He peeled off his face mask and stepped away from the examination table, and the subject that lay on it. ‘Restore the child’s dignity please, Roshan,’ he said to his assistant as he approached Pye, who had been standing as far away from the action as the examination room allowed.
‘I’m looking forward to all of that, and to being a full-time husband, more or less. And yet,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll feel strange, to put it mildly. It’ll be like cutting myself off from a family, of sorts. I’ve never been a dispassionate pathologist, Sammy. I’ve always bonded with my subjects, and done my best to fulfil my duty towards them. Every deceased person who has come before me for examination has been a victim of something or other, be it disease, misfortune or violence, some premeditated, some not, and it’s been my task to speak on their behalf, to their families, to the courts and sometimes just to God.’
‘You believe in Him?’ the detective asked, surprised.
‘Absolutely,’ Hutchinson declared. ‘I believe in the existence of the incorporeal human spirit, and for me that’s the same thing. I’m not talking about the old fella with the white beard, though,’ he cautioned. ‘I believe that the spirit is a collective of which we become part when we die.’
‘Have you ever seen it?’
The little man laughed. ‘Seen the soul leave the body? Of course not, Sammy: if I claimed that I’d be eternally screwed as an expert witness, would I not? No, but I have felt it. Every time I perform an autopsy I feel that I am accompanied, and that I am the guardian of the trust of the former occupant of my subject. When I get it right, my unseen companion leaves me. But when I make a mistake, as I’ve done half a dozen times in my career, or when I’m unable to come to a definite conclusion, as has happened much more often, then I feel reproach, for some time afterwards, and let me tell you that is not comfortable.’
‘How do you feel now?’ Pye asked as the two stepped into the anteroom.
‘Satisfied,’ Hutchinson replied. ‘I won’t be followed home tonight, Chief Inspector. I can tell you categorically that poor little Olivia Gates, Zena as you called her, died from asphyxiation. She suffocated.’
‘She ran out of oxygen in the boot?’
‘No. That wasn’t airtight; I satisfied myself of that at the scene. The makeshift lining did its job too. She had no bumps, no bruises, no abrasions; she must have been placed carefully into her container.’
Pye nodded. ‘I’d worked that out. The intention was to abduct her, not to kill her.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘The child was asthmatic. I found dust from the foam rubber in her airways. Undoubtedly that triggered a severe attack from which she died.’
‘Alone in the dark,’ the DCI whispered.
‘Alone in the dark,’ the professor repeated. ‘I’d very much like to meet the chap who put her in there,’ he remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Preferably on the table in the next room.’
‘I wish I could arrange that,’ Pye said, ‘but the best we’ll be able to do is lock him up. When we do, I can’t guarantee that the custody staff won’t gob in his coffee, but that’s as far as we can go. Thanks, Prof. I’ll need to do some thinking about this.’
‘Surely it’ll be straightforward when you find him?’
‘Not necessarily. We know where the child was abducted, but we still have to place our suspect at the scene. We know that he was driving the car when Zena was found, but we need to prove to a jury that he put her in there.’
‘In that case, we have something that might help you. When Roshan undressed the child, he found inside her jacket a doll, a soft toy of Makka Pakka, a character from a TV series called In the Night Garden. I know this,’ he added, ‘because my granddaughter watched it when she was a toddler.’
‘So? It could have been her favourite. She might have taken it to school with her.’
‘My granddaughter had outgrown the Night Garden by the time she was three years old,’ the professor observed. ‘Maybe Olivia hadn’t, but my immediate assumption was that her abductor had given it to her in an attempt to keep her quiet. The doll is new, Sammy, brand new, so new that Makka Pakka has a price sticker on his bum, from Poundstretcher.’
Pye’s eyes gleamed as he peeled off his sterile paper cap. ‘And there’s one of those in North Berwick,’ he exclaimed. ‘Dino, we may have pinned you down.’
Seventeen
To an extent, Mario McGuire’s day had recovered from its appalling beginning. The distractions of the job had kept her at bay, but whenever he allowed his mind to drift, the awful vision of the little girl’s reproving dead eyes crept back in.
The visit to Hawick had been a success. The district commander and his staff had been on the ball, and the CID unit had shown him that they were well suited to the needs of their rural community, which were very different from those of the city in which he had spent most of his career.
Bob Skinner’s unusual request had been dealt with successfully, although he was concerned by the hostility of the new chief constable towards the man who had made them both. As he took a long bend, heading north on the narrow Borders road, he smiled as he thought of his last conversation with his former boss and of the way he had seemed able to read Andy Martin’s slightly paranoid thoughts. He would enjoy conveying Skinner’s trenchant opinion of the Scottish Police Authority, and his derision at the notion that he might ever be persuaded to chair it.
And then the road straightened out, the country music track on his iPod faded, to be replaced by the haunting title music from the TV series The Bridge, and in an instant the little girl was back.
‘Call DCI Pye,’ he said in a loud, steady tone, and his car’s voice-activated phone system obeyed. The dialling tone rang out five times before the call was answered.
