Song of the Dead

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Song of the Dead Page 20

by Douglas Lindsay


  ‘But what about Elsa, didn’t you listen to her?’

  Her head moves slowly from side to side, the eyes glaze over again, the stare is directed at the carpet, off into a vague distance.

  No, of course she didn’t listen to Elsa. It was hardly as though Elsa was providing evidence. What Elsa had would have been considered little more than a feeling in her water. But Elsa knew right enough. Elsa knows things. Elsa can sense things.

  I need to go and see Elsa again. Still considering dropping Baden on her and watching what happens, or whether to prepare her.

  ‘What about the policeman, do you remember him?’

  The look on her face doesn’t change. She heard the question, probably, but it’s of no interest to her. It’s a pedantic question. Why, under those circumstances, would anyone remember the policeman? Except, some might, some might remember every detail. Margaret isn’t one of them, however.

  ‘Don’t call your sister yet,’ I say.

  She comes back from far away, looks up at me.

  ‘John’s back, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Not back in the country yet, but he will be soon.’

  ‘She wouldn’t speak to me anyway. Hasn’t spoken to me since that day. She thought Andrew was foolish, but me, me she saved the real contempt for.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone. I’ll come and see you in a day or two and let you know how it all lies. Until then I need to ask you just to keep this to yourself.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She looks so guilty, so distracted and confused, that I have little doubt she’ll keep to her word.

  ‘I just thought… I never believed that it wasn’t him. Even though he didn’t look quite right, I just thought, it must be him, it simply must be. Why wouldn’t it be? Why would Emily have said it was John if it wasn’t?’

  * * *

  I decide to go where the tourists go on my way back to Dingwall. It’s a Sunday morning in November, there aren’t many tourists anyway. Over the bridge, and rather than turning left into Dingwall, take a right and nip along to the Storehouse of Foulis. Get a bacon sandwich and a small pot of tea, take a seat at the window looking out over the Cromarty Firth.

  The sea is the same flat calm that it seems to have been for weeks, all across northern Europe. The tide is out, and the grey sand stretches far out. There are a couple of small motorboats gliding through the water, but not much other activity. A few oil rigs in for servicing at Nigg sit at the head of the Firth, miles away to the left.

  I come here often enough that they all know how I like my bacon without my having to ask. Lean and crispy. Again, as ever, this is cooked to perfection. Again, as ever, I finish it and contemplate having another one, then decide against.

  Pour a second cup of tea. A sharp drone begins, growing in volume, and then a large speedboat, its bow raised, accelerates up the middle of the channel on its way out towards the Moray Firth.

  35

  I know that the police officer in question, at the viewing of Baden’s body, was Detective Inspector Rosco. The day after he returned from Estonia. The battering of the face described by Elsa’s sister contradicts the report, but it’s inconceivable that it hadn’t been noticed in Estonia. The only possible explanation is that Rosco got to that body and made sure that identification was going to be a lot more difficult. Hardly a fullproof plan, but perhaps that was just because he was no master criminal. He was just a drunk cop trying desperately to cover for himself.

  He’s not even particularly covering up that he was more involved. I don’t see any deceit or artifice from him. He’s just not talking. The effect is the same, nevertheless. Rosco, inevitably under the circumstances, knows more than I do, and he’s unwilling to share.

  Back into the office, time to get to the root of another issue at the heart of the case. Suddenly it feels like I’m in a groove where things are starting to fall into place. All there’s been, however, is some logical thinking on my part, and one aspect of that logical thinking backed up by Margaret Williams. I need to guard against pieces of information seemingly going my way, when it could just be me fitting them into the narrative that I’ve carefully constructed around the available information.

  Take a seat at my desk. Opposite, where usually sits Natterson, is Sergeant Sutherland. He’s eating a bacon roll. He nods, his mouth full of food, and shrugs an apology.

  ‘That’s OK. How are you getting on?’

  He slurps some tea, wipes the corner of his mouth with his shirt cuff.

