Bury Them Deep

by Oswald, James

  ‘You seem to know a lot about the subject.’

  ‘I’ve been retired over twenty years now. You know what us coppers are like, McLean. We don’t do hobbies. I’ve read pretty much every book about the history of the area I can get my hands on, trying to work out what happened to all those women. When I heard about those bones on the moorland, well . . .’ Ramsay stopped talking, not because she’d run out of things to say so much as because they had arrived at their destination. McLean pulled into the kerb in front of the care home and switched off the engine.

  ‘I’d like you to come into the station for a longer chat,’ he said. ‘Maybe have a look over some of the evidence we’ve uncovered so far. I know it’s irregular, but I think your input might be invaluable.’

  ‘Send a car for me. Eight sharp, tomorrow morning.’ Ramsay unclipped her seat belt, and patted at the red leather seat. ‘And thank you for the ride, McLean. Much nicer than that stinking old taxi. They obviously pay detectives better now than they did in my day.’

  ‘There’s a few back at the station would disagree with you there, ma’am. I have another source of income besides my Police Scotland pay cheque.’ He climbed out of the car and walked around to the passenger side to help Ramsay out. She had already opened her door by the time he got there, but was struggling even if she didn’t want to show it. She stared at him with something of that old venom he remembered from almost a quarter-century earlier, then relented and allowed him to help her to the front door.

  ‘One other thing.’ McLean pulled out his notebook and pen. ‘You couldn’t give me those names again, could you? I’d like to run them past the Cold Case Unit.’

  Ramsay arched an eyebrow. ‘You checking out whether I’m a complete loony then?’ She shook her head at the thought. ‘Give me your card and I’ll email them to you. I may be old, McLean, but I’m not a complete Luddite.’

  The email pinged through a half an hour after McLean had finally sat down at his desk. He’d managed to avoid all of his superior officers only because they’d been called to a strategy meeting at Police Scotland headquarters. Judging by the increasingly strained messages on his phone, McLean was supposed to have been there with them. He couldn’t help thinking his day had been better spent out in the field.

  He toyed with the idea of forwarding the email directly to Duguid, but in the end it seemed a safer bet to print a hard copy and carry it down to the basement where the CCU had its offices. McLean found the ex-detective superintendent in conversation with Grumpy Bob. The two of them looked up at him like guilty schoolboys as he walked into the basement room.

  ‘Thought you were over at HQ,’ Duguid said as he peered over his spectacles. Despite the heat outside, the CCU office was pleasantly cool, one of the benefits of being underground.

  ‘It was tempting, but I thought going to a secure mental hospital and talking to a psychopathic serial killer would be more fun.’ McLean crossed over to Grumpy Bob’s desk and handed him the printout. ‘You couldn’t get me some background on these missing-persons cases, could you, Bob? Some of them might be paper archives only, so concentrate on the computerised records first. Could well be our broken-legged woman in among them.’

  The detective sergeant took the sheet of paper from him with a nod, then reached for his keyboard and mouse to wake his computer. McLean sensed the ex-detective superintendent’s approach before Duguid reached him.

  ‘What’s all this? Another case for us?’

  ‘I’ve just been out at the moorland dig. Slightly surprised to find Grace Ramsay there.’ He told them both about what he’d learned, indicating the list of names with a nod of the head. ‘She’s certainly obsessed with it.’

  Duguid barked out a single laugh. ‘Obsessed? You clearly don’t remember working under her command, do you, McLean.’

  ‘Not really. She retired when I was still just a DC. She was running a special-investigations team before that, and I was in general CID.’

  ‘Retired is the polite way of saying it. She was something of an embarrassment to the top brass towards the end. That’s partly why she had her own team. What did they call them, Bob?’ Duguid tilted his head at the detective sergeant.

  ‘The polite name was the “Torphicen Street Irregulars”.’ Grumpy Bob looked uncomfortable at the question, and McLean wondered whether the old DS had been one of them.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. The “loony squad” was another. Mostly I remember senior officers just calling her “that fucking woman”. She had a knack for putting people’s noses out of joint.’

  Has a knack, McLean almost added.

  ‘Well, it looks like she might get the last laugh. I’m bringing her in for tomorrow morning’s briefing too. I’d like to get up to speed on these missing-persons cases before then. Just in case we need to reopen them.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it, sir.’ Grumpy Bob turned his attention back to the computer and began pecking at the keyboard with one finger on each hand, like a pair of hungry chickens.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll send a couple of DCs to help, shall I?’

  Duguid stalked back to his own desk. ‘As long as they’re on your budget and not mine.’

  45

  There wasn’t much afternoon left by the time McLean made it back to his office. Not that it was easy to tell by the harsh sunlight flooding through the window wall. He tapped a hopeful finger against the control panel for the air-conditioning unit, coaxing the noisy fan into life in a vain attempt to lower the oven-like temperature. Sitting in the room was not really an option if he wanted to get any work done, so he scooped a couple of important reports off the desk and retreated to the relative cool of the canteen.

  His phone rang as he was halfway down the back stairs. A quick glance at the screen showed him it was someone he didn’t really want to talk to, but also couldn’t ignore. At least there was an empty room close enough to slip inside as he thumbed the accept button.