‘Sir, what can I do for you?’
‘The wee lass,’ McGuire replied. ‘Progress?’
‘She’s been identified as Olivia Regal Gates,’ Pye replied, ‘known as Zena. Abducted from a quiet road just outside Garvald, on her way to school with her mother, Grete Regal. She was attacked at the scene, and rushed to Accident and Emergency with massive head injuries. We have a prime suspect; all we need to do now is find him.’
The DCI paused. ‘When we do, we’ll need advice from the Crown Office on the charge. I’ve just left the autopsy. The child died from an asthmatic attack. Joe Hutchinson says we’ll be struggling to sustain even a culpable homicide prosecution, let alone murder.’
‘But if the mother doesn’t make it,’ McGuire countered. ‘Even if she does, we’ve got him for attempted murder surely.’
‘Not necessarily: we can prove he had the child when he crashed the car in Edinburgh, but there’s work to be done to link him to the attack on Ms Regal.’
‘What about the father?’
‘That’s another complication,’ the DCI said. ‘He’s . . .’
‘Bugger!’ Mario McGuire barked, cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Sammy, but I’m just coming into Selkirk and I’m about to be pulled over by one of our patrol cars parked up ahead. It looks as if somebody’s decided to do some random breath testing. I’ll need to come back to you.’
The DCC pushed a button on his steering wheel to end the call, fading the music as it cut back in, then slowed, pulling into the lay-by where the traffic car was parked, its blue light flashing, and coming to a halt behind a white Range Rover. Its driver was being questioned by a uniformed constable; as he watched, he saw him hand a breath test machine back to the officer who studied it, smiled and nodded.
A second constable approached his own car, a youngster, one of the new breed, the DCC could tell, so full of zeal and enthusiasm that he barely reacted as McGuire lowered his window to reveal his uniform and the silver badges of rank on his shoulder.
‘Routine document check, sir,’ he announced.
‘Bollocks,’ the DCC replied, amiably. ‘The number recognition system will tell you that this vehicle is taxed and insured. There’s no such thing as a routine check of a private vehicle any more. It’s a cover for something else.’
The young cop stiffened. ‘Can I see your driving licence, sir?’
‘No.’
‘I require you to show it, to prove that you’re licensed to drive this vehicle.’
McGuire maintained a steady smile, but his eyes were flashing danger signs that a wiser man would have read.
‘And I choose not to,’ he said, ‘because my private address is on it. That’s not something I’m prepared to share. However,’ he paused, ‘I will show you this. Read it carefully.’ He handed over his warrant card.
The second constable, a woman, joined her younger partner. ‘Is there a problem here?’ she began, then saw the DCC and realised that there was. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began.
‘Too late for that,’ McGuire snapped. ‘Were you instructed to do this by a senior officer or are you just filling in time? Don’t even think about bullshitting me,’ he warned, as he took his ID back from the other cop, ‘for I will check.’
‘It’s our own initiative,’ the female PC admitted.
‘How many arrests have you made?’
She reddened. ‘None.’
‘Then it’s about time for you to resume more productive duties, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She nudged her colleague. ‘Come on, Chris.’
‘No,’ the DCC said, ‘we’re not quite done here. Gimme your breathalyser.’
He took the machine from the constable named Chris, blew into it, looked at the reading and handed it back. ‘Another innocent motorist hassled,’ he growled, his eyes never leaving the young officer. ‘You’ve got a decision to make, son. Either you make a radical attitude adjustment in dealing with members of the public, or you look for another line of work. My memory’s long and so’s my reach; I’ll be watching you.’
McGuire turned on his engine and pulled out into the traffic, cruising slowly through Selkirk, heading north towards Edinburgh, and wondering whether he would have been less hard on that young cop if their paths had crossed on another day.
He had travelled for a few miles and was back in open country before he remembered his unfinished conversation with Sammy Pye. He opened his mouth to issue a voice command, but in that same instant his phone announced an incoming call.
He frowned, but pressed the receive button, answering with a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘Is that Deputy Chief Constable McGuire?’ The voice was smooth, English and ever so slightly annoying.
‘It is,’ he confirmed. ‘And who are you, sir?’
‘My name is Rafe Blackett, Captain, Royal Navy, currently on assignment to the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall.’
‘Then please tell me, Captain Blackett,’ the DCC asked, ‘how did you get this number?’
‘It was given me by your chief constable’s office.’
Cheers, Andy, he thought. ‘I see. So tell me, Captain, how can the Scottish Police Service help the Ministry of Defence?’
‘You can give me an update,’ Blackett replied, ‘on a situation that may affect one of our serving officers; his name is Lieutenant David Gates.’
‘Never heard of . . .’ McGuire began, stopping as the surname flipped a switch in his memory. Simultaneously, he guessed correctly what Sammy Pye’s problem had been. ‘Wait a minute, Gates, you said?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Do you have a home address for Lieutenant Gates?’
‘I see from his file that he lives in a place called Garvald, in East Lothian, Scotland, when he’s not on service.’
‘What else does that file tell you?’
