I expected we could compromise for the sake of Gavin’s case. “It’s alright. We can go another time. This is more important,” I assured John directly, who sighed agreeably and knuckled straight down to business.
“DCI Campbell,” Finlay mentioned DCI Campbell to convey the importance of letting him know our new findings. We agreed and grabbed a load of files to take across to his office. At one point, Finlay nearly tripped over Ben’s chair leg. That’s what he gets for being so gangly. Ben sat amid a world of chaos he created, completely clueless.
I accompanied Finlay sensibly, making a few minor adjustments to my outfit before visiting DCI Campbell. He would not tolerate tardiness of any form. Finlay was used to DCI Campbell's sternness, since they debriefed together daily, and they shared an extreme temper, pickiness and a desire to wrap cases up speedily.
“So… DC Taylor. What’s going on there now?” Finlay muttered gracelessly, licking his palm to slick his already gelled hair back. Classy.
“Personally or professionally?” My tight-lipped mouth reacted predictably. I rolled my shoulders back, standing taller. It happened subconsciously when integrated into rooms filled full of men. They all towered much taller, disbelieving in my ability to perform as a female sergeant. It doesn’t faze me as much anymore, but old habits die hard.
“Erm,” Finlay faltered, nothing left to say. He ran out of social steam all too quickly. He had to be the most stubborn detective in Scotland. Even Sherlock Holmes would have nothing on Finlay.
“You just wanted to fill the silence, didn’t you?” I tracked the corridor, plastered in fire safety posters.
“Yup,” He grimaced, holding one palm up to DCI Campbell’s door. Rapping thrice. Unbelievable.
“Come in.” An elderly voice instructed powerfully. Even without seeing DCI Campbell, it’s obvious he would be extremely knowledgeable. Most people recognised his accomplishments, yet underneath DCI Campbell’s hard exterior was a complete family man with a love for Elton John records and pepperoni pizza.
Finlay entered first, leaving me to shake in disbelief. DCI Campbell’s office never failed to amaze, significantly larger than the rest of ours, for sure.
“Ah. DS McCall,” DCI Campbell smiled politely.
“Morning, Guv.”
“I trust you read those forensics reports I forwarded you?” DCI Campbell stared at us intensely.
Shit. Nope. I glared at Finlay, who conveniently forgot to mention Gavin’s forensics reports came through earlier. It was time to conjure up a good enough excuse for myself.
“No sir,” I scratched my forehead in anguish. “I’ve been busy teaming up with DC Taylor, in the hope of finding Gavin’s accomplices.”
Finlay cleared his throat pointedly.
“Oh, yes. DI Cooper mentioned that yesterday,” DCI Campbell kindly, probably under too much pressure to care. “I suppose we’d better fill you in. Forensics found nothing. No prints. No traces. A smart guy or girl which leads me to believe our killer has killed before.”
“Or he threw everything into the water in mass panic. Meaning he could also be extremely inexperienced,” I paused for thought. Speaking absentmindedly. A long silence filled DCI Campbell’s overflowing office. Both men stared.
“Yes. DS McCall, you could be right,” DCI Campbell mulled over that possibility with a protruded bottom lip, checking a handwritten note taped to his computer.
“We were having trouble deciphering which type of killer he could be, Guv,” Finlay interjected, pulling his plain shirt to un crease it. Sounds of confirmation emitted from DCI Campbell, to show he was listening but also super busy. “I wondered whether recanvassing the crime scene could be of significance. Maybe verge out a bit further this time.”
DCI Campbell pointed his finger up, silently ordering us to wait whilst he rifled around his desk drawer. Rummaging noises filled the office, blocking any tense silence which may have occurred otherwise.
Meanwhile, I snooped around, using only my eyes. I spotted discarded Irn Bru cans piled up in his bin. Located below the huge window, was an extreme plethora of memorabilia. Not fan club material, but personal achievements stood proudly displayed. Trophies, medals, certificates, and posters of Lynda Carter. I wondered how his wife felt about that poster. There is probably a reason why it’s hanging up at work and not home. DCI Campbell finally found a local map he searched for.
