The Depths

by Catriona King

  His frustration was clear and made Craig stifle a laugh. Anyone else would have been pleased about the extra security but for a hacker it was just an obstacle.

  “All the better to protect them against people like you, eh?”

  “You think? Anyway, I can hack them but it’ll take me a bit more time, so couldn’t we just ask his family for his passwords and access them the old-fashioned way?”

  “NO!”

  Craig softened his tone slightly. “Sorry, Ash, but no. Just keep hacking and get what you can, please. Pass me back to Davy.”

  The quieter voice of his senior analyst came back on the line. “Yes, chief?”

  “How’s everything going otherwise?”

  “Honestly? There’s still a lot to wade through. I’ve been given access to Derek Morrow’s stuff by his family so I’m on that now, and Mary’s been watching the CCTV.”

  “OK, I’ll speak to her in a minute, but I just wanted to say gather together whatever you have for lunchtime. I’ll be doing a mini-briefing then. Now, transfer me to my office.”

  His extension was answered quickly, but Craig could feel his constable’s hostility from her silence, although his past experience of her might have contributed to the impression as well.

  “Mary?”

  He didn’t know why he was phrasing it as a question; there should be no-one else in his office unless it’d been burgled since he’d left.

  “Yes.”

  Craig gave an exasperated sigh at her sulkiness and counted mentally to ten, only reaching five before he spoke again, deliberately quickly, any pauses likely to give her room to object.

  “Pierre Galvet. If you haven’t already begun researching his whereabouts I want you to do that as soon as you’ve completed what you’re doing. You know what to look for. You can return to your desk in an hour and I’ll need everything for the lunchtime briefing. Thanks.”

  He hung up before she could draw breath, knowing that neither his approach nor her hour long detention was mature management but not really giving a damn. He had too much to get through to waste his energy arguing with a huffy millennial, although the knowing look that Liam was giving him said that he could only delay dealing with Mary’s behaviour for so long.

  ****

  The West Mountain Quarry.

  Quarries are always a sorry sight, their stark appearances rarely enhanced by the bleakness of winter. High, brutally hewn walls, human beings and their machinery having none of nature’s eons of finesse, and at their bases dark, cold, stagnant water, its surface so filmed with algae that it might have lain undisturbed for decades.

  Andy knew that this quarry’s pool had been disturbed much more recently than that by Stuart Kincaid’s body, and now he watched as it was disturbed again, this time by rubber-suited human tadpoles rasping and gasping their way to its depths, placing all of their trust in artificial lights and tanks.

  The D.C.I. picked his way down and through the stone rubble at the water’s edge towards a small woman who looked like she was in charge, his hints taken from her dark trouser suit and the sunglasses shading her eyes from the pool’s reflected glare.

  “D.C.I. Angel, Murder Squad.”

  She smiled with her gaze still fixed on the water. “Inspector Ella Davis. Heading up the search. I take it you’re here to see what we’ve found.”

  “That would be great.”

  It prompted her to turn towards him, revealing a raw looking burn on her right cheek that she quickly explained away with, “Oxyacetylene torch slipped last week” as if it was something that happened every day, which it might well have done on her adventurous squad, and added, “You’re in luck on the finds. This way.”

  She motioned Andy back up the way he’d come and followed, until they reached a high-sided van alongside which men were stripping off their wetsuits to reveal full body thermals, and drying their barely-there shorn hair with worn police-issue towels.

  One quick rap and the back doors of the van opened revealing another officer, and a few murmured words later a sheet of plastic was laid out on its running board and on it were placed some items in clear evidence bags.

  Davis spoke again.

  “This is what we’ve found so far. Anything look useful?”

  Andy scanned the treasure trove and lit upon a, once black but now faded almost to grey, credit card. There was no doubt about it; the card had belonged to Stuart Kincaid. His name was embossed along its lower edge and its expiry date still hadn’t been reached.

  “This was our man’s. We’re still missing his phone, wallet and watch.”

  One of the undressing divers, now clothed in jeans and a jumper, piped up.

  “We’ve just retrieved a phone, Guv. Your old man has it.”

  Before Andy could say anything the inspector had called out to a large man hunkering at the pool’s perimeter.

  “DOUGIE. BRING THE PHONE, WILL YOU.”

  The man gave an acknowledging wave and unfolded himself to his full height, which Andy saw was a good head taller than Liam. He was tempted to invite Dougie back to Belfast with him just to see the deputy’s face.

  The diver appeared beside them a minute later, smiling down affectionately at his petite wife and boss and passing the evidence bag across as he did.

  “What part of the lake did you find it, love?”

  Lake. It was a definite promotion for the murky pool.

  “A fair way in. Right hand side about forty feet from the shore.”

  Either floated there out of Stuart Kincaid’s pocket or thrown by his killer, and thrown seemed more feasible.

  Andy tried to live up to people’s expectations of a detective and squinted at the item as if he could identify its owner at a glance. In truth he had no idea what Stuart Kincaid’s mobile looked like, but he knew a man who would. A call to Davy confirmed it; the soggy device was just as Luisa Kincaid had described her husband’s mobile, and the odds of finding two the same in the remote pool had to be slim.

