Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  ‘Aye. When was the call first logged?’

  Shirley went to a computer terminal set up at a side table. A couple of seconds of tapping at keys, and a screen appeared with all manner of details on it.

  ‘Ten fourteen and twenty seconds, according to the computer. Janine took the call. You’ll be wanting to listen, I expect?’

  ‘If I can.’

  Shirley tapped a couple of keys, and a pair of speakers McLean hadn’t noticed before crackled into life.

  ‘Emergency services. How may I direct your call?’

  ‘That 999, aye?’ A young voice, male, but quite high-pitched.

  ‘That’s correct. How can I help?’

  ‘There’s a fire, aye? A car.’ The boy sounded hesitant, perhaps a little fearful.

  ‘A car on fire? Can you tell me where this is?’

  ‘It’s up Gladhouse, ken. End o’ the reservoir in the trees. Youse need to send the fire brigade oot quick like or the whole forest’s gonnae go up.’

  ‘There’s a car on fire at Gladhouse Reservoir, is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘D’ye no’ ken English, hen? Tha’s whit I just said.’

  ‘Of course, of course. I’m just checking. Can I take your name, please?’

  ‘Why’d you need that?’

  ‘If you’d rather not say, that’s fine. But it helps us if we need to follow things up. Can you tell me when you saw this fire?’

  ‘Jes’ now.’ The boy’s voice wavered a little. ‘Well, mebbe ten minutes ago. But I had to get tae a phone. That scunner Bobby nicked mine an aw.’

  ‘So you went to the payphone at Temple. You know the area well then?’

  ‘Temple? Naw, I’m no . . . How’d . . .’ The line went dead.

  ‘That’s all of it. I’ll get a copy of the recording made up for you.’

  McLean said nothing for a while, still staring blankly at the screen and trying to make sense of what he’d heard. Eventually Shirley’s words sunk in.

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Yes, that’d be great.’ He pulled out his notebook and flipped to an empty page. ‘So the call came in at a quarter past ten, from the call box in Temple, right?’

  ‘Aye. Number confirmed it. Not sure Janine should have mentioned that, but we weren’t sure if it was just a crank call. You’ve no idea how many of those we get every day. Worse in the summer holidays when the kids are all kicking around with nothing to do. It’s always payphones though. They’re smart enough not to use their mobiles.’

  ‘Or their friend Bobby’s nicked it. I take it you asked a patrol car to go out and check the fire anyway?’

  ‘We did, aye. Turned out it wasn’t necessary though. There was another call a couple of minutes later. Farmer working up that way spotted the smoke and called us. You want to hear that one?’

  McLean couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted. Any time spent here was time away from the senior-officers meeting, time away from the endless questions and strategising and searching for someone to blame. On the other hand, if it wasn’t him, then they’d pick on someone else.

  ‘Not just now. If you could send it over with a recording of that one I’d be grateful.’

  ‘I’d have thought it was bloody obvious, wouldn’t you?’ The deputy chief constable’s face, normally calm, looked like it might burst open at any minute. ‘She’s done a runner, hasn’t she. Driven out to the sticks and torched her car. Probably picked up by whoever’s been paying her all these years. I bet she was on a flight out of the country with a fake passport before the bloody thing had stopped burning.’

  McLean said nothing. He’d learned over the years that it was easiest not to provoke people when they were under pressure. The inevitable shouting never really helped, and only led to resentment later on. Detective Superintendent McIntyre wasn’t so diplomatic.

  ‘I think you’re jumping to way too many conclusions there, Stevie. A burned-out car doesn’t make a conspiracy. There could be any number of reasons why it’s there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s impossible, just unlikely. It doesn’t fit her profile.’

  ‘That’s the whole point though, isn’t it, Jayne? Her profile is wrong. She doesn’t even live where we thought she did. Has anyone done any security checks on her at all?’

  McLean decided it was time for him to step in. ‘Actually, yes, sir. We have. She’s undergone several routine security screenings in the past ten years and nothing’s flagged as suspicious.’