“There are three possible entrances around that Bay area, excluding the huge body of water in which our killer could have arrived by boat,” DCI Campbell pointed sullenly to those specific locations. “I’ll arrange a few others from our team and join them down at the Bay as soon as possible.” DCI Campbell got up hurriedly, revealing a shedload of crumbs littering his trousers too, which he brushed off quickly. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Finlay faltered momentarily. “Guv. We found something else.” Finlay untucked the blue folder from underneath one arm, fumbling to get Gavin’s photographs out. Once they were free, he ordered them neatly on DCI Campbell’s desktop.
“What is it?” DCI Campbell stopped dressing, hesitantly stepping over to witness those pictures. His dusky lip trembled.
“This one,” Finlay pointed directly towards the tattooed photograph. Wasting no time, he traced the six and urgently repeated our discussion to the Guv. DCI Campbell’s frown lines deepened each second, leaning in to inspect Gavin’s picture.
“It’s a number six or nine, carved into Gavin Ellis’s arm. I missed it, until DI Cooper showed me,” I included helpfully, earning a grateful signal from Finlay.
“Almost too easy to miss,” DCI Campbell spoke loudly, rubbing his top lip in amazement. Finlay agreed, stifling an exhausted yawn. “We could ask the pathologist to see if he picked it up too. They can judge the blade size and link it to anything trade-specific, possibly giving us potential business leads to follow up. That sort of thing.”
“Thing is, the numbers match up to countless possibilities,” I groaned. “We discussed some possibilities, to which DC Taylor is diving into now. Prison numbers, etc.” Looking over those pictures made me angrier that a killer walked scot-free.
“A logical step. If the number does not match, at least we will have who he was as a person.” DCI Campbell seemed pleased by our miniscule step of progress. “Well, you know what they say. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
We moved as a singular group to ready the constables. “Of course, six could stand for the number of victims he has already killed. There could be six bodies buried right under our feet,” Finlay spat in hatred, presuming the worst. “DC Taylor suggested it could be a warning of sorts, of deaths to come.”
“Until we gain concrete suspects or evidence, we can’t think about what ifs. We do our jobs as detectives, working Gavin’s death out sensibly. It’s not CID’s fault that people are dying, it’s some sick bastard. Our resolution is to find them, no matter how long that takes. We serve justice,” DCI Campbell assured us, a strict, no-nonsense father figure. “Good work, all of you. Nobody comes to our town and starts murdering people they see fit. Only I can have that sort of power.”
DCI Campbell led us out of his office, sporting a large grin.
9
Being back at the crime scene felt surreal. Barely any locals strayed anywhere nearby, as nobody wanted to be seen down here. Gavin’s death had tarnished Dalgety Bay’s prime spot. Even the Forth Bridge seemed lacking in vibrancy. A few CID constables surrounded McCall and me. Fresh sets of eyes equalled further chances of capturing our notorious killer.
Since Gavin’s death, the tide had swallowed up half of the mucky sand, leaving our shoes coated in a mess which crunched loudly. My bag kept hitting my leg with each step, full to its brim of swabbing equipment. Our moods felt sombre, all of our team mightily disheartened, unsure as to what other evidence was left to uncover. It was only a small stretch of beach, after all.
McCall especially felt extremely frustrated at being unable to derive any fresh leads from our ne
wfound number evidence. Nobody fancied new dead bodies falling on CID hands or property.
“There he is,” McCall nudged me with her surprisingly bony elbow, face screaming out in discomfort. McCall referenced DCI Campbell, who plodded down the Bay. Seeing DCI Campbell outside of his office hit home exactly how close to retirement he neared.
What would happen when DCI Campbell left? Since I joined, he ran this department, and we certainly did not want a second-rate replacement running our team. Wrinkled lines slashed his appearance, years of criminal activity resting on his shoulders. A small crowd of locals clamoured behind him, holding signs of protest, influenced by those damned newspaper prints.
“They’re angry and redirecting it at us. We’re the only team to take the brunt of their fear. Faces of justice,” DCI Campbell explained, finally catching up to us. He took in his surroundings gradually, disappointed that Gavin’s murder happened in our hometown, the town he chose to shelter his family away from harm and destruction.
