Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  ‘You have a sister, Akka. I understand she has a child, and that child has gone missing.’

  Rahel tensed even more at his words, turned to face Billy with a look of pure hatred and spat something in her own language. He recoiled, but at the words as much as the action. Clearly he understood at least some of what she said.

  ‘Rahel, please. This isn’t Billy’s fault. He’s doing what he thinks is best, but even he doesn’t know everything.’ McLean waited for his words to get through, unsure just how good the young woman’s English was. At least she hadn’t stood up and walked away, which was something.

  ‘Ideally I would like to speak to your sister. I want to help her find her child.’

  Rahel glared at him as if to say she hadn’t been born yesterday. Looking at her, he could tell she was very young indeed. Probably not much more than sixteen, whatever her papers might have said. She should have been in school, going to college, not stuck in a warehouse doing mindless labouring.

  ‘I do not know where Akka is.’ She wasn’t very good at lying either, but McLean was prepared to let it go, for now.

  ‘When did you last see her? What about the child?’

  Something like sorrow spread across Rahel’s face, and she dropped her head down, looking at her lap. ‘I not see little Nala for two months now. Not see Akka either. She working. She always working. They never let her stop. Not like here.’

  ‘Nala is Akka’s daughter, I take it?’ McLean waited for an answer, but none came. Rahel just stared at her hands.

  ‘Perhaps you can describe her for me,’ he said after a while. ‘How old is she? What does she like to wear? What colour is her hair?’

  He’d not meant to ask that last question, keeping the details simple to start with. Somehow it slipped out though, and as she heard it, so Rahel looked up at him with a different, more calculating expression. She might have been only sixteen, but the intelligence in her eyes was that of a much older woman, won by bitter experience.

  ‘You have found her,’ she said, then shook her head. ‘You have found someone, or you would not come asking the likes of me.’ A pause, then: ‘Is she dead?’

  He was so taken aback by her directness, McLean didn’t know what to say. For a moment the three of them sat in silence, only the background clatter and hum of the factory behind them.

  ‘We have found a dead girl, yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I doubt very much it’s Nala, but we haven’t got many leads yet. Neither you nor your sister have reported her missing.’

  Rahel opened her mouth to protest, but McLean spoke over her. ‘I’m not here to blame you for that. I’m just trying to find out who this little girl is. Then I can find out who killed her and punish them for that.’

  She stared at him for long moments, green eyes studying his face as if she were trying to read his thoughts. Her gaze was almost intimidating, and without his training and years of experience, he might have withered under it, turned away. Instead, he merely waited until she was done.

  ‘Nala is five years old. She is all Akka has, even if she didn’t ask to be given her. She is not “missing” as Billy says. They took her, to make Akka work harder.’ Rahel reached up and pulled off her hairnet and headscarf, eyes staring at McLean even more fiercely now, almost daring him to look away. He had not known what to expect, really, but the thick dark-red locks that tumbled to her shoulders was not it. ‘And her hair is the same colour as mine, the same as Akka’s. The same as all of our people, if any of them are still alive.’

  13

  ‘You should have brought her into the station for questioning. Not pussyfooted around her and her boyfriend while they were meant to be working.’

  ‘If I’d done that, she’d have clammed up and not said a word. At least now I know it’s not her niece down in the mortuary.’

  McLean stood in the sparsely furnished office on the third floor of the station that Deputy Chief Constable Steven ‘Call-me-Stevie’ Robinson used whenever he was on this side of the country. Which was far more often than either of them would have liked. Some of the junior officers called Robinson ‘Teflon Steve’, and McLean felt that was more apt, given the man’s skill at remaining spotless when the shit was sticking to everyone else. His network of contacts, connections and friends in high places was so extensive he might have been a Freemason, but McLean had checked the register and been surprised to find he wasn’t. Among those contacts, apparently, was a certain Robert Boag, managing director of Fresh Food Solutions (Edinburgh) plc., who had taken very little time in contacting his chum on the force to lodge a spurious complaint.