  ‘I was wondering how long it would be before you called me, Dalgliesh,’ he said.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Good of you to ask. Not as strong as before I was almost poisoned to death by some cake meant for you, mind.’

  It was a sore point between him and the reporter that she never failed to mention whenever their paths crossed. A couple of years back, she’d greedily helped herself to his cake in a café, both of them unaware that it contained rather more than chocolate, flour, eggs, butter and sugar.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked. He didn’t think he could ever bring himself to like the reporter, but he owed her for the cake. And the other time she’d saved his life.

  ‘Wee birdie tells me you paid a visit to our mutual friend Norman Bale this morning.’

  Of course she’d have an informant at Bestingfield. McLean had seen the string of sensational articles her newspaper had printed about the place over the past couple of years.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Tony. Enough of the back and forth. I know you went there, know you spoke to him. I think it’s only fair you tell me what’s going on there. Given I was the one stopped him from cutting you up with that butcher’s knife of his.’

  It hadn’t been a butcher’s knife. More the sort of thing outdoorsmen sharpened over a whetstone as they sat in front of a fire in the middle of nowhere. McLean glanced at his watch, noticed the reports he’d picked up. Had he really been meaning to read them, or was that just an excuse?

  ‘Where are you now?’ he asked, knowing full well it would be close by. That’s how Dalgliesh operated.

  ‘Café on the corner of East Preston Street. You know? The one that used to be a bank?’

  McLean kept the sigh to himself. He’d learned down the years that Dalgliesh was a boil best lanced as soon as it appeared. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll get a pot of tea ordered. And you can tell me all about the bones
you’ve found up on the moors too.’

  McLean could remember the building when it had still been a bank. He’d paid cheques in there, back when cheques were a thing. After it became a café, he’d often dropped in at the weekends when he’d lived a few hundred metres up the road. The coffee wasn’t quite good enough for Grumpy Bob’s exacting standards, but the pastries made for a fine breakfast.

  True to her word, Dalgliesh had ordered a pot of tea. By the look of the plates, she’d ordered cakes too, but not waited for him to arrive before tucking in. Probably wise to eat them before he got there, just in case.

  ‘You said ten minutes.’ She made a show of looking at the time on her phone. For all that she’d said she was fine, the reporter looked thin and weak. There’d never been much in the way of spare flesh to Jo Dalgliesh, but her brush with death had left its mark.

  ‘Got caught up on the way out. I had to explain to a couple of detective constables why leaving before shift end was frowned upon.’

  ‘Skiving? Can’t be having that.’ Dalgliesh poured tea into a spare mug and pushed it across the table. McLean helped himself to milk while she topped up her own mug and heaped several teaspoons of sugar into it.

  ‘So then. What’s your angle this time, Dalgliesh?’ he asked.

  ‘Call me Jo, why don’t you? Dalgliesh makes me sound like some kind of footballer.’ She grinned and gulped down a mouthful of tea, not waiting for it to have finished going down before she continued. ‘And it’s like I said on the phone. My wee birdie tells me you paid your old pal Norman a visit today. What’s that about? And how does it fit in with your bones up there by Penicuik?’

  McLean took a more measured sip of his own tea, swallowed properly and put the mug back down before answering. ‘The bones on the moor are most likely Neolithic. Certainly ancient rather than modern. Professor Turner from the university Department of Forensic Anthropology is leading the dig. No doubt there’ll be a series of learned papers, maybe a lecture tour and perhaps even a BBC docu-drama about it at some point. For now, we’re keeping an eye on it because finding human bones is something we take very seriously.’

  ‘So Norman’s nothing to do with that then?’ Dalgliesh asked.

  ‘With the bones on the moor? Why would you think that?’ McLean studied the reporter’s face for any sign that she was playing with him. More often than not she already knew the answers to all the questions she put to him. Far too often she knew more than he did too.

  ‘You’re also missing an admin support officer, last seen getting her end away in that vicinity, something like that. I’d have thought you’d have the whole of Police Scotland out combing the woods.’

  ‘One of these days, Dalgliesh, we’re going to have to have a long talk about where you’re getting your information from.’ McLean hid his worry behind his mug, taking another mouthful of tea.

  ‘Oh, Tony. You’re so naïve sometimes.’ The reporter rubbed her finger in the chocolate icing smeared on one of the plates in front of her, then licked the mess off. ‘And besides. If I gave you the names of my sources, you’d have to sack them. Then you’d have hardly any officers left and you’re short-staffed as it is. Still one or two who refuse to divulge their secrets, mind. You inspire loyalty, you know?’

  ‘Get to the point, will you? Only I’d like to go home soon. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Home? Before it’s dark already? That’s not the Tony McLean I remember.’

  McLean drained his tea and stood up. ‘I’ve better things to be doing, Dalgliesh. If you need anything, call Dan Hwei in the press office, OK?’

  He’d turned away, almost set off towards the door when she spoke more quietly. ‘I know about the knife marks, Tony. Not the ancient bones, the more recent ones. Someone cut up people and ate them, didn’t they.’

