by JD Kirk
“Someone who doesn’t want them to go,” Hamza reasoned.
“Aye. And here’s a twist,” Sinead said. “Mrs Lennon and Fergus used to meet up at the Well of the Seven Heads. She called it their ‘secret spot.’”
“That can’t be a coincidence. Surely?” Hamza said.
“It’s a message,” Logan said, finally swallowing. The others turned to look at him as he started cutting up his bacon. “Been thinking about it since last night, but Ben said it from the start. The history of the well, it’s tied into revenge. That’s what the beheadings were all about. Someone wanted revenge on Fergus Forsyth. And I think we now know what for.”
“Sounds to me like it’s pointing to the husband,” Tyler proclaimed with an aplomb that suggested he had personally cracked the case. “We should bring him in. See if he talks.”
“Not quite yet,” Logan said. “I spoke to him last night. He won’t be easy to crack. I’d like to have something more on him.”
“Shite!” Tyler yelped, jumping to his feet with such urgency he almost knocked over the table. A waitress and two other diners shot him disapproving looks, but he completely failed to notice.
“What’s wrong?” Sinead asked.
“I’m meant to be at the school in fifteen minutes. For that assembly!”
Logan checked his watch. “Christ, is that the time?” he muttered. “Didn’t realise I’d slept that… Here. Hang on.” His eyes went to the empty chair beside Hamza. “Has anyone seen Ben?”
The pattern had been the same since a few weeks after Alice’s death—out like a light by half-past ten, and up with the birds at the first suggestion of morning.
He’d eaten breakfast alone, eschewing the fried options in favour of some fruit and cereal. The negligible price difference between the full and continental breakfasts would’ve wound him right up once upon a time (just two quid less for the continental? Madness!) but he tried not to let himself get stressed by such things these days.
Even though it was ridiculous.
Almost seven quid for some Weetabix and a banana. Aye, he could’ve had the muffins and pancakes, but if he did that, he’d have been as well with the bacon and eggs.
He didn’t let it get to him, though. It wasn’t good for the old ticker.
A fiver. That seemed fair. A fiver for fruit, cereal, and a cup of tea. They wouldn’t be losing money at that. Not by a long shot.
But seven? Come on, be reasonable.
He chose not to dwell on it. It was what it was.
A bloody rip-off, to be precise.
“You’re punishing people for trying to be healthy,” he’d told the waitress, still not letting it bother him one little bit. “It’s like the sugar tax in reverse. Eat less, but pay comparatively more.”
“It’s not more. It’s two pounds less,” the waitress had insisted.
Ben had then explained the meaning of the word ‘comparatively’ while simultaneously insisting that it was no skin off his nose, but that he had half a mind to write to the head office to complain.
After that, he’d taken a quick spray of his angina medication, and eaten his breakfast in silence.
Now, he stood in the Incident Room, sipping tea as he studied the Big Board. He’d been off for months, and had a lot of catching up to do. It was good to get in early. Get a head start.
He checked the clock. It had barely gone eight.
Christ, he was bored.
He’d already checked the inbox. The report from Fergus Forsyth’s mobile phone network had arrived overnight. It was churning out of the printer now, despite the nagging wee notice fixed to the machine instructing him to think of the environment, and only to print when absolutely necessary.
He’d made the executive decision that it fit that criteria. Reading lots of wee numbers off a computer screen gave him a headache. You couldn’t scribble on the screen, either. Couldn’t underline bits of interest, or make notes in the margins.
Well, you could. Hamza had shown him how on a few different occasions now. There was a button, or an icon, or something somewhere you had to click, and then the pointy cursor would become a flashing line with a box around it, or something like that.
Printing was easier. And if one wee document was going to kill off the polar bears, then they were clearly beyond help as it was.
He finished his tea, set the cup down on his desk, and wondered what else he could make a start on while he waited for the printer to finish. He didn’t feel the need to prove himself, necessarily. It wasn’t that.
