Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Forrester looked like he was having a hard time processing it. Processing anything. ‘Well, Sanderson’s staying here until DC Woods gets to the bottom of his Saturday night meeting.’

  Vicky’s phone rang. Rob calling. ‘Better take this.’

  ‘No worries.’ Forrester tapped the roof of her car, then winced at the heat. ‘Well, I’m heading back to the crime scene in Carnoustie. Catch you later.’

  ‘See you.’ Vicky leaned and answered it. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’ He was out of breath. Impressive for a PE teacher. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Busy. What’s up? You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, just back from Dundee. I’m cooking for the kids. I swear, Bella’s going to turn into a cookie.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me—’

  ‘I’m kidding. She just keeps banging on about them. I’m doing homemade pizza.’

  ‘Just try and make it look less like a crime scene than last time.’

  ‘Noted.’ He laughed. ‘Any idea when you’ll be home?’

  ‘Expect me later rather than earlier.’

  ‘Even though this case is in Carnoustie?’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Well, love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Rob. Bye.’ She killed the call and gave herself a few seconds to smile and just enjoy being in love for once. And in love with someone who—

  ‘Aw, that’s so sweet.’

  Vicky swung round and had to shield her eyes from the sun.

  Alan was leaning against the side wall, his left hand deep in a bag of cheesy tortillas. ‘Nice to see you too, Vicks.’ He took a bite of an orange chip and chewed, mouth open, lips smacking together. ‘Not going to say how well I look, Vicks?’

  She stared down at him. ‘I need to get on, Alan.’

  But he could shift. He went from leaning against a wall to blocking her car door in seconds. ‘Having a nice chat with a serial killer’s son?’

  ‘What?’

  Alan took another chip and chewed slowly. He probably knew how much it grated on her nerves. No, he definitely did. The number of arguments they’d had about it way back when. ‘I’m covering this story for the paper.’ He licked his index finger clear of cheesy dust. ‘And now I’ve found that the cops are investigating how the new serial killer links back to Atreus. You really think it’s his son?’

  ‘Alan, I swear I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He took another handful of chips.

  ‘Come on. This isn’t fair.’

  ‘No? And hiding the fact I have a daughter was totally fine?’

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Doesn’t feel like that.’ He tipped the crumbs at the bottom of his bag into his mouth then started licking his fingers. ‘Feels a lot like you lying to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘What, the fact you’ve got a copycat or another two victims?’

  Vicky shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. Anything to prevent herself from swinging for him. ‘How. Do. You. Know?’

  ‘Can’t name my sources, Vicks.’ He started folding the bag into a long triangle, then in half again. Just like he always used to. ‘It’s amazing how you can eat a lardy sandwich like that and still look like that.’

  ‘You’ve been trailing me, haven’t you?’

  ‘You’re a cop, Vicks. Thought you of all people would notice being stalked.’ He laughed, showing orange-encrusted teeth. ‘And by an ex-partner of all people.’

  ‘Christ, the last thing you are was a partner.’

  ‘Lover? Fuckbuddy? What was it?’

  ‘Let’s just settle on ex with a tiny cock.’

  ‘Vicks, we talked about living together.’

  ‘You talked about it. Last thing I’d want is to share my life with you.’

  ‘I’m actually hurt.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m not hurt, just so we’re clear.’

  She gave a sarcastic nod. ‘Rightio.’

  ‘And it was, what, six years on and off?’

  ‘No. One drunken handjob and a snog in a pub six years later, followed by a wretched few months of terrible dates and worse sex. That’s not on and off. And you chose your job in Edinburgh over me.’

  ‘Least you got a daughter out of it.’

  ‘Alan. Who is your source?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. You know that. But you’re not denying that you’ve got two sets of victims.’ He moved his hands like he was constructing a billboard. ‘God, the public just love a serial killer. This’ll be all over the nationals, all mentioning me. The doors this could open for me.’