  ‘So our security screening is rubbish. That’s great. One more thing to explain to the minister. Along with how we’ve single-handedly ruined a multi-agency, multi-nation operation that’s been years in the planning. Oh, she’s going to love that.’

  ‘Operation Caterwaul hasn’t been compromised, sir. Renfrew hadn’t even begun working on it when she went missing.’

  Robinson looked at him as if he was an idiot. ‘We don’t know that, Tony. We can’t know that, and they can’t risk it.’

  McLean didn’t ask who ‘they’ were. It didn’t really matter. He let it lie, giving the DCC a chance to calm down from his initial frustrated anger. It was understandable enough, and better to vent it here, in a meeting of senior officers, than out in the operation room or somewhere else even more public.

  ‘If she’s not some kind of spy, then what’s the story with the car?’ Robinson asked eventually. ‘What do you think she was doing out there? And where is she now?’

  McLean waited a moment before answering. Partly to gather his thoughts, but mostly because it was an uncomfortable matter to broach.

  ‘I’ll admit it’s conjecture, based on minimal evidence, but I think I know why she was out in the woods. We’re working on proof, but it might take a little time.’

  ‘Go on,’ McIntyre said. Somehow that was worse than the DCC asking.

  ‘I think the reason Renfrew lives a secret double life is that she has a . . .’ What could he call it? Hobby? Peccadillo? ‘. . . rather unusual way of spending her leisure time. I think she might have been active in Edinburgh’s dogging scene.’

  ‘Dogging?’ Robinson asked.

  ‘Meeting up in semi-secluded places for public sex with strangers is, I understand, the commonly accepted definition,’ McLean said. Across the table Detective Superintendent McIntyre let out an unprofessional snort of laughter.

  ‘We know what it means, Tony,’ the DCC continued. ‘But what makes you think a long-standing member of our support staff, someone who’s the daughter of a retired detective super no less, would do something like that?’

  McLean leaned back in his chair, composing his thoughts before speaking. All eyes were on him now, but at least nobody was shouting.

  ‘As to why a person feels compelled to indulge in such acts, I have no idea, sir. I could speculate, go into psychological reasons, look for evidence of past abuse. It’s not all that important really. What I do know is that the area where we found Renfrew’s car had an unusually high concentration of used condoms, most relatively fresh, if you’ll excuse the term. I’ve asked the forensics team to run DNA analysis on the contents.’

  ‘You’ve what?’ Robinson’s voice didn’t quite rise an octave, but it wasn’t far off.

  ‘If we get a hit, then we can bring them in for questioning. If nothing else, it should help us confirm Renfrew was there when we think she was.’ McLean leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘I’ve asked the Sexual Crimes Unit to pass on any recent intel about the scene they’ve got, and I’ll put a couple of our IT people on to checking the sites these people use to organise themselves.’

  ‘This is all going to cost a great deal of money.’ The DCC broke the awkward silence. ‘Not to mention the time it’s going to take to get your results, McLean.’

  ‘Would you prefer we not investigate, sir?’

  ‘That’s not what I �
��’

  ‘Good, because I’ve already drafted in uniformed officers from the regional stations to help search the woods and all the nearby buildings. We’ll be starting at first light tomorrow morning. I’d have liked to have done some searching this evening, but we couldn’t get the dog team out and the woods are tricky terrain.’

  ‘Where are you going with this, Tony?’ McIntyre asked. ‘What’s your theory?’

  ‘At the moment there’s too many unknowns. I’m fairly certain Renfrew went to those woods for sex, it’s what happened afterwards I’m not sure of. If her car had broken down, she’d have found a way of getting home, even if it was just walking to the nearest bus stop. But if someone fancied a little one on one, maybe without consent . . .’ He let the rest of the idea hang in the air. There was every possibility that Anya Renfrew was dead, buried in a shallow grave somewhere, or shoved under a rhododendron bush. At least if that was the case they’d find her with the dogs in the morning.

