Hold Your Tongue

by Deborah Masson

  Mearns looked like she’d been slapped, a steel edge to her tone when she spoke. ‘It’s a bite to eat. We’ve all got to eat.’

  ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’

  ‘The boss wants to make it a nod to Sanders too.’ Mearns didn’t look Eve in the eye.

  ‘I can do that on my own.’ Her tone matched Mearns’.

  ‘You’re staying here?’

  Eve stared at a spot above Mearns’ head. ‘I need to go out for a while. I’ll have my mobile on me.’

  Mearns glared at her, like she knew where she was going. ‘Eve …’

  She walked towards Mearns, over to her desk. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Mearns was acting like she might try to stop her, but Eve kept moving, grabbed her jacket off the seat. ‘I’ll be seeing you in a matter of hours then.’

  Mearns stood rigid, stony-faced and silent – her look saying everything.

  Eve made it down the stairs and out into the car park without having to answer to anyone. She lowered her head against the biting wind, the clear black sky illuminated by the city-centre lights, and walked straight past her own car. She beeped the doors of one of the service Vauxhalls and got in, hoping not to draw attention to herself when she drove out on to Queen Street. As she made her way from there on to Broad Street, joining the traffic crawling along past Marischal College, she felt anonymous in the HQ pool car. And positive that she’d go unnoticed parked on Hardy’s street.

  Eve sat in the dark on Seaton Drive wishing she’d worn a thicker coat, knowing better than to switch on the car’s engine to try to get some heat. She watched young kids, in need of a good wash, playing in the cul-de-sac long after they should’ve been called inside. She hoped they wouldn’t try to nick off with her wheels. The downpour was bouncing off the bonnet, hitting against the windscreen, cascading down the side windows, obscuring any clear view she might have had of Hardy’s home. She didn’t care. She was here and that was better than being anywhere else.

  She couldn’t see Hardy’s car, but this area was notoriously bad for snagging a parking place. The car could be parked three streets away. Either way, if Hardy came out, surely she’d see or hear some kind of movement. She was probably kidding herself, but she needed to feel useful, wanted to prove she was right. She couldn’t do that sitting in the sodding staff canteen. What the hell were they all thinking?

  Or was it her that wasn’t thinking straight? Sat here in the blackness, alone, teeth chattering and able to see next to nothing. She should start the car, move away before she got caught. Knowing it would be more than her job was worth if Hastings got wind of what she was doing. Dr Shetty would have a field day.

  Eve fingered the keys dangling above her thigh, curled two fingers and a thumb around the one in the ignition, willed herself to turn it and drive. She sighed, let go of the key fob and dropped her cold hand to her lap. Another half an hour wouldn’t harm anyone.

  It was pissing down. Ernie fought to pull his suit jacket closed but lost the battle to his paunch. The sodden jacket lay heavy on his shoulders, its smell an ancient memory of school blazers and wet walks home. This was why he didn’t do work parties. He was too old for this shit – Christmas do or not.

  Ice-cold rain battered him, tiny needles pricking at his scalp. He shivered hard as water trickled inside his shirt collar, tracing a path down his back. What a crock of shit. He’d waved at every orange light in the dark, and not one taxi had stopped for him. Buses had proven to be like his night – not one going his way. He should’ve worn an overcoat. He should’ve phoned Sandra, but it wasn’t worth the earache.

  He looked across Union Street, the city’s clogged main artery. More a bridge than a street, propped on huge stone arches spanning the Den Burn Valley. He peered at the taxi rank tucked down a cobbled side street called the Back Wynd. The narrow street boasted pubs on one side and a high granite wall on the other, concealing a graveyard full of crumbling headstones with newly painted park benches dotted between them. Not your average city-centre attraction.

  Taxis and death, he thought. Kind of ironic that everyone standing there was waiting on both. Hopefully for them the taxi would come first. The queue snaked further than he could see – splayed white papers full of chip suppers and kebabs spread throughout the slithering mass.