  ‘Even after all your years of adulation?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I never said it was two sets of victims.’

  ‘No, but it is.’

  And she got it. A flashback to the hotel car park. Alan speaking to someone. ‘I know who your source is.’

  Mischief filled his eyes. ‘Aye?’

  ‘DC Considine.’

  He tilted his head to the side. ‘Who?’

  Shit, shit, shit.

  She’d overplayed her hand. Again. Always came down to that with him.

  ‘So I can speak to this DC Constantine too, can I?’

  ‘As difficult as it is for you, Alan, don’t be a dick.’

  ‘How about you give me a little bit about the case and I’ll give you a clue.’

  Always the tease. She remembered a night where he’d—

  And she was blushing. ‘Of course I won’t give you anything.’

  ‘You always used to give me stuff, Vicky. It’s just a case of waiting until you cave in.’

  ‘Go on, then. Why are we talking to Sanderson?’

  ‘You’re asking about his old man not being Atreus, right?’

  What the hell?

  Vicky gave him a warm smile, but kept her mouth shut.

  ‘I know who your female victim is.’

  She couldn’t keep her mouth shut any more. ‘Sure you do.’

  He wagged his orange finger. ‘Like I said, I don’t name my sources. You don’t even have her name, do you?’

  He was winding her up, she knew it. Sod it, she opened her car door. ‘I don’t have time for this.’

  He caught the door and held it. ‘Come on, Vicky, you should be charming me here. Think how this will look for your career?’

  ‘Okay, so who is she?’

  ‘Need a little quid pro quo here, Vicky.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just want a little look around the crime scene.’

  ‘Can’t your leak get you that?’

  ‘Come on, Vicky, there’s no leak on the police side. Not even DC Constantine. I’ve just been following you. Don’t you want to help your baby daddy?’

  ‘You’ll never be Bella’s father. And you shouldn’t be using your own daughter’s wellbeing to influence me.’

  ‘Christ. How could you be so cold as to think that?’

  ‘Matches your psychopathy.’

  ‘I’m not a psychopath!’

  ‘Suuuuuure.’ She huffed out a sigh. ‘Alan, you need to give me this woman’s ID, and proof it’s her, before I even consider—’

  ‘Oh it’s definitely her. I was just up in Dundee at our sister paper, digging into their archives and checking some details, when I struck gold.’

  She grabbed his wrist and held it tight. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Fine.’ He shook her off. ‘See, I got a photo of the victim.’

  ‘How the hell did you get that?’

  ‘Vicks. I know who she is, but I can’t lose the exclusive. You don’t know who she is, but you can give me access to the victim’s home. And I’m taking photos.’

  28

  Vicky drove along the A92. The traffic was early-afternoon light. She checked her rear-view and Alan’s car was still following, right up her tail, like he didn’t want her to escape.

 
; Horrible little prick.

  She pulled off without indicating, winding round the off-ramp towards the road into the top of Carnoustie.

  Onto the straight road down and her phone blasted out through the dashboard, set Bella loud. Forrester calling. She turned it down and hit Answer. ‘David, I’m—’

  ‘Are you safe to talk?’

  ‘I am, why?’

  ‘Have you gone fucking mental?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I got your voicemail. You’re trading info with this wanker?’

  ‘I don’t see any choice.’

  Forrester went silent, making her think she’d lost him as she weaved past the high school. ‘We should arrest him for withholding information.’

  ‘That’ll play badly.’

  ‘I know it will, but Christ.’ Forrester took a slurp of something. So he was probably back in his office up in Dundee, and not the crime scene. ‘I really don’t want to let him into that house. Are there any other journalists at his paper who could do it?’

  ‘And let them know he’s on to something? I doubt he’d agree.’

  ‘Christ. Okay. But you’re in charge there. Don’t fuck it up.’

  Vicky pulled off the road and trundled along the lane towards the gates guarding Craigen’s mansion.

  Alan appeared in the rearview and he parked his Mondeo just behind her.

