Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  ‘Nine in August, sir. Started back when it was still Lothian and Borders. Filing and stuff mostly.’

  ‘And you worked with Miss Renfrew all of that time?’

  ‘On an off, sir. I was up at Gayfield Square for a while and Anya was here. We’ve both been based at this station for the past five years though.’

  ‘So you know her quite well then.’

  ‘I suppose. I mean, we chat in the canteen and that. Usually station gossip. What cases we’re helping out with, who the good bosses are and who we’d rather avoid.’ Wendy blushed as she spoke, but McLean merely smiled. He’d learned early on that the trick was to ignore the nervousness and do nothing to increase it.

  ‘What about out of work? You ever go to the pub with her? Meet up at the weekend?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I ever did.’ Wendy paused a moment, then sat up straight, a hand going halfway to her face like a schoolgirl knowing the answer to a question. ‘Well, there’s been a few times we’ve all gone to the pub. All the admins and the officers. When a case goes well. Or sometimes, when it doesn’t.’ The excitement dropped away as quickly as it had come on, the hand with it. McLean understood well enough. It was great when a case was solved quickly and easily. There were plenty of times in his career when he’d gone to the pub to celebrate, happily drinking beer paid for by the officer in charge. Nowadays it was more often than not him who put some cash behind the bar as a reward for a job well done, but there were times the drinking was in commiseration, not celebration.

  ‘I think that probably counts as work, don’t you?’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘So you never met Renfrew for lunch at the weekend, went shopping together, saw a film, something like that?’

  Again, Wendy paused before answering. ‘No. I’m sorry, sir. She’s not like that.’

  ‘What is she like then? I know she’s good at her job, but how is she to work with?’

  ‘Fine, I guess. She’s just . . . Anya. She’s always on top of things, seems to know how everything’s meant to work, who to ask for what. If we ever need something, it’s always Anya who sorts it. And she never complains. Don’t think I’ve ever heard her raise her voice or speak a harsh word. Except maybe about some of the officers who like to get a bit too hands on.’ Again, Wendy blushed. McLean stopped himself from asking if that happened often. Of course it did, and of course the mostly female admin staff wouldn’t lodge a complaint unless it got completely out of hand. He wished they would, but he was old enough and jaded enough to know they wouldn’t. And neither would the behaviour of the mostly male junior officers change. Not quickly enough anyway.

  ‘She’s a bit older than me, Anya.’ Wendy took McLean’s silence as an invitation to go on. Not exactly what he’d intended it for, but welcome nonetheless. ‘And she’s been working here for ever. Guess that’s why we all look up to her. Almost like a mother figure, you know?’

  McLean did. His own experiences of working with her matched the picture Wendy was painting. It didn’t quite square with the rather risqué dresses and fetish wear they had found at her house that morning though.

  ‘Well, thank you. That’s all for now. But if you think of anything, however silly or inconsequential, do tell me. Or speak to one of the detective constables.’

  Wendy nodded, then stood up to leave. She hesitated a moment at the door. ‘She’s going to be OK, isn’t she? I mean, she’s not in any trouble, right?’

  ‘We’re all concerned for her safety’ was all McLean felt he could say. Wendy smiled uncertainly, nodded again, then left.

  ‘You seen DS Gregg about, Constable?’

  Fresh from interviewing admin staff, McLean had gone straight to the Operation Caterwaul control room on the third floor, hoping to have a quick chat with the detective sergeant. There weren’t many people on his list left to talk to, and she had at least known something about Renfrew’s life outside work.

  ‘Think she’s gone for lunch, sir. You want me to give her a buzz?’ DC Blane had been sitting at one of the computer workstations. He had stood up as soon as he’d seen McLean, so now he loomed over everyone in the room. There weren’t many of them, a distinct lack of activity that underlined how crucial it was they track down their missing support administrator.

  ‘It’s OK. Just wanted to ask her a bit more about Renfrew’s fondness for singing.’ McLean checked his watch. ‘Might see if I can grab a bite myself.’