  Ernie decided against joining them and carried on towards the Castlegate, where the city’s Town House clock shone like a neon moon in the distance and he could see Aberdeen Council’s token Christmas tree, a half-decent effort this year. The lights hanging from it swayed in the wintry wind, festive decorations dominating the historic cobbled pedestrianized area, where once upon a time an altogether different type of hanging took place.

  The Silver City they called this place. Ernie laughed at the thought. Pile of shite. Depressing grey more like, but, in the right light, and at a push, you could say the granite sparkled. In the oil-boom days, it had been the place to be. Now it was limping along like everywhere else. Many of the shopfronts were vacant after losing out to nearby shopping complexes, others housing discount stores and charity shops. Bah humbug indeed.

  Ernie needed to take a leak. Five pints, their taste gone stale, had played havoc with his old-man bladder. He had a vague memory of someone getting fined after pissing in the street. Knowing his luck, there’d be CCTV. But he was bursting. He spotted an alley ahead, the Adelphi, and turned in. The wet cobblestones proved a challenge to his smooth-soled shoes, graffiti either side of him on the walls of the archway that opened out on to the lane. He’d go in far enough to hide.

  Ernie stood in front of what looked like a residential building, black bars on every window, overlooking a smaller lane to his right. No chance of anyone seeing him there. He positioned himself by one of the industrial bins lining one side of the narrow lane. Its wide black plastic lid was prised open by overstuffed black bags, more bags piled against the galvanized metal. A couple of seagulls had pulled at them, piercing holes, the rotting innards tumbling on to the ground.

  The gulls here were mutant. Big as small dogs, their piercing squawks and frenzied flapping bouncing off the granite brickwork. It was easy to imagine a lead around their neck – wound tight. The mess their shit made around the city, they’d benefit from puppy training too.

  He fumbled to release himself and leaned forward to avoid spraying on his shoes. Not that it mattered, not in all this rain. He stared at a bag hanging out of the bin, noticed something else behind it, suspended over the lip of the bin. It looked like an arm.

  Eve bolted upright, banging her knee on the steering wheel as she did. ‘Shit.’ She peered through the windscreen, sure it was Hardy walking towards her on the pavement ahead, confirmed when he turned into his path.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Eve was only mildly aware she was talking to herself. Her heart was thundering. She wanted to call Hastings, tell him Hardy had been out, get it on record if there was to be another woman found tonight. But she forced herself not to, made herself wait, weighing the repercussions if nothing happened and it was known she’d come here.

  She was still wrestling with what to do when she saw Hardy coming out of the garden again. She watched as he lifted his collar against the wind, head down, car keys in hand. Eve craned her neck, trying to get a clear view, letting Hardy slip away into the darkness, but not too far, before she started the engine.

  Ernie’s heart was hammering. It was one of those blow-up dolls, dumped after a stagger. He zipped up and edged towards the bin, his mouth like cotton wool. The seagulls screamed at the interruption but didn’t budge. Definitely an arm, a ring on one of the fingers. Ernie’s hands trembled. The limb looked normal. Not discoloured or injured. Maybe she’d crawled in drunk. He knew what the chances of that were, but he was struggling to process what he was seeing.

  He reached out and lifted the bin lid, holding it open, careful not to touch the flesh. The smell of bleach, of all things, made him want to cover his nose. But, with his free hand, he moved another bag. Sparkly r
ed material. Her dress. He nudged the bag further. A leg. Pale. Thin. A shoe missing from the foot. Ernie tried to steady his breathing. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He looked along the alley. Saw cars through the archway, splashing through the night. Oblivious.

  One more bag.

  He wiped his hand against his wet trousers, reached over again, his heart feeling like it was going to burst. He pulled the heavy bag towards him. Her face. Oh God. Ernie gagged. It was like a deflated football. Misshapen. Multicoloured. The features beaten to a pulp. The blood was still wet. She hadn’t been dead long enough for it to dry black and crust over.

  Ernie dropped the lid with a clatter, crouched over and spewed – turkey and trimmings splattering all over the cobbled street and his shoes.

  Hardy had led Eve to Union Grove, right to Rosie’s door. Eve had parked a safe distance away, close enough to see Hardy getting out of his car beneath the streetlights before standing at the main door of the tenement, his finger pressed against the buzzer and going nowhere.

