Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  ‘I’ll need to interview you more formally about Renfrew,’ he said to DS Gregg, before she could scuttle away. ‘Everyone else who’s worked with her too. You might all want to have a wee think about what you can remember, aye?’

  Gregg nodded her understanding. ‘I’ll put the word out. You want to start this evening?’

  ‘Tomorrow will do. Most of them will be away now anyway. We’ll get started first thing.’

  ‘I heard you were wanting to speak to everyone who’s worked with Anya. That doesn’t inspire me with much confidence.’ McIntyre looked past McLean as she spoke, at the retreating back of the detective sergeant.

  ‘Yes, well. I’m afraid things have got a little more thorny since this morning, Jayne.’

  ‘In my office, not here.’ McIntyre cut him off before he could get started. ‘You can bring us all up to speed.’

  McLean wanted to ask who ‘all’ of them were, at the very least to give himself a bit of time to mentally prepare. McIntyre didn’t give him the chance, striding out the door with a purpose. At least her office wasn’t far, and the same faces he’d seen at the meeting earlier that day were all there. A somewhat overawed-looking DC Harrison sat at the conference table with them.

  ‘Janie’s been bringing us up to speed, as much as she can.’ McIntyre stalked across the room and took a seat. ‘Perhaps you could fill us in on the rest of the details?’

  McLean looked at the expectant faces, all turned towards him. He pulled out a seat next to Harrison, settled himself down.

  ‘It would seem that Anya Renfrew has been living something of a double life. The address and landline number we have for her on file are her mother’s house in Joppa. Some of you might remember her. Detective Superintendent Grace Ramsay.’

  He let that sink in a little, although the only person who reacted was McIntyre. McLean thought the DCC might have recognised the name, but if he did, he wasn’t letting it show.

  ‘I’m trying to find out where Ramsay is now. Her neighbour says she went into a care home about two years ago, and Anya’s been looking after the house since then. Doesn’t seem to stay there all the time, so we need to find out where else she might be living, whether she’s got a boyfriend or something like that. We’re pulling mobile-phone records, and I’ll be interviewing all the staff here who’ve worked closely with her in the past. Meantime, her photo’s with every officer in Scotland.’

  ‘I’ll get that sent nationwide. All ports too.’ Robinson rubbed at his face with tired hands. ‘But what the actual fuck is going on? I thought this woman was supposed to be vetted. High security clearance, the works. And you don’t even know where she lives?’

  McLean had to admit that, put like that, it didn’t sound good.

  ‘She’s worked here for more than twenty years. Never done anything to raise suspicions. The address we have for her is hers, it’s just not where she actually stays any more. I’m going to get a team round there for a proper search in the morning. We’ll interview all the neighbours, and hopefully we’ll have located her mother by then too.’

  ‘The morning? You can’t get it done now?’ Robinson asked, as McLean knew he would.

  ‘We could. If we had the budget and the manpower. It’s unlikely anything we turn up there is going to speed up finding her though. There are better things we can be doing in the meantime.’

  The DCC let out a noise that was part frustration, part resignation. ‘At least tell me we’ve revoked her security access.’

  ‘We have. And I’ve got the IT team tracing everything she’s seen with regards to Operation Caterwaul.’ McLean shook his head slightly. ‘But I don’t think this is a security breach, or a mole, or anything like that.’

  ‘Well, what the fuck is it then?’ Robinson almost spat the words out, then seemed to remember where he was, who was with him. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know. But think about it. If she’d been abducted because of her work, why the mystery about where she lives? And if she was planted here, or somehow turned against us, why disappear now, so early on in the operation? She’d have been far better staying put and finding out more, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘I wish I could share your optimism, Tony. We can’t give this woman the benefit of the doubt just because she was our friend and colleague.’ McIntyre had been largely silent until now, but her point was valid enough.

