Into the Dark

by Stuart Johnstone

  There was no reply, so she walked straight to the kitchen expecting the mess she ordinarily encountered, already mouthing her complaint. However, all she found was a half-finished cup of tea next to the sink. No plates, no ashtrays, no wineglass stained and reeking from last night’s tipple. Had he finally gotten the message?

  She washed the cup then opened the cleaning cupboard in the hall and set about her routine of dusting and vacuuming. She worked from the bottom up as usual, leaving the bedroom until last. At one time, she had been told, three priests would have lived in this grand old house, yards from the chapel. As it was, Father McCauley was left to rattle around on his own. He was Nan’s second priest in her time cleaning for St Mary Star of the Sea Church. He was messier than Father Kaminski, but at least he was full of cheer and chat. She always felt like she was intruding with Father Kaminski.

  Nan ignored the unused bedrooms, they only needed cleaning once a month at most, and moved on to Father McCauley’s. She chapped on the closed door, though assumed he had already left for the morning. Unusual, though not unheard of. With no reply she pushed the door and stepped into the dark room. The curtains were closed and as she pulled them wide the spilling light revealed a made bed. This was a first. She instantly felt pleased as she dusted the bedside cabinet, then guilt set in. It had been something of a routine between the pair of them; Nan asking Father McCauley if he’d ever heard of such a thing on God’s green earth as a coaster, or was there some commandment: ‘Thou shall not lift a finger to clean up after thou-self’, always met with a mumble of amused dismissal or a none-too subtle eye roll. Clearly, though, something had dropped and now she wasn’t sure how to feel about it. She had felt a little redundant cleaning up after the fastidious Father Kaminski, like she spent most of her time hunting dust rather than being in any way useful. Maybe she’d speak to Father McCauley, make it clear she’d only been complaining in jest.

  Nan tidied away the vacuum and set the washing machine. The cycle would be done by the time she’d finished cleaning the church itself. She crossed the courtyard to the back door of the church and pulled at the door, but found it locked. Strange, she thought, maybe he’s gone on an errand? She pushed her shoulder into the door as she turned the key, a muscle-memory motion she’d learned over the past fourteen years which saved punishing your wrist on the sticky lock. She felt the familiarly satisfying clunk of the lock giving.

  She entered and pulled the door closed behind her. The smell of incense hung thick in the air. Catholics didn’t use it every week, she’d learned, but when they did, it filled every corner of the building. She liked the smell, though it made the back of your throat dry to be around it for too long. She set the hot tap running in the utility area and filled the mop bucket, then wheeled it through the swing doors into the church aisle. The smell of pine disinfectant displaced the incense as she sloshed the mop in the bucket. She had just pushed the mop forward on the floor when she stopped. Something was lying at the far end of the aisle. She pushed her glasses a little further up her nose and tried to focus. Whatever it was seemed to glisten in the morning light. Nan took a few steps and stopped again, leaning the shaft of the mop against a pew. Something made her hesitate. The colour. She tried to take in what she was seeing. It was spherical and a deep red. It looked like a watermelon if somehow you managed to remove all of the skin and leave the round flesh intact. Nan was beginning to convince herself that’s exactly what it was, wet and crimson, as she began walking towards it once more.

  Nan was halfway down the aisle when she saw that the thing was not just a ball, it was in fact attached to something. Three more steps and she saw that it was attached to the shoulders of Father McCauley.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Forensic Strategy

  Alyson reached across the coffee table to accept the mug being passed to her. Her mother eyed her arm as she did. Aly should have known better than to wear a sleeveless blouse.

  ‘You need to lay off those weights, Alyson. How are you going to get a man if you’ve bigger muscles than they have? It’s intimidating.’

  How long since she last played this broken record; three, maybe four weeks? ‘Mum, I couldn’t give a shit if men are intimidated.’ Alyson selected a chocolate finger from the plate of biscuits; maybe because she just fancied one, or maybe because they were her mother’s favourite.

