonnae have to cuff you, am I?’ Her voice was firm but calm as she sought to de-escalate the confrontation. It was a bluff. She wouldn’t risk tackling him. ‘Or shall I get a police dog down here?’ The sight of big, sharp teeth usually did the trick, but she didn’t think it would get that far. ‘Last warning, put down the weapon.’
The man eyed the cuffs then held up his hands in submission. ‘Okay, you are police. Well, it’s about bloody time you lot showed up,’ he boomed, not in the local Dumfries accent she’d expected but in flat Cumbrian vowels. He chucked the axe handle behind a battered wheelie bin. ‘Sorry. Thought you were the bailiffs.’
‘If you threaten Sheriff Officers with violence, I’ll make sure you’re very sorry,’ Shona warned, tucking the cuffs back into her pocket. Dan stepped forward and searched the man for any other weapons. When he finished, she said, ‘Now, why were you expecting a visit from the police?’
‘Well, not expecting,’ the man sneered. ‘I live in hope, not expectation, where coppers are concerned. It were nearly a month ago I called your lot.’
‘What was the call in connection with, Mr… er?’ Dan said. Shona noted the increased interest in his voice. The time frame matched the period the girl spent in the water.
‘Don’t you know, lad?’ he jeered. ‘And it’s Jones. Nathan Jones.’
‘Let’s start again, Mr Jones,’ Shona said. ‘This is DC Ridley from Cumbria CID, and we’re here in connection with a missing person inquiry. We’d like to ask you some questions, out here or in there.’ She nodded to the caravan.
Nathan Jones stepped between Shona and the door. ‘Here’s fine.’ He adjusted the jeans below his overalls, which were fighting a border war of attrition with his overhanging stomach. ‘Missing person?’ He glanced suspiciously from Shona to Dan and back. ‘That’s got nowt to do with me.’
‘Why did you call us a month ago?’ Shona asked.
‘Goings on. Next door.’ Jones thumbed at the neighbouring building, a single storey metal box with no signage, set at right angles to his yard. ‘Shouting at all hours. Squatters, immigrants.’
Shona and Dan exchanged a look. He got his notebook out and prepared to follow her lead.
‘Do you live here? On site?’ Shona guessed the terms of Nathan Jones’s lease were for business use only, no overnight stays. The threat that she might report him sleeping here gave him an incentive to co-operate.
Jones shifted from foot to foot, searching the sky for an answer. ‘My missus lives in Carlisle,’ he said eventually, as if that explained his current domestic arrangements.
‘So, you heard a disturbance next door?’ Shona asked.
‘It were late, midnight. I heard a car pull up. Shouting. A man shouting.’ Jones screwed up his eyes in an effort to remember. ‘Been comings and goings for a few weeks, always at night. Thought they might come round here and smash the place up.’
‘Can you describe the people you saw?’
‘Not faces, like. Don’t know if it were the same folk every time or different.’
‘What were they shouting, Mr Jones?’
‘Dunno, just noise, like. Most likely they were drugged up, looking for trouble.’
‘What makes you think drugs were involved?’ Shona said, but Jones just shrugged. ‘So who owns that unit?’ she continued.
‘No one, that’s the bloody problem.’ Seeing their blank faces, he spelled the word out, as if to a child, ‘Car… mine. Them that went bankrupt? Used to be them that had it.’
‘The Carmine Group? The building and infrastructure company?’ Dan jotted a line into his notebook.
‘Had it as a project office for that bypass that were never built.’
Shona scanned the surrounding buildings. Disposing of a body was all about ease. It would be easy enough here.
‘Do you have CCTV?’ Shona hadn’t seen any cameras, but it was worth asking.
‘Are you soft in the head?’ He spread his arms. ‘How would I afford owt like that?’
‘You said squatters and immigrants. What did you mean by that?’ She came closer, studying Jones’s expression.
‘Thought they were moving in there, set up a camp. It’s what that lot do. Move in, take over.’
‘Did you see the local TV news over the weekend, Mr Jones?’
‘Dinna have a telly.’
‘Did you ever see a woman?’ Shona patted the air above her shoulder. ‘A little shorter than me. We’re looking for a girl. Young, blonde?’
