In Dark Water

by Lynne McEwan

  Murdo picked up a small remote, the image on the screen sprang to life. A white van travelling north swerved and one of the back doors flew open. There was a sharp intake of collective breath as a man tumbled out, his head striking the tarmac, limbs tangled and lifeless as the momentum took him thirty metres along the carriageway, coming to rest beneath a large blue sign.

  ‘Is that the Welcome to Scotland sign?’ asked Ravi.

  ‘Aye, it is,’ Murdo replied.

  Ravi frowned. ‘What do we know about the victim?’

  Murdo opened his notebook. ‘The doctor who pronounced him dead said he’d received a cranial fracture resulting in traumatic brain injury, but he also had multiple facial injuries and broken bones consistent with the fall from the van. He estimated he was under thirty, lightly built and dark skinned. No ID.’

  ‘Is the siting significant? Could be a racially or politically motivated attack?’ Ravi said.

  ‘Murdo.’ Shona held out her hand for the remote. ‘Let’s keep an open mind at this point.’ She ran the CCTV again, pausing at the moment when the victim left the moving vehicle. ‘It does looks like there was someone else in the back.’ A dark shape appeared as the door swung closed. ‘He may have been pushed, fell out by accident or was trying to escape. Either way the driver didn’t stop. The post-mortem will tell us more.’ Her eyes met Ravi’s. ‘But yes, I’m not ruling out that he was dumped there on purpose.’ A murmur ran around the table.

  ‘Priorities,’ Shona said, calling their attention back. She crossed to the map pinned on the wall. ‘We need to find the van. It was stolen in the Newtown area of Carlisle last night. We tracked it leaving the motorway at the next junction, Gretna Green Services.’ She tapped the map with her pen. ‘The B7076 leads off from the services and into a network of smaller roads not covered by cameras. I’ve asked for uniform support to check businesses and farms along potential routes, Murdo will co-ordinate our efforts.’ She looked around the table. ‘Is Vincent still not back?’

  ‘Op Fortress want Vinny Visuals a bit longer,’ said Kate with a sigh. ‘I gave him a call about the baby milk case, he reckons another week or so.’

  ‘Okay, well image enhancement is our other priority. Kate, ask Vinny nicely which of his mates will do us a favour. Turn this around quick. I’ve got a date with Slasher Sue down the mortuary.’ Shona began gathering her papers. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘The van was stolen in Carlisle,’ said Murdo. ‘Shall I give Dan Ridley a call? See if he can dig anything up for us down south?’

  ‘Good idea, Murdo. We’ve access to the cross-border CCTV, but he has local knowledge. Right everyone, let’s get cracking.’

  As she picked up her notepad, Ravi came over and tapped her elbow. ‘You asked for an update on that Sweet Life business?’ he said quietly into her ear. ‘A drop-off in the OD cases at the Royal Infirmary, and only a few confiscations of pills by the campus officers. I know it’s Op Fortress’s remit, but I’ll keep my eye on it.’

  ‘Thanks, Ravi.’ Shona smiled. If Baird and Op Fortress did their job properly, Becca and her friends would be protected, and that was one less thing to worry about.

  * * *

  Pathologist Sue Kitchen was waiting for Shona when she arrived at Dumfries Royal Infirmary, having travelled down from Glasgow University where she taught forensic medicine. Tall and broad with tightly curled short blonde hair, her green eyes studied you from behind thick square glasses. Her nickname referred to the speed with which she conducted a post-mortem and also her ten-year tenure as Scottish National Fencing Champion (Epee). Having given up competition, she now judged at international level and remained a passionate advocate for the sport.

  Shona greeted her warmly. ‘I was hoping it would be you. I missed you the other night at the STAC launch.’ They set off down the corridor to change into scrubs.

  ‘Had a Royal College of Pathologists meeting in London, didn’t get back until late, so I managed to dodge that particular trial. How was it?’

  For a moment she wondered if she might confide in Sue. As a woman in forensic medicine she was a rarity. Surely she must have encountered similar treatment to that meted out by DCI Baird. But what had really happened? Her boss got drunk and tried to kiss her. Her suspicions that a leading television personality was a manipulative, whoring creep who made her feel generally uneasy were confirmed? Both figured low on the scale of gender-based crimes. Sue might give her a look that said, you’re a big girl and you know what will happen if you complain, and Shona did know. So she rolled her eyes and said, ‘Yes, a trial is just the word for it.’

