by G R Jordan
Ross was going to finish up and follow Hope over by tomorrow at the latest and she had chosen to take the ferry back rather than wait for the hired charter they had come in on. This was as much to get some thinking time to herself as anything else and also to check out the address for Jane Thorne in Oban. But it also meant she managed to call Allinson, her partner for the first time since she had raced out the door. At least call him for any sort of meaningful chat.
They were still in the earlier stages of their relationship and she found being away from him difficult in a physical sense. Indeed, when she managed to get through to him, he had asked for a video call, but the signal strength was not enough. Hope felt the disappointment as acutely as he did, and she wondered when she would get back up to Inverness.
As the ferry pulled into Mallaig, Hope ran through the options of what had happened to her victim. The woman was clearly killed by someone who could handle a knife but also who had strength, both to have held her but then also to have sliced right through the neck. There was a mental strength, or a detachment, in being able to watch the neck sever and then being able to watch the woman die in what would have been a gruesome death.
And what was Hope to make of the map that was found? The original was with forensics, but she had copies of both sides of the parchment and had stared at them on the ferry but to no avail. One side was just a map and the other incomplete instructions referencing places not on her map. The line of attack was going to be the address and her name, but the Oban police had said the address had proved fruitless as there was no one home. However, the neighbours had said they were a man and a woman, a quiet couple, who lived there.
Hope took her car along the winding road that cut inland towards Loch Linnhe before driving south towards Oban. The day was miserable, but the weather aside, the view was something else. She had travelled this way before and often thought of it as Scotland’s forgotten coastline, a myriad of sea lochs and hills that took you far away from it all. Inverness was stunning on a good day nestled amongst the hills and the sea, but this was more intimate, every bend a small world of its own and then breaking into an extended view of the quiet loch. She should come here with Allinson—better than having a bikini selection argument in Greece.
Using the mapping app on her mobile, Hope found the address in Oban quickly after her long drive down from Mallaig. It was on one of the small estates on the south side of Oban and occupied a space at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was one of those modern builds and looked slightly smaller than the house next to it which had a double garage with both doors open showing an array of gardening equipment and children’s bikes and toys. Outside a man was cleaning his car, a sporty number with low profile tyres and a badge on the bonnet to prove just how expensive it was.
Parking the car in the driveway of Jane Thorne’s house, Hope opened the door and watched the man stop washing his car and look over at her. As she walked up to the door of the house, she felt him staring from over the small wooden fence that separated the properties. At the door, she rang the bell but heard no buzzer.
‘They’re not in,’ said the man. ‘My wife said they would be back today, but I’ve seen no sign.’
Hope nodded and peered into the hallway of the house. There was nothing of particular note inside, just a hallway like any other with a mirror on one side and a small alcove under the stairs where coats were hanging. She saw both male and female coats and checked that off as this was their house. Whoever they were.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the man over the fence.
Hope turned around to see a beaming face and watched him puff himself up like some sort of peacock, ready to answer her call, poor maiden as she was. Striding over and producing her credentials from her back pocket, Hope had to stop herself from laughing at the man’s attempt to sharpen his shoulders and pull in the small belly that was pushing at this t-shirt.
‘Have you lived here long, Mr . . .?’
‘Simon, Simon Rutledge. And yes, I’ve been here for eight years.’
‘On your own?’
‘No,’ said the man, shaking his head, ‘The wife and I came here first and now we have two kids with us. I work as a fish-farm manager for my sins, Detective . . . ? I take it you are a detective?’
Hope laughed internally. As opposed to what? Some random mad woman stalking houses. ‘Yes, sir, I am a detective, DS McGrath, and I’m interested in the owners of the property next to yours. You say they will be back today, or at least your wife says so. Do you know why she thinks that?’
‘No, she just mentioned it.’
‘Could you get her out her for me, sir?’
The man’s face fell. ‘Really? She’s terribly busy, maybe I could help you, show you round the house. I’ve seen the couple a lot.’
I bet you have, Mr nosey parker. And I bet you’ve watched her. ‘If you could please get your wife, sir, I really could do with speaking to her.’
Glumly, the man departed while Hope turned back to stare at the house. There was something about it that was bothering her. The couple had gone away and yet one bedroom window was cracked open slightly in what may have been an attempt to let some air through the place. But the other window at the upper floor of the house had its curtains closed. It was not particularly suspicious, but it seemed out of place with how neat everything else was.
Simon Rutledge returned with his wife and this time acted as if Hope was nothing special at all, gazing away from her the whole time, leaving his wife to introduce herself.
‘Hello, I’m Janine Rutledge. My husband says you’re a Detective?’
‘DS McGrath, Mrs Rutledge. Your husband said you thought the couple next door would be back today; why is that?’
