Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

Johns bristled in his chair, taking this as the insult to his manhood that McLean had intended. ‘It’s all consensual. There’s nothing illegal, right.’

  ‘You want to ask a judge about that, Dennis? With your record?’ McLean fixed the man with a steely glare to match Grumpy Bob’s. The detective sergeant still hadn’t said a word, which was the whole point of his being there of course.

  ‘Going back to Gladhouse.’ McLean pulled the evidence bag containing the eye mask out of his pocket and laid it carefully on the table between them. ‘Did you see a woman there wearing this?’

  He didn’t need to hear what Johns had to say – the answer was written all across his weasel face. He reached out for the bag, but McLean pulled it away before he could pick it up.

  ‘That what this is all about?’ Johns asked. ‘She in some kind of trouble?’ He squinted, leaning forward to see better.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  Johns paused, the thoughts painting themselves on his face without subtlety. Every so often his gaze would dart to Grumpy Bob, then back again. McLean left him the time he needed. It wasn’t long.

  ‘Aye. Well, no. I ken that mask though. Older lassie wearing it, right? Tall, thin, dark hair going a wee bit grey? No’ bad body, mind. Amazing Grace, they call her. But that’s no’ her real name. Mouth on her like a vacuum cleaner.’

  McLean could have done without that last bit of information. ‘What time did you leave? Was she still there then?’

  ‘No’ exactly sure. One in the morning? Maybe half past? And aye, she was still there. Finishing up the stragglers and the shy boys. What’s this all about then? You know who she is?’ Johns perked up a bit. ‘She someone famous?’

  ‘Who she is is no concern of yours, Mr Johns. When you last saw her, and who was still about, is all that matters now.’

  ‘Aye, well. I wasnae the last one to leave, mind. A few of the other lads might’ve hung about a bit longer.’

  McLean picked up his pen and flicked open the notepad. ‘These lads have names?’

  ‘You think it’s wise, letting him off like that?’

  Grumpy Bob stood in the doorway as he and McLean watched Dennis Johns being led away by a uniformed constable. They hadn’t charged him; there wasn’t much point really. It might have been possible to make something stick with his entry on the sexual offenders’ register, but it wouldn’t have solved anything.

  ‘He’s not going to disappear any time soon. And the list of names he’s given us might be useful. You’ll need to get someone to run them all through the system. Maybe pull any interesting ones in for a chat.’

  Grumpy Bob checked his watch. ‘Might be a wee while. I’m meant to be heading off to Bestingfield in a mo.’

  McLean didn’t need to ask why. ‘Sounds fun. You taking anyone with you?’

  ‘No’ if I can help it. I’m only going to talk to the doctor and maybe have a chat with some of the nursing staff. Reckon I can do that on my own.’

  ‘OK. Let me know how you get on.’

  ‘You here, sir? If anything comes up?’

  ‘No. I’m heading out to Gladhouse again. You remember Sergeant Donaldson? From Penicuik?’

  ‘Big chap, aye. No’ sure what to make of him, to be honest, sir.’

  ‘Well, he’s taking me out to Woodhill Farm. Should have gone last week, but the moors catching fire put a stop to all that.’

  ‘You’ll be taking Janie Harrison with you, I expect.’ There was the slightest note of disapproval in the old detective sergeant’s voice, something McLean had become accustomed to.

  ‘Or one of the others. Stringer or Blane are both reliable. It depends entirely on who’s hanging around looking like they’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Of course.’ Grumpy Bob shrugged, then without another word he turned and walked off down the corridor.

  38

  It was as well Police Sergeant Donaldson had given them good directions to get to Woodhill Farm. Without them, and DC Harrison’s expert driving, McLean might never have found the place on his own. The expression ‘middle of nowhere’ sprang to mind as they drove along a narrow, rutted farm track, plotting a complex path through the potholes that studded the surface like teenage acne. At least it was dry, parched by the hot weather and endless summer sun. Come the winter rains, he’d not much fancy his chances in a big 4x4.