“For God’s sake. They can take their campaign posters and stick them up their arse,” McCall complained, lacking in her usual grace. We stared at McCall, who acted surprised. “What?”
“Blimey,” I nodded in respect.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” McCall snapped. “You’ve said worse.”
I paused for a moment, holding a gloved hand up to shield the ridiculously bright sun. “Yep.”
DC Cillian and Tony pushed each other a few metres away, trying to get the other one's feet wet from the water. Seriously, they’re supposed to be accomplished CID officers?
“Both uniformed and CID Constables all searching way down there.” McCall showed DCI Campbell an example officer. “DC Eileen Shipman should be checking out Sammy’s sailing boats to verify no evidence has been stashed.” DC Taylor remained holed up at our offices, much to McCall’s disappointment.
“Nobody’s inside the sailing club yet. A few workers are rostered in today who would be a safe bet to question,” I informed DCI Campbell as pain shot through my head. Bloody migraines.
DCI Campbell heartily agreed and gazed sideways towards Sammy’s sailing club. “I’ll go and make myself useful. You two stay here, venture a bit further up if at all possible,” he instructed before he rambled away towards our prime building. McCall caught my eyes, pulling a dramatic face. She rustled a few plastic bags in my direction.
“Come on then.” McCall read my facial expression. “Am I too loud?”
“You’re worse than a bloody clown,” those words tumbled from my mouth, “except for their ridiculous costumes.” I looked McCall over from head to toe. “Huh. Nevermind.”
“You, shut up,” McCall warned. She stomped ahead in a huff but tripped over a large rock. “Who put that stupid, dumb thing there?” She noticed my struggle to keep a straight face. “I’m going to hit you. I’m actually going to hit you.”
“Oh, pipe down, McCall. We’re serious detectives, so pull yourself together.”
McCall narrowed her eyes, waiting for a joke to spice up our interaction. Satisfied when I stayed silent, McCall turned around and carried on marching.
“Coco,” I said with a smirk.
“That’s it,” McCall set off on a temperamental stomp down the bay, fists balled in anger. She blazed away like a raging fireball, determined and unable to give up. With all our distance, our team disappeared from sight.
There was sparse decoration around this part, mainly left to its own devices. Waves lapped against dirty rocks and strewed up pieces of random junk. Where were their bins? The council spent a fortune on installing them everywhere. Use them. Apart from water, only a lonesome shed stood nearby.
McCall spotted it first, hidden between jagged rocks. She waltzed over, shoes sinking into severely boggy marshland below us. Loud, sloppy noises echoed from her, causing me to grimace. I hated that noise.
“Blood!” McCall exclaimed with widened azure eyes. “There’s blood.” She crouched down to point out a sample smear of blood, careful not to touch it.
“The slimy bastard,” I muttered. We jumped into action, rustling in my bag to find a pair of clean forceps and thread. McCall’s outstretched hand awaited, ready to collect some samples. Four, to be precise. “Can’t get overly excited. If our killer is responsible for this, that blood sample will most likely be Gavin’s.”
“I know, but, if this turns out to be a match, we get inside our killer’s head. Try a bit of psychology. Get a forensic psychologist on our case. Find out where they went next, and why?” McCall had a fair point. I huffed in anticipation as I noticed something new. I leaned over McCall’s crouched person, which did not impress her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Wait.” My hand clenched around the rusted shed padlock and wriggled it slightly. It clicked unlocked. Not broken or forced open, just not closed properly. Brown rust left marks all over my fingers. “It would seem whoever came here owned a set of keys. It’s not been smashed or forced open even. They wanted to hide their presence but were in too much of a rush to lock it again.”
I inspected behind the crooked shed for anything suspicious whilst McCall planted our evidence into plastic evidence bags. Once McCall stepped back, we opened the rotting door. Its heavy lock weighed a small ton and thudded densely by our feet.
“Blimey,” McCall frowned in curiosity.
I proceeded slowly, bracing ourselves in case a dead body had been stashed away. McCall flinched away, just in case. Their shed portrayed shoddy workmanship, nearly falling off its hinges from my force. Nothing fell out, at least. There was no rotting corpse smell, rather a stench from forgotten plastic equipment. Nothing but a deserted storage shed.