  “I’d like to take this and the credit card with me, Inspector, if that’s all right? Our analysts might be able to get something off them.”

  In reply Davis swept a hand over the rest of the bags.

  “You can take it all if you sign.”

  The collection of coins, keys and a miniature Batmobile made Andy wonder why people seemed to think chucking their crap in water was preferable to putting it in a bin.

  “Thanks, but these will do for now.” He scribbled his name on a sheet thrust his way. “If you find a wallet and watch let me know, please?”

  He handed over his mobile number and headed back to the hotel, to find a chambermaid called Freya Dalkey and a not long out of university management trainee called Tristan Rodgers lined up in its reception like soldiers on parade, with Rufus Abernathy on full alert alongside them.

  “Relax, all of you. I just need to ask some questions. Is there somewhere quiet that we could go, Mister Abernathy?”

  The manager led the way, more calmly than earlier, into a large back room whose trestle tablets set along each wall suggested that it was the hotel’s venue of choice for buffets. He took up position intimidatingly behind his two, now seated, employees, folding his arms with a solidity that suggested any request by Andy to speak to them alone would result in immediate refusal and the hotel’s lawyers being trotted out.

  Resigned to his audience the murder detective turned first to the chambermaid, and after getting the usual boring details to help Davy confirm that she was who she said she was and wasn’t wanted for some crime, police forces having been embarrassed many times for missing such people for lack of simple checks, Andy set aside his notebook and rested back in his chair, attempting to relax the thirty-something woman with a smile.

  It didn’t work, the chambermaid still so tense that she was wringing a corner of her overall as if she was trying to remove a particularly resistant stain, so the D.C.I. stared pointedly at her boss and then not so subtly jerked his head towards a chair, th
e threat clear if Abernathy didn’t comply and sit down.

  It eased the tension in the room slightly and the wringing softened to a fidget.

  “Now, Ms Dalkey. Can you identify this man for me?”

  A photograph of Stuart Kincaid looking business-like, and more importantly alive, was produced.

  “That’s Mister Kincaid.”

  “And can you tell me how you know him?”

  A nervous glance at her employer gained nodded permission to go on.

  “He stayed here twice. Once a few years back, and the second time last winter for a few days. I took care of his room both times. I always take care of the rooms in Marchmont Wing.”

  “Good. But can I ask you why you know his name? You must have a great number of guests and you surely don’t remember them all.”

  She gave an unexpected smile, as if she was recalling something pleasant.

  “Mister Abernathy told me it earlier, but I remembered anyway because Mister Kincaid was nice to me. He asked my name and we chatted about our families.”

  If such simple civility impressed her then it didn’t say much for the rest of the hotel’s guests.

  “Did he tell you why he was in the area?”

  She thought for a moment and then nodded.

  “He said his sister used to have relatives nearby, which seemed a bit strange. I mean, wouldn’t they have been his relatives too?”

  Not if they were in-laws, as the Westburys had been.

  The maid continued, volunteering. “He seemed a bit sad.”

  “About his sister?”

  “No, generally. But he was always nice.”

  “Is that all he said about his reasons for being here?”

  “No. He said he was looking for something too. He went out early every morning and didn’t come back till late.”

  Andy edged forward on his chair.

  “Do you have any idea what that something could have been?”

  “No, although he did keep looking at a photograph he carried. It was of a young girl. He told me she was his niece.”

  “And he definitely said he was looking for something and not someone?”

  The woman’s lips formed an ‘O’ that suggested the distinction might carry some weight, but when after a moment’s further thought clarity was still elusive she ended her search with a sigh.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t remember. All I know is that Mister Kincaid was in the area looking for something, or someone maybe.”

  It was enough to suggest that they were on the right track.

  Andy smiled at her to relax and turned to her companion, noticing that the young manager seemed far more at ease, his posture a slouch and his hands looking very at home in his trouser pockets.

  “Mister Tristan Rodgers.”

  As the freckled youth’s mouth opened Andy half-expected to hear, “That’s my name, don’t wear it out” emerge, and he felt sure that it would have done had Abernathy not been only feet away.

  Instead a clipped, “Yes, sir” hit the air, accompanied by a grin that said the young man was thrilled at being questioned by the cops and would be regaling his mates with the tale as soon as he got home.

  “You were the junior manager on duty when a man came inquiring about Mister Kincaid’s things. Tell me about that, please.”

  The hands came out of the pockets and Rodgers sat forward enthusiastically as if he was about to tell a tale.

  “Yeh, well, he turned up one day last November just after I’d come on duty.” He glanced at his boss. “When Mister Abernathy told me you’d be asking I went back and checked the exact date. It was the fourth.”

  The day that Stuart Kincaid’s phone signal had died.

  “How can you remember so accurately?”

  “Because he turned up when I was watching the footie. It was Man City v Southampton, premier league. Brilliant match. Anyway, it was a quiet Sunday, so I was in the back office watching.”

  The detective glanced at Abernathy, expecting to see horror that his employees took time away from their duties for such things, but instead the hotelier mouthed, “Great game”, making him warm slightly to the man.