  He didn’t get far. DC Harrison stepped into the room before he was halfway to the door. The look on her face and printouts in her hand meant lunch would be a while yet.

  ‘Hoping I’d find you here, sir. Just had this back from the phone company.’ She handed the sheet to him as if that was going to help. Scanning it showed a list of times, all on the previous Friday evening, and alongside them a set of codes that probably meant something but he was damned if he knew what.

  ‘Executive summary?’

  ‘She used data somewhere in Joppa. That’s round about the time Mrs Russell’s son claims he saw the car outside Grace Ramsay’s house. Something similar an hour later in the New Town or Leith area. Probably downloading emails, or maybe private messaging. There’s another data blip near Liberton Brae at half ten, and then it goes dark. The phone’s not reconnected with any towers since then. Must be switched off.’

  ‘Any update on the car?’

  ‘Aye, I spoke to the DVLA. Nothing registered to Anya herself, but there’s a dark silver BMW X3 registered to her mother. That’s the address in Joppa again.’

  ‘Get the details out, and see if ANPR have anything.’

  ‘Already done, sir. I’ll let you know as soon as we get a hit. Presuming we get a hit, that is.’ Harrison’s tone didn’t hold out any great hope.

  ‘So what do we think about her movements? Where did she go after work? And what’s happening in Liberton?’

  ‘No idea about Liberton, sir, but going by the times on there and when she clocked off on Friday, she must have gone straight over to her mum’s house first. Then to wherever it was she went in the New Town. My guess is she’s got a flat there, maybe? Where she really lives. Jay – DC Stringer’s going through the council records, see if we can get an address. Nothing coming up under Anya Renfrew so far though.’

  ‘What about Ramsay? That’s her mother’s maiden name, but she might have adopted it too, if she was trying to keep things secret.’

  ‘Good point, sir. I’ll get right on that.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ll let me know as soon as you’ve got anything, right?’ McLean knew the question was unnecessary, but he could feel the puzzle slipping away from him, not coming together as he would have liked. Each new detail they uncovered only added to the mystery.

  ‘You don’t know anything about this folk club Renfrew goes to every week, do you?’ he asked before Harrison could escape.

  She shook her head slowly. ‘First I’ve heard of it, sir.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll speak to Gregg, see if she knows any more than she told me yesterday. Ask around though, will you? Apparently they have an open mic night on a Tuesday. Might be worth a visit if we can find out where it is.’

  There was no sign of DS Gregg in the canteen, and not much in the way of food left either. McLean nabbed a sorry-looking apple and a banana that was more brown spot than yellow, adding a healthy chocolate bar to the lunch haul at the last minute. He took his spoils back up to his office on the third floor, along with a mug of coffee that was less tarry than the stuff lurking in the bottom of his filter machine.

  The paperwork arranged in neat piles around his desk and on the conference table across the room from it reminded him that there was a lot more going on than the search for Anya Renfrew. He found it hard to concentrate on anything else though, drawn in by the mystery of her disappearance and the double life it had revealed. It took a moment to find her personnel file in among the overtime sheets.
He opened it out, staring at the scant information within. Fruit forgotten, he munched on the chocolate and washed it down with bitter coffee.

  ‘Who are you, Anya Renfrew?’

  He’d not been expecting a response, but no sooner had he asked the question than his phone buzzed in his pocket. By the time he’d put down his coffee mug, balanced the half-eaten chocolate on the edge of the personnel file and pulled out the handset, it had almost switched itself to voicemail. Something stopped him from letting that happen, and he thumbed the screen to accept the call.

  ‘McLean.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector?’ The voice was familiar. ‘It’s Doctor Graham here. From Bestingfield?’

  He tensed, knowing what was coming next. He didn’t like being rude, but he would be if it became necessary.

  ‘How can I help you, Doctor?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ She paused a while, no doubt looking for the right words. ‘Well, you know it’s about Norman Bale, right? And I know you don’t want anything to do with him. I’ve read the case notes. I can understand. And normally I’d respect that decision and not bother you again.’