  ‘You should give a shit. You should give a very big shit indeed.’ Her mother turned back towards the television where some woman was silently trying to sell the nation some scented candles. How this home shopping channel quite managed that through a screen, Alyson had no idea. Though looking around the living room at the motley of knick-knacks, glassware and, yes, scented bloody candles, she suspected they were doing a pretty good job.

  ‘You need to get out more, Mum. Less QVC and more fresh air.’

  ‘And turn into a hulking brute like you? I think not.’

  ‘Mum, you’re not going grow a pair of biceps by going for an hour’s walk once a day.’

  ‘I get my exercise, stop fussing.’

  ‘What exercise?’

  Her mother shifted in her seat, irritably. ‘I meet with the girls twice a week and I have my book club at Ailsa’s on a Thursday. I walk there.’

  ‘Mum, Ailsa lives three streets away and you walk because the pair of you get through three bottles of pinot while you’re discussing the book none of you have read. And meeting the girls for coffee and cake is not the same as getting some proper—’

  ‘I’ll start jogging when you stop pumping iron and scaring the boys away. Look at that, I can see the veins in your arm. It’s not right. It’s not … feminine.’

  Alyson’s phone buzzed and beeped from her jacket pocket to rescue her. She lifted the jacket and took it through to the kitchen before she answered, leaning her back against the fridge. It was Duncan.

  ‘What’s going on, boss? Don’t tell me I’ve got my shift wrong? I’m not supposed to be in until three.’ She checked the time on the microwave: 12.22.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said. His voice was hurried, though not angry.

  ‘I’m at my … I’m not late, am I? I’m sure I was on a back shift.’

  ‘You’re not late. Something’s come up. How quickly can you get to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Edinburgh? Again? Is it this old fucker again?’

  ‘Alyson, be quiet and answer the question. How long before you can get there?’

  ‘I … I dunno. An hour and a half at least. I’m in Ardrossan, at my mum’s. I’ll leave right now. Where am I going?’

  ‘We’re meeting at Leith Police Station. Be as quick as you can.’

  It was an hour and a half before Alyson even reached the outskirts of Edinburgh. Her phone, propped on her dash, told her it was another twenty-eight minutes to Leith and once there she couldn’t figure out where to park; everything was metered. She abandoned her car, knowing she’d be returning to a ticket and ran inside, explaining to the desk sergeant who she was. She could feel her blouse sticking to her back with sweat. She was directed to the first floor and the last office at the end of the corridor. She could hear there was animated conversation within the room from halfway along the corridor, and it was only as she turned the handle and pushed the door open that she realised just how badly she needed to pee.

  When she stepped through the door, she was met with silence. Blood rushed to her cheeks and her voice failed in her throat. There were at least a dozen people sat around a table, maybe fifteen, staring at her. At first she didn’t think she knew a single face, that maybe she’d just made a complete dick of herself by barging into the wrong meeting, but then, someone in the corner cleared their throat. Duncan. He beckoned her with a flick of the head. She closed the door and was relieved as the chatter started up once more.

  She ducked her head and started towards Duncan. There were many voices trying to be heard at once, but only one winner: DCI Kate Templeton. Alyson hadn’t seen her when she entered, but now she was unmistakeabl
e. She wasn’t on her feet, but sat with her back perfectly straight, which was enough to have her looking down on most heads. ‘As I was—AS I was saying,’ she barked to hush the others. ‘A current and ongoing investigation supersedes a new inquiry. Not that—would you let me fucking speak, thank you. Not that this is a new inquiry, simply a development of our own.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Alyson whispered to Duncan as she drew up a chair next to him. A man she didn’t know moved to the side to allow her to squeeze in, but did not look happy about it. Another DS, she saw from the warrant card around his neck.

  ‘Right now, it’s a pissing contest. I’ll explain everything later, but a body was discovered this morning. An initial examination has linked it to our inquiry.’

  ‘Shit, here in Edinburgh? Another child?’