  In the pathology lab, Slasher Sue lived up to her reputation and quickly set out her preliminary findings for Shona. The victim was male, between twenty and thirty years old and had died from the skull fracture. His ethnic origin could be anywhere from the eastern Mediterranean to northern India, including Greece, Turkey, Lebanon and Syria. Dental analysis of his amalgam fillings might narrow it down but would take time. His injuries were conducive with a fall from a moving vehicle, possibly following a fight. Toxicology and DNA report would follow, radiography would be done now.

  They waited in an upstairs corridor, Shona checking with Murdo for any updates while Sue got them coffee from the machine. Shona took the scorching plastic cup from Sue, holding it gingerly by the rim and setting it down on the floor next to her chair to cool.

  ‘How’s Becca?’ Sue said with raised eyebrows. ‘I heard you had a little trouble.’

  ‘News travels.’ Shona shook her head. ‘I think she and her friend made a poor choice getting into that car and I’m not sure I believe her when she says she didn’t know about the cannabis.’ Shona remembered the small paper packet thrown by the boy to Becca outside the Royal Arms in Kirkness. Was that drugs? She’d been too concerned about her daughter’s near miss with the car to ask. ‘I think she just didn’t take it seriously. Becca reckons the two lads will get a police warning, but she’s in for a shock. Word is the fiscal wants to make an example of them. She might offer them a written warning if they’ll admit to it. It’s not a criminal conviction but it will still be a black mark against their names and they’ll have to disclose it in some circumstances. I’ve grounded Becca for a month, but who knows if that will work. My daughter seems to attract trouble like a magnet.’

  ‘Is she thinking about university yet? She should have a look at Glasgow. She’s quite tall, isn’t she?’ Sue mused. ‘Make a good fencer. Physical fitness, strategic thinking. Give her focus.’

  Shona smiled at her friend’s attempts to recruit her daughter. ‘Did you ever have a brush with illegal substances?’

  ‘Too busy with fencing and medical studies. What about you?’

  ‘I never liked the smell of weed and couldn’t afford coke. Plenty of glue sniffers around. I was too busy shoplifting lipstick from Woolworths to do drugs.’ Shona grinned, her brown eyes alive with amusement. ‘But seriously, I knew it was a trap. I’ve said before how I grew up with my gran cos drugs got my mother. Perhaps I don’t talk to Becca about it as much as I should, but she knows how I feel. Drugs, violence, poverty. All that misery. I saw it every day. All I wanted was to get a career and get out of the place.’

  ‘And now your career takes you to just the sort of places you wanted to leave.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s the irony.’ Shona waved her hand around the pathology corridor. ‘But I get to hang out with interesting people.’

  ‘Yeah, dead interesting people.’ Sue laughed. ‘Come on, the radiography should be done.’ She drained her coffee. ‘Let’s see what else our friend on the slab can tell us.’

  In a borrowed office, Professor Kitchen scrolled through the MRI and X-ray images on the screen. They catalogued a sickening list of injuries to the skull, ribs, spine and limbs.

  ‘The skull fracture killed him. The chest injuries, his rib fractures, were acquired pre-mortem.’

  ‘He fought with his attacker?’

  ‘That’s a reasonable conclusio
n in combination with the soft tissue injuries to his body. The other breaks were post-mortem, most likely due to the fall. His heart had stopped beating so no bleeding into the bone. All except the hands.’

  Shona peered at the side-by-side, crisp black and white images of skeletal hands on the screen. ‘What do you mean? Injuries from the fight?’

  ‘Possibly, but not this fight. In acute fractures there are sharp margins, without sclerosis. These breaks had begun to heal.’ She pointed to the dark threads of fracture on the X-ray. ‘I’d say they occurred two to four weeks prior to death.’