  There was a ‘but’ coming. McLean didn’t need to be a detective of many decades’ experience to know that. He let the silence grow. Dr Graham would fill it soon enough.

  ‘He was very animated in this morning’s session, you see. Much more so than normal. He’s usually just, well, quiet and laid back. Serene, even.’

  McLean couldn’t quite square that with the man who’d tried to cut him open with a large and very sharp hunting knife. The lunatic who’d nailed a priest to a cross and hooked a man up to a machine that slowly drained all the blood from his body. Serene wasn’t quite the word he’d have chosen.

  ‘But this morning he was agitated. Asked me repeatedly if I’d spoken to you. Told me I had to make contact again, pass on a message.’

  And so it goes. McLean rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. Part of him wanted to hang up and block Dr Graham’s phone number, even though he knew that this wasn’t really her fault. Another, smaller, part of him wanted to know what madly inventive idea the man who claimed to be Norman Bale had come up with, what insane story he thought would grab his attention. But then what? There was no way in hell he’d actually visit the secure psychiatric unit, and even less chance anything Bale did or said could change the fact he was going to die behind bars.

  ‘His exact words were: “The scarlet woman is still alive, but her life is in danger.” That’s what he asked me to tell you. I wouldn’t normally play along with these things, certainly didn’t agree that I’d speak to you. But, well, I guess I’m speaking to you.’

  McLean stared down at the open file in front of him. Anya Renfrew looked back in black-and-white, head on, unflattering.

  ‘Is that exactly what he said?’ he asked after an awkward silence. ‘Those were the words he used.’

  ‘I record all my sessions, Chief Inspector. Would you like to hear this morning’s?’

  ‘No. That won’t be necessary. I don’t know you, Doctor Graham, but I imagine you know how to do your job. You wouldn’t bring this up if you thought it wasn’t important. So tell me, why do you think it’s important? Why does Bale think it’s important, for that matter?’

  ‘As I said before, normally he’s quiet, introspective. Serene isn’t a word I use lightly, but it fits. Bale’s a man who seems to have come to terms with his situation, accepted it. He is deeply religious. Well, you know that he believed he was doing God’s work when he killed those people.’

  McLean bit back the retort he wanted to make to that. Telling a psychiatrist that their patient is nuts would be much like telling your father not to patronise you.

  ‘I’m aware of his psychosis, Doctor. It’s a poor justification for murder however you look at it.’

  Dr Graham paused a while before answering, either calming herself or considering his dismissal. ‘It’s not my job to judge him. I’ve been working with him for over a year now and he’s fallen into a pattern. That is, until this week. Something’s got to him, but he won’t tell me what. Just says he needs to speak to you.’

  McLean tried pinching the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, but the problem refused to go away. ‘That’s not going to happen, Doctor Graham. I hope you can find a way to break the news to him that doesn’t upset his therapy. In the meantime, I’m going to need a list of all the people who’ve visited him in the past week, all the other inmates he’s associated with, and who’s visited them too.’

  The silence that followed on from his words lasted long enough that McLean was tempted to take the phone from his ear and check the call was still connected. Finally, Dr Graham made a noise halfway between a cough and a gasp.

  ‘There is someone missing, isn’t there? A woman.’

  ‘As I said, Doctor Graham. I’ll need to see a list of all the people who’ve visited Bale, and who he regularly interacts with. If he’s being fed information so he can go through you to get at me, then I need to put a stop to it.’

  Another long silence, then the doctor spoke again. ‘I’ll see what I can find out for you, Chief Inspector. But, as far as I know, Bale’s had no visitors in months. He has no family, after all. As to his fellow inmates, as you describe them. Well, I prefer the term patients. And they don’t mix much. He’s something of a loner. Doesn’t really talk to anyone unless he has to. I’ll ask around the nursing staff though. They’ll know better the day-to-day goings on than me.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that. And please, if you can, keep this to yourself for now, OK?’