  ‘Of course, without a body we can’t know either way, and I’m not completely dismissing the idea she’s been stealing intel from us and passing it on to persons unknown. Could be for money, or it could be because someone’s blackmailing her. If that’s the case then she may have disappeared simply to get away from whoever’s doing that. Torching the car to throw them off the scent. As you see, sir. We’ve too few facts and too much conjecture right now. We need to find her first, then worry about what she’s done.’

  The deputy chief commissioner knew it, even if he wasn’t happy with the situation. He gave McLean the most imperceptible of nods. ‘Use what you need to get the job done,’ he said. ‘But please keep an eye on the cost, eh?’

  24

  The plaque on the wall outside the Deal Street Care Home advertised it as a Dee Foundation property, which sent an involuntary shudder up McLean’s spine as he read it. The foundation did good work, providing halfway-house accommodation to youngsters making the transition from care home to employment. They helped homeless people and also looked after the elderly, it seemed. They also owned and ran Bestingfield and the secure psychiatric unit where Norman Bale was held. He couldn’t deny that there was a need for the services they provided, but neither could he square the charity with its founder and funder, Jane Louise Dee. It bothered him that in some small way she was looking after an elderly retired detective, even if he couldn’t say exactly why it bothered him.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector McLean. I’m here to see Grace Ramsay?’ He presented his warrant card at the smart reception desk that sat in one corner of an elegantly furnished hallway. Unlike many old people’s homes he’d visited, this one didn’t have the odour of urine and cleaning fluid he’d been expecting. Maybe it would be beyond the double doors opposite the entrance, where the large bunch of flowers arranged in a vase couldn’t overpower it.

  ‘Of course, sir. We’ve been expecting you.’ The receptionist didn’t even look at the warrant card, instead reaching for the phone on her desk. She quickly informed someone in the building that he was there, then fixed him with a smile that was a credit to her dentist. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, one of the nurses will be along in a minute. Can I get you a coffee?’

  He was about to accept the offer when he remembered who ultimately owned the care home. For some reason the idea of accepting any kind of hospitality from Jane Louise Dee was anathema. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine just waiting.’

  In the end he didn’t have enough time even to sit down, let alone drink anything. The double doors swung open and another young woman stepped through. She took a moment to see him, even though there was nobody else there apart from the receptionist.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector? Hi, I’m Anne. Please, come with me and I’ll take you to Grace.’

  Grace, he noticed. Not Detective Superintendent, nor even Ms Ramsay. The woman he remembered wouldn’t have stood for such casual informality. McLean hurried to catch up with the nurse as she went back through the double doors. Beyond them, a long corridor stretched towards a distant window, light reflecting off a polished linoleum floor so shiny as to be almost dazzling. More doors opened off the corridor, and he caught the occasional glimpse through glass panels of what went on behind them. A dining room was laid out with round tables, their tops covered in white cloth but otherwise empty. Along from it, another room appeared to be some kind of physical therapy gym. Other doors had name plates or numbers on them, but there was a distinct lack of people. It was eerily quiet too.

  ‘How long has Ms Ramsay been here?’ McLean asked as the nurse led him through another door that opened onto a stairwell. The only option was up, no basement here.

  ‘Och, must be about two years now. She’s one of our oldest clients. Both in age and how long she’s been a resident.’

  ‘And does her daughter visit often?’

  The nurse paused, her hand hovering over the rail. ‘More often than some. Less than others. People don’t like to confront their own mortality, Detective Chief Inspector. That, sadly, is what this place is all about.’

  There wasn’t much answer to that, so McLean said nothing. He followed the nurse up to the second floor, then along another corridor to its far end. It was only when they reached the last door that she spoke again.

  ‘I’ve told Grace you’ve come to visit, so she’s expecting you. She asked for tea, and it’s all there ready. I should warn you though, she’s very frail. The fall nearly killed her, you know.’