  ‘So, what? You’re going to personally visit every woman in the city who’s reported a child missing? Every woman in the country?’ Robinson stared at McLean like a headmaster admonishing one of his pupils for a wrongdoing only he could perceive.

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘Dammit, Tony. That’s what detective constables and sergeants are for. You’re a chief inspector. You don’t go wandering around the city looking for people yourself. You send others to do it, and coordinate the effort from here.’ The DCC jabbed a finger at his spotlessly clean and clear desktop to emphasise the point.

  ‘I do understand chain of command, sir.’

  ‘Call me Stevie, please. You’re not a constable any more.’ Something about the way Robinson said the words made them sound almost like a threat. McLean let it bounce off him. There were worse things than being a detective constable, after all. Being a detective chief inspector, for instance. It wasn’t as if he needed the money.

  ‘It was necessary I speak to them myself. McKenzie came here, spoke to me in the first place because everyone else was away on Operation Fundament. I was a familiar face to him, and not to her. It made sense, and it only took an hour.’ He didn’t add that what he had discovered in the sandwich factory was going to be more than an hour in the pursuing. Nothing to do with the current investigation, so no point bothering Robinson about it.

  ‘Well, just remember before you go swanning off next time. Delegate. You’re in charge of too many ongoing investigations to get bogged down in just one.’ The DCC leaned back in his chair, dressing-down over. ‘Now, how are we getting on with the wee dead girl in the basement?’

  ‘We’ve still no identification. Forensics have finished up, so we’ll have their report soon. I’ve got some DCs going over all the CCTV from the area and a team doing door-to-door. We’ll find something, but without anyone coming forward to identify her . . .’ He let the sentence tail off. It didn’t need saying just how little they had.

  ‘Well, keep at it. Get the media involved if you have to.’

  ‘We’re on that, sir. Not easy, given the condition we found her in. I can’t exactly hand out photos, but we’re getting an artist’s impression made up, and something about the clothes. She had a soft toy with her too. Looked like it was handmade. The social media team are putting together a wee campaign to try and reunite it with its owner. See if it jogs any memories. It’s a long shot, but it might pay off.’

  ‘Good thinking, but keep on it. Case like this, it can get ugly very quickly if the media think we’re not doing our jobs properly. Nobody likes the idea of a child’s death going unsolved.’ Robinson gave him a couple of seconds to reflect on this before launching into the next subject. ‘Now, about Operation Fundament. Have we charged all the rioters yet?’

  ‘A couple we had to let off with a caution. Too far from the action to prove they were involved. The rest are all processed and awaiting their turn at the Sheriff Court. All bailed, bar one, sadly. They’ve got themselves a very expensive lawyer somehow. Counter-terror’s happy with the result though. Plenty of good intel going forward.’

  Robinson rubbed his hands together like a little boy anticipating cake. ‘Splendid. Good work all round, and the kind of joined-up cooperation Police Scotland’s supposed to be all about.’


  ‘You’ll be happy with all the overtime it took then, sir?’ McLean tilted his head slightly and smiled as he said it, but even so the DCC frowned at the joke. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping a little.

  ‘We steal from one budget to fill another. That’s what it boils down to in the end. There’s never enough money to pay for everything. My job, and your job too, I should add, is to make sure we keep on top of the finances. Think about that before you head out for a wee jolly at a sandwich factory next time.’

  ‘Wondered when I might see you. It’s been a while.’

  McLean didn’t think it had been all that long, but Detective Chief Inspector Jo Dexter had aged since he’d last worked in the Sexual Crimes Unit with her, back when it had been based in the old HQ on the other side of town. Now on the second floor of his own station, she sat at a desk much more cluttered than Teflon Steve’s, and almost as bad as his own.

  ‘They’re keeping you busy, I see. Can you spare a minute?’

  ‘Can you, Tony?’ Dexter pushed her seat back until it clattered against the window behind her, stood up and stretched. Something went ‘pop’ in her back, and she grimaced for a moment before bending slowly to retrieve a packet of cigarettes from the desktop.

