In Place of Death

by Craig Robertson

  Winter made a tight smile. He wasn’t going to give Two Soups the satisfaction of getting angry. Inside though . . . inside he was ripping Baxter’s head off and shoving it up his arse.

  ‘That is not only adequate, it is a minor masterpiece of composition. There was no way to get to the other side of the victim to face him and take a frontal shot. There was no room to do so. If you’d been down there yourself . . .’ Winter paused and made a show of looking at Baxter’s girth. ‘If you could have gone down there yourself, you’d have seen that.’

  A muscle twitched and tightened on the jowls beneath Baxter’s beard. Winter continued.

  ‘I had to reach through and over the dead guy’s arms and position my camera in front of him to get a face-on shot in situ. It was like trying to take a selfie on a smartphone.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A smartphone. It’s like a step up from a digital watch but you can talk to people on it.’

  Two Soups looked a heartbeat away from combustion, his face flushing furiously. ‘I know what a smartphone is. What is a selfie? There’s no such word. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m talking about these poor excuses for photographs. They are not fit for purpose.’

  Winter slowly pushed the prints apart with the tips of his fingers, saying nothing but spreading them across the desk so that each was visible.

  ‘Do you see that? That is where the initial incision was made. We can see that not only by the angle of entry but by the clarity of the photograph. By the fact that it is entirely central to the frame. You can blow that up a hundred times and you will still have quality. You will still have adequacy. And see here? How these two photographs in conjunction show the precise body position in relation to the tunnel and how these use what light there is to show the gap round the body and how this clearly shows the decomposition in situ yet avoids the inherent danger of the flash over-illuminating the face? That is why I’m employed as a specialist. The scene examiners are very, very good at what they do. But this is what I do.’

  Baxter squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and his face flushed but none of that translated into any words that might have conceded the merit of what Winter had said. Instead he pulled himself upright and scowled.

  ‘That is indeed the case at present, Mr Winter.’

  A thin smile danced across Baxter’s fat lips. He was not a man who readily displayed any kind of good humour and Winter couldn’t fail to notice or be bothered by it.

  ‘At present? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Baxter sneered. ‘Just what it says. Things change. Even you must be aware that various departments have seen adjustment since the unification to Police Scotland. The review of all services is continuing.’

  He let the reply sink in, staring into Winter’s eyes with a glee that dared a response. Winter fought the urge to rise to the bait.

  ‘That sounds like a very general remark.’

  ‘Does it? You may take it any way you wish, Mr Winter. Although however you take it will not stop the process. The winds of change will be blowing. I have already heard the rustle in the trees.’

  Winter could feel his pulse racing as he tried to take it all in at the same time as he longed to punch Baxter in the face. He needed to know but he wouldn’t give the fat bastard the satisfaction of asking him.

  ‘Well whatever, Mr Baxter. You keep blowing Russell in the trees if that’s what floats your boat. I’ve got photographs to take. Excuse me.’

  ‘For now, Winter,’ he heard Baxter shout as he pushed through the door to get away. ‘You’ve got photographs to take for now!’

  Chapter 6

  Saturday evening

  The outside of Clober Nursing Home was possibly the most depressing sight Narey had ever seen. It wasn’t the drab exterior walls, pebble-dashed in rainstorm grey, or the anonymous uniformity of the curtained windows. It wasn’t even the miserable little sign that apologetically declared its name to the world. It was the knowledge that her dad was inside.

  He had Alzheimer’s. The cruellest, meanest little bastard of a disease that she knew. It had robbed her of him, and him of a meaningful, dignified life. It had mercilessly attacked a man who hadn’t deserved it, picking away at his being like a raven at a corpse. It had condemned him to this soulless shithole of a care home.

  It was the best soulless shithole that she could pay for but the sight of it still filled her with guilt and despair. It wouldn’t matter if the staff were actual angels with wings and haloes, serving him nectar, ambrosia and thirty-year-old single malt on a golden tray, she would still hate the place because he was seeing out his life in it. She shook her head slowly, breathed deeply and got out of the car.

