Evidence of Death

by Peter Ritchie

  They slowed down and circled the bushes Clark had pointed out. That’s when they saw it, and Macallan had to suppress the instinct to turn away. It could easily have been missed given its resemblance to a rotting piece of wood among the ground foliage: a hand – or what was left of a hand – standing clear of the ground and pointing to the sky.

  ‘Well well well,’ the SOCO said, knowing that this was going to be an interesting day. ‘Looks like some of our furry little friends have got here first.’

  Macallan walked slowly back to the ambulance and looked at Baxter. ‘Get Clark back to the hospital. This is the place.’

  Macallan left it to the SOCOs and the scientists to control the scene. The days when a detective could trample all over the evidence were long gone, and her place was to make sure everyone who needed to be there was called and logged in and out properly.

  They all got to work while she set up a base on the edge of the road, and within the hour a team had arrived to set up the operation, taking care of everything down to refreshments for the troops. The Fiscal came and did very little but had to be seen to be there, and they had a doctor on standby for when the bodies were removed, so it would take the press no time to hear that something major was happening in this otherwise sleepy corner of East Lothian.

  Macallan spent the next few hours making and taking calls because it was headline stuff. A couple of camera crews had already arrived, and the media wanted a line from someone. Her neck hurt and she was tired when the SOCO finally walked back along the path and told her that they’d opened up the site.

  ‘Get suited and masked up, Grace, and hope you’ve a strong stomach.’ The warning had relevance because she’d felt queasy for a couple of days now, but she was glad to get away from the phone and fielding questions from HQ. Luckily a press officer was en route and would soon take some of the strain.

  The SOCO guided her along a path they’d marked out as safe. There was a line of small, raised boards placed so they didn’t have to come in contact with the soil until everything had been examined, photographed and samples taken where necessary.

  About twenty feet from the circle of birch trees the stench assaulted Macallan’s nostrils, and she nearly retched at the stink of rotting flesh. It was nothing new to her and she refused to stick menthol rub up her nose to take the worst of it away. Her friend Bill Kelly had been one of the best detectives in the RUC before he’d reached high office and she remembered his words now: ‘Don’t hide from it. Even the stink of death is telling you something. You have to get close to it, feel it and then you won’t forget when you’re tired and have had enough. Those days when you just want to go home, you’ll remember what the reality is and what you need to do.’

  She walked slowly to the site and avoided the open ground till she was close. She didn’t want anyone to see her flinch or show emotion. Although it was her job to lead, she felt nothing but revulsion to the pit of her stomach. If what Clark had told them was true, this was what Lena Fleming had been shown. She couldn’t imagine what the poor woman must have felt, and understood why her mind had been torn apart by those events. To make it worse it had happened during the hours of darkness, and Macallan tried to picture what she’d seen in monochrome: nothing but shadows and patches of colourless moonlight illuminating the bodies of her husband and firstborn son. Few people would mourn the passing of Joe and Danny Fleming, but Lena Fleming hadn’t deserved this, and Macallan made up her mind that Billy Nelson would pay. What she saw drove out any sympathy for Andy Clark though. He’d been there, and he could take whatever was coming.

  She walked back to the road and gave out orders to the police and civilian staff working at the crime scene. She told Baxter to go home and take a rest then return at midnight to relieve her. All she had to do was make sure everyone knew their job and let them get on with it. The scientists and SOCOs knew exactly what they were doing; it was their territory now. Macallan could work from her office in the morning and attend the post-mortem whenever it could be carried out.

  She called Jacquie Bell and gave her an update. Bell had been running the story every day and had made sure that the public – and hopefully Nelson – could see that the house of cards was falling in perfect order. The message was clear: Nelson could only hide for so long.

  ‘Thanks, Grace, and no doubt they’ll have you in front of a press conference in the next day or two, so see you there,’ Bell said. ‘By the way, when am I going to meet the new man?’

  ‘He’s coming over, but only for the day and one night so not this time, Jacquie. I’ll be tied up during the day so we’ll just get one night together. Such is the life of a detective.’

  She rang off and smiled at the thoughts running through her head, although she also realised she’d probably be so knackered that it would be an early night and not much else.

  Well, Jack my boy, this’ll test your commitment, she thought, before turning her mind back to the job.

  42

  It was like a phoney war. In the time after the unearthing of the bodies of Joe and Danny Fleming it was as if there was a temporary truce in the chain of events. All the players knew that nothing was finished and they carried on waiting for the signal that the last part of the game was about to be played out. Macallan knew it was close, but she had to concentrate on gathering the evidence, and all the time she wondered who would actually end up in court.

  Her instincts were also trying to tell her something else, but she hadn’t figured it out yet.

  The post-mortem had been difficult, and the Procurator Fiscal had nearly passed out watching the examination of the Flemings’ mortal remains. The bodies gave up part of their story, and it became obvious that both men had suffered terrible injuries from the soles of their feet to the fractures on their faces and skulls. Whatever their sins, the Flemings had suffered a terrible death, and Macallan winced every time the crime scene came back into her thoughts.