  ‘If we are talking about a trafficked individual,’ Professor Kitchen continued, ‘he could have sustained these injuries on his journey or in an unregulated workplace. I’d expect damage to the fingers if they were defence injuries.’ She balled her fist, landing a soft punch on Shona’s shoulder, then held her hands out as if warding off a blow. ‘In both these scenarios it’s the phalanges, the fingers, that receive maximum impact. Here,’ she indicated the image on the screen, ‘it’s the metacarpals, the long bones in the hand.’

  While Shona was considering this her phone rang and Dan Ridley’s name flashed up on the screen. ‘Sorry Sue, I need to take this.’ She went back out into the corridor.

  ‘We’ve recovered the van,’ Ridley said. ‘Burnt out near Carlisle. Not much chance of forensics.’

  ‘Okay. So, we know they drove north, the victim fell or was pushed from the van, they immediately left the main route and doubled back on unmonitored roads. What does that say?’ Shona replied.

  ‘Local knowledge. After the incident they ran for home, burnt the van and called a mate locally to pick them up?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Shona confirmed.

  ‘But was this a deliberate act, dumping the body on the border?’

  ‘Or it was an accident. They set off from Carlisle with another aim in mind, maybe heading as far as Glasgow or Edinburgh. This ruined their plans and they were forced to turn back,’ Shona said. ‘Either way, we’re looking for at least two people in the van and a third accomplice, who possibly didn’t know what happened, and went to pick them up. Maybe a taxi driver. Murdo’s just put out a public appeal and it should be on the lunchtime news. Let’s hope someone comes forward.’

  ‘What if dumping the body on the border was a deliberate act?’ Dan persisted. ‘I keep thinking of Isla and where we found her.’

  The potential connection to Isla had occurred to Shona almost as soon as she’d heard the details of the case. None of her team, not even Ravi, had picked up on that, but Dan had.

  ‘Have you got Isla’s PM report there? Can you check something for me?’ Shona asked. She heard him shuffling papers against the background hum of the CID office in Carlisle. ‘Did Isla have broken bones to her hand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘Her left hand was missing when she was recovered, but the right showed multiple fractures to the hamate bone and the metacarpals.’

  ‘Did these injuries occur pre-mortem?’ Shona asked.

  ‘Doesn’t say. Why?’

  ‘I’m with the pathologist now. The victim has broken bones in his hands from a historic injury. Two to four weeks ago.’

  ‘So, you do think there’s a connection?’

  ‘The time frame is interesting. However, once Isla’s body was in the Solway it would be impossible to predict she’d end up right on the border,’ Shona said. Not even lifeboat skipper Tommy McCall would be able to foresee that.

  ‘But to most people the whole of the Solway Firth is the border,’ said Dan. Shona conceded he had a point. ‘What if the deaths are linked?’ he continued. ‘Bodies deposited in the border, broken bones to the hands, similar ages and both from groups targeted by right-wing vigilantes. I keep thinking about what Gringo said, how Duncan Saltire was threatening Isla. I’ve been doing some digging on him, he’s a nasty piece of work, links with the English Defence League and alt-right groups in Europe. Disposal and display of the bodies on the border could be a political act.’

  ‘I know all about Saltire,’ said Shona. ‘But presently we have two deaths that could equally both be road traffic accidents. That was mentioned as a possible cause of death for Isla. Someone panicked, got rid of her body. Our new victim could have been a drunken disagreement that ended in him leaving the vehicle by accident.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that?’

  ‘What I believe doesn’t matter,’ said Shona testily. ‘It’s the facts that count. The Procurator Fiscal needs to be convinced by the evidence.’

  ‘Okay, but this case has cross-border implications. Let’s get the evidence. Let me have a crack at Duncan Saltire.’

  ‘If anyone’s talking to Saltire about this it’s Dumfries Police. I’ll consider your request to sit in on the interview, Detective Constable Ridley.’ Shona ended the call. He had a point about the border, but she wasn’t going to be pushed into any course of action before she’d considered all the options. And certainly not by a detective constable still wet behind the ears.

  Shona said her goodbyes to Professor Kitchen and headed back to the office. When she arrived Murdo and Kate were eating a late lunch at their desks. The opening credits of an afternoon drama played silently on the TV.

  ‘Anything from the public appeal?’ Shona asked.

  Kate finished her sandwich and lifted a sheet of printout. ‘I’ll read you a few. “A waste of police resources on scum who got what they deserved”. Or how about that old classic, “they should go back where they came from”?’