  She walked through the home on auto-pilot, treading the well-worn path to his room. No matter how often she went, it would never be enough, not in her own head. She would always owe him more than she could give. Did the walls of this place really have to be such a soul-destroying shade of bloody yellow?

  Halfway along the last corridor, the narrowness of it squeezing the remaining drops of hope out of her, she had to stop when a young woman emerged from one of the rooms and stepped across her path. She looked up to see Narey and her mouth twisted.

  ‘He’s not had a good day.’

  Maybe it was meant as an early warning, maybe it was supposed to be sympathetic or helpful. But she heard it as reproachful.

  The carer’s name was Jess and Narey had never liked her. She was in her late teens or early twenties, small and slim with dark hair pulled back tightly from her face. She would probably have been very good-looking if not for the near-permanent scar of irritation that she wore on her face. It seemed something was always bothering Jess and it was always someone else’s fault. Narey frequently wanted to slap her.

  ‘He’s broken a glass and the lampshade next to his bed. And he’s had an accident.’

  Narey bit her tongue and confined herself to a sharp nod to say that she’d heard. She eased past the girl and opened the door to her dad’s room. He was sitting up on the bed, fully dressed and staring sadly towards his lap. He didn’t stir when she was fully in the room and she cleared her throat to say she was there.

  He looked up as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t and for a second she saw him as a ten-year-old, tousled fair hair and boy’s blue eyes. That moment passed when his eyes clouded over in doubt, wondering who she was and why she was there. It was like a dagger to her heart every single time.

  Three years he’d been in this home now. Three long years for her and well, who knows how long it seemed for him. Time was a slippery fish for her dad, a wriggler that writhed in his hands and turned head over tail in the blink of an eye. Ask him the date he started with the police or the day he got promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and he’d trot the answers out. Ask him the name of the song he’d sung to her mum the day they learned she was pregnant and he’d have no problem. Ask him about the broken glass or, God forbid, the little accident, then chances were he’d have no recollection. Not this day anyway.

  ‘How are you, Dad?’

  It was always a tough choice whether to call him Dad when he didn’t recognize her. Sometimes it frightened him, confused him further. Sometimes though it ticked a box, joined a set of dots and a smile would spread over his face. Not this time.

  ‘I don’t know you. Do I know you?’

  ‘It’s Rachel, Dad. Your daughter.’

  His face scrunched up in deeper puzzlement. His mouth bobbed open and closed a couple of times but no words came out. After a bit, he let his gaze fall disconsolately to his lap again.

  She sat gently on the edge of the bed, wary of going too close too soon. If at all.

  ‘It’s cold out there tonight. Freezing wind too. You’re in the best place in here.’

  He looked up. ‘I could go out. If I wanted. But if it’s cold I’d need to wear a . . . wear a . . .’

  She’d learned not to finish his sentences for him. Better to let him get
there himself, however slowly, than to demean him further by filling in the gaps. Better too not to correct him when he got it wrong. Upsetting him would just mean upsetting them both. Lots of tears had proven that little truth.

  ‘A coat. I’d need a coat. A warm coat.’

  There you go, Dad. Well done. She scolded herself for patronizing him even if it was just in her own head. Every little triumph, every small bit of joy was to be savoured. He remembered coat. That meant a synapsis had correctly conversed with another synapsis. It meant a path he could walk on and she was grateful for every single one of them.

  She reached out a hand towards him.

  ‘Yes, you couldn’t go out without a coat. Far too cold tonight. Feel my hand.’

  He looked first at the hand then at her. Then at the hand again. Slowly, he reached out his own, large and soft where it was once strong, peppered with liver spots and streaked with veins. He placed it over her hand and held it gently.

  ‘Oh yes, you’re right. Very cold. You need a coat. And gloves. You need gloves.’