  The farmyard once they reached it looked like the sort of place a period drama location scout would drool over. Past an open-sided steel girder shed that was more rust than iron, the track took them through a set of old stone steading buildings with arched entrances far too small for any modern agricultural machinery. That wouldn’t be a problem if the ancient David Brown tractor parked at the end of a hay barn was anything to go by. It was hitched up to a small trailer laden with bales, but there didn’t appear to be anyone around to unload them.

  Two cars were parked outside a house barely distinguishable from the grey whinstone steadings that formed the other three sides of a large courtyard. One was an elderly Land Rover, a series one if McLean was any judge. The other was a somewhat more modern Police Scotland BMW squad car, which at least meant Donaldson had already arrived. Where the constables who were meant to be searching the farmyard and surrounding buildings were, McLean had no idea.

  ‘Quiet here, isn’t it,’ Harrison observed as she climbed out of the car. The only sound was the plinking of the engine as it cooled. McLean was about to comment, but the door to the farmhouse opened and Sergeant Donaldson stepped out.

  ‘Thought you might be a little late,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘People always get lost the first time they come here.’

  ‘Like your search team?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Oh, they’ve been and gone. Surprised you didn’t meet them on the track, though it’s as well you didn’t, come to think of it. You can have a look around the old buildings yourself if you want to, but there’s no sign of missing admin support officers, trust me. Sandy Bayne knows this farm like the back of his hand. He’d have seen Renfrew the moment she came out of the woods.’

  Something about Donaldson’s breezy certainty annoyed McLean, although not enough to have him call the search team back. A full week had passed since Renfrew had gone missing now, so if she had been in one of these outbuildings she would have been noticed. And if she’d died somewhere they ought to be able to smell her by now, which reminded him he needed to check in with the dog unit.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about this place,’ he said.

  ‘That I do. Used to spend summers up here helping with the harvest. Sandy’s my cousin. Well, something cousin removed, but family, aye?’ Donaldson turned to Harrison briefly. ‘Morag’s in the kitchen making a cup of tea, Constable. Why don’t you go in and introduce yourself. I’ll take the chief inspector round to the fish house and find Sandy.’

  ‘Fish house?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Aye, come with me. It’s quite something.’ And without waiting the sergeant set off towards the corner of the courtyard where a narrow passage led between the side of the house and the nearest of the old steading buildings. As he followed Donaldson towards the end of it, McLean finally caught the sound of something. Running water, a soft noise underneath it that might have been someone humming. Flagstone steps at the far end brought them down to another set of buildings and, more surprisingly, a large circular pond. The trees came right up to the edge of it on the other side, their leaves reflected in the mirror black surface. As he watched, something broke through, a fin like some ancient sea monster rolling through the water. Ripples spread out from it, bouncing back from the edge in an interference pattern that took far longer to dissipate than he would have expected.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Andrew. And I see you’ve brought a friend.’

  McLean looked past the sergeant to see an elderly man, who had just emerged from the low stone building at
the side of the pond. Slightly stooped with age, he was still a giant, easily a head taller than McLean and proportionately big. No doubting he and Donaldson were related. His face looked like leather, wrinkled by age and years spent outdoors in all weathers. He wore clothes from another, earlier, era: faded gingham shirt under a pair of dungarees that were more patch than denim and frayed around the ankles. McLean vaguely noticed that he was barefoot, but mostly he was fixated on the enormous fish the man carried in his hands, cradled like a sleeping baby.

  ‘Sandy, this is the detective I was telling you about.’ Sergeant Donaldson made the briefest of introductions. McLean scarcely noticed the rudeness – he was too fixated on the sight in front of him.

  ‘That’s some fish,’ he said, unsure what else he could do.

  ‘Ctenopharyngodon idella. The grass carp. This one’s nearly ready, but no’ quite there yet.’ Bayne walked over to the edge of the pond, kneeled and gently eased the fish into the water. Until it wriggled and swam away, McLean had assumed it was dead.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘To eat, aye? If you’re no’ careful they just taste of what they’ve been eating. Mud and weeds mostly. A week or two in there and she’ll be sweet as any trout you’ll catch.’

