It was a vow he’d kept for five years now. The very thought of having a father rarely crossed his mind, so for the man to have died was no great loss. But Lucy needed him. He’d stand by her at the funeral.
But I won’t shed a single tear.
~-o0O0o-~
Detective Inspector Roberts was having his second bad day in a row, and he had a feeling he still hadn’t seen the last of them. He’d got the call yesterday morning just as he was getting out of bed.
Multiple homicide. Not exactly words to bring joy to a policeman’s heart.
The young WPC who had to make the call had faced the brunt of his morning grump before the import of her words had set in. That, and the mention that a Davis family member might be one of the victims, was finally enough to get his attention.
He’d known it was going to be a bad one from the looks on the faces of the younger officers. For many of them it was their first ever murder, never mind their first bad one. Roberts had mentally hardened himself on entering the room, putting on a protective shell that had served him well for many years during his stint in Glasgow. But even years of seeing the atrocities that drunks and addicts could afflict on each other hadn’t prepared him for this.
He hadn’t been able to stay in that room long. Just long enough to know it was a mess of epic proportions. After that the time had been one long blur of interviews, statements, tears and recriminations.
And we still don’t have a suspect.
From where he sat now, in an adjoining office, he only had to look to his left to see two white-suited forensic men on their knees scrutinising the carpets.
Looking for bits.
Above the men the walls were splatter-sprayed with blood, and on the boardroom table there sat, neatly wrapped, cellophane packets of what looked like meat... of a kind. Five separate piles, red and wetly glistening through the wrapping with the occasional streak of pink fatty tissue showing. Roberts knew, although he couldn’t see from where he sat, that it was even worse than it looked from here. While he’d been standing in the room, his back to the knocked-over projector screen, he’d caught a glimpse of something and moved to have a closer look at the parcelled meat. Two eyes had looked back at him from the middle of a pack. But that wasn’t the worst thing.
One of the eyes was blue, the other dark brown,
They’re from two different people.
He’d beat a strategic retreat from the room on his first visit, walking slowly, trying to keep his face impassive to set an example for the younger men. But inside he was screaming, and even now, more than a day later, he could feel the panic just waiting to take hold of him. He put his head in his hands and moaned softly.
Why me?
He’d been a copper long enough to know that murder could happen anywhere, at any time. But since leaving Glasgow more than three years ago he’d been mercifully spared most of the degradation he’d seen in the city, and he’d almost come to believe that he would be able to coast comfortably to a long anticipated retirement.
Whoever had caused the bloody carnage in the boardroom had put paid to that dream. A case like this was going to attract all kinds of attention, from the top brass, from the public, and from the press. The Scottish Highlands were in for a cluster-fuck of epic proportions.
And I’m right in the middle of it.
He ran his hands through his hair and wondered if he still had the will to see the job done properly. He’d got used to the slower pace of life here, the quietness and the solitude seeping into his soul. It had been a long time since he’d had to face much more than a domestic disturbance or a case of teenage vandalism. To be thrust once again into the howling face of real evil was going to be a strain on his already ageing faculties.
But who else is there? The others are all too young, or too soft. They’ve never faced anything like this before. No old man -- it’s time to stand up and do what you signed up for in the first place. There’s a bogeyman here to be caught.
A soft knock on the door disturbed his reverie. Looking up, he saw Sergeant MacLeod standing there. The man looked sick around the gills and had the air of someone who would rather be anywhere else but here.
I know just how he feels.
“Unless it’s good news, I don’t want to hear it,” Roberts said. But he already knew what was coming wasn’t anything good.
“Best cover your ears then Boss,” D.S. MacLeod replied. “Forensics have drawn a blank so far. No prints, no fibres, no signs of forced entry...”
Roberts interrupted him.
“And no murder weapon. Christ, what a mess.”
Roberts ran his hands through his hair again. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed with tiredness, as if he hadn’t slept for a week.
And it might be a week yet before I see a bed again.
“Have we got ID. on all the victims yet?” he asked.
D.S. MacLeod shook his head.
“Jessie confirmed who was at the meeting. But it’ll take DNA tests to ID. the... the...” The Sergeant became even paler and looked nauseous. He nodded towards the packets of meat on the desk. “...you know what I mean?”
Roberts spared him having to spell it out.
“Aye son. I know,” he said softly. “How is Jessie?”
The Sergeant seemed relieved at having a different topic of conversation, although his eyes kept returning to the meat on the table as he spoke.
“She’s still heavily sedated. It’s a hell of a thing for a cleaner to walk in on.”
“A hell of a thing for anybody to walk in on,” Roberts said. He too couldn’t look away from the meat, nor get his mind off the implications of what had been done.
MacLeod’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Have you ever seen anything like it guv?”
Roberts stood and stretched his back before replying.
“Son, I don’t think anybody’s ever seen anything like it. It’s a mess all right. And it’s all ours.”
He had one last look at the packaged meat, and a cold shudder ran through him. His copper’s instincts told him that this wasn’t the last meat he’d be encountering on this case.
Time to get to work.
“Make sure there’s somebody there when Jessie is ready to talk,” he said. “We’ll need a full statement from her.”