  Clark had told them that it had been a moonlit night when they’d buried the Leith men, and she wanted to see it at that time of the day – imagine the dark silhouettes of the men dragging Lena Fleming to the graveside, making her stare into the pit. She went with Baxter as near as possible to the time of night Clark had described and ordered the police team still working there to switch off all the lights. They walked slowly towards the circle of trees and stood for a few minutes as she tried to burn the picture into her mind. She wanted to remember it, and Bill Kelly’s words came back to her again.

  ‘Jesus, what kind of men are they?’ Baxter said almost in a whisper, as if they might disturb something in the shadows.

  ‘God knows. I keep thinking I’ve seen the worst that men can do then something like this happens. I gave up trying to understand it a long time ago. I just want to lock the bastards up, be normal for a bit then move on to clearing up the next mess. It’s not the murders – we’ve all seen that and worse. But to drag Lena here? Who can explain that?’

  They walked back to the car and went home.

  The media had gone wild with what had become known as the ‘gang wars in the city’ and so it was inevitable that a press conference would be arranged. The chief super made up the best excuse he could to avoid the glare of awkward questions and left Macallan to field them for him. She handled it easily though, and the hacks were happy for the time being. She told them in oblique language that they knew who they were looking for but first of all they needed to gather the evidence and wait on the results of the forensic examinations.

  After the conference she called Thompson.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing on Nelson. He’s definitely out of the picture at the moment. We’re covering his house 24/7 but he’s been a no-show. Even if he managed to sneak in we’d have picked something up on the bug. We’ve put the surveillance team on Fisher instead and just left the OP covering Billy’s place, though if he shows we might struggle to get a team on him quickly.’

  ‘What about his phone?’ Macallan asked, al
ready knowing the answer.

  ‘Nothing there either so I wonder if he’s ditched it. Would make sense.’

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready to make arrests, even if it’s just Fisher and McLean.’

  Macallan pulled her fingers through her hair. She felt uncomfortable. They were going to build a solid case, but there was something wrong. She phoned Young, who was still chewing her pencil and trying to work out what it was that she’d missed.

  ‘There’s no doubt he’s got a plan, and I think he’s been cooking it up for some time. There’s too much been happening – the Perth meeting, Jackie Martin, Dominic McGinty and the large withdrawal of cash. Maybe he’s tried to get out of the country; that would make some sense I suppose. He has to have seen the publicity and worked out that there’s only bad outcomes as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll try to leave the country, Felicity. He has something else in mind, and I think we’ll find out soon enough what that is.’ She felt the answer was close, like a dream that she couldn’t quite make sense of or explain.

  ‘I agree. I know he’s coming back, but what will he do?’

  ‘Just keep that brain working, Felicity. If anyone can come up with an answer it’s you.’

  The following day had the same sense of time on hold – until about midday when Macallan had a call from the lab. It was the lead SOCO sounding as cheerful and matter of fact as ever.

  ‘Got several minute pieces of tissue, Grace, and a fragment of tooth that was actually lodged in a small crack in the wall. They made a mistake and left small spaces between some of the plastic sheeting. Can you believe it?’

  She wanted to shout down the phone but kept her voice level. It was good news and progress – major progress. She gave the thumbs-up to Baxter, who was sitting opposite her. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I would say there was another part of the wall where they’d left a gap. There are definitely indications of fine blood spattering, almost invisible to the naked eye. I think we can safely say we have evidence. Still a lot to do and it’ll have to be DNA’d but I’ll be astonished if it’s not a result.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ She put the phone down and told Baxter what had been said. He smiled from ear to ear because he could see the case was building. ‘We just need to keep at it and I’ll speak to the Fiscal, but I think in the next day or two we should have enough to bring in Fisher and McLean. I just wish Nelson would turn up.’ She frowned again, wondering where he was.

  ‘Listen, the man in my life is coming across from Belfast today so I’m going to have an early finish. Can you cover for me? But call if there’s anything at all.’

  ‘Of course – no problem. I’ll take care of it. Just enjoy the night – and try not to fall asleep while you’re eating the first course.’

  ‘Ha! Think it’ll be a fish supper and a bottle of plonk.’

  ‘Well, that’s five-star dining in Leith so you should think yourself lucky.’

  She headed home to shower then attempt to try and look relaxed.

  Billy Nelson had read the papers but the stories didn’t concern him too much. In another life he might have been angry, but there wasn’t much point given the circumstances. It was payback time, and in many ways they couldn’t hurt him any more. It was up to him to close his story down, and he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to end up feeding through a tube and wearing a nappy. He would end it on his feet. He’d lived a violent life but it was other people and events that had driven him down that road.

  He wiped his brow and continued working on the second-hand car he’d bought for cash.

  43

  Jack Fraser smiled across the table. ‘I have to say, the fish and chips were wonderful, and the wine was a great accompaniment. The perfect host.’ His eyes sparkled with amusement; he had to admit that knowing Grace Macallan was never predictable and certainly not boring.