OK, maybe it was that.
He’d been out of the game for a while, and they were treating him with kid gloves. He wanted to show them he was still useful. Prove to them. To himself.
His eyes fell on the mobile phone on Hamza’s desk. The victim’s phone. They hadn’t managed to get into it yet. Hadn’t even tried, as far as he knew.
Ben fished his glasses from the top pocket of his shirt, pulled them on, then took a seat at Hamza’s desk.
The phone lay there, silently challenging him. Daring him to try.
“Come on then, you bugger,” he told it, flexing his fingers. “Just how hard can this be?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tyler turned up at the school assembly hall to find several hundred uniformed pupils sobbing in their seats.
Many of them had already heard the news by the time they’d left for school. It had, of course, spread like wildfire, so by the time the morning assembly was called, there wasn’t anyone who hadn’t heard what had happened to Mr Forsyth.
It had become exaggerated as it had travelled from student to student. Mr Forsyth had been murdered, became Mr Forsyth had been beheaded, became Mr Forsyth had been burned alive, or boiled in acid, or chopped up and eaten—by cannibals in some versions, and pigs in another.
A woman with a particularly severe face glared at Tyler as he sidled onto an empty seat on the stage beside five other members of staff. This was the infamous Mrs Robertson, he guessed, based on Sinead’s description. A younger, softer-looking woman was standing at the lectern, addressing the audience, telling them that it was OK to be sad. That it was fine to be upset. To grieve.
Judging by the tears tripping down most of their faces, they were way ahead of her.
It was changed days from when Tyler was in school. As a boy, get caught crying and you were done for. Even if a parent had just died in your arms, get caught shedding a single salty tear and you were royally fucked for the rest of your school career. You’d probably have to change to a new school, in fact, if not a new town altogether.
It wasn’t like it had been all that long ago, either. Ten years ago, he’d have been wearing a uniform not unlike these. And now, just a decade later, boys and girls alike were openly sobbing, without any apparent fear of repercussions.
It was bloody weird. Good, he thought. But definitely weird.
And over a teacher, too! Tyler couldn’t think of a teacher at his school whose death wouldn’t have been celebrated with fireworks and a marching band.
The woman at the lectern encouraged the pupils to talk to each other, and share their favourite memories of Mr Forsyth, then stressed that her door was always open, and handed it over to the depute head.
Mrs Robertson took the now vacant spot at the lectern, barked, “Quiet!” then waited for the weeping to subside. “We have a representative from Police Scotland here to talk to us now. Finally,” she said, shooting Tyler a sideways look that almost knocked him off his chair. “He’s going to talk to you about… Well, we’ll find out. Detective?”
Tyler had hoped for a few more minutes to work out what he was going to say, but several hundred sets of eyes were now watching him, and the weight of their expectation forced him to get to his feet.
“Right. Aye. Cheers,” he said.
“Loud, clear voice, please,” Mrs Robertson instructed.
Tyler cleared his throat. “Sorry. Is that…? Hello,” he shouted at the audience. “You, eh… You alr
ight?”
They weren’t alright. That much was very obvious. Tyler shook his head, admonishing himself, then tried again.
“Eh, my name’s Detective Constable Neish. Tyler. That’s… My name’s Tyler. I’m, eh, I’m one of the detectives investigating the… sad… The… With Mr Forsyth.”
“His murder,” Mrs Robertson said. “You can say it.”
“Right. Aye. His murder,” Tyler said. “We’re investigating his murder. So…” Shit! What else should he say? Something reassuring. Something inspiring. “…aye. There you go.”
Damn. Failed on both counts.
“Perhaps you could address some of the rumours that have been flying around?” Mrs Robertson suggested.
“Sure,” Tyler said.
There was a lengthy and increasingly uncomfortable silence until he eventually spoke again.
“I mean, I don’t know what they are, so you’ll have to tell me,” he said, which earned him another look of irritation from the depute head.