  ‘Obviously here in Edinburgh. No, not a kid,’ said Duncan.

  A tall, balding man sitting opposite DCI Templeton was responding to her declaration, his finger slamming into the table for emphasis. ‘You were invited here out of professional courtesy. That you have an open inquiry does not detract from the fact that a murder occurred in my city, bloody yards from where we’re sitting, and if you think I’m about to step aside and let you lot waltz in here like you own the bloody place—’

  ‘I’m sorry, does your pay cheque read something different to mine? Is yours in some fucking time warp and come headed ‘Lothian and Borders’? No, I think fucking not. This is Police Scotland. This case is attached to my inquiry and I am the senior investigating officer,’ Templeton replied.

  ‘Just typical. Just bloody typical of you people,’ said another officer. Unlike DCI Templeton, he was in dress uniform. Alyson strained to get a look at his shoulders, then saw that he was a superintendent, effectively Templeton’s superior.

  DCI Templeton sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, before releasing one to gesture across the room. ‘Do you want to tell us all what you mean by that comment?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean,’ the superintendent replied.

  ‘Actually, you’ll have to excuse my ignorance. I have no idea what you’re alluding to. Please enlighten me.’

  Alyson had an idea of what he was getting at, which probably meant Templeton knew, fine and well. There was a pause while the superintendent chewed it over. It seemed like he’d thought better of it when it suddenly spilled from his mouth. ‘You fucking Strathclyde lot. You haven’t the first clue what it means to collaborate, only to take over. The whole lot of you are nothing but playground bullies. If you think I’m going to let you fucking Glaswegians run roughshod over my inquiry, you’re in for shock, lady.’

  There it was. It was an old complaint, probably running prior to the amalgamation of the Scottish police forces in 2013, but since then it was a tangible resentment that would rear its head whenever events spilled over old borders. The general opinion was that during the amalgamation there was little in the way of merging and more that everyone else was brought under the banner of Strathclyde, the largest of the forces. In Alyson’s experience, most officers who’d joined prior to 2003 still very much saw themselves as fighting under different, obsolete flags.

  ‘I think you’ll find that this is my inquiry. It is your job to investigate on my behalf. Don’t ever lose sight of that. It is my ball and I will decide who gets to play with it. Understood?’ said an older lad in plain clothes.

  There was an instant ‘Yes, ma’am’ from both DCI Templeton and the superintendent without a hint of gripe or sarcasm, making Alyson wonder who this woman was.

  ‘That’s the PF,’ Duncan said, maybe seeing the question on Alyson’s face.

  The procurator fiscal now stood. She was a short woman, with a bob of red hair and square-framed glasses. There was something of a librarian about her. She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes, before replacing them and leafing through the papers in front of her.

  ‘How certain are we that this is the same suspect as the Bradley case?’ she said.

  ‘We can be absolutely certain. The prints from the knife are nice and clear. They’ve been checked and they’re a match for prints found on the body in the Bradley case,’ Templeton replied.

  ‘You agree with this?’ The PF was talking to a man at the far end of the table, a few seats down from Alyson. He stood and confirmed that they were in the ninety-ninth percentile, then sat again.

  ‘In that case, the Bradley team will head up this inquiry, too. I want this air-tight and I can’t see anything but confusion and the doubling of workload if we separate this into two teams. Superintendent Hadley, you will make every resource available to DCI Templeton, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. The superintendent stood, which prompted a chorus of chair scraping as half the room did likewise, and moved to leave. Alyson stifled a laugh when she saw DCI Templeton wink at him as he gathered his hat from the table.

  Once the door was closed over the PF addressed the room, though Alyson felt she was probably addressing her directly, due to her being late.

  ‘For those of you who missed introductions, I’ll quickly go around the table once more. I am Patricia Ewing, Procurator Fiscal for Edinburgh. Senior investigating officer, as we just dramatically established, is Detective Chief Inspector Kate Templeton and her team.’