  She laughed easily. It had only taken a couple of glasses of wine for her to relax and get in the mood with Fraser. She was tired, but it was always the same in the middle of an investigation so she hardly thought about it – it was just part of what she was. Fraser had seen the effects of these investigations on so many of the detectives he’d worked with in Northern Ireland, and he’d known her long enough to accept it in the same way she did.

  ‘Mick Harkins says that if you don’t like the hours, fuck off and get a job in a tea shop.’ She smiled, just glad that Fraser was sitting the other side of her kitchen table. It felt safe. She’d managed to put Billy Nelson and what Lena Fleming had seen in the woods out of her mind for a little while.

  ‘I’d like you to meet Mick the next time you’re over,’ she added. ‘He’d take great pleasure in winding you up, but if you can accept the humiliation you’ll like him. He’s a class act.’

  She stood up, kissed his ear and headed to the kitchen to make some coffee.

  ‘Leave it just now. I have a cunning plan now that you’re half-pissed. I think you’ll be ready for bed soon, and I want to get this idea passed or rejected before that happens.’

  She sat down again and he could see that her eyes were heavy, but she was happy he was there with her, and so was Fraser.

  ‘My old aunt died recently and left me a bit of cash. Not a fortune but it gives me a bit of leeway to follow up on one of my ambitions.’ He stopped and finished what was in his glass. ‘You know I’ve always fancied writing a book about the role of the lawyers during the Troubles . . . well, I’ve got a publisher interested. Can you believe it?’

  ‘That’s brilliant! You should go for it. The courts can live without you for a while, and I quite fancy having an author boyfriend – it has a nice ring to it.’

  ‘Well, the thing is that I don’t need to be in Northern Ireland to do it, if you know what I mean. It would take me about a year. The other thing is that I could always pick up a bit of legal work here.’ He waited for a response, but Macallan just blinked and poured another glass of red.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Me living in Edinburgh.’

  She put the glass down on the table and leaned back in her chair, considering what had come as a complete surprise. ‘But where would you stay?’ She tried to keep a straight face, but the alcohol spoiled her act and a slightly drunk half-smile broke out.

  ‘You’re pissed and not taking this seriously, Grace.’

  She stood up and took his hand. ‘It’s a great idea, and you’ve pulled, mate, so let’s seal the deal.’

  He stood up, put his arms round her and held her as close as he could.

  ‘At least I won’t have to get that fucking budgie,’ she added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Another time.’

  She looked at the clock and put out the lights in the kitchen. It was 11.30 p.m. and she was surprised she’d lasted that long.

  Nelson kept the car just under the speed limit. He didn’t want any attention from a bored night-shift cop. The news came on at midnight and he passed the sign telling weary motorists that they were entering the city of Edinburgh. His gut had ached all day and he’d hardly eaten, but the pain had eased off now, and the adrenalin pumping round his body had been boosted by a couple of lines of cocaine. He’d never been a heavy user but needed the extra kick for the hours ahead, and, after all, he didn’t really have to worry too much about the health implications.

  Donnie Monk was back in his flat and trying to watch the news headlines, but his head was swimming from the combination of drugs, alcohol and very little sleep. His time in the hotel had been a distraction and the surroundings had been comfortable, much better than the misery of his place and the accumulated debris from years of neglect. He couldn’t remember when it had last been cleaned but he’d stopped noticing a long time ago – right around the time he’d lost his self-respect. His money was nearly gone, but he’d bought enough booze and some dope to see him through the next couple of days, though he guessed he w
ouldn’t have that long. Having seen the headlines, he knew that his sordid little life would be under the microscope of the anti-corruption unit.

  He chain-smoked as he watched the door, but at some stage drifted off into a half-sleep, not dreaming and still aware of his surroundings. The poisons in his system kept his body running like a stationary car with the accelerator depressed. Rest wasn’t really possible any longer so he shook himself and snorted another line.

  He lost track of time as he sat with his eyes closed, remembering the days when he could hold his head up as a rated detective.

  After a while he opened his eyes to light another cigarette and noticed that the door of the living room was now open. He hadn’t heard anything and sat forward. The only illumination in the semi-darkness was the flickering light from the television.

  ‘You alright there, Donnie? Didn’t want to disturb you when you looked so peaceful.’ Nelson said it quietly, as if he didn’t want to upset the corrupt detective.

  ‘Wondered when you’d come,’ Monk said, lighting the cigarette. ‘You want one?’

  ‘No. Sorry. Have to be on my way once we finish our business here.’ Nelson stood up and walked over to Monk’s chair.

  ‘Fuck you. I don’t give a shit any more.’

  ‘That’s good. I’d hate you to go out full of regrets.’

  Twenty minutes later Nelson pulled the door behind him and walked back to his car. He drove to a phone box and made a call to Crimestoppers. He kept the English accent and said what he had rehearsed over and over again. Two Belfast men, named Dougie Fisher and Rob McLean, were going to pick up a 4x4 parked in East Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh. The men were moving several kilos of high-quality cocaine and two firearms concealed in the car.