  McLean could see the headline in his mind: ‘Cannibal at Large’ or maybe something even more sensational. Dalgliesh wasn’t exactly known for her subtlety or restraint. Reluctantly, he turned back to her, pulled out the chair and sat down.

  ‘I can’t speak on the record. That has to go through the proper channels, you understand.’

  The reporter smiled and poured more tea. ‘And you can’t confirm or deny. I know. But you know as well as I do, Tony, that this story won’t stay buried. Much like those bones. I’ve picked it up already. Only a matter of time before everyone else does.’

  McLean didn’t know what was more annoying; that Dalgliesh already knew too much about the case or that she was right about the press. He’d have liked to have discussed the matter with the other senior officers before speaking to her at all, but by the time he managed to get them all in the same room together it would be too late.

  ‘OK. I’ll tell you what I can. But promise me you’ll at least try to keep your headline-writer in check, yes?’

  Dalgliesh shrugged. ‘I can try.’

  ‘You wanted to know why I’d gone to see Bale? Well, believe me, if I never set eyes on him again it would be too soon. He knows something about our missing support officer though. Don’t ask me how. It’s too much detail for him to be just playing us all along.’

  ‘Seem to remember that about him. The way he could pick up on the tiniest detail and spin it so you’d think he knew everything about you.’

  ‘That and dropping hints about weird things going on. Almost as if he’d set them in motion in the first place. Only this time I know he’s been locked up. There’s only so much he can get other people to do for him, and, to be honest, I don’t think that’s his game.’

  ‘What is his game then?’ Dalgliesh got to the heart of the problem that had been worrying McLean all along.

  ‘That’s the thing. He’s not going to get out of that hospital any time soon. Not ever, if I have any say in the matter. Nothing he does is going to change that. Apart from the sick joy he gets from making people dance to his tune, there’s nothing to be gained from messing me around like he’s doing right now.’

  ‘Well, he was your friend a very long time ago. Maybe he’s just trying to help.’

  The thought had occurred to McLean, as he’d driven back from the hospital. He’d dismissed it almost as swiftly. ‘If so, he’s going about it in a strange way. Tell me, Dalgliesh. Does the term Fraternitas de Rosae Fontis mean anything to you?’

  The reporter shook her head. ‘Sounds like cod Latin to me. Never really was much cop at languages.’

  ‘It means Brotherhood of the Red Spring, or something like that. I asked one of the constables to check it out, but it doesn’t even warrant a Google entry.’

  ‘And this is what Bale told you to look out for, was it?’

  ‘Not in as many words. He dropped it as a name, knowing I’d pick it up. Made it sound like they were some kind of secret order or society or something.’

  Dalgliesh shrugged. ‘Never heard of it. I can ask around though.’

  McLean stood up again, pushed his chair under the table. Dalgliesh already had her phone out, a small spiral-bound notebook and pen beside it.

  ‘You’ll let me know if you find anything, right?’ he asked. ‘A woman’s life could be at stake here.’

  She paused a moment before answering, thoughts hidden behind an inscrutable expression.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Tony. But you’ll owe me, right?’

  46

  McLean noticed the shiny green Range Rover belonging to the deputy chief constable as he crossed the car park on his way to the back entrance to the station, half an hour later. Robinson had parked far too close to the Alfa for comfort, and he was tempted to go and check no one had dinged his paintwork getting out of the passenger door. Climbing in to drive himself home was going to require the skills of a contortionist too, unless he could persuade the DCC to leave first, but at least he knew the senior officers were back from headquarters.

  The sound of raised voices leaked thr
ough the closed door to Robinson’s office as McLean approached it. He considered going back to his own room, still uncomfortably warm despite a full hour and more of the air conditioning on max. On the other hand, he recognised Detective Superintendent McIntyre as the other half of the argument, which meant this was a perfect opportunity to talk to them both. And maybe stop them from coming to blows.

  ‘Enter,’ the DCC barked a moment after McLean had rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. When he opened it, he saw Robinson standing on the business side of his desk, face flushed as if he’d run a mile. It didn’t help that the office had clearly not benefited from an hour or more of air conditioning to lower the temperature. McIntyre, in sharp contrast, looked far cooler, and calmer, than the raised voices might have led McLean to expect.

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said, knowing full well that he was.

  ‘Where the hell have you been all day, McLean?’ Robinson turned on him like an angry headmaster.

  ‘Pursuing cases, sir. Chasing down leads.’ He knew as soon as he said it that it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘Dammit, man. That’s sergeants’ work. At best an inspector. You’re meant to be here keeping everything under control.’

  McLean put his hands behind his back, the better to hide his clenched fists. It was Robinson who had bounced him into the promotion to chief inspector in the first place. The constant suggestion that he should be some kind of manager rather than the experienced investigator his training and years on the job made him irritated him more than he’d care to admit.

  ‘I’m not sure a sergeant could deal with Norman Bale, sir.’

  ‘Norman –?’ Robinson’s thoughts took a measurable time to catch up with his mouth. ‘Oh.’

  ‘You went and spoke to him?’ McIntyre asked. ‘Thought you weren’t going anywhere near.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Jayne. Right up until he started talking about the bones on the moors.’