  ‘I’m due a fag break. You can talk to me there if you don’t mind the smoke.’

  McLean did, but he also knew it was the best chance of getting her attention. They fell into step together along the corridor towards the back entrance to the station and the little perspex bus stop that had been put up to keep the smokers happy. Or at least less miserable.

  ‘What’s the situation with trafficked sex workers in the city at the moment?’ He knew as he said it that the question was way too broad to warrant an answer. Dexter gave him a raised eyebrow, which was more than he could have hoped for.

  ‘Aye, I know. Be more specific. It’s only a hunch, but you know me and hunches.’

  This time Dexter slowed, looked at him sideways and said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I interviewed a young woman this morning. Name of Rahel. Fairly sure she’s Syrian. Certainly Middle East. Her papers are all in order, I’m told. At least, her employer thinks they are.’

  ‘Or knows they aren’t and doesn’t care. Uses that to his advantage.’

  That brought McLean up short. He’d not considered Rab Boag to be that manipulative, but then he’d not imagined the man would be on the phone to the deputy chief constable either. ‘It’s possible, but it’s not her that I’m interested in. It’s her sister, Akka.’

  ‘Name doesn’t ring any bells, but that’s not necessarily surprising.’ They reached the door, stepping out into a blast of freezing-cold air swept in off the North Sea by a brisk easterly wind. Dexter had grabbed a coat from the back of her office door, and McLean wished he’d brought his own as he followed her to the smokers’ kiosk. At least the SCU shared a station with CID now, so he wouldn’t have to freeze for long before getting back to his office and the waiting coffee machine.

  ‘I think this Akka’s being forced into sex work. Her sister didn’t exactly say it out loud, but I’ve been reading between the lines all my professional life.’

  ‘Poking your nose into other people’s business too. I remember that about you.’ Dexter spoke through lips closed around a cigarette as she lit up and took in a deep drag. McLean counted to five before she let the smoke out through her nose. ‘Gets the job done, but it’s messy too. Why’s this of interest, anyway?’

  ‘According to Rahel, her sister has a daughter, Nala, and whoever’s controlling Akka’s taken the girl away from her to ensure her compliance. She’s five years old. I can’t hear about something like that happening and not want to fix it. Not in my city. Not in any city.’

  Dexter took another drag, then stubbed the half-finished cigarette out in the bin. ‘Horrible things’ll be the death of me,’ she said in a swirl of used smoke. ‘And it’s too bloody cold to stand out here for long. Come on.’

  McLean followed her back inside, along the corridor and into her office again. Technically they were the same rank now, but he still felt like her junior and stayed standing when she slumped back into her chair.

  ‘Akka, you say?’ Dexter pulled a pad towards her. ‘Sister called Rahel. Those are Christian names.’

  ‘I didn’t get a surname. I can try to find out.’

  Dexter barked a short, humourless laugh. ‘And here’s me thought you knew everything, what with your posh education and all. Not Christian names. Names given to Christians. They’re derived from the Jewish Rebekka and Rachel. Common – well, not exactly common, but used in some Syrian Christian communities. Nala I don’t know. That’s unusual.’

  ‘The young woman, Rahel, was quite unusual. At least, to my inferior intellect and experience.’

  Dexter raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘How so?’

  ‘She had vivid green eyes, for one thing. Almost as if she was wearing tinted contacts, although I doubt that very much. Mostly it was her hair, though. I’m no expert on these things, but I didn’t expect it to be quite so red.’

  ‘Red.’ Something about the way Dexter said the word at the same time as putting her pen down carefully sent a chill through McLean’s gut. Or maybe it was the look on her face. She shuffled through the detritus on her desk until she came up with a thick folder, flicked it open and pulled out an A4 printed photograph. Even upside down, he could see that it wasn’t pleasant. When she handed it to him, his fears were confirmed. ‘Red like that?’