  ‘It’s not that, Jayne. Call it a gut feeling, if you must. I think she’s in trouble, but not because of what she does here. I will find her, and we will get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘You’d better. And fast.’ Robinson’s growl wasn’t quite as effective as some of the senior officers McLean had worked under, but the note of desperation in it was. He could see the pressure the man was under, the stakes riding on a successful outcome to the operation. Well, he felt it too, if for different reasons. And at least it meant there’d be no problem with overtime.

  9

  ‘Sorry I’m late. It’s been a hell of a day.’

  McLean pushed his way into the kitchen, dumped his briefcase on the chair. Emma stood up from where she’d been reading something at the table, a faint scowl on her face. He’d texted to let her know, but that didn’t excuse the fact. For all that he was trying his best to make it home at a reasonable hour every day, it didn’t always work out that way.

  ‘You been home long?’ He made a conscious effort to give her a hug. She accepted it, albeit briefly. Still a work in progress.

  ‘Couple of hours. I had a bite to eat already. Would I be right in thinking you haven’t even had lunch yet?’

  He could have lied, but his stomach had other ideas, taking that moment to let out a gurgle far louder than could be blamed on the Aga.

  ‘Like I said, hell of a day.’

  ‘You can tell me all about it on the way. We need to be gone in twenty minutes and you really need a shower.’

  McLean lifted an arm and sniffed carefully underneath. She had a point. ‘I’ll be quick then.’

  By the time he’d stepped out of the shower and towelled himself down, there was a change of clothes laid out across the bed, Emma nowhere to be seen. McLean probably wouldn’t have chosen that exact shirt, but he wasn’t going to get into an argument about it either. He was back down in the kitchen, dressed and more acceptably fragrant, with five minutes to spare.

  ‘Toast?’ Emma proffered a plate, the slices already buttered.

  ‘You’re too good for me, you know that?’ He picked one up and took a bite.

  ‘Aye, well.’ She said nothing more, an awkward silence falling in the room. There were a lot of those these days. McLean looked around, eyes falling on the papers she’d been reading earlier. He couldn’t help but notice the logo of Edinburgh University at the top of one sheet.

  ‘Going back to school?’ He meant it as a joke, but Emma’s defensive posture suggested he was closer to the mark than he’d expected.

  ‘Maybe. What of it?’

  ‘Think it’s a great idea. What were you thinking of studying?’

  ‘Always fancied Forensic Anthropology. You know, buried bones and all that. On the job training’s all good and well, but I want to get stuck into something a bit more challenging.’

  ‘Hence tonight’s lecture?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Exactly so. Professor Turner heads up the course, so I was hoping I might get a chance to speak to her afterwards.’

  McLean couldn’t remember the last time Emma had sounded so enthusiastic about anything. It lit up her face more effectively than a week of him coming home on time. It was certainly better than their less than successful weekend break on Skye, although that might have had more to do with Storm Griselda than any lack of effort on his part. He hurried to eat the second slice of toast, talking with his mouth full in a manner that would have earned him a smack across the back of his hand from his grandmother.

>   ‘We’d better get moving then. My car or yours?’

  Emma grabbed her keys from the side table by the phone. ‘Mine tonight, I think. That Alfa of yours terrifies me.’

  ‘. . . mass graves in Rwanda were a more tricky proposition. Such was the extent of the genocide, there were few surviving relatives to make DNA comparisons worthwhile. Relatively few of the dead carried any form of identification either, and even where the bodies were found wearing jewellery that often couldn’t help. We had some success with matching clothing, but again that relied on survivors being able to identify loved ones from their garments.’

  McLean half listened to Professor Harriet Turner’s words. It wasn’t that the subject didn’t interest him; raised by a pathologist and working as a detective, he had a morbid fascination with the subject of Forensic Anthropology, after all. It wasn’t that Professor Turner was a poor speaker either. She treated the subject with the gravitas it deserved, but nevertheless had much of the audience on the edge of their seats. No, it was more that he couldn’t stop his mind from going over the day’s events. The lecture theatre was warm too, and it had been a long day.