  McLean nodded his understanding, even if he wasn’t sure why he was being told. Maybe the nurse felt a warning was necessary. She knocked on the door and then pushed it open without waiting for an answer from within. They both stepped into a large, airy room with a high ceiling and tall windows looking out onto a small garden, bright in the summer sun. A table similar to the ones in the dining room downstairs sat in the middle of the room, a tray with teapot, cups and all the other essentials in the middle of it. At first he thought the room empty, but then movement at the window resolved itself into a figure in a wheelchair. The person sitting in it was struggling with the mechanism, face in shadow but frustration evident in every move.

  ‘Here, Grace, let me help you with that.’ The nurse bustled over, taking control of the chair and wheeling it to the table. As it passed from shadow to light, so McLean saw the occupant properly. Even if he’d not known who she was already, he’d still have recognised the irascible detective superintendent in the old woman before him.

  ‘You know I said earlier about someone coming to pay you a visit?’ The nurse’s tone was that of a teacher admonishing a young child for their forgetfulness, another thing he couldn’t imagine Grace Ramsay enjoying. ‘Well, he’s here. Say hello to Detective Chief Inspector McLean, won’t you? And I’ll see about pouring the tea.’

  ‘Knew a detective constable called McLean once. Runty wee fellow. Always apologising for other people’s mistakes.’ The old woman stared at him with slightly clouded eyes. She sat up straight in her wheelchair, waited for the nurse to pour tea and then leave before speaking again. ‘Not you though. He was much younger. Thinner too.’

  McLean sat in his uncomfortable chair and tried not to stare too hard at the woman Grace Ramsay had become. She was tiny, in that way very old people seemed to shrink in on themselves. But despite that, and the wheelchair, she was very much the same terrifying detective superintendent he had known so many years before.

  ‘Well, we’re all of us a little older now. And I wish I was as thin.’

  Ramsay cocked her head to one side, quizzical for a moment. Then her expression changed, a hint of a mischievous smile. ‘So we are, Detective Constable. So we are.’

  McLean considered correcting her, but decided it didn’t really matter. ‘I had a few questions I wanted to ask you, Detective Superintendent ma’am. That’s if you feel up to it?’

  ‘Questions about what?’

  ‘About your daughter, Anya
.’

  Ramsay reached out with a shaking hand and picked up the cup of tea from the table in front of her. McLean was sure she’d spill it, but somehow she managed to take a sip and replace the cup in its saucer without a drip. She said nothing all the while, waiting until her hand was back in her lap and firmly clasped by the other one before speaking again.

  ‘Anya. Yes. What has she done now?’

  ‘I was thinking you might be able to tell me that, ma’am. When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. A week ago? Maybe ten days? She doesn’t come as often as she should. Why do you want to know?’

  How much to tell? McLean would normally do his best not to worry a relative in such a situation, but Ramsay had been a detective, knew exactly how the job worked. It wouldn’t take her long to realise what was going on.

  ‘You know she works for us. Police Scotland that is. In admin support.’

  ‘She wanted to join the army, but she couldn’t pass the physical. Didn’t like front-line policing, so she went into admin. So dull.’ Ramsay took another sip of her tea, her hand more steady this time. ‘When did she go missing? I assume that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘She didn’t show up for work on Monday morning. Last anyone saw her was Friday evening. We found her car – your car, I should say – out in the woods south of Gladhouse Reservoir.’

  Something in Ramsay’s demeanour changed at those last two words. The tremor came back to her arm, and this time she clattered the cup back into its saucer, tea spilling over her hand. ‘Gladhouse? Oh. Oh no. What has she done?’

  ‘Are you –?’ McLean began to ask, but Ramsay had already begun fiddling with the brakes on her wheelchair with hurried, unhappy movements. She finally worked them off, pushed herself backwards until she was clear of the table, then hurriedly applied them once more. He had assumed she was unable to walk, but she levered herself out of the chair and onto unsteady feet. Standing only showed how much she had shrunk, and she favoured one side. Presumably it was the other hip that had broken. The same, McLean noticed, as himself. He went to her side, offered an arm for support.