  It was hard to see the resemblance to her sister, such was the damage done to her face. McLean couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, because both were swollen shut with puffy, purple bruises. Her nose was broken, lips split and bloody. Someone had taken out a lot of frustration on her. There was no denying the hair though, exactly the same dark shade of red as Rahel’s.

  ‘Is she dead?’ It was impossible to tell from the photograph whether it had been taken in a hospital or a mortuary. McLean thought he would have heard about a woman beaten to death though.

  ‘Maybe good as.’ Dexter took back the photograph and slipped it into the folder. ‘She was found dumped in a commercial wheelie bin in an industrial estate in Sighthill. She was naked, nothing to identify her, and no hits on DNA so far. She’s in a medically induced coma, might wake up, might not. Doctors aren’t giving her much chance.’

  ‘How’ve I not heard about this? When did it happen?’

  ‘They found her on Sunday morning. Should have pinged up on your daily bulletin. You do read those, don’t you, Tony?’

  ‘Aye, mostly. Missed that though.’

  ‘So, you think it could be your girl Akka then?’

  He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say. Not from a photo like that. Red hair’s not exactly unusual in these parts.’ Except that he was sure, somehow. Maybe the uncomfortable timing of it. He didn’t believe in coincidence, after all. ‘Who’s leading the investigation?’

  ‘At the moment? Me.’ Dexter waved her hand over the cluttered desk. ‘You’re not the only one short-staffed these days.’

  ‘You want to pass it on to Kirsty? She might be able to do something with it.’

  ‘DI Ritchie? You sure? I’ll no’ turn down an offer of help, but chances are she’s a prostitute battered by her pimp or some John.’

  ‘I’ll tap your team for their expertise when I need it then.’ McLean reached out and took the folder from Dexter’s desk. ‘If she is Akka and she and her sister are here illegally, then we’re going to need all the help we can get.’

  14

  ‘You seen Dougie Naismith anywhere, Constable?’

  McLean had popped his head around the door of the CID room, hoping to find the detective sergeant at his desk. Only one person was in though, and as soon as he asked her the question he remembered that he already knew the answer.

  ‘He’s away home, sir. Shift ende
d a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘What about DI Ritchie?’

  ‘Over at Gartcosh, sir. She left me these door-to-doors to deal with. Pretty much all squared away now. Not that there’s anything useful in any of them.’ DC Harrison tapped at her keyboard a couple of times, clicked her mouse to finish whatever it was she’d been doing, then stood up. ‘Was there anything particular you needed?’

  McLean had considered just sending a couple of uniforms to fetch Rahel from the sandwich factory and bring her here while be briefed Ritchie. That would have been how he’d have dealt with a local. Refugees and immigrants presented their own unique problems, and, while he might have been in a minority among his fellow officers in the matter, he felt that a friendly and gentle approach usually worked best. There was no point trying to browbeat someone who’d fled a war zone to get here. The only threat they feared was being sent back, and they were skilled at disappearing before it could be made.

  Harrison waited patiently, her gaze not quite fixed on him, and McLean realised he’d been staring at nothing, thinking. If he couldn’t send Naismith, then the only other option was to go there himself, no matter what the DCC might have said about delegation.

  ‘I need to talk to someone over in Newcraighall. Naismith knows all about it, which is why I was looking for him to do it for me. Apparently it’s called delegating.’

  Harrison grinned. ‘I’ll see if I can find a pool car going spare, sir.’

  Harrison might have been an efficient detective, but even she couldn’t track down a pool car. Of course, she might just have been angling for a drive in McLean’s Alfa, but he didn’t mention that. She was a better passenger than Naismith, asking intelligent questions as he filled her in on the situation so far.

  ‘So you think Rahel and her sister are refugees, then?’

  ‘I know they’re refugees. It’s whether they came here through a legal programme or not that I need to find out. Rahel had papers, according to her boss. I’ve not seen them though, and the way she spoke about her sister suggested Akka’s not doing the kind of work a registered refugee would undertake.’