  He didn’t take his hand away after checking her temperature; instead he left it there for a bit then slid it underneath so his fingers curled into hers. They sat in silence, he looking at the bed and she at him. Occasionally, he squeezed and she knew it was her dad doing that, calling to her from inside.

  With one particularly firm squeeze, he looked up sharply and she felt the tug of want inside her, pleading for him to make the connection. The flesh and blood he was holding was his own, surely he felt it, sensed it. His eyes furrowed and she waited, barely daring to breathe. Nothing. Not this time.

  She sat for as long as she could. Talking about the weather and her job, sneaking in references to her mum, his wife, to holidays they’d taken when she was a kid. Nothing registered. Not today. Still she talked and he listened. And he held her hand. Winning small battles in a losing war.

  After he’d warily let her kiss him on the forehead and she’d closed the door behind her and left, she stood for a moment with her back to it and contemplated bursting into tears. Any prospect of that disappeared when Jess the carer loomed into view from the other end of the corridor.

  ‘I could have told you he wouldn’t know you tonight. He’s not had a good day.’

  Narey was torn between keeping on the right side of this girl who would be left alone with her dad or grabbing her by her hair and smashing her face against the wall. As she moved swiftly towards the girl, she wasn’t entirely sure which option she was going to take.

  She put the brakes on just in time and stood close enough for the little bitch to feel her breath on her pinched face. She paused just long enough to see a flash of worry across the girl’s features.

  ‘I’m just popping in to see Mrs McBriar. I want to pay for the glass and the lampshade. You’ll make sure my father is comfortable, won’t you?’

  Jess nodded as quickly as she could.

  ‘Good.’

  Narey looked into her eyes and nodded back. Message understood.

  She knocked briskly on the door of the woman who doubled as the home’s owner and manager and entered without waiting for a reply. McBriar looked up from behind her desk, clearly surprised.

  ‘Miss Narey. Is something wrong? Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes you can. I’d like to talk to you about Jess.’

  Chapter 7

  Robert Henaghan. Richard Hendry. Ravindra Hegde. Ryan Hughes. Robert Hillman. Rohak Handoo. Reggie Haynes. The seven adult male missing persons in the UK with the initials RH. Narey already knew the names off by heart and recounted them over and over as she walked round the mortuary at the Southern General. It wasn’t the perfect place to be immediately after a visit to the nursing home but it was where she needed to be. She needed to work.

  Henaghan. Hendry. Hegde. Hughes. Hillman. Handoo. Haynes. It became a verse in her head with a rhythm all of its own, singing to her as she worked her way through the clothing and meagre belongings of Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo or Haynes.

  The first evidence bag contained the navy-blue fleece. Size large. Department store label. Pretty cheap. It was streaked with damp and smelled of death and the tunnel. It was lined and elasticated with a zip all the way to the neck.

  She didn’t like the new mortuary much. It was brand-spanking-new, state-of-the-art shiny, with every possible facility required to host mortuary and forensic services under one roof. But it lacked soul. Maybe that would come with time but for now it left her as cold as the stainless-steel tables with a bank of cameras pointing at each.

  Everyone else had gone home for the night and she was alone with the evidence bags, the clothing and the seven. Henaghan. Hendry. Hegde. Hughes. Hillman. Handoo. Haynes.

  Ravindra Hegde didn’t seem a likely name for a white man with reddish hair. Neither did Rohak Handoo. She wasn’t naïve enough to rule them out on that alone but both were also too short. The rumour was that Hegde had owed money to the wrong people and that he’d never be found. Handoo had had a bust-up with his in-laws but beyond that no one had said anything about where he might have gone.

  Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Hillman. Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Hillman.

  The two-tone blue nylon cagoule had survived better than the fleece. It was a good make, expensive. Large. The label at the neck had been snipped off. Odd thing to do with a designer brand. The part of the label that remained had the hint of lettering in black felt pen.