  ‘I . . . Of course. I’d not talk about one of my patients with anyone who wasn’t directly involved. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve spoken to the staff.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Graham.’ McLean started to say something else, but this time the line really had gone dead.

  13

  ‘So help me, Gavin Mason, if you’re on that damned computer again, I’ll have your da’ chuck it in the bin.’

  Wee Gav looks at his mate Bobby and rolls his eyes. It’s the holidays. There’s no homework. What’s the point in having an Xbox if you can’t use it? He can hear the heavy thump of his mum’s footsteps on the stairs though, which means she’s in a bad mood again. Probably been on the phone to Dad.

  ‘We’re no’ doing anything, Mam.’ He grabs the controller from Bobby’s hand, shoves both of them under a heap of clothes on the floor and switches off the telly before the door swings open. That’s the one good thing about his mam; she moves slowly.

  ‘Whit’re the two of youse doing? It’s a braw day out there. Go on and get some fresh air.’

  ‘Come on, Gav.’ Bobby’s on his feet in an instant, wiry thin in a way Gav will never be. ‘We was just goin’ out anyways, Mrs M.’

  ‘I’m no’ Mrs M any more, Bobby. You know that.’

  He shrugs uncomfortably, and Gav knows why. It’s weird calling your mate’s mum by her first name. Disrespectful.

  ‘Sorry, Sheila.’ Bobby grins as he squeezes past and out the door. Gav has to endure a hand ruffling his hair and a quick hug as he follows.

  ‘Dinner’s at five. You be back in time, mind?’

  ‘Aye, Mum. Nae worries.’

  Bobby’s outside, already straddling his bike when Gav catches up with him. ‘What we gonnae do? Can’t go back to mine.’

  Gav fetches his bike from the garage, helmet swinging from the handlebars. ‘I dunno. Could go up the glen mebbe? Go see if we can break intae the loony bin.’

  ‘Aye, and they’ll lock you up if they catch you.’ Bobby laughs like he’s mad, and then he’s pedalling off at high speed. Gav shoves the helmet on his head, not bothering with the strap, and sets off after his friend. Bobby’s a pain most of the time, but he’s OK. As long as he doesn’t take a turn.

  It’s probably better being out in th
e sunshine than shut away in his stinky old bedroom, but Gav wouldn’t admit to that. He wouldn’t admit to being less fit than Bobby either, but his pal’s way ahead, and only stops when they get to the place they know they can hide the bikes and climb through a gap in the fence. No one’s supposed to go into the old hospital any more. Not since the fires and the explosion that shook the town a few years back. That just makes it even more cool to come here though. They’re not the only ones, judging by the litter strewn about, dog ends and worse.

  ‘Sweet. Look what somebody’s dropped.’

  Gav’s a bit out of breath by the time he reaches Bobby, and more than a little sweaty. His friend looks just like he always does, except for the light in his eyes, the expression on his face. He shows Gav something shiny lying in the palm of his hand. A metal box, engraved with some capital letters, and a date written underneath, but he can’t read them. Not before Bobby snatches his find away. Gav knows what it is though. A lighter. A Zippo, that’s what his da’ calls them. Must be worth a bit.

  ‘Where’d you find it?’ he asks, but Bobby’s too caught up in flicking open the lid, spinning the wee wheel and laughing at the flame every time it appears. Gav knows what’s going to happen next. It always does when Bobby gets like this.

  ‘Wannae see something mental?’

  The question’s not meant to be answered. They did something in school about that, Gav thinks. Can’t remember what the word for it was. Doesn’t matter anyways. He can tell this is going to end badly.

  They’re in a clearing, the mesh fence with its barbed wire top behind them. A few old trees loom overhead, but they’re mostly dead or dying. Gorse bushes cluster around them, a narrow path barely showing through the spiky green thorns and those weird yellow flowers that smell of coconut.

  ‘Bobby, gonnae no do that.’ Gav’s already stepping back towards the fence and the loose gash in it they squeezed through.