D.S. MacLeod nodded. He seemed less agitated now that he had been given something concrete to attend to. That was something Roberts knew of old. The best thing for a squad on a case like this was to keep them all working hard, and stop them thinking -- in particular stop them thinking of the meat in the boardroom.
Now all I have to do is get myself to do the same.
“Anything else to report?” he asked the Sergeant.
The Sergeant shook his head.
“Not yet. Forensics will be working on it for a while. It’s like a giant jigsaw puzzle... with bits missing. The only bit of luck we’ve had is that the press haven’t got wind of it yet.”
“Thank Christ for small mercies,” Roberts replied. “Things are bad enough without having that bunch of vultures camped at the doorstep. That’s a diversion we can well do without.”
He made for the corridor, studiously averting his eyes from the boardroom.
“Any news on the next of kin of the Duncan man?”
MacLeod checked his notebook.
“They should be at the house in Inverurie around now Boss. Want to talk to them right away?”
Roberts shook his head.
“Maybe later. For now I need a smoke. Are you coming for some air?”
“I’ll get myself a coffee,” the Sergeant said, trying and not quite succeeding in raising a smile. “I’ve been standing too close to you. My mouth tastes like an ashtray.”
The Inspector couldn’t find it in himself to be flippant in return.
“All I can taste is blood. Too much blood.”
One of the forensic team looked up as they passed the boardroom door. He shook his head. He didn’t have to do anythin
g else -- Roberts knew what it meant.
No clues, no leads - up shit creek without a paddle.
He lit up a cigarette as soon as he stepped outside the door and onto the car parking area outside the office. On the way in he’d been in too much of a rush and hadn’t taken in his surroundings. It was his first time on this particular site, and as he smoked he surveyed the area.
The office sat in the courtyard of what had once been a large old farm building. It was obvious that a lot of money had gone into modernising the landscaping and paved area, and squat modern sheds spoke of more money being spent, and recently. Two police cars and a white van sat in the yard, but apart from Roberts everything was quiet and still, with nothing to tell of the massacre in the boardroom above.
He took a deep draw of the cigarette, and coughed. He tried again, but it only made the cough worse. Disgusted, he ground the butt out beneath his heel. The gravel scraped, the sound too loud in the quiet yard.
An answering clatter, like wood on metal, came from inside one of the sheds.
Roberts walked towards the shed, then stopped. Silence had fallen again.
Maybe just some wind, banging a branch against the shed.
He turned away, his hand automatically reaching for the cigarette packet in his pocket.
The noise came again, louder this time, closer. This time there was a definite rhythm to it.
That’s no wind in the branches. There’s somebody there.
And whoever was there, they had crossed the cordon to get in. All the staff had been sent home the day before, and the only people being allowed in were police and forensics.
If it’s a fucking reporter I’ll have his card.
He was more cautious now as he walked toward the source of the noise. It wasn’t just reporters he had to worry about. He knew from experience that killers often returned to the scene of their crimes. Sometimes they were compelled to see what they had made. In some ways he hoped it was the killer. He was close to bursting with the need to make someone pay for the atrocity in the boardroom, and his hands curled into fists at the thought of dishing out some rough justice.
“This is a crime scene. You shouldn’t be in there,” he shouted. He had now identified the source of the noise at least. It was coming from the large shed directly in front of him.
The clattering rose to an almost frenzied drumming, echoing around him as he reached the shed. Roberts pushed open the huge sliding door, having to put his shoulder into it while it squealed and complained.
Everything fell silent as he walked into the shed. It was an abattoir, all gleaming metal hooks, stainless steel troughs and flenshing blades. Everything looked sparkling and clean, as if it had just been washed out with hot water and soap, but the smell was there - it would always be there - the faint tang of old blood and fear. He took a step inside, bracing himself for the possibility of an attack.
Nothing moved.
“Hello?” he shouted, feeling self-conscious in the large open area. Suddenly it felt like he’d farted in church. Indeed this empty space with its echoes of blood and death did remind him of fire and brimstone sermons in cold churches in his childhood.
In the far corner a black shadow shifted. Roberts started to move that way. The shadow seemed to run the length of the far wall, something grotesque and misshapen. The clattering returned, louder than ever. Roberts felt like he was trapped inside an oil drum while a maniac hit the outside of it with a hammer. His patience was growing thinner by the second.
“Come on out of there son. I don’t have time to be playing hunt the dickhead.”
Everything went quiet again. Roberts walked further into the abattoir.
The shadow ran across the far wall. All of Robert’s pent up frustration came out in a shout.
“You’re cruising for a bruising son. When I catch you, you’ll get a size twelve boot up your arse.”
He was answered by another sharp rattle of wood on metal, like a drum roll.
Everything fell still and quiet, again. The place went cold, a sudden temperature drop that sent a thin frost across all the metal surfaces, and once more Roberts was reminded of the cold stone of a church floor on winter mornings. He stood still, seeing his breath in the air in front of his nose.
A footstep sounded -- right behind him. He turned, raising his hands, aware even as he did so that he was too late to stop an attack.