  ‘That’s quite a lot of effort to go to. You must really like your fish, Mr Bayne.’ McLean took in the buildings, the neatly edged pond and stone walls, all a great deal older even than the man himself. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a setup like this before. Does it predate the farm?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, aye. There used to be an old monastery near here. The monks built most of this farm, and a few others besides. They built this pond for cleaning the carp too.’

  ‘It’s certainly not something I expected to find out here. I’d have thought there’d be fish enough in the river, and Gladhouse isn’t far.’

  ‘Well. The monastery’d been a ruin a couple of centuries before they dammed the loch to make the reservoir.’ Bayne spoke as if he’d been around to see both things happen. ‘And the monks didn’t like eating the local fish. Brought their own with them when they came here from France. Least, that’s what my father told me. There’s some work gone into this pond too. See the far end there?’ He pointed to a low stone structure. ‘That’s a natural spring. It drains at the other end. No burn fill here, no silt. Keeps it fresh and clear. The bottom’s lined with flagstones, the sides too. You could swim in there if you didn’t mind getting your toes nibbled.’

  McLean wasn’t sure if Bayne was joking or not. His face was so lined he seemed to have a permanent grin.

  ‘Still, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to talk about fish, Detective Chief Inspector.’ Bayne rubbed his hands on his dungarees, and for a moment McLean thought he was going to offer one to shake. Instead, he held it splayed wide, palm out to indicate they go back up the stairs towards the house. ‘Come on up to the house, why don’t you. I’m sure Morag will have the kettle on for some tea.’

  They found DC Harrison inside, sitting at a scrubbed-pine table in a kitchen that probably hadn’t changed much since the monks built it. An old woman busied herself at an equally ancient range cooker, barely turning to register his arrival, or that of the two enormous men behind him.

  ‘Take a seat, please, Detective Chief Inspector,’ Bayne said. ‘I’ll just away and wash my hands. Morag will fetch you a cup of tea.’

  Morag shrugged her shoulders irritably at the instruction, but when she turned to face him it was with a genuine smile. She was the complete opposite of the tall man, short and round. She busied herself with an old teapot, pouring out something that made the canteen coffee back at the station look weak by comparison. McLean could smell the tannin from the other side of the kitchen.

  ‘Janie’s been telling me about your missing wifey. Pair of constables came through last week and had a poke around the buildings, but I telt them then we’d no’ seen anyone. See, if she’d come here we’d have taken her in.’

  ‘Do you see many folk up here?’ he asked.

  Morag shook her head slowly. ‘We’re a bit cut off. Like it that way, if I’m being honest. Mr Bayne sees the occasional walker up in the brae fields sometimes, but folk don’t venture this way often.’

  ‘Mr Bayne is your husband?’ McLean had thought so, but the way she’d used his surname had thrown him slightly.

  ‘Aye, fifty-three years now. What times we’ve seen. Cake?’ She offered up a slice already on a plate, which made it hard to refuse. Donaldson was halfway through his, clearly as at home in this kitchen as his own.

  ‘And have you farmed out here all that time?’ he asked as Mr Bayne came back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands dry on what looked like an old rag.

  ‘Aye, and my father ’fore me. His father ’fore him. There’s been Baynes at Woodhill since before it was Woodhill.’

  Looking at the man, McLean could believe it. There was something slow and measured about him, as if aeons meant nothing. He could well imagine him tending his livestock, patiently tilling the land, even preparing those fish for monks who would never eat them, all because that’s what the family had always done. In many ways it was an intensely dull life, and that was its clear appeal.

  ‘I don’t suppose you –?’ McLean began to ask, but he was interrupted by a squawk from Sergeant Donaldson’s Airwave set. Behind him Morag tutted, but not with any great anger. This was obviously something that happened a lot.

  ‘Excuse me a minute. Better see what this is about.’ The sergeant stood up and strode out, already talking into the handset.