  Robert Hillman from the Western Isles would be forty-nine now. He had learning difficulties and his elderly parents had started a poster campaign that was carried across the country. It was thought that maybe he’d fallen into a river or walked into a peat bog and never got out.

  Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Haynes.

  She missed the low red brick of the old City Mortuary near the High Court on the Saltmarket. Sure it was cramped, cold and outdated but it was the real thing. Bricks and mortar. Rough and ready. Memories and legends. The victims of Bible John and Peter Manuel had been laid out there. It had an atmosphere that you couldn’t miss. It had scared her witless the first time she was in there on her own. The new place couldn’t scare her if it tried. Its ghosts were all just children.

  Reggie Haynes was of Jamaican parentage and his photographs showed he had a distinctive hooked nose. The age and height would have fitted but nothing else seemed to.

  Henaghan, Hendry and Hughes. Henaghan, Hendry and Hughes.

  She picked up the bag containing the dead man’s disintegrating shoes. The fact that they’d survived as well as they had was testament to their good quality. They were lightweight and flexible hiking boots, Gore-Tex lined with a tough rubber sole. Expensive. Size nine.

  Robert Henaghan had dark hair and was just five foot seven. He’d said goodbye to his wife at breakfast and left to go to his office but never arrived. There had been debts and doubts but no one ever knew if he’d simply disappeared or if something had happened to him.

  The white T-shirt was cheap and mass-produced. Medium. Shop’s own label.

  She’d gathered her MIT squad together in Pitt Street and tasked them with brainstorming ideas of who the man was and why he’d been killed where he had. The suggestions had come thick and fast, some more helpful than others. Loner. Geologist. Local historian. Dealer looking for somewhere to hide his stash. Hermit. Schizophrenic. Potholer.

  Did any of these tags apply to their man? Was Hendry a geologist, was Hughes or Haynes a hermit? Was Henaghan a risk taker? Did Hillman go willingly with his killer and, if so, why?

  All the loose thoughts would be examined, every thread pulled until something unravelled. Hopefully. These would be hard yards. Nothing more than a methodical slog.

  Ryan Hughes had been missing since he was seven years old in Swansea. God only knew what height he was or where he had been living. No one even knew if he’d reached eight. For a while, the broken faces of his parents had become familiar on television, then they too slowly disappeared from view.<
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  Rico Giannandrea was on her MIT squad. Until a few months earlier, they’d both been DSs at Stewart Street and the situation would have been awkward if it had been anyone else. Not Rico though. If he had to ride shotgun then he’d be the best shotgun in town; there on time, full of bright ideas and positivity. He’d be that way as a DS until he wasn’t a DS any more.

  It was Rico who had suggested they might be looking at someone reckless. A risk taker. Maybe someone who’d done something equally stupid before. Maybe something a profiler could work with.

  Why the hell would anyone need three torches? Three of them tucked away inside the nylon backpack along with spare batteries. Had he intended to live down that tunnel for a month? The Swiss Army knife made sense if he had been hillwalking or camping but why three torches?

  The mortuary was silent and cold. Not cold like the old place where it made you shiver on a summer’s day. Sterile cold, like the sluiced-down tables and floors you could eat your dinner off. All she could hear was the faint buzz of electricity and the names that danced through her head.

  The squad was sure that the location meant that the killer knew Glasgow well. They guessed that maybe five per cent of people even knew the Molendinar Burn existed. Less than half of those would know you could get into it or where. She remembered scribbling on her whiteboard. Local. Knowledgeable.

  Richard Hendry was already five foot eleven when he’d disappeared aged seventeen. Chances were he’d grown more than enough to be taller than the man in the tunnel. He’d been in his last year at school when he failed to return from a night out with friends. The search for him had gone viral, hitting every teenage Facebook page in the land, but he was never seen again.

  Rico had been sure that killer and victim had gone into the tunnel together. The chances of the murderer stumbling across him there were minuscule. Yes, he could have followed him but it seemed much more likely they’d gone down there together. Narey had written on the whiteboard again. Killer known to victim?