‘Aye, there were lassies. Slags and whores, up to all sorts, I’m sure.’ He licked his lips and leered at Shona, who stared back impassively. He continued, ‘Came in cars. I heard women’s voices.’
‘Makes? Registration numbers?’ Dan asked.
‘It were dark. But flash cars. BMWs and the like. There were always a gang of fellas. Big fellas.’ Jones growled, as if his manhood was now in question.
‘So, you can’t say what these people looked like, what they were shouting or what cars they were driving?’ Dan summed up.
‘It’s your job, to catch folk.’ Jones bared a set of grey teeth and spat on the ground.
‘But did you ever see a young woman with long blonde hair?’ Shona persisted.
Jones eyed her, shaking his head, retreating behind his defences. She knew he was lying, but about what she couldn’t say. Jones probably had plenty to hide from the authorities. They could at least check his story about calling into the control room. She told Dan to take Jones’s contact details.
‘We may need you to give a statement. Mind if I have a look around?’ she asked when Dan had finished. She indicated the caravan.
Jones shifted uncomfortably. ‘That’s private.’
‘I’m only interested in a missing person,’ Shona persisted. ‘Or I can get a warrant? Come back with the Sheriff Officers. Give the place a thorough going over.’
Jones hesitated, weighing up the cost of resisting. Eventually he shrugged. ‘Have a deek about if you like. Makes no odds to me.’
Shona opened the door. A sour smell ebbed from the caravan’s dirty interior, the floor covered with overflowing binbags of clothes and rubbish. A stack of porn magazines lay open by the unmade bed. She caught Jones’s eye and he turned away, blushing. She stepped inside and made a quick search. There were no signs of violence or that a crime had been cleaned up. She’d be willing to bet there had been no cleaning up for a very long time.
‘Thank you, Mr Jones. We’ll be in touch.’ She tapped Dan’s arm and they turned and walked through the yard. Jones stepped into the caravan and slammed the door. Behind the dirty window, Shona could see Jones’s shadow watching them.
They walked through the yard towards a gap in the fence where it bordered the river. Strips of plastic caught on the barbed ends fluttered like flags in the breeze.
‘What do you think?’ Shona said when they were out of sight of the caravan.
Dan shook his head. ‘All charm, wasn’t he? He didn’t like it when you asked about the girl.’
‘No, he didn’t. Check out Mr Jones. Talk to the wife in Carlisle, will you? See what she says.’
‘Okay. Do you believe his story about the disturbance next door? Do you think he could have killed the girl?’
‘It’s certainly possible,’ Shona confirmed. ‘He’s a big fella. Not that fit, but strong enough. I think he was scared for his own skin when he called the disturbance in. Why draw the attention of the police if he killed her?’
‘He doesn’t strike me as that bright,’ Dan said. ‘A smokescreen? In case someone else reported seeing something.’
She furrowed her brow. ‘He said immigrants. Do you think our blonde girl could
be Polish? Eastern European? Russian, even? Paying off her traffickers through prostitution, and Jones was a client? We’re at a crossroads here. The M6 motorway between England and Scotland.’ Shona held out an arm indicating north. ‘The A75 Euro-route to the ferry port at Stranraer, linking Ireland to the UK and Europe.’ She spun round onto an east–west axis, as if orientating herself to magnetic pull of the earth might give her a direction to follow. ‘If she was being trafficked, working here before being moved on, it might explain why no one’s reported her missing.’
‘I hope not,’ said Dan glumly. ‘No chance of identifying her if she was. And if Jones killed her, the traffickers would want payback. How come he’s still breathing?’
Shona nodded, letting her arm fall. ‘Immigrants, though? Why say that?’
‘He’s a Brexit voter. Bit ironic since he’s a Cumbrian in Scotland, so technically he’s an immigrant too.’ Dan grinned, amused.
‘So, how does an asylum seeker appear to someone like Nathan Jones?’ Shona thought of the cafes and shops she frequented in London’s East End where she would often be the only woman not wearing a headscarf. ‘Dress or skin colour? It was dark. Language? But he claims he didn’t hear what was said. The non-white population of Dumfries is about one per cent. Something made him think the people he saw were not local.’