  ‘. . . greater success in establishing cause of death, number of victims, and the spread of gender and age. The church site revealed the machete to be the execution weapon of choice.’

  Was she dead, Anya Renfrew? Harrison had circulated her details around all the local hospitals without any joy. There’d been a few bad car accidents since last she’d been seen leaving the station on foot on Friday evening, a couple of yet-to-be-identified mugging victims across the whole of Scotland, but nothing that matched their missing admin. On the other hand, he knew all too well that thousands of people simply disappeared every year.

  ‘. . . more interesting are some of these signs on bone fragments from the older grave pits that show distinct signs of cannibalism.’

  The words cut through McLean’s musing, and for a moment he thought the professor was still talking about Rwanda. He didn’t recall that particular atrocity among the many that happened during that genocide, although he’d read reports about something like it in neighbouring Uganda under Idi Amin. A glance at the slide projection showed that the talk had moved on from Africa though. He looked at Emma, wondering whether he could ask her where they were now, but his finely honed sense of self-preservation kicked in when he saw the rapt look on her face.

  ‘. . . cut marks any butcher would recognise where meat has been removed from the bone prior to cooking. Some of the larger bones, like the femurs, have been split for the marrow inside them too. These are human bones, although there are often cattle and sheep bones nearby.’

  On balance, it was perhaps an odd way to spend an evening together, listening to a late-middle-aged woman talk about genocide and cannibalism to an audience of several hundred people. It had been Emma’s idea though, and if she was serious about going back to university to study Forensic Anthropology, McLean was happy to support her however he could. It wasn’t as if either of them actually needed to work.

  Except that people went missing and he needed to find them. They lived double lives and he needed to work out why. There were drug dealers, money launderers, traffickers and a thousand other kinds of criminal out there who demanded his attention. He could no more give up the day job than voluntarily stop breathing. Something else drove Emma, but it was no less strong for that. Her obsession with finding the truth was what had brought them together in the first place, and he was damned if he was going to let it drive them apart.

  The hall broke into applause, and McLean realised he’d almost dozed off, mind far away from the subject of the lecture. If Emma noticed, she said nothing, and soon enough they were out of their seats and making their way against the flow of departing people, towards the lectern and the professor.

  ‘What did you think? She’s a brilliant speaker, isn’t she?’ Emma took hold of his arm and steered him more forcefully.

  ‘Yes. Fascinating,’ he said, aware that it didn’t sound terribly convincing. Fortunately he was spared Emma’s further ire. Professor Turner looked up, cocked her head slightly quizzically, and then beamed a smile. Too late he saw that it was directed not at Emma but at him.

  ‘Tony. What a delightful surprise. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Professor Turner. I . . .’ McLean took the professor’s outstretched hand to shake, then found himself pulled into a friendly embrace. Up close, there was something vaguely familiar about the woman, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall where or when he might have met her.

  ‘None of this professor nonsense. You used to call me Harriet.’ She let go of him, took a step back, still smiling, and shook her head. ‘You don’t remember at all, do you? It’s OK. It was a long time ago. I studied with your grandmother when I was doing my postgrad. Used to come round to her house for the odd weekend. I think you might still have been at school. Maybe gap year?’

  Something clicked, and he saw the young woman in the older lady’s face now. Back then she’d been Harriet Fairweather, which might also have explained his confusion. She’d cut her hair short, and it had gone almost completely grey. Laughter lines wrinkled around her eyes too. But the woman he remembered hadn’t been all that much older than him, surely. Mid-twenties to his seventeen or so? When had they got so old?

  A light cough reminded him that he wasn’t there alone.

  ‘Sorry. Harriet, this is Emma Baird. Emma’s hoping to get onto your Forensic Anthropology course.’