  DCI Templeton, reading from papers in front of her, didn’t look up, rather just waved a hand in their general direction. ‘DS Cunningham, who is the designated crime scene manager, and DC Kane.’

  ‘Thank you. From Edinburgh University Chemistry department is Doctor Simon Fischer. He’ll be liaising with our CSM DS Cunningham, and our representative from Scenes of Crime, Derek McEwan.’ The men raised a hand as their names were announced.

  ‘I’m going to pass on to DCI Templeton, who will give us some insights into the previous crime scene and what we might expect from today. Kate.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Templeton and stood, taking one last look at the sheet she was holding then laying it in front of her. ‘If our first crime scene is any indication of what we can expect, then we are looking at an absolute playground of evidence. The decision was made, earlier today, to do an initial sweep of the locus. While that may well have fucked with my scene to a degree, I have to say I accept and endorse that decision. The weapon which is likely to have been used was found at the locus and since we had no way of knowing if we had some madman on the loose, that knife was recovered and prints taken, which is how we find ourselves in your fair city. The rest of the scene is as found by our witness, Josephine Wilson.

  ‘The victim is Father Brian McAuley, a seventy-one-year-old Catholic priest. Pronounced dead at 10.12 a.m. this morning. As it stands, there have been seven persons entering the crime scene, which is seven more than is ideal. Our witness, two beat officers, one detective, two paramedics and a police surgeon. I’m passing around sketches of our locus. A common path will be set up through the rear entrance of the church, this being the entry point of the witness and therefore our best hope to preserve as much of the scene as possible.’

  Alyson took a copy of the sheets passing around and handed the rest on. A floor plan, sketched in black pen, showed the church on Constitution Street, it really was right around the corner from where they were sitting.

  ‘As you can see,’ Templeton continued, ‘the main section of the church is wide and we’re looking at a pretty complicated internal due to the pews and whatnot, so we’ll take it slowly and methodically. The one major drawback to the discovery of our victim, is our witness was cleaning as she entered, and has likely obliterated some seriously fucking important evidence. Specifically the sink area marked on your sheets, which was scrubbed clean before she entered the main section. Can’t be helped, but very fucking frustrating.

  ‘Now, one last thing before we head out. I don’t know many of you. My team works predominantly in the Glasgow area, so I’m sorry if this is patronising, but I’ll say it anyway. Th
e scene you’re about to enter has been described as particularly disturbing. No one will blame you if you need to step out to take a breath. OK. I’ll now hand control over to Crime Scene Manager DS Cunningham.’

  It wasn’t Alyson’s first crime scene. It wasn’t even her first murder – but she was nervous as the van pulled up to the blue and white tape. It seemed pointless driving to the church. It would have been quicker to walk since they had to negotiate a bizarre system around the roadworks extending Edinburgh’s ‘fucking tram system’, as the detective sitting next to her on the short journey over had described it, the same guy who’d sat next to her in the forensic strategy meeting. He and one other officer had been begrudgingly assigned by the superintendent to assist with the inquiry, providing local knowledge and likely doubling as spies in the camp. The unmarked vehicles they travelled in were also given over after more grumbling and some cajoling from the PF. A bitter little exchange at the rear yard of the Leith police office ensued. At the end of which DCI Templeton had suggested to the superintendent, out of earshot of most, though not Alyson and Duncan, that they might go ahead and play a quick game of Fuck Off, and that he, the superintendent, should go first. Time would tell if she would get away with that one.

  They were let through the cordon by a fresh-faced uniformed officer and down a tight alleyway at the side of the church which led to a pleasant courtyard at the rear; a square piece of ground, shielded from the noises of the city. A statue of Christ, his arms open wide, stood behind a trimmed hedge and in front of another building. The three vans pulled into a small parking area clear of both buildings.

  Alyson stepped out of the van into warm sunshine. She allowed herself a second to present her face, eyes closed, to the warm light, considering it in some way inappropriate in the face of what they were about to walk into.