  ‘You were saying?’ Mrs Bayne asked, but before McLean could admit that he’d forgotten, Harrison’s pocket made a similar noise to Donaldson’s. She pulled out her own set, gave Mrs Bayne an embarrassed half-shrug, half-smile, then stood up and followed the sergeant out.

  ‘It wasn’t important,’ McLean said eventually. ‘Thank you for your time. And the tea and excellent cake. I should probably go and see what all this is about anyway. Then we’ll get out of your way.’

  Neither Mr nor Mrs Bayne said anything more, merely nodding goodbye as McLean stood up and walked out of the house. He found Harrison and Donaldson deep in conversation.

  ‘Something up?’ he asked.

  ‘The prints on that lighter we found under the car, sir,’ Harrison beat the sergeant to the answer. ‘Finally got a match.’

  ‘Have we brought him in for questioning?’ McLean asked, then added: ‘It is a he, I take it?’

  ‘Dan Forbes,’ Sergeant Donaldson said. ‘He’s a Penicuik lad. Just got nicked for attempted burglary. The alert pinged as soon as our custody sergeant put his prints on the system.’

  ‘Well, I guess we’d better go and have a word with him then.’

  39

  Were it not for the sign outside, Penicuik Police Station might well be mistaken for someone’s end-of-terrace house. With the same painted harling as the other buildings on the street, it blended in far better than McLean’s own station back in the city. Donaldson had gone ahead, probably misusing his lights and siren to get back in time to make sure everything was ready. He buzzed them into the business end of the building, down a corridor to an empty interview room.

  ‘I’ll warn you now he’s got an attitude, this one,’ he said as they waited for the prisoner to be brought up from the cells. ‘He’s been on our radar a while. Never crossed the line until today.’

  ‘Lucky us,’ McLean said, although he wasn’t sure he really meant it.

  It didn’t take long, and when he arrived, Dan Forbes was everything Sergeant Donaldson had warned them, and more. Not yet twenty years old, and already full of enough attitude to last a lifetime. Two uniformed constables escorted him into the room, and despite McLean asking him to sit, he had to be forced into his seat before he would comply. It was only when he noticed DC Harrison, sitting off to one side with a notepad on her
knees, that he settled down. He placed his cuffed hands on the table in front of him before finally looking at McLean.

  ‘She your bird then?’

  So it was going to be like that. McLean ignored Forbes for the moment, directing his attention to the two constables who’d brought him in.

  ‘Thank you. We should be able to handle him, I think.’

  ‘You sure, sir?’ the older of the two asked.

  ‘Aye. Go get yourselves a coffee or something. Don’t think we’ll be long with this one.’

  Forbes stared at the backs of the constables as they left, then at the door when it clicked shut. He looked around the room, at Harrison, over his shoulder to the window behind. Everywhere but at the detective chief inspector. McLean waited, saying nothing. Harrison was almost as good at being a statue as Grumpy Bob. The silence dragged for a whole minute before Forbes broke.

  ‘What’s this all about then? Draggin’ me in here like this?’ He lifted up his hands to show off the shiny metal cuffs. ‘I’ve no’ done anything, aye?’

  McLean reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The forensics labs had sent him photos of the lighter, and he chose one that clearly showed the initials and date inscribed on it, held it up for Forbes to see.

  ‘This is yours, isn’t it.’ Not a question.

  Forbes frowned with genuine puzzlement. He bent forward in his seat and stared at the image.

  ‘Where the fuck did youse find that? Been looking for it for ages like.’

  ‘Is that confirmation that this lighter belongs to you, Mr Forbes?’ Harrison asked. She had her pen poised, for taking notes.

  ‘Aye. Well. Aye. It was my dad’s, ken? That date’s his twenty-first birthday. His dad gave it him an’ all.’ He slumped in the seat as far back as he could get without standing up. ‘Where’d youse find it?’

  ‘We’ve lifted your fingerprint from the inside. That’s how we know it’s yours.’ McLean switched off his phone and put it away. ‘Of course, if you’d not been stupid enough to try breaking into a warehouse in broad daylight, we’d never have had prints to match to it. So thank you for that.’