  ‘Sorry, the boss said I should sit here since we’re working the case together. Feels a little…’

  ‘Makes sense, don’t worry about it. What have you got?’

  ‘This guy, Solomon, can’t find any mention of him. He really did just disappear.’

  ‘When was the last time his passport was used?’

  ‘Didn’t have a passport.’

  ‘That’s pretty unusual in itself, I’d have thought. I mean, he sounds like he was quite well off, they were generally a well off crowd.’

  ‘Aye. Wonder what he did with himself while all the others went to Verbier for skiing in February.’

  ‘Last official mention you can find? Last bill paid, last anything?’

  ‘Well, bill paid, you know, there are direct debits, so the bills are still getting paid. Still got a house.’

  ‘You’ve been round?’

  ‘Aye. Got someone in Aberdeen to have a look. It’s locked, there’s nothing to see. They said it’s pretty apparent, even without breaking in, that no one’s been there in a long time. I would have thought that his parents might have done something about it, but they didn’t even mention it.’

  ‘Last credit card bills, last bank withdrawal? Last time he used the phone?’

  ‘This is where it gets interesting.’

  ‘Good. Interesting’s good.’

  ‘He last used his phone and made a cash withdrawal from a UK machine on the same day that Emily King and John Baden left the country for Estonia. He was in London.’

  ‘So this was several months after his mum had heard from him?’

  ‘Yes, but I think we can take from what she said, that he didn’t care much for contact with them. The long gaps in communication were just part of his relationship. And–’

  ‘One of those people who just thinks–’

  ‘–And the last use of his credit card was four days later in Estonia.’

  Having imparted his main piece of information, he then takes another large bite out of the roll. Ketchup oozes out the other side.

  ‘You’re right, Sergeant, that is interesting. But why… why didn’t the police find that out at the time?’

  ‘At the time his parents filed the initial report, he definitely wasn’t missing. He was just a guy who hadn’t called his mum. Then later, when the parents tried to ramp it up, they brought the complaint up here.’

  ‘To this station?’

  ‘Yes. It would have landed on Rosco’s desk.’

  ‘Seems like everything landed on Rosco’s desk,’ I say.

  ‘Doesn’t everything land on your desk?’ he asks, with absolute common sense.

  I nod. He’s right. Every potentially criminal case passes across the desk of the Detective Inspector, and it’s his or her call on how high it will be staffed. Rosco could have kept anything to himself that he felt like keeping.

  ‘I think the more we get into this case, the more we’re going to find that every time we have a question on why something was done in a slightly peculiar way, the answer is liable to be Rosco.’

  ‘We should go back and speak to him,’ he says.

  I nod. That’s certainly what we need to do, but I’m wary at the moment, since he’s so liable to be inebriated.

  ‘So, where d’you think Solomon is?’ asks Sutherland.

  I wave a slightly dismissive hand.

  ‘I think, by a not too outlandish stretch of the imagination, we can assume that his body was wrongly identified twelve years ago a
s John Baden, and then cremated to make sure no one was able to prove otherwise.’

  Sutherland smiles slightly, nodding the whole time. He takes another bite of roll as he looks down, his eyes flitting between two pieces of paper.

  ‘I can see it,’ he says, then he lifts them both and hands them over.

  Separate photographs of Baden and Solomon, placed side by side.

  ‘They were of similar build,’ he says. ‘Solomon’s hair looks longer here, but that doesn’t mean anything.’

  Pause for a moment, to try to formulate, rather than speak. Stare at the two photographs. If they were bloated and discoloured and beaten, would you really be able to tell the difference? Well, a parent would. And a lover, you’d think. But there will be no bringing Emily King in for questioning.

  ‘We need something… we need to speak to the mother. Where did you say she lived?’

  ‘Some part of Glasgow. Don’t really know it.’

  ‘Everyone’s just dotted around Scotland, aren’t they? It’d be so much easier if they were all in Inverness or something.’