Mrs Robertson addressed the audience. “What rumours have you heard, children? Quickly. Hands up.”
Forty hands went up. Tyler tried very hard not to groan out loud.
“Go ahead. Choose,” Mrs Robertson urged.
Tyler scanned the front few rows and settled on a ginger-haired lad with his hand thrust so high into the air it was practically pulling him out of his seat.
“Eh, you.”
“Not him,” Mrs Robertson interjected. She pointed to a girl a few seats along. “Jessica.”
“Is it true someone ate him?” asked a mousy-looking girl with Harry Potter glasses.
“Eh, no. That’s not true,” Tyler said.
“Alison,” the depute head said, quickly moving on. “What have you heard?”
“I heard his head’s still missing, Miss.”
Tyler nodded. “Um, yes. Yes, that is true,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. Should he be doing this? Was this right? “But, I mean, I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
More hands went up. Mrs Robertson selected a boy sitting right down at the front.
“Maybe they ate his head, then. If you can’t find it, maybe someone ate it.”
There was some murmuring then. It sounded almost excited, like the kid in the front row had blown the case wide open.
“It’s, eh, no. No. I’d imagine it’s not easy to eat a head,” Tyler said. “You know, like, the skull, and everything. It’s hard, isn’t it? I mean, maybe the eyes, or…” Fuck! What was he saying? Abort! Abort! “…like, I don’t know, maybe the brain, or whatever. But you can’t really eat a head. Unless you’re like, a bear, or a lion. Or… Which it won’t have been. Don’t think that.”
He flinched at the levels of gibberish tumbling out of his mouth, but it was like a tap had been opened, then the spigot snapped off.
“So, um, no. No, I don’t think anyone’s eaten it. I think it’s probably fine somewhere. Just, you know… not currently attached.”
Some sobbing resumed at that point. A young voice in the audience whispered, “Is he saying a lion ate his brain?”
The depute head shouted them all back into silence, glowered at Tyler, then pointed to another boy. He had a different-coloured tie and looked older. Sixth Year, probably. His question was more direct than the others, and delivered in a way that was almost an accusation.
“Do you know who the killer is?”
“Not yet,” Tyler admitted. “These things take a bit of time. Or, you know, sometimes they don’t. It depends.”
“On what?” the boy asked.
“Well… On who done it. And how. And if there were any witnesses, or forensic evidence, or stuff like that?”
“Was there stuff like that?”
“Not really, no.”
“So you don’t know anything?”
“We’re following up on a number of leads,” Tyler said, recycling a phrase he’d heard used at polis press conferences in the past.
“Like what?” the young man asked. “What are you specifically doing to find the killer?”
“Who, me personally, or…? Oh. The police? Right. I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail at this stage. But we’re taking it very seriously. We’ve got a Big Board full of stuff.”
This was more like it, Tyler thought. This felt like more familiar ground. A few reassurances and platitudes, a promise that they would do everything they could to bring the killer to justice, and he was home and dry.
“What sort of stuff? You mean clues?” asked a girl with a sideways ponytail that made her look demented.
“Well, no,” Tyler said. “Not clues, exactly…”
“What then?” another girl pressed.
“Like… theories. Ideas.” Tyler smiled, still labouring under the misconception that this was going quite well. “Hunches. That sort of thing.”
“Hunches? You don’t know anything, do you?” called the boy in the different-coloured tie. His voice was becoming louder, and fraying just a little at the edges. He was sitting alone, Tyler noted, an empty seat on either side of him. “You don’t have any idea what you’re doing.”
“Bennet,” said one of the teachers sitting on the stage behind Tyler. She rose to her feet, her eyes ringed with red, a sodden tissue clutched in one hand.
Her tone hadn’t been a warning one. It had been pleading. Imploring. Begging him to stop.
“You’re just knocking on doors, hoping someone knows something,” Bennet continued, ignoring the teacher’s plea. “Someone killed Fergus, and you’re going to let them get away with it!”