‘I overheard them when they left. They only moved in four months ago and to be honest they are hardly ever here. Young types but very aloof. They never seem to be outside of the house when they are here, but I did notice that their house is somewhat warm.’
‘Warm?’ asked Hope. ‘How so?’
‘Well, I dropped round one day with a tray of shortbread to try and get to know them better and I managed to get invited into the kitchen. The weird thing was that she never said anything about herself. In fact, when her husband, or man—I don’t know if they are married—he only referred to her as Bambi and she called him Thumper. I guess they just like their little pet names. Simon sometimes calls me his deer and he’s my stag . . .’
‘That’s probably not what the detective wants to hear about, dear,’ said the man going a bright red.
‘Of course, Simon. But anyway, she was wondering around in a pair of pants and a t-shirt. And when he came into the kitchen, and it was only briefly, he only had a pair of boxers on. It was quite a sight, but I don’t think they had been up to anything or I had interrupted them. It was just so warm. I was sweating just sitting in there.’
‘And they never said their names to you?’ asked Hope.
‘Never. But it was strange, don’t you think, the house being so warm.’
‘And do they dress that way often?’
‘The woman hardly ever wears anything else,’ said Mr Rutledge and received a stare from his wife. ‘Hey, it’s not my fault she dresses like that.’ He turned back to Hope. ‘She goes out to the shed at the back of the house about four times a day. My wife is right, always dressed that way.’
‘Four times a day,’ asked Hope. ‘Were these times regular?’
‘Yes, seven in the morning, midday, four in the afternoon and then about eight at night.’
‘And those are rough times,’ said Hope trying not to smile, ‘and always in pants and a t-shirt.’
‘Always,’ said Mr Rutledge and Hope saw the anger in the woman’s face.
‘You used to shove me into the shower at seven, no bloody wonder.’
‘You were the one getting a full view of boxer-shorts man. You never told me that.’
‘Easy,’ said Hope. ‘I have something more important on at the moment
.’ But her words were drowned out by a car pulling up to the driveway behind her own car. As the engine died, the occupants seemed to sit for a while before the driver’s door opened and a tall, tanned, white man stepped out and pulled off a pair of sunglasses to look over at Hope. Sunglasses, Hope thought, we’re having to hunt for the sun.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked the man stepping round the car and Hope saw why Mrs Rutledge had not told her husband about the boxer shorts. The man was in great shape and had one of those chiselled chins that was covered with a moderate amount of stubble. The other door swung open and a dark-haired woman of maybe twenty stepped out in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. Again, Hope got why Mr Rutledge sent his wife to the shower. These two certainly looked the part.
‘DS McGrath, sir. I need to have a word with you about your house; it’s in connection with an investigation I’m running. Just routine, nothing to worry about. If we could go inside.’ The heat in the house was making Hope wonder just what was happening but she needed to retain her focus on her primary reason for being there.
‘Come this way,’ said the woman and did not stare at her neighbours once. Similarly, the man walked off without a word, but they went to the side of the house and beckoned Hope to follow.
‘Thank you, Mr and Mrs Rutledge, if I need anything else from you, I’ll be in touch.’ She watched their stunned faces, jaws dropped like some gawping goldfish. There’ll be a row in that house, she thought. Shoving her in the shower. What a guy!
Hope was shown through the back door straight into the kitchen where a seat was pulled out for her. The room was like something from a brochure without a mark or any food on display. Hope wanted to open a few cupboards just to make sure something was inside them. But Mrs Rutledge had been right, and as Hope had walked through the door, she had been hit by a wall of humid moisture.
‘You certainly like it warm,’ said Hope.
‘Yes,’ said the man and Hope thought she heard an Eastern European accident, ‘Bambi likes it hot, due to her South American roots. It’s quite therapeutic, lets your pores cleanse.’
‘Hell to sleep in, surely,’ said Hope.
‘How can we help you?’ asked Bambi. Her voice was smooth and a little forced. South American, my arse, thought Hope.
‘I have a body found on the isle of Canna and the deceased woman had documents that said she lived at this house. A Jane Thorne. Have you ever heard of the woman?’
The couple shook their heads. ‘We only bought this house four months ago,’ said Thumper and I don’t recall the name of the seller being that name, although we did buy through an agent so it may have been.’
‘Have you ever seen this woman? I apologise for the image, but we don’t have any of her alive, so this is a sketch.’ Again, they shook their heads. ‘Okay, thanks for the information. I’m glad I caught you in.’
Hope showed herself out and once outside drove her car to the next street out of sight. She then opened the boot of the car and searched her bag for a new top and different pair of jeans. A baseball cap and the untying of her hair completed the quick change and she walked back round to the cul-de-sac.