‘How does that help us?’
‘Not sure,’ Shona conceded. They came to the gap in the fencing and stepped through. The bank down to the water’s edge was steep and littered with rubbish. The tide had left marks high on the muddy slope and Shona could see how a body deposited here could be sucked out into the firth by the combined force of the river and the retreating sea. The bank also gave access to the neighbouring unit. ‘Let’s check out next door.’
A faint fox-path ran through the grass to where the fencing had surrendered completely. The concrete posts uprooted, weeds grew up through the prone metal mesh of its remains.
The roller door at the front of the building had a newish padlock, but the fire exit at the back was propped shut with a length of wood. Pigeons fluttered across the broken skylights in the double height section of the warehouse, the oil stains on the floor suggesting it had once been used to store vehicles and machinery. At the back, a shuttered-off area provided an office. In the thick grey light, papers were strewn across the desk and floor and foam poked from the fabric on an office chair. A collapsed tower of cardboard boxes leaned in one corner.
Shona used her pen to turn over the pages of yellowed Carmine Group headed notepaper peppered with mouse droppings. On the floor beneath the desk something metallic caught her eye. There was a foil bubble pack of pills. She flipped it over, peering closely at the name embossed on the back. Xanax, a prescription-only tranquiliser. If they could find the pills’ box, they might get the patient’s name or a clue to the pharmacist who dispensed it. Shona turned to call Dan.
He was standing in the corner holding a length of damp cardboard by the edge and scrolling through his phone. The uplighting from the screen gave his face a ghostly, greenish tinge. Around his feet, a mound of foil strips like the one Shona was holding. ‘Xanax. Valium.’ He read from his phone screen. ‘Quinox? I can’t find that one, but I bet it’s not a vitamin pill.’ He looked up at her. ‘Some of these other boxes are half full.’
‘Quite the wee chemist shop,’ said Shona, pulling out her own phone and tapping the screen. ‘Hi Murdo, I need you down here. I’ll text you an address. Get the troops and bring anyone you can find from forensics.’
Chapter 7
Murdo arrived at the industrial unit with DC Ravi Sarwar, who sported jeans and an olive-green, funnel-neck parka, both stylish and practical. He got out of the car and combed his dark, glossy hair into place with his fingers. Shona knew he had it cut regularly in one of Glasgow’s trendy West End salons. He waved, flashing his mega-watt smile. A patrol car and a van containing three uniformed men and one disgruntled forensics officer pulled up behind them. Since the creation of Police Scotland there were no local Scenes of Crime staff in Dumfries. Most were now based in Glasgow, Edinburgh or the other major cities and requests needed to meet a twenty-eight-point attendance criteria. By chance, SOCO Peter Harrison, the slim man in his forties now balancing unsteadily on one foot as he climbed into a paper suit, had been in the Dumfries Cornwell Mount HQ for a meeting where he had been nabbed by Murdo.
Shona recognised one of the uniformed officers, a young but experienced constable based at Loreburn Street station. ‘Matthews, I want a statement from Nathan Jones in the yard next door. He heard a disturbance a month ago and phoned it in. I’ve checked the call logs, Friday the third. A patrol had a quick drive-by a couple of hours later and reported it was all quiet. Butter Jones up, stress he’s a valued witness. He was cagey with us, but he might let something slip if he thinks he’s not in the firing line. Do that later.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The young officer nodded.
‘But first,’ Shona turned to the pair of nervous looking special constables in black fatigues and caps, ‘what’re your names?’
‘I’m Lewis Johnstone,’ said the taller one, his face a mass of orange freckles.
‘Campbell Menzies, ma’am.’ The second officer was older; his square build and ruddy complexion hinted at old farming stock.
‘Have you both completed a forensics and evidence-gathering course?’
They shook their heads. Shona’s lips pressed into a tight line.
‘Okay, well, I want you to follow PC Matthews’s lead. Gloves on. Search the riverbank. Our estimated time frame for the offence is four weeks ago. I’m looking for drugs paraphernalia, paperwork, any identifying documents. Also, clothing, especially women’s clothing. Shoes, purse, handbag, mobile phone, anything like that. Hang on a moment.’ She turned to the forensic scientist making his way over. ‘Peter,’ she called. ‘I really appreciate you coming down.’