  Rodgers spotted the exchange and grinned. “Don’t worry, when we’re not busy Mister A lets us to watch telly, just as long as the guests don’t see.” The youth snorted rudely. “They like to think we all stand in a cupboard somewhere just waiting for their call.”

  A squint from Abernathy said that had been a step too far, but the young manager was on a roll now so he carried on.

  “Anyway, so I was in the back room watching the footie when the desk bell goes. I come out to reception to see what’s what and there’s this man standing there-”

  Andy stopped him. “Tell me what you remember about him, please. Physically first. And take your time.”

  The youth screwed up his face and as he did so Andy noticed that his freckles coalesced curiously to form the shape of the Isle of Man. The map remained intact for several seconds until Rodgers spoke again.

  “Taller than me.”

  Andy stood up. “Show me exactly.”

  He was five-ten and Rodgers was around the same, so he expected him just to point above or below his head. Instead he gestured to his boss and Rufus Abernathy obligingly came across, at which point Freya Dalkey nodded.

  “Yes, he was about Mister A’s size.”

  “Of course. You saw him too, didn’t you?”

  “Only for a minute.”

  “But you both agree that he was Mister Abernathy’s height.”

  “Yes.”

  Around six-three. Andy retook his seat and the others followed.

  “OK, carry on.”

  “So he was that height with dirty fair hair.”

  “Not brown?”

  “No, dark blond. I can’t be sure about his eyes-”

  Freya interjected. “They were greeny-grey, and he had really heavy eyebrows. Darker than his hair, so they made him look like he was scowling, even though he wasn’t I don’t think.”

  Andy smiled and turned back to Rodgers. “Anything else on his physical appearance?”

  “He was kind of swarthy. And fit looking. Slim, but you knew there were serious muscles under his clothes.”

  “Age?”

  “Not as old as the boss but a bit younger than you.”

  “Older than Ms Dalkey?”

  “Oh yeh, older than Freya but younger than you.”

  Around forty would be his guess. Andy turned back to the chambermaid.

  “Does that description fit?”

  “Yes.”

  He scribbled everything down before going on.

  “OK. Now, what was he wearing?”

  “Shirt and jeans.”

  “With shoes not trainers.” The maid leaned forward eagerly, adding, “And he had a ring on. Not a wedding ring, but one of those gold ones people wear sometimes with initials on them.”

  A signet ring.

  “Did you see any engraving on it?”

  “No, sorry, he was standing too far away.”

  “Mister Rodgers, did you notice anything else?”

  The young man shrugged. “I didn’t even see a ring.”

  Andy turned back to the maid for more detail.

  “Which finger was it on, Ms Dalkey?”

  “His little finger, I can’t remember which hand. I noticed because it’s not that usual to see men wearing jewellery even nowadays. He wore a big watch as well. It looked heavy.”

  An alarm bell rang in Andy’s head but he parked the detail and went on.

  “OK, very good. Now, both of you, was there anything unusual about his voice or accent?”

  It was Rodgers who replied. “Yeh, he had one of those weird accents.”

  “Not from here?”

  “No, but like he had been once, maybe a long time ago. I mean it sounded like he’d come from here somewhere but had lived away. It was weird.”

  Unfortunately weird wasn’t a linguistic category and
the chambermaid wasn’t able to shed any further light.

  “OK, we’re almost done. Now, tell me exactly what this man said to you, Mister Rodgers.”

  The answer began with a snort and continued with, “Aye, well, now there’s a sorry tale…”

  The expression sounded so incongruous coming from the youth that Andy knew he must have heard his parents or grandparents use the phrase.

  “…he pitched up at the front desk, but I think he only did that because you can’t get up to the rooms without us opening the security door, or opening it with your passkey yourself and-”

  The detective stopped him. “Do guests get a passkey?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “But he didn’t have one?”

  “That’s the strange thing, he did, but it wasn’t working on the security door so he had to call me-”

  Andy stopped him again. “Could I see one?”

  Abernathy immediately produced a cream plastic rectangle from his pocket and passed it across. “That’s a master key for everywhere in the building, but the guests’ passkeys are only encrypted for their room and the security doors.”

  “And that’s done when they check in?”

  The hotelier shook his head. “The security door codes are embedded on all our keys and then a new room code’s randomly generated by the computer for each guest. People walk away with their keys all the time and we don’t want them coming back and being able to access the rooms.”

  The detective nodded and turned back to Tristan Rodgers. “Go on, please.”

  “OK, so, he buzzes me and says he can’t get up to his room, so I ask which number it is and he says nineteen.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Except I knew Mister Kincaid was staying in nineteen so my antenna starts to twitch. I ask him his name, all casual like, and he says it’s Kincaid too, cheeky as you like.”

  “Did you challenge him about it?”

  “Yeh, and then he says he’s not Stuart Kincaid, he’s Paul Kincaid, Mister Kincaid’s brother, and he’d asked him to come and get something from his room-”

  Freya jumped in. “That’s when I walked into reception and saw him. I thought it was a bit fishy because he didn’t look like Mister Kincaid and he hadn’t mentioned a brother, but I didn’t need to say anything because Trist here already had it under control.”