D.S. MacLeod put a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.
“What are you doing in here Boss?”
Roberts looked around the shed. The frost had gone as quickly as it had come, and everything was once again quiet and still.
~-o0O0o-~
They’d got to Inverurie in the early afternoon. The journey from Aberdeen had been a silent one. Lucy was still giving Dave the full cold-shoulder treatment but that was something he was long used to - it had lasted nearly three weeks in the past, so he was more than prepared to wait. They got a cab from the station but the trip took less than two minutes before it deposited them in the driveway of a two-story house.
Dave had been expecting something less grand than the imposing building into which Lucy led him. The house looked like it had stood on the spot for centuries, its grey stone merging almost seamlessly with the soil underneath and, although the wind was biting and chill, a real log fire blazed in the hall he was led through. It was only as she was entering the main room that Lucy finally spoke, and her tone was terse and cold.
“The farm is about five miles away - out in the sticks.” Her nose actually lifted in the air, as she forgot that their house in Derbyshire, Dad’s folly, was at least six miles from the nearest large town. Dave didn’t get time to enlighten her. “The police station is out that way as well. We’ll go there tomorrow morning if they don’t contact us first,” she said.
Dave was shown to a bedroom where he unpacked his bag - it didn’t take long. He changed into a clean pair of jeans and a heavy pullover to inure himself against the chill of the Highland air and headed downstairs to find a drink. He was to be disappointed. The large drinks cabinet in the main room was locked tight, and there was no sign of Lucy. He opened and closed doors to cupboards, pantries and lavatories until he found a large country-style kitchen. Father obviously had someone doing for him, as the place was neat and tidy, with all the cupboards well stocked with tins, dried rice and beans, cake and biscuits. The fridge was also well provisioned, with meat, eggs and milk.
But still no booze.
He went back upstairs and rapped on Lucy’s bedroom door.
“Go away,” she shouted. “I need some peace and quiet. I’ll make us something to eat later.”
It wasn’t eating that Dave had in mind. Now that the hangover was gone he found that more booze was exactly what he required to get through what was turning into a trip down all his yesterdays. It occurred to him that the booze was the one thing he shared with the old man, a thirst that was hard to quench.
I’ll thank him in hell.
He made another sweep of the downstairs rooms, and tried the drinks cabinet again, in case it was just stiff. But to no avail. He fetched his jacket and went out in search of oblivion. The sound of the door slamming behind him was like a gunshot, and he faintly heard Lucy shout, Bastard! That improved his mood as he walked out into the road and looked around.
At four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon the place was deserted. It looked to be a tidy enough little town, but it was far too quiet to be anywhere where Dave could stay these days. He’d spent enough time in his own head as a boy. These days he preferred noise and crowds, places where he could lose himself among others -- places where he didn’t have too much time to think - places not like this. The place was empty, with only the occasional old lady wrapped tight in an overcoat suggesting it wasn’t a Sunday. He wandered for a while, but didn’t find a bar and the thought of a pint of cold beer had grown big in his mind. He made his way back to the taxi rank at the station and collared the nearest driver.
“I’
m looking for a pub that’s open,” he said.
The driver looked him up and down.
“Are ye sure ye’re old enough to be drinking?” he said, but there was a smile on his lips as he said it. “Get in. I know the feeling when you’ve got a thirst.”
“Just the one,” Dave said. “Just a quiet pint is what I’m after.”
The driver laughed.
“I wish I had a pound for every time I’ve heard that line. Do ye know where ye want to go?” he asked as he started the car.
A name came to mind, a town Dave had only ever read about in Lucy’s letters. He remembered something about lunch in a local bar.
“Monymusk?” he said. “Is there a pub there?”
The driver laughed again. “So, the toon’s fame has even spread to England has it. Aye, I’ll take ye to Monymusk - but don’t be expecting anything fancy.”
The man drove like a demon, the needle approaching eighty on long straight stretches of road, only going below fifty on the corners. Dave watched the scenery and tried to seem nonchalant. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting - rugged hills, heather and cliffs were known from the television, but this corner of Scotland was green and lush, only occasional glimpses of distant mountains reminding him he wasn’t in Derbyshire. The cabbie kept up a constant flow of chat, but at such a speed and in such an accent that Dave caught less than half of it. He contented himself with grunting replies, hoping that he wasn’t agreeing to anything he shouldn’t.
They flashed past a thirty-miles-per-hour speed limit sign doing sixty, and Dave had a vague impression of a row of houses on either side of the road when they suddenly screeched to a halt outside a tiny whitewashed cottage.
Dave paid the driver, and got a business card in return.
“Give me a bell when ye need to get back,” the driver said. “It doesn’t do ye much good to be walking these roads in the dark.”
With that he left, the car bulleting off into the distance.
A cold wind whistled around Dave’s ankles, blowing a solitary crisp packet along in its wake. This town was even quieter than Inverurie. There was not a single person on the streets and there was no sign of life - not even a wisp of smoke from a chimney. But the small white cottage had a battered sign outside - The Twa Dugs, and the windows displayed faded posters for beers that had long since disappeared from the market.
The Auld Mither Page 2