Peter Harrison looked like he was about to make a sarcastic comment about Murdo giving him no choice but thought better of it. ‘What do we have here?’
‘Haul of prescription pills, mostly tranquilisers.’ She drew him aside. ‘Peter, I’ve also got a woman’s body recovered from the Solway Firth last week. I’ve no ID and no witnesses, but it’s a suspicious death. It’s also just possible that this is where she went in the water, so keep that in mind for me, would you?’ She followed Peter’s gaze to where it rested on Dan Ridley. ‘That’s a colleague from Cumbria CID, he’s helping out.’
Peter sighed, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose with an index finger. ‘Have I not got enough on my plate? Make sure I get elimination fingerprints from him.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I can do a quick assessment for you, photograph the scene and bag the drugs. Any signs of violence, any blood, I’ll need reinforcements from Gartcosh and you’ll need to put in a chit for that.’
‘Thanks, Peter.’ Shona smiled gratefully. ‘We’ve taped off the riverbank too. I was thinking uniform could do a search while you’re inside. Unless you want them for anything else?’
‘Aye, off you go. It’ll keep them out from under my feet anyway,’ he grumbled, shouldering his cases and ducking under the blue and white barrier tape.
Shona turned back to the three uniformed officers. ‘Any questions?’
‘How far along do you want us to search?’ Matthews asked, handing the specials long wooden poles like broom handles and heavy duty flashlights.
‘To the Sark Bridge, on this side only.’ Shona scanned the riverbank in the opposite direction. A row of high, spiked metal palings, running across the back of the factory next door, cut off access to the river upstream. ‘Just to that fence. Anything suspicious, bag it and tag it.’
Shona turned her attention to the rest of her team. On the hardstanding beside the roller door at the front of the unit Murdo was introducing Dan to Ravi. She saw Ravi gesture to Dan’s scrappy beard, then rub the flat of his hand against his own smooth face. Either they were bonding over ma
le grooming or she’d just witnessed the start of an office romance.
SOCO Peter Harrison removed the entrance padlock with a set of bolt cutters, borrowed by Dan from a nearby garage. Together, they forced up the door, allowing some light into the building.
Shona fished blue forensic gloves from her jacket pocket and crossed back into the crime scene. ‘Ravi.’ She summoned him with a tilt of her head. ‘How you doing? How was the community policing group?’ She and Ravi were her team’s only Glaswegians. Shona had grown up with Sunday afternoons of tea, samosas and Bollywood round her Punjabi friends’ houses and the connection gave them a secret handshake of shared values. Their relationship was generally smoother than Shona’s interactions with her other DC, the Edinburgh-raised geography graduate, Kate Irving.
‘Good. I gave the specials a right going over.’ He grinned. As a gay, vegetarian, Asian-Scottish police officer, Ravi was a one-man diversity dream-team, constantly in demand for training and community and school talks. But far from regarding these opportunities as a cushy number, he pushed hard for improvements and, Shona suspected, followed them up in his own time. ‘The five campus support officers came in from the schools for a chat and I’ve put them in touch with some partner agencies.’
‘That’s good work, Ravi.’ Shona nodded approvingly. ‘But there’s something here I want you to look at now.’ She motioned him to follow her to the door of the unit. ‘Familiarise yourself with the layout. One potential witness next door, but that’s it.’ She indicated the office area at the far end of the warehouse. ‘In there we found multiple prescription drugs. No address labels on the boxes. The building was apparently in use by Carmine until they folded. Firm that date up and find out who was in charge here.’ She took her notebook from her pocket. ‘Diazepam in various brands. Etizolam or street Valium. Methadone. Pregabalin, used to treat epilepsy and anxiety.’ She held out the list for him to copy. ‘Also, Xanax and a newbie, Quinox. Could be pharmaceutical or veterinary, agricultural, even marine in origin. Or a foreign brand name or a re-naming of an old drug or a variation or upgrading by adding something like caffeine.’