  Hardy wasn’t giving up though, and five minutes later Rosie appeared at the door, half dressed, hair on end and obviously with a punter indoors. Hardy was mouthing off, arms flapping. It seemed he could lose control after all. And then Eve’s phone rang.

  Chapter 40

  Saturday, 7 December

  Eve pulled up behind the police van blocking the bus lane and killed the engine. Three o’clock on a Saturday morning. Beneath the Christmas lights, Aberdeen’s innards were spilling out across its streets. She climbed out of the car, dodged a mascara-marked drunk wailing into her mobile phone and lifted her hood against the battering rain, thinking about Hardy all the while.

  The arched alley entrance was cordoned off with blue-and-white police tape, Ferguson standing guard. She approached him, thinking it was the first time they’d been alone, face to face, since she tried to cover his ass in Hastings’ office. ‘What’s the story?’

  Ferguson breathed out – he’d obviously been expecting her to say something else. ‘Female murder vic. Found her in a bin.’

  An uneasy feeling crept up the back of Eve’s neck, crawling under her hair as she recalled the crime-scene photos of Helen Black in St Andrews. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘Guy on a night out.’ Ferguson reached into his pocket for his notebook and flipped it open. ‘Ernie Fraser. Nipped up the lane for a quick piss. You could say he stepped into shit instead.’

  ‘We got a statement?’ Eve was desperate to put a time on this. To see if Hardy’s little trip earlier could tie in.

  Ferguson nodded. ‘Poor sod puked when he found her. Believe it or not, he was worried we’d charge him for relieving himself outside. One of the lads took him home.’

  ‘Any ID on the woman?’

  ‘Yeah, found her bag alongside her. And of course another newspaper clipping. Cooper and Mearns are inside.’

  Eve didn’t miss the softness in Ferguson’s voice when he said Mearns’ name.

  She looked over Ferguson’s shoulder towards the SOC tent ahead. It was off-balance, covering the pavement and part of the cobbled street. The sound of rain drumming on the plastic was deafening in the narrow space, but she could still hear the hum of the generators lighting the spotlights within, throwing shadows against the walls of those suited and booted inside.

  ‘What’s MacLean saying?’

  ‘That he’ll know more once he gets her to the lab. But looks like blunt-force trauma to the head. Although, by the state of her face, he kept going long after the fatal blow.’

  Eve shook her head. ‘Doesn’t add up. He’s not killed out in the open before, and it’s sounding like it’s the first time he’s lost control.’ Eve tried to think of anything in Hardy’s demeanour when she saw him earlier that could point to this.

  ‘Maybe he’s unravelling. About to slip up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Eve played with the idea of saying something to Ferguson about what had happened between the two of them but thought better of it. ‘Anyway, thanks.’

  She moved past Ferguson, ducked under the barrier tape and looked at the wet cobbles. Eve paused, the dull ache in her right leg taunting her, but she kept walking, her limp more pronounced on the uneven surface.

  Within minutes she was kitted out in the regulation white plastic suit, stepping into the tent … and walking into what looked like a reconstruction of the St Andrews crime scene. Eve stood stock still, everything around her seeming to slow and stick.

  Her eyes scanned the space and then ran over it again, ticking off the similarities against the crime-scene photos she’d committed to memory and the location itself when she’d gone there with DS Jack Allen.

  She could smell the overpowering stench of rotting food and God knows what else coming from the industrial bin in the corner. She watched three SOCOs moving about the cramped space, photographing, recording and bagging. All of them dressed in the sterile boiler suits.

  The woman had been moved out of the bin and on to a plastic sheet on the ground. MacLean was crouched by her body. She wore a red dress. Festive. Sparkly. Eve remembered that Helen had been found naked. She swallowed as she stared at what she could see of her face, ignoring the piece of paper pinned above her left breast.

  She coughed to alert MacLean to her presence, then nodded towards the body. ‘Same MO?’

  ‘Yeah, in that the tongue’s missing and there’s a puncture wound on the upper arm. Hands bound with venetian-blind cord again.’ MacLean shook his head. ‘But this.’ He pointed to her battered head. ‘This is a violence we haven’t seen from him before.’