  Through the gates, MacDonald was standing by his car, shades on and trying to look badass.

  She tried to get out first.

  But Alan was already crunching across the pebbles towards MacDonald. ‘You must be the next Mr Victoria Dodds?’

  MacDonald laughed. ‘No way.’

  ‘A past one, then?’

  Vicky got between them. The last two men in the world she’d want to fight over her. Not that it was her thing. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. No photographer, just you and your smartphone. Assuming you’ve finally got one.’

  ‘Had one for a while now. Can even use it.’

  ‘Okay. So you just want general shots?’

  ‘I’ll know what I’m looking for when I find it.’ He walked off up the drive.

  MacDonald gave Vicky a look over his shoulders, his eyebrows raised above the tops of his shades, then traipsed off after Alan, catching up just outside the house.

  Vicky followed slowly, giving them space. Sod it, she was letting MacDonald screw this up. If it was going to be on anyone, it was going to be on him. She stepped through the door and it sounded like they were already upstairs. Like Alan knew exactly where to go.

  Vicky raced up and followed the clattering to Louise’s old study.

  ‘This is amazing stuff. Gold dust.’ Alan was pointing at the Atreus bookcase. ‘That. Ten of each shelf, please.’

  MacDonald was taking snapshots with Alan’s phone.

  Vicky got between MacDonald and the shelves. ‘Alan, you just came straight up here. Someone’s been feeding you information, haven’t they?’

  ‘Give me my phone back!’

  MacDonald looked at Vicky. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  Alan laughed at her. ‘You really don’t want to know the identity of your victim?’

  MacDonald was frowning, but seemed to know enough to play along. ‘Come on, you’re up to something, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’d heard she had a bookcase. That’s it. Didn’t realise it was like this.’ Alan took in the space. ‘This is serious stalker shit.’

  ‘Look, Alan, you’re in here and you can see everything. I need you to give us the victim’s ID.’

  ‘Give me my phone back first.’

  MacDonald frowned at Vicky.

  But she looked at Alan, instead, shaking her head at him. ‘No, because the second you’re out of here, that’s up on the web and we’ll be for it.’

  Alan stood there, shifting his gaze between them, but it settled on Vicky. ‘I know what you’re up to here.’ He paced across the study and picked up some folders. ‘This is all about your dad, isn’t it? Guy never liked me, did he?’

  ‘Does anyone?’

  ‘You sure did.’ Alan sniffed. ‘All the times you’d screa—’

  ‘Alan, who is she?’

  ‘Was your old man involved in this Atreus case?’ He clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Because there’s a whole ring binder here with his name on it. George, isn’t it?’

  Vicky didn’t feel like she had much of a choice here. Hauling him out of the room without getting the victim’s name would feel like a defeat. ‘Dad worked the Broughty Ferry case.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting. Forgot he was a cop, but then he took me out for a pint once and gave me that big speech about looking after you. Threatened to kick the shit out of me if I ever mistreated you.’

  And that sounded like Dad. Last of the cavaliers. Warning him off like that. Christ. He’d expect to be consulted if Rob ever asked to marry her.

  Vicky sighed. ‘Give him his phone.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Many thanks.’ Alan took it back and started snapping shots. ‘So, her name. You got it?’

  Vicky looked at MacDonald and got a shrug. ‘Marie.’

  ‘Not particularly impressive for however many cops you’ve thrown at this, is it?’

  ‘I’m warning you. That phone will go out of the window…’

  ‘I doubt I’ll get approval to use them anyway.’ Alan tapped his temples. ‘It’s all stored up here, Vicks. If you want her name, I just want one more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A meeting with Bella.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Just one. You can be there the whole time.’

  Vicky stared at him and saw some human emotion in there. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Her name is Marianne Gall. G-A-L-L. Lives on Station Road in Carnoustie.’

  29

  Prof Arbuthnott looked up at the woman with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you ready?’