“Bennet, please, that’s enough!” the teacher urged.
“I suggest you listen to your mother, Mr Lennon,” the depute head hissed.
Tyler, meanwhile, tried to stick gamely to his ‘reassurances and platitudes’ plan. “We’re not going to let anyone get away with anything,” he insisted. “We’ve got multiple lines of inquiry that we’re—”
“God. Bennet’s right,” a girl chimed in from a couple of rows back. “You don’t have any idea who did it, do you? It could be anyone.”
“Do you even know who did it?” demanded a boy right beside her.
“Well, no, not yet, but like I say—”
“Oh my God! You’re totally going to let them get away with killing Mr Forsyth!” a girl near the centre aisle positively shrieked.
Tyler hesitated, sensing the audience’s growing discontent. Shite. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This could turn ugly.
“Well, I mean… It’s still early days in the… We’re…” He raised his voice further, fighting to be heard over the rising murmur of voices. “Put it this way, we’ve got a number of leads that we’re in the process of...”
It was no use. There was no stopping it. He could see it approaching like an avalanche.
Grief was giving way to anger, and it was rippling through the audience faster than he could possibly contend with. Faces that had been streaked with tears now wore sneers and scowls, and they were all pointed in his direction.
“Justice for Fergus!” bellowed a boy up the back of the room. A chorus of agreement followed. It echoed off the high ceilings, and bounced around the room, gathering other voices as it went, until the hall shook with the racket of it.
“Justice for Fergus! Justice for Fergus! Justice for Fergus!”
“That’s enough! Silence!” Mrs Robertson screeched, but it was like shouting into a hurricane.
At least half of the pupils were up out of their seats now. Feet were stamped as the chanting grew louder. A rubber whizzed through the air, narrowly missing Tyler’s head.
Some of the younger pupils, alarmed by the chaos, began to stampede. Someone smashed the glass of the fire alarm, and a piercing squawk added its voice to the din.
Tyler turned to find Mrs Robertson glaring at him, her teeth clenched together. He summoned the best smile he could, given the circumstances.
“Right then,” he said, tapping his watch. “I think I’d probably be
st be shooting off.”
Chapter Thirty
Logan, Hamza, and Sinead all arrived at the office to find DI Forde looking grey. Not his hair, which had been grey for a while now, but the rest of him. His face, and his demeanour.
“You alright?” Logan asked, shrugging off his coat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was then that the DCI spotted the phone on the desk in front of Ben. Its screen was dark, and there was something lifeless about it. Something terminal.
“You didn’t… You weren’t trying the phone, were you, sir?” asked Hamza, who had spotted the mobile at the same time as Logan. “You didn’t try and unlock it?”
Ben looked down at the darkened screen, but said nothing.
“Tell me you didn’t mess about with it,” Logan said.
“I just… I thought I’d have a go,” Ben said. “I thought… ‘It’s only four numbers, isn’t it? I mean, how hard can that be?’”
“Isn’t it, like, ten thousand combinations?” Sinead ventured.
Ben looked up, appearing surprised by that. “Ten thousand? God. Aye. That’s… That’s more than I thought, right enough.”
Logan clamped a hand over his mouth, stopping himself saying anything he might regret.
“There’s a security function, sir,” Hamza said, eyeing the phone like it was an explosive device. “Put the wrong code in too many times, and no one can access it. Ever.” He steeled himself before asking the question. “How many times did you try? Do you remember?”
“I’m not sure,” Ben admitted. “But, well, it’s not asking for the PIN number anymore.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Logan ejected, unable to hold it back any longer. “What were you thinking, Ben? Why were you pissing about with the thing in the bloody first place? You should’ve left it for—”
Ben tapped the mobile. It illuminated, revealing a screen filled with app icons. He sat back, smugness oozing from every pore.
“It’s not asking for a PIN because I turned it off.”