  Murdo raised his eyebrows at Shona. ‘Sound like anybody we know?’

  ‘Is this the Scotland we know?’ Kate said. ‘Never used to be this bad.’

  Murdo dusted crumbs from his fingers. ‘That’s because we were united in our distaste for the English. Border rivalry. Expected really. You tanned their hides at rugby, but not this.’ He shook his head.

  ‘If you asked Ravi that question, he’d say it’s always been around, but I take your point,’ Shona said. ‘This rise of right-wing politics, it’s a different sort of nationalism.’

  ‘If it’s murder, will we be handing this over to a Major Investigation Team too?’ said Kate sourly.

  ‘At present it’s an unexplained violent death. Toxicology reports will take a few days. Since there’s no match with DNA or fingerprints on our database let’s use that time to identify the victim. I spoke to the Procurator Fiscal’s office. They want more evidence before deciding if this is a racially motivated attack, so first thing tomorrow we’re going to have another word with Mr Saltire.’

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, Dan Ridley tapped on Shona’s office door. ‘Thanks for giving me a chance.’ He smiled. ‘I won’t let you down. What time is Saltire arriving?’ He shrugged off his dark suit jacket and rolled up his white shirt sleeves.

  ‘He’s coming in at ten, with his solicitor,’ she replied, concentrating on the morning roll call of action points on her screen. ‘No one’s reported our victim missing. Without any ID, we need to consider if he was here unofficially, but let’s avoid the term illegal immigrant. Time of death is fixed by the motorway cameras for 11.56 p.m.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve done the background,’ Dan said, holding up a photograph. ‘You’d think he was a student, or your local barista, rather than a tech-savvy neo-Nazi.’

  She looked at Dan sternly. ‘I hope you’ve prepared a watertight interview strategy. Saltire’s no fool.’ She took his sheet of notes, scanned it, and checked her watch. ‘Okay, good. If we can get him on the back foot he might let something slip.’ She took a swig of water from the bottle on her desk and tucked loose strands of dark hair behind her ears. Smoothing the purple silk blouse into her navy trousers, she motioned Dan to lead the way. ‘Let’s have a chat with our very own hipster fascist.’

  Duncan Saltire, and a portly middle-aged man with bulldog jowls who introduced himself as Ross Balfour, solicitor, were waiting downstairs. When they were all settled in th
e interview room, Dan opened a slim folder and laid out a series of slogans taken from the Sons of Scotia website.

  ‘The Islamisation of the West. The Great Replacement. What’s this all about?’ Dan asked.

  ‘I’d have thought that was pretty obvious.’ Saltire sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Immigration policy is a legitimate topic for political discussion.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been discussing with far-right groups abroad?’ Dan consulted his notes. ‘Generation Identity in France and the New Reichsfolk in Germany?’

  Saltire said nothing. He adjusted the cuffs of his Harris Tweed jacket then sat regarding Dan, a slight smile playing beneath the blond moustache.

  ‘Neither of these are banned organisations,’ Ross Balfour interjected. ‘What exactly is it that my client can help you with, Detective Constable?’ he added, pointedly consulting the time on his phone.

  Dan cleared his throat and opened a second folder. ‘The body of a man was found on the motorway late on Sunday night. He was beaten, tortured and dumped by the Welcome to Scotland sign. It’s possible he was a non-UK national, here unofficially. Your client is quoted as saying, “The borders of Scotland shall be defended by all means necessary.” Is this what he meant?’ Dan laid the post-mortem photographs out on the table. ‘Perhaps you recognise him? Is this the work of the Sons of Scotia?’

  Saltire picked up one of the photographs, a close-up of the victim’s smashed face. He studied it dispassionately before tossing it back on the pile. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  Shona rested her elbows on the table and returned Saltire’s cool gaze. Eventually she said, ‘On Saturday, you handed me a Sons of Scotia leaflet setting out your aims.’ She took the leaflet bearing the marching men beneath the Scottish flag from her notebook and laid it on the table among the photographs. ‘When the time comes, do the right thing, you said. Was that because you knew this killing was being planned? Were you hinting that I should look the other way?’