“Ancient bat and ball games.” My voice was muffled from rifling through their forgotten equipment. “Oh, and a few ropes.”
“Cheeky,” McCall retorted. Wrong place, wrong time. “Be careful. Your grubby prints will contaminate it all.”
Tutting, I turned around to wave both of my gloved hands in the air.
“Fine,” McCall rolled her eyes in irritation.
“No signs of any struggle,” I paused, noticing an array of matches strewn over the dimly lit floor, pulled down in a hurry. “Pass me those forceps.”
McCall handed over a pair she was still holding. Closing the pincers around a few miniscule wooden sticks, McCall held a bag open to drop them into. My partner in crime peeked in too, picking up details I may have missed. Most women did have spectacular eyes for detail.
“Those ropes could have been touched. A bit hard to tell though, they’re stacked close together,” she commented, although Gavin’s body didn’t have any rope burns. “Let’s hope they don’t plan on using them for some other unlucky bugger.”
“Our killer must have needed the shed for a reason,” I mused. “If somebody committed a murder, they wouldn’t waste time fannying around in a shed. It’s unnecessary. Anyone could have caught them.”
“I’m going to radio the guys.” McCall switched on our radio, desperate to contact DCI Campbell and our CID constables.
I stood back, taking my gloves off, feeling a need to scrub until red raw. My phone buzzed, sending me searching deep into a variety of pockets. Where was my flipping phone?
“Hello?” I finally accepted the desperate call, which delayed slightly. We were too far away from a building to obtain a strong connection. It lagged for a while, before DC Taylor’s voice carried through, almost bursting an eardrum.
“DI Cooper, sir?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I awaited some kind of reply, listening to a bunch of static crackling instead.
“I can’t hear you very well, Sir. In case you can hear me, the number on Gavin’s arm had nothing to do with his time in prison,” DC Taylor revealed, leaving me to groan internally. “But we did find something else. Gavin was sent to prison for raping and accidentally overdosing a young girl. He was imprisoned for three years before being released on good behaviour.”
Good behavi
our? How do criminals get away with that? Of course, they’ll behave well. They aim to escape prison. Especially sexual offenders. Prison is a hell hole for them.
“The girl’s name was Emily Harper, Sir. Her father lived by the Bay and—” DC Taylor cut off completely, replaced by a frustrating, halting signal loss.
“Hello? DC Taylor? Oh... typical!” I shouted at my phone, pressing the red button. McCall watched quizzically, patiently staying put until our team reached us. Further away in the distance, we could just about see our team heading over, fronted by DCI Campbell. “Emily Harper. Sound familiar to you?”
A seagull screeched ignorantly above us. Pesky bird. I followed its sweeping movements from the waterline to high above Sammy’s sailing club. Then, it changed paths drastically, motivated by an oncoming gust of wind. My seagull flew higher, right above a line of waterside houses. Houses by the bay. DC Taylor mentioned those specific buildings. Granted, the connection took longer than a minute to piece itself together with my neural network firing on a lower level than usual.
“Harper!” I clicked in realisation. “I knew that name sounded familiar. Our bunch of statements at the office included Jack Harper’s piece of paper. He lives up there.”
“Of course. So?” McCall didn’t quite follow my gist until I remembered she had no clue what I was talking about.
“DC Taylor couldn’t find anything linking to our photographed number,” I explained. “But he called to explain what Gavin went to prison for in the first place. Well, before our shitty signal cut out. Statutory rape with a girl called Emily Harper. Most likely close relatives. Jack Harper lives right over there.”
McCall inhaled excitedly. “Close enough to Gavin’s crime scene. He mentioned working night shifts within that statement. I remember nearly spilling coffee all over that sheet of paper. That places Jack Harper out all night when Gavin was murdered.”
Bingo.
Officers on our team filtered in, all tuned to separate paces. DC Cillian Murphy, probably the fittest of them all, reached us first and mock saluted. Then DC Eileen Shipman and DC Tony Hall joined. DCI Campbell was far behind us lot, struggling to step over dozens of rocks without slipping. If he weren’t such a stubborn, strong-willed man, people would have offered to help. Nevertheless, he made it over eventually.
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