  ‘I really enjoyed the lecture, thank you.’ Emma only got a handshake, not the full hug. ‘I had no idea you knew Tony.’

  ‘Neither did he.’ The professor laughed. ‘To be fair, it’s been what? Thirty years? Maybe more. Where does the time go?’ A wistful look spread across her face, and then she turned serious. ‘So you want to be a forensic anthropologist. What is it you do at the moment?’

  ‘Crime Scene Investigation. Photography mostly, but fingerprints, fibre analysis, whatever needs doing really.’

  ‘And Tony’s a policeman, so I hear. You two are well matched.’

  ‘How is it our paths haven’t crossed?’ McLean asked, then realised he knew the answer to his question was going to land him in trouble. He tried to cover up his mistake by waving at the now blank projection screen. ‘You’ve only just come back to Edinburgh of course.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a few months now, but busy ones. I’m getting a bit old for clambering about in mass graves. Time to teach the next generation.’

  ‘You should come by some time. Gran died a while back, but I’m living in the old house.’

  ‘I heard about Esther. Such a shame. She was a great lady. A fine mentor.’ Professor Turner was about to say something else when a young man joined them, the anxious expression on his face one McLean had seen on many a press officer down the years.

  ‘I think your adoring public wants you.’ McLean nodded towards a line of people waiting patiently by a table stacked with books. Professor Turner looked around, bemused for a while, then finally understood.

  ‘Oh, of course. Sorry. I need to get on with this. But it was good to see you, Tony. I’d love to drop by some time. Maybe help . . .’ She paused a moment. ‘. . . Emma with her application for the course.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Professor. Thank you,’ Emma said, but the professor had already turned away.

  ‘Seriously, Tony. Is there anyone in this city you don’t know?’

  ‘I think that’s a bit unfair, don’t you, Em? Professor Turner’s been away for years, only just come back here. I don’t think I’d even gone to university the last time I saw her.’

  Emma sat on the other side of a small table in a busy Thai restaurant at the top end of Leith Walk, toying with the unfinished remains of her coconut pudding. They’d walked from the lecture theatre, enjoying the cooling air of evening after what had been another op
pressively hot day. McLean couldn’t remember whose suggestion it had been to find somewhere to eat, but their footsteps had led them to this place, somewhere he’d not been in a long time. It was pleasing to see that it hadn’t changed at all, and the food had been as good as ever.

  ‘Well, it’s lucky for me, I guess. Can’t hurt to have an inside track to the course.’

  It didn’t take his degree in psychology, or decades of getting into people’s heads, to know what the problem was. McLean could hear it in Emma’s voice. This had been her thing, a chance to break out and do something new. Something independent of him, without his support. And fate had gone and ruined that, however much it might also have helped.

  ‘You don’t need an inside track, Em. You’re more than qualified already. What with the job you’re doing at the moment, your work experience.’

  Emma shrugged, took a sip of her drink and then went back to playing with her pudding. McLean had finished his, as well as the very fine curry beforehand. It was so much nicer when it came on a plate and not in a little foil container. Of course, Emma had eaten before he’d arrived home late, so it was hardly surprising if she didn’t have quite his appetite.

  ‘This was where you took me on our first date,’ she said out of nowhere.

  He looked around the room, then out through the glass at the front to the street beyond. She was right, now he thought about it. This was where he’d taken her.

  ‘As I remember it, I owed you dinner for proving I’d been framed. It wasn’t exactly a date.’

  Emma pouted. ‘Can’t imagine what I saw in you.’

  ‘Whatever it was, I’m glad you did.’ He cast his mind back to that time, and then fast forward through all the shit that had happened since. ‘And I’m sorry for everything that happened because of it.’

  ‘Everything?’ She raised an eyebrow, smiled at her joke, then frowned. No doubt her thoughts were tracking through the same course as his. Eventually she shrugged, gave up toying with her pudding. ‘It’s been fun though, this evening. In a morbid kind of way.’