  I look up. Sutherland takes another bite of bacon roll, a bite which ends up with him stuffing the remainder of it into his mouth.

  From nowhere I suddenly think of Nat, and of Ellen, at home with her two children. Should I go and see her again? Her mother ought to be here already, and she also mentioned her brother, but even so. I’m the face of the station in this, and I shouldn’t just forget her because I already went over there once.

  Mind on the job.

  ‘It’d also be easier if we still had the body. Rosco, and presumably Emily King, knew what they were doing. We need to speak to Fisher about how the corpse’s DNA ended up being Baden’s DNA. See if she’s got anywhere.’

  ‘Think she was out on a domestic this morning,’ says Sutherland, finally finishing his mouthful and draining his mug of tea. ‘Saw her briefly. Ultimately, though, it kind of tells itself, doesn’t it? Rosco must have been in on it. The most straightforward explanation is that Emily King gives Rosco a piece of Baden’s hair. Could have been off a brush. Rosco sends it off to the lab. The DNA goes on the file as having come from the corpse. Rosco might have had to play a few dodgy cards to pull it off, but it’s hardly inconceivable.’

  Nodding, long before Sutherland has finished talking.

  ‘Likely bang on,’ I say.

  Last look at the photographs, which I realise I’m now just staring blankly at without taking anything in, then pass them back across the desk to Sutherland. Sit for a few moments, contemplating how this will work out, but it’s impossible to tell.

  Shake my head, decide that the brief period of prevarication is over.

  ‘Right, we need to bring Rosco in. I’m going to go and speak to the Chief. Can you call Hunter’s in Evanton – he works there as security – and see what his shifts are this week? Then we need to spend some time looking over the paperwork from twelve years ago, making sure we know where we can pin him down.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  And off in to see the Chief.

  36

  Quinn was better today. More focused. Asked relevant questions about the investigation, didn’t just blindly stare off into the far distance of the office. He tends not to form opinions on cases, when the facts such as we know them are presented to him. Happy to act on the word of his detectives.

  As ever, the shadow crossed his face when Rosco was mentioned, and he no more than I likes the idea of him being brought in for questioning on a matter that isn’t just drunken behaviour. The police tribunal went over Rosco’s career and pulled it to shreds already. Why wouldn’t they have found this?

  Still, it doesn’t really matter whether he’s guilty of something or not. The events that are taking place now are a reaction to what happened twelve years ago, and he’s one of the people who we need to ask questions of in an attempt to break down the walls.

  Met Fisher on the way out of the station. She said exactly what Sutherland had just surmised. The DNA came from Baden’s hair. Simple as that.

  Worryingly Rosco had done just what he told me he usually did when he knew he was going on a drunken binge. He’d booked time off work. The entire week, on this occasion. He must have thought this one would be particularly bad.

  Sutherland and I head out the station, on the way to his house. It’s a short walk, but we take the car, as maybe we’ll have to bring him back here in a drunken heap to sober up.

  * * *

  We seem to spend our lives as police officers knocking on doors that won’t open. It’s a metaphor probably. We didn’t really expect to get in. I don’t expect anything other than to find Rosco exceptionally drunk. Indeed, our best hope is that he’s unconscious, then we can drag him into a cell, and feed him liquids while he sobers up.

  That was the main reason we called the estate agent from whom Rosco rents his house. Used our police powers of persuasion to get the guy to come into the office and give us the key. So much easier than bursting a door in. It’s a small town, everyone knows the score. We didn’t say it, but they know that if the police are looking for the key to Rosco’s house, then Rosco is more than likely drunk. We got the key.

  ‘I’ll take this as a good sign,’ I say, as we stand with our backs to the door, looking between the buildings to the sliver of the Firth that’s visible.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I hate the thought of him drunk and aggressive. I really don’t want you to have to wrestle him to the ground.’

  ‘Me?’

  I give Sutherland a bit of a glance.