  Eve was about to say that they had, only it was a year ago and his first kill in St Andrews, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to make that connection until she was absolutely sure, until she’d spoken to DS Jack Allen again. She felt even more sure that Hardy could be in the frame, bringing St Andrews to Aberdeen with his aunt. She stared at the woman lying in front of her, her face as ruined as Helen’s had been. ‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’

  ‘No, but that’s because it’s not a weapon that could be left behind. Your guy walked right out of here with it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His feet. Looks like he kicked and stamped her to death. If she wasn’t already dead, that is. Poor cow.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Eve was scrambling to remember anything about Hardy’s footwear.

  ‘Aye, and here’s another thing. Unlike the others, she wasn’t murdered where we found her. The body’s been moved. And dressed again.’

  ‘Moved and dressed again?’ A little of the fire left Eve.

  ‘Yup. Lividity isn’t consistent with how she was found in the bin. There’s wounds to the body that had to be carried out when she was naked. And by the stink, I’d say she’s been scrubbed with bleach.’

  ‘How long?’ Eve closed her eyes.

  ‘I’d say at first assessment, she’s been dead over eight hours.’

  In that moment, the fire in Eve was extinguished completely. Was she wrong about Hardy? Then again, she hadn’t been watching him for the past eight hours. Eve forced Hardy from her mind – thought about Helen Black, the bleach something that couldn’t be ignored. ‘How do you know she was naked?’

  ‘The bleach obviously but the marks from his footwear. Bruising beneath her collarbone looks like a footprint, but I’ll need my stuff at the lab. Not sure yet whether we’ll get anything from that. Oh, and her dress is on back to front – and the zip’s broken.’

  ‘Broken by him or already?’

  ‘Looks like it might have been held shut with something when she wore it, but it could’ve been him and his rage.’

  That rage. It mirrored the way in which Helen Black had met her end. She was willing to bet once MacLean got a better look that the footprint would prove to be from Carolina work boots. But she said nothing except, ‘Why the hell would he dress her again?’

  ‘You’re asking a sane question of someone who appears very much
not to be firing on all cylinders,’ MacLean said. ‘Blind rage, then remorse? Dressed her to move the body? Could mean anything or nothing.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Eve asked.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Eve spotted Cooper and Mearns over in the corner talking with one of the SOCO team. She was about to go over when Cooper caught her eye, acknowledged her with a nod. He finished talking and strode over to her. ‘Is it me or are you getting a severe case of déjà vu?’

  ‘Was about to say the same.’

  The SOCOs started to examine the body, Eve and Cooper waited for the obvious to be explored first. Eve held her breath as they unpinned the newspaper cutting and opened it.

  ‘Charity Worker Hailed a Modern-Day Saint’. Eve wanted to scream in frustration; instead, she looked over at Cooper as she spoke.

  Cooper sighed. ‘I reckon it’s time we got to HQ, grabbed a crap coffee and gave Jack Allen a call.’

  Eve nodded, started for the tent door where Mearns had arrived. ‘I’ll call Jack, but I’ll leave you to drink the crap coffee. Mearns, we’ll fill you in on the way.’

  ‘OK. One thing you’ll want to know before you do though.’ Mearns caught Eve’s elbow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your little camping trip at Hardy’s tonight was a waste of time.’

  Eve reddened, not surprised Mearns had read her easily. ‘The time frame still means he could’ve been here.’

  Mearns shook her head ‘’Fraid not.’

  Eve felt like her heart had hit her protective soles. ‘How come?’

  ‘Found out from one of the guys that Hardy was picked up early yesterday. Complaint for harassment from Rosie. He only got out three hours ago and looks like he went home and then straight out to find her. Seems him and Rosie had a little set-to about some punter. Got nasty. She’s in A&E and he’s back in a holding cell.’

  The tent wall was swimming in Eve’s vision. She’d been there. While Rosie was still safe. She’d been wrong that Hardy was their man for the murders. If the tent that they stood inside hadn’t been plastic, Eve would’ve punched it.