Mr Rutledge had disappeared inside, no doubt explaining his viewing of his neighbour and Hope watched the front of the house as she approached it. There was no movement and she passed the car Bambi and Thumper had got out of. A quick sprint to the side of the house and then to the corner of the rear of the house. Hope checked her watch. Four o’clock. A few minutes later, out strolled the woman in pants and t-shirt, to the shed at the rear of the house.
Hope followed her quietly as she opened the door and stepped inside. Looking in from behind, Hope saw an array of pipework, gauges and electronic indications. There were temperatures, humidity readings and flowrates indicated as well as a large boiler in the rear of the shed.
‘Would you like to explain what this is for?’ asked Hope, causing the woman to spin round in shock. ‘I think we should look inside the house. The woman’s shoulders slumped, and she looked at the ground. ‘Come on,’ said Hope. I guess I’m going to see Mrs Rutledge’s stud in his boxers after all.
Chapter 7
Alan Gilchrist stepped inside his four by four and turned the key in the ignition, sighing to himself. Last night had been rough. He did not know what was up with his wife but everything he did seemed to be wrong. Was it that time of life? Were her friends annoying her? Was it the kids? He had no idea but he did know that being out here about to drive around a beach was preferable to being at home today and so he thanked God for his small mercies as he crossed himself.
Picking up his handheld radio, he asked the control tower for permission to enter the runway. Having been given said permission, he drove out onto the white sand and looked at the receded tide. The small, twin-otter plane would be here in less than twenty minutes bringing some of the locals home and maybe the odd tourist, although at this time of year there would not be many. The walking wounded visiting the hospitals in Glasgow were more likely to be the main occupants.
Alan drove along the firm sand looking for anything untoward that would spoil an aircraft landing, his eyes sweeping here and there. Turning around, he looked up at Catherine in the control tower, her ears covered by large half domes but even from here he could see her smile. Everyone liked Catherine. The firemen, the manager, and Alan himself. She was twenty-five, blonde and bubbly but also more than capable of handling herself, be it with the fireman’s banter or the occasional stubborn pilot. He used to think his wife was like that. Maybe underneath she still was but something had changed her over the years. Kids! That was it. Love them as he did, they left a scar.
A flash of light caught his eye from the grassy edge of the beach and Alan looked up at the sky to see the cloud cover broken into briefly. A shaft of light must have penetrated. It had caught something on the ground and Alan did his duty driving towards the FOD, or Foreign Object Debris as the manuals explained it. Stepping from the vehicle, Alan traipsed towards the grass before recoiling and falling to the sand. It could not be, surely. He forced himself back to his feet and looked again. Once more he was repelled, stumbling backwards, and collapsed onto the sand. Turning over he vomited on the unstained white sand and began to shed a tear. The radio sparked into life.
‘Barra Information, OPS 1, come in. Barra Information, OPS 1, come in. Are you okay, Alan? Alan!’
Macleod stood with a coffee at the airport fire service unit awaiting the arrival of Mackintosh. He had made his way out to the body before leaving her to her devices and returning to the station to interview Alan Gilchrist. The man was nervous and difficult to get a proper statement from, but Macleod did not blame him. Murder was always horrible to look at but to have a head separated from a body was particularly nasty. Only his many years in the force had steeled him for the sight but he still felt somewhat queasy.
The reason Alan was in such a state, other than being confronted by a decapitated head, was that he knew the owner of that head. In fact, he had spoken to the man the previous night. On further investigation, everyone seemed to know the deceased man. A fact the Fire Chief was now recounting to Macleod.
‘Dennis was an Englishman but nice enough for all that. Bit of a loner and happy to walk around the island late at night. Was a bit of a twitcher, liked his birds. You’d often see him out around the edges of the airport.’
Macleod nodded, looking out towards the beach. Something was bothering him about the murder. They had three dead now in a matter of days, and nothing to say there was any connection between the bodies. Had the islands just become the wild west? Was it a full moon? Of course not, so there must be some sort of connection. This amount of spilled blood did not happen here at this pace. At any pace, really.
‘Do you know anything about Mr Parsons’ past? Was Dennis up here for a reason?’
‘Well, Inspector, he did not like to talk about his past, but I know he had some sort of major trauma, possibly military. He never spoke of it but Cath, up in
the tower, she dropped him some food round once and he was asleep, crying out in his sleep. I think he had sleeping pills too.’
Macleod watched a Land Rover make its way towards the Fire Station and then stop before them. A fireman jumped out of the driver’s seat before running around and opening the passenger door. Mackintosh hauled herself out of the vehicle and Macleod, usually on his best defence for the woman, just felt for her. She looked exhausted, battle-weary almost.
‘Chief, can we use your office, please? I need to have a talk with Miss Mackintosh. And if it’s not too much to ask