  Stella Gall was tiny, and seemed to shrink in on herself. A severe fringe stayed at the eyebrow level and seemed to keep to the same length all the way up, but was shoulder length at the back and sides. And all shot through with silver. She stood there, the room humming, and nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’

  Arbuthnott pulled back the sheet.

  The female victim lay there, ice cold and ice white. Her wounds had been stitched up, maybe not to mortician standards, but tidied up enough for this.

  Stella covered her mouth with a hand. ‘Oh my God.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘That’s her. That’s my Marianne.’

  Arbuthnott gritted her teeth. ‘Do you need a minute with her?’

  Stella trained a fierce glare into Vicky’s eyes. ‘Do you know who did this to her?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’ Vicky gestured at the family room door. ‘We should do this through here and—’

  ‘Do either of you have kids?’

  ‘I’ve got three.’ Arbuthnott nodded. ‘Two girls and a boy.’

  She looked at Vicky. ‘And you?’

  ‘A girl and a boy.’

  She stared at her daughter. ‘Oh, Marianne. Why did they do this to you?’

  Vicky was stuck in limbo between letting her grieve and needing to open the floodgates wide to gain information. ‘Ma’am, can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘You don’t need to ma’am me.’

  ‘Sorry. We have coffee too.’

  Stella looked at her with a puzzled frown. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Why don’t you enlighten me.’ Vicky walked over and opened the family door. ‘Tea? Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Tea, black. Thanks.’ And she finally left her daughter’s body and brushed past Vicky. She perched on the sofa and hugged a pillow, sobbing quietly.

  Vicky caught her sweet perfume and wondered how it’d feel to identify Bella’s body. Christ. She needed to stop thinking like that. She gave Arbuthnott a final thank-you nod, but she was already wheeling Marianne’s body away,
so she walked over to the kettle, freshly filled in preparation, and clicked it on. As it started hissing, she dug out mugs and teabags. Milk seemed to be in short supply, so she’d go without. They had the coffee her mum drank, so she scooped out a couple of measures into her mug.

  ‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’

  Vicky looked over at her. Remove the lines and the grey and something was tingling in the back of her memory, but it was too many years and too many faces ago. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I was your teacher in Primary Four. Mrs Brewer.’

  It didn’t come back to her at all. A whole year when she was nine and no recollection.

  ‘Of course, I became Ms Gall. My maiden name.’ Her lips tightened to a pout.

  The kettle rattled to a boil and Vicky poured water over the bag.

  ‘Quickly!’ Stella was like one of their greyhounds across the beach, shooting over and grabbing a teaspoon to flick out her teabag before Vicky was aware anything was going on. ‘You can’t let it sit.’

  ‘Okay.’ Vicky took the teaspoon and stirred her coffee. Didn’t smell as nice as her mum’s, so maybe she’d picked the wrong brand. ‘Can I get you any sugar?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Stella slurped at her scalding-hot tea like it was chilled juice. ‘My older daughter Amy was ages with you at the high school.’

  But Vicky drew a blank. She tried to do the sums in her head. She was thirty-six now, but was young for her year. This Amy would be thirty-six or thirty-seven now but Marianne Gall was twenty-eight. A big difference, but not huge. But she still couldn’t remember her. ‘Sorry, I can’t think.’

  ‘Good heavens, and they let you be a police officer with a mind like a sieve?’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just—’

  ‘I’m kidding. It was all a long time ago. Happens to the best of us. No, Amy obviously wasn’t in your class in primary as I wouldn’t have taught you.’ She frowned. ‘But I think you were in the same class in high school. She certainly talked about you a lot.’

  Vicky held her mug in front of her face and let the steam mist over her face. ‘I need to ask you about Marianne.’

  ‘What’s there to tell?’ Stella looked over at the door. ‘We were close until…’ She gasped. ‘Marianne moved out of home about a year ago. I never heard from her again.’

  ‘That must be really hard.’