  ‘I didn’t bring you along so you could get lunch in.’

  Sutherland rolls his eyes and turns back to the door. He knocks again, but it’s been over a minute. It’s not like he’s living in a mansion and has to walk the length of a couple of football fields to get here.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I say.

  Sutherland opens the door and in we go, me first.

  Stand for a moment. Stairs lead straight up in front of us. To the side a short hallway, two rooms off, then the kitchen. Upstairs, the estate agent told us, two small bedrooms and a bathroom.

  ‘Rosco!’

  We pause for a second, but no reply is expected and none comes. Walk into the dining room. There’s a small table, with one chair. The unpleasant smell is much stronger, and sure enough, there he is, like he could have written it himself. Rosco, face down on the floor, and from the smell and the discolouration on the carpet, face down in a pool of his own sick at that.

  ‘Crap. Sergeant, see if you can haul him up. I’ll go and get him some water, and get the kettle on.’

  I walk through to the kitchen. A few empties beside the bin, vodka mostly. One dirty plate in the sink. Two mugs waiting to be washed, a few glasses.

  The window looks out onto a small yard, surrounded by a wooden fence. The only things in the yard are a green council bin and an empty plant pot. Behind the fence, and blocking any outlook, is the end of another block of terraced houses, running perpendicular to this one. There’s one window visible, small with a net curtain.

  No wonder he drinks. I’d go and live in a tent in the Cairngorms rather than this.

  I hear footsteps and I know. I know already. I knew even as the words were coming out of my mouth. See if you can haul him up.

  Why did I even bother? He’s dead. Knew it as soon as I looked at him. But it was as though I’d been expecting to find him face down, unconscious through alcohol, and that was what it looked like we’d found. So I followed that narrative, knowing that we’d found something much worse.

  I turn and look at Sutherland. He realises from the look on my face that I know already.

  ‘How long?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d have to say at least twelve hours, sir. Quite possibly longer. The smell isn’t just the vomit.’

  Poor bastard. And there he goes, more than likely taking his secrets with him. Which is a thought. If he had secrets, isn’t it possible that someone else wa
nted him dead. That just because he had a self-destruct button, and he had foreshadowed his own demise when talking to me the other day, it doesn’t mean that someone else didn’t kill him.

  ‘Any sign that it was anything other than how it looks?’

  ‘You mean…? What do you mean?’

  ‘People have been dying because of this Baden case, Sergeant.’

  ‘I don’t think he was murdered, sir. At least, there’s nothing obvious. Looks like… it’s almost a cliché, sir. Looks like he drowned in his own vomit.’

  ‘Aye, OK. Sanderson can check it out. Put the call in, please.’

  Sutherland nods, takes out his phone and walks through into the hallway. I stand at the sink and look out at the pale, fading blue fence, no more than three yards away, the curtained window of the house above it. All he could see from his kitchen window. Trapped.

  The same as anyone here, there would have been nothing stopping him getting on his bike and being at the top of Wyvis, or halfway up Strathconon, should he have wanted to. But Rosco wasn’t that kind of man. Rosco was trapped looking at his fading fence, and he was never going anywhere else.

  * * *

  I leave Sutherland behind to deal with the estate agent and the beginning of the post-death wrap-up. Stand for a moment at the end of the street leading to the station, then decide I need more space to think.

  Walk through town along High Street, take a left down past the old houses and across the railway tracks. Heading towards the water.

  There’s an air of gradual decline about the town at the moment. Maybe it’s the same everywhere. Austerity Britain, slowly fading away, like a seventeenth-century painting, losing its colour over time.

  Along the path by the old canal, behind the football stadium. There are a few players out at the back, being drilled around a single small goalmouth. I stand and watch them for a minute, listen to the shouts and the cajoling, a coach standing to the side, a whistle in his hand, barking instructions.

  Move on, get down to the water, where the River Conan meets the Firth. Stand watching the tide slowly making its way in, hands in pockets.

 

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