‘That his next of kin is his partner, a Ms Regal, and that they have one child, aged five.’ The man gave a short impatient snort. ‘Thing is, Mr McGuire, earlier today a young lady from your outfit, Detective Constable Wright, managed to get herself put through to me, not once but twice. On each occasion she more or less demanded that she be put in contact with Gates. She even hinted that she would go to one of our ministers, a Scots MP, if necessary.’
‘Are you calling me to complain that she was rude?’ the DCC exclaimed.
‘No, no. The young lady was perfectly civil, but she was insistent that she had to speak to him at once. I’m afraid that I was equally insistent that she couldn’t, as he’s operational. I asked her what it was about, but she declined to tell me. We left it that Gates would be asked to contact her as soon as that is practically possible.’
‘I see.’ McGuire saw that he was approaching a lay-by on the single carriageway; he pulled into it, off the highway. ‘I can understand DC Wright’s reticence, Captain,’ he continued. ‘She was following protocol, that was all. Equally, I can understand that you have your operating procedures too.’
‘I thought you might,’ Blackett murmured. ‘Thing is,’ he went on, ‘this has been preying on me. I feel I need to know anything that affects Gates.’
‘Which led you to jump the command chain and go straight to the chief, and through him to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me why?’
‘I don’t believe I’m allowed to, sir.’
‘In that case, I’ll do some guessing. I’ll speculate that you can’t let us speak to Gates because you can’t speak to him yourself. That suggests to me that he’s either an intelligence officer, in the field, or that he’s in an operational situation that prevents communications. Force me to choose between those and I’ll guess that he’s on a nuclear sub, since their locations are just about the biggest military secret we have.’ He chuckled. ‘If you like you can cough once for yes, twice for no.’
The car was silent for a few seconds. Then the sound of a single forced cough came through the speakers.
‘In that case,’ McGuire said, ‘I’ll share something with you. The news we have for Lieutenant Gates is very bad. This morning his partner and daughter were attacked on a lonely road on their way to the local primary school. When our people arrived they found only Ms Regal; their assumption was that it was a hit-and-run. Not long afterwards the child’s body was found in the boot of a stolen car that was involved in an accident, twenty miles away.’
‘My God,’ the captain gasped. ‘What are you saying to me?’
‘Nothing definite, only an assumption: that the abduction of the child was the purpose of the attack. I’ve just heard the autopsy findings: she died from an acute asthmatic attack. She wasn’t harmed in any other way.’
‘Have you arrested anyone?’
‘Not yet, but my officers tell me they have a prime suspect.’
‘What was the motive for the attack?’ Blackett asked. ‘Ransom?’
‘We’re not there yet,’ McGuire told him. ‘We have to catch our suspect first and see what he can tell us. You’ll understand that I’m not connected with the investigation at ground level. I don’t have all the detail.’
‘I appreciate that. Sir . . .’ The captain stopped, as if he was taking time to choose his words. ‘Might I suggest that you consider another motive, that this awful crime might be aimed at Lieutenant Gates because of what he does?’
‘I’m considering that already, chum. But it’s not at the top of my list. If Gates’s job is so bloody secret that you can’t tell him his kid is dead until he’s, he’s . . . non-operational, how is anybody likely to know about it to target him?’
‘These people have their sources.’
‘From the little I’ve heard of the suspect, he doesn’t fit the “these people” category. I’ll take what we’ve discussed on board in our investigation . . .’<
br />
Blackett cut in. ‘Discreetly, Mr McGuire, yes? After all, I haven’t really told you anything.’
‘I said that I would take it on board, not “we”. If I need to brief the senior investigating officer on Gates’s status, I will, but it’ll be for his ears only . . . although frankly my officers are intelligent and will have guessed what the score is.
‘Make no mistake, we do need to speak to Gates as soon as you can make it happen, even though he does have the best alibi I’ve come across in my entire police career.’
‘I’ll take that to the admiral,’ the captain promised. ‘There are channels.’ He paused. ‘The mother,’ he ventured. ‘You didn’t say how she is.’
‘The last I heard,’ McGuire replied, ‘we may be able to speak to Gates before we can talk to her . . . if we ever can.’
Eighteen
‘It’s a bonus, Sarge, isn’t it?’ Jackie Wright said. ‘Jagger and Drizzle working in the same place?’
‘That’s assuming that they haven’t been taking the piss out of their probation officer,’ Haddock replied. ‘He didn’t seem too familiar with them when I spoke to him.’
‘What were they done for? Did he tell you?’
‘They’ve both got records of petty theft, but most recently it was shoplifting in Primark, Debenhams and Topman. Apparently they were pretty good at it; they were never caught in the act in the stores, only identified on CCTV after the event.’
The DC frowned. ‘If they got out of the shops with the stuff,’ she wondered aloud, ‘how were they caught?’
‘The silly buggers decided to sell it on a market stall in Dalkeith. Strangers stick out like the proverbial in places like that and attract the attention of Trading Standards. They were nicked on day two. They tried to say they’d bought the gear in good faith themselves, but that’s where the in-store cameras came into play.’
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