Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  McLean closed his eyes, shook his head ever so slightly. He might have reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, but the self-preservation instinct kicked in before his hand got halfway.

  ‘That’s not what’s happening here, sir. I know we’ve got spooks from the NCA and the CIA kicking around, but if you think Renfrew is some kind of spy, you couldn’t be more wrong. She’s got more security clearance than is perhaps wise for a civilian, but it’s only because she’s been here so long and is good at her work. And because we’re rubbish at revoking access once a job’s done. Really, you should read the report from the IT team. Our security protocols are a joke. Renfrew’s done us a favour pointing that out to us.’

  ‘Christ, I wish I had your optimism. What about this double life she’s been living? Could someone be blackmailing her? I heard there was some kinky stuff involved. Do we need to get Vice in on it too? Christ knows, the budget’s been buggered five ways till Tuesday already.’

  ‘Again, my instinct says no, sir. We’ve locked everything down anyway, so even if someone’s trying to use us to find things out, they’re not getting anything more.’

  Robinson slumped back in his seat, pinched the bridge of his nose. McLean could almost hear the silent prayer.

  ‘We any further on with finding out where she’s been living?’

  ‘DS Gregg’s chasing up a lead on that, sir. Should have something more by midday, hopefully.’

  ‘Well, keep me up to speed, OK? I need all the ammunition I can get to keep the bloody politicians happy.’

  ‘You’ll know as soon as I do, sir.’

  The deputy chief constable opened his mouth to say something more, but a light knock at the door stopped him. McLean walked over and opened it before Robinson could react. A slightly bemused-looking DC Harrison stood on the other side.

  ‘Ah, sir. They told me you were here. There’s something come up and I thought you needed to know ASAP.’ She pronounced the abbreviation as a word, McLean noticed. An affectation that reminded him of the CIA agent, Fenwick.

  ‘Is it about Renfrew?’

  ‘Possibly. We’ve a report in from Penicuik. Car on fire in a remote spot near Gladhouse Reservoir. Don’t think it would have come our way, except that it’s the same make and colour as Renfrew’s. BMX X3. Dark silver.’

  ‘When did this come in, Constable?’ Robinson was on his feet and round his desk with far greater speed than might have been expected from a man of his years.

  ‘Just now, sir. There’s a fire crew at the scene, but we’ve had an all-ports out on the car since we found out about it. First officer on scene called it in. Can’t be more than twenty minutes ago.’

  McLean glanced at his watch. Mid-morning and all he really wanted was a mug of coffee. ‘Get on to the squad car out there, see if they’ve any better identification for the car. A partial plate will do. If it looks like it might be Renfrew’s car, then I want you to head out there and see what’s going on. Take Stringer with you if you want, and call in Forensics if necessary.’

  Harrison nodded her understanding, and hurried off down the corridor.

  ‘Actually, I think you should head out there yourself.’

  McLean turned back to the DCC, surprised by the suggestion. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s not the sort of thing a detective chief inspector should be doing. Your job’s to oversee the investigation, it’s up to the sergeants and constables to do the legwork. Yes, yes, yes.’ Robinson flapped one hand about in a vaguely dismissive manner. ‘All that’s true, but this is not a normal situation. And besides, you’ll end up going out there anyway.’

  All too aware of how narrow the road was, McLean parked his Alfa some way back from the scene and walked the last couple of hundred metres. The drive out had been a pleasant one, cocooned in air-conditioned cool, but the distant city shimmered under a fierce midday sun. The stench of burning plastic hung in the air like a threat, a haze of thin oily smoke still wafting up out of the trees at the end of the reservoir. It tickled his throat and pricked at his eyes, reminding him of the dull headache he’d woken to that morning.

  Searching for the faintest hint of a breeze and the fresh air it might bring, he stared out over the mirror-smooth waters of Gladhouse Reservoir. It had been years since last he’d been out here. A body in a culvert on the northern bank. All that madness with John Needham and Donald Anderson, peeling back the scabs that had formed over that old wound and letting the bloody memories flow free. Christ, what was the woman’s name? He must be getting old if he couldn’t remember that. McLean shook his head to loosen the memory, turned away from the reservoir and stepped into the relative shade of the trees.

  The car park was empty, save for a couple of police cars. One he recognised as a pool car from the station, which DCs Stringer and Harrison must have used to get there. The other bore the logo of Police Scotland, two uniformed officers leaning against it and chatting. As he approached, the older of the two noticed him and stood up straight. He was equally tall as DC Lofty Blane, his short-cropped hair turning grey, face ruddy with a summer spent as much outdoors as in.

  ‘Detective Insp— . . . Chief Inspector McLean, sir. Beg pardon. Sergeant Donaldson. We met a few years back. Body in the water in Roslin Glen.’

  McLean shook the outstretched hand, tried and failed to recall anything about the sergeant. ‘Donaldson? Were you involved in the case at the other end of the reservoir too? What was that poor woman’s name?’

  ‘Audrey Carpenter? Aye. That was old Sergeant Needham, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed it was. A sorry business all round.’ McLean winced at the memory, tried to move the conversation on to less painful things. ‘I hear you’ve got a car we’re interested in?’

  ‘Up through the trees, sir. Just past the fire engine. You can’t miss it. The two detective constables are already up there.’ Donaldson pointed into the trees where dappled shade was making a good job of camouflaging everything. It couldn’t hide the stench of burning though.

  ‘You’re maintaining a cordon, I take it?’ McLean asked, aware that no other vehicles had come near since he’d arrived. This spot was remote, tucked away even from the road that ran around the perimeter of the reservoir.

  ‘Aye, sir. Sent a car up the ways the stop people coming down from the western approach. Not that we’d expect any. Constable Green and me were just about to head out to the east and set up a block there.’

  ‘What about the woods? There’s tracks through here, surely? We’ll need to keep walkers away.’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. Not these woods. Folks don’t come here.’

  McLean found it hard to believe that. He was fairly sure he’d been this way on his mountain bike, back in the days when he used to take exercise. ‘They don’t?’

  ‘Not often, no.’ There was something about the way the sergeant said it that convinced McLean he was telling the truth, or at least some part of it. But if that was the case, then what the hell was Anya Renfrew doing out here?

  The cloying reek of oil smoke grew steadily stronger as McLean followed his nose across the minimal car park and through the trees. A fire engine blocked the narrow track leading to the clearing, and beyond it stood a blackened hulk of steel, broken glass and melted rubber. Steam rose from the body where a lone fireman trained his hose, but the fire had been put out. DC Stringer stood close enough to look on, but far enough away to breathe without needing a face mask. He turned as he heard McLean’s footsteps on the hard-packed gravel and earth.

  ‘BMW X3, sir. Number plates melted before anyone got here. Could only get a partial index. We’ve managed to read the VIN now the fire’s out. It matches the one we’re looking for.’

  ‘This is definitely the car?’

  ‘According to the database, aye.’

  McLean approached the burned-out mess with caution, then backed off again as the clo
se canopy of the trees concentrated the smell, making the air thick and noxious. At least the fireman had a breathing mask. A few of his colleagues stood at the rear of the fire engine, rolling up hoses and putting kit away.

  ‘You any idea how long since it was set alight?’ McLean asked after he’d introduced himself.

  ‘It was pretty well ablaze when we got here. Say an hour maybe? There’s nobody inside, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  McLean glanced back at the blackened bulk of the car. The seats had burned down to their frames, a skeletal mess that nevertheless was all metal, no bone. He’d not smelled the telltale stench of charred flesh either, just the chemical reek that was making his head ache.

  ‘Any idea what set it off?’

  ‘Not had a chance to look at it yet, but I’d say it wasn’t an accident. Modern thing like that wouldn’t just set itself on fire. Not where it’s parked, least ways.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘See the ground here?’ The fireman kicked at the gravel with his boot. ‘We get called out the whole time in the summer. Cars parked in fields of dry grass. If it’s too long, it catches fire on the exhaust and the whole car goes up. But here?’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing to set it off. No idea how long it’s been parked there either. There weren’t any other cars when we got here. Don’t think many folk come out this way.’

  ‘Who reported it then?’

  The fireman shrugged. ‘You’d have to speak to Control about that.’

  McLean thanked him, then walked back towards the car. The metal bodywork clinked and pinged as it cooled down, little spirals of grey-black smoke still chimneying upwards from the corners. All four tyres had melted, the body lowering itself down onto the ground. The windscreen had cracked and fallen inwards, but the rest of the glass was surprisingly intact. He’d not noticed before, but the driver’s side door hung open.

  ‘Was it not locked?’ McLean asked the question as he looked around for someone who might know the answer. The fire crew had gone back to packing away their kit, chatting among themselves as if this was just another working day.

  ‘Did you want something, sir?’ DC Harrison scurried over from the far side of the clearing.

  ‘The car door’s open. Doesn’t look like it’s been forced.’

  ‘It was like that when we got here, sir. I didn’t really think anything of it, but if the fire crew had cut it open you’d know about it.’

  McLean strode back to the fireman he’d talked to earlier. ‘The door. It was like that when you got here?’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the burned-out wreck.

  ‘Aye. Handy that. Saved us a lot of time cutting it open.’

  ‘So it can’t have been locked then.’

  ‘I guess no.’

  McLean turned back to DC Harrison. She’d followed him over and was putting her Airwave set away. ‘Think we’re going to have to get Forensics in on this one.’

  ‘Already on their way, sir.’

  ‘And you might want to get on to the station too. We’ll need to search these woods, and that’s going to take a lot of people.’

  21

  Now that the fire had been put out, the headache-inducing smell began to dissipate. It was still too pungent close to the car, but at least McLean could start to get his head around the scene. The deputy chief constable would want an update soon, and there was much to do before the forensics team arrived.

  ‘Anyone run the index through ANPR yet?’ he asked DC Stringer as the two of them stood at the edge of the clearing. It wasn’t much of a hope. The cameras logged vehicles at key transport points, like the Queensferry Crossing, and the major roads out of the city. This place was as close to the middle of nowhere as you could get without starting to come out the other side.

  ‘I think Harrison’s on that.’

  ‘Check it, will you? And get on to the insurance company. Some of these vehicles have trackers fitted nowadays. Might be worth following up.’

  Stringer nodded, hurried off to do his bidding. McLean stared at the car, the trees, then turned full circle. Had he come out here on his mountain bike, back in his student days? It was possible, although he couldn’t remember it. Nor could he remember how far the woodland stretched into the hills. Thick stands of Scots pine and larch trees, plantation woodland that had been allowed to grow wild.

  ‘What was she doing out here?’

  ‘Sir?’

  McLean twisted around a little too fast, a twinge of pain shooting up into his hip. Somehow DC Harrison had managed to sneak up on him unawares. His question hadn’t been intended for anyone other than himself.

  ‘Just thinking out loud. You get anywhere tracking the car from the city?’

  ‘They’re working on it. Doesn’t seem likely though. We didn’t get a hit on Monday, and this has probably been here since before then.’

  ‘You reckon? Someone would have reported it, surely? I mean, this place is remote, but it’s not like nobody ever comes here. Look at the litter.’ He waved a hand at the base of a nearby tree. The little holes formed by the roots were filled with all manner of rubbish. Crisp packets, discarded drinks bottles, cigarette ends, little foil squares ripped open, their unsavoury used contents not far away.

  A horrible thought began to form in his mind, a connection between what he was seeing now and what he’d found in Anya Renfrew’s wardrobe. McLean walked over to the tree, looked down, counted. Three used condoms scattered around the base of the trunk. He crossed the car park to another large tree, three of them there too. A few yards away from the open door of the burned-out car, a supermarket-branded plastic bag lay under the low branches of a rhododendron bush. He crouched beside it, used a stick to gently tease it open and peer at the contents. Just as gently let it close again.

  ‘Something up, sir?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘A theory. What if the car was never reported because the people who were out here didn’t want anyone to know where they’d been?’

  ‘How –?’ Harrison’s question cut short as she joined the dots. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh indeed.’ McLean saw the scene in a different light now. Set back from a road that was already narrow and largely unused, the main car park was well secluded. This secondary car park, tucked even deeper into the woods and not much more than a natural clearing, was exactly the kind of place to go if you didn’t want to be seen or disturbed.

  Through the trees, McLean could see a large white van pulling into the lower car park, its diesel engine spoiling the peace that had settled around them. The first of the forensics team to arrive. He’d no doubt there would be more along soon. This case was going to have everything thrown at it, after all.

  ‘Is your flatmate likely to be working this site?’ he asked. Manda Parsons often joked about getting all the shit jobs, but this was maybe taking it a step too far.

  ‘No, she’s on leave. Gone to see her folks for the week. Any reason why?’

  ‘Because I’m about to ask Forensics to do something for me, and I’m not sure I want to lose another friend.’

  The forensics team descended on the scene like a well-rehearsed dance troop. McLean knew better than to get in their way, even if the conditions for preservation of evidence beyond the car itself weren’t ideal. Taking out his phone, he wandered off to a quiet part of the car park as he placed a call through to the Sexual Crimes Unit. It took a while to be answered, longer still to be patched through to Detective Chief Inspector Jo Dexter. From the background noise, she was either at a crime scene herself, or more likely in the smokers’ shelter at the back of the station.

  ‘Heard you were up shit creek, Tony. If you’re looking for a transfer back to Vice I’m not sure I can help you.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, Jo. Not yet, at least. Could actually have a lead on our missing support staff.’

  Dexter made a noise that
might have been a cough to cover an expletive. ‘At least you’ve actually got some support staff to lose.’ There was a short pause during which McLean was convinced he could hear the crackle of burning tobacco as she inhaled a lungful of smoke. ‘Ach, that’s unfair. We’re all being squeezed, and Anya’s one of the best. Remember working with her when I was still a DS. That was a while ago.’

  ‘I should probably interview you about her then. I’ve been trying to talk to everyone who knows her.’

  ‘Was that why you called? Because I don’t really know her out of work.’

  ‘It seems nobody does. And I’m coming to the conclusion that was exactly how she wanted it. So, no, that’s not why I called. Not entirely anyway. I wanted to ask if you knew anything about dogging.’

  The silence might have been another long drag on her cigarette, but this time it felt different. Not so much the crackle of burning tobacco as the grinding of internal gears.

  ‘That’s a hell of a question to ask a girl, Tony.’ Dexter coughed again, and McLean could almost smell the smoke even though he was a good fifteen miles away from the station.

  ‘Seriously, Jo. There’s a scene in the city, right?’

  ‘Christ, yes. There’s a scene in every city. Every town in the country. The things people do for kicks, eh?’

  ‘So where do people go to get their kicks these days? And before you ask, no, I’m not looking to spice up my sex life.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but last I heard the Braids car park was popular. That’s not far from your place.’

  ‘Jo, I’m serious. I think this might be Renfrew’s secret. Why she never socialised with us, and possibly why she’s disappeared. What about the car park at the south end of Gladhouse Reservoir?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of. It’s not impossible though. I mean, we tend to ignore it unless it gets out of hand or someone complains. Shut them down in one place, they’ll just find somewhere else to go. It’s all organised on the internet these days. I can ask the team, but out there you’d probably be better off talking to Penicuik or Dalkeith. Local beat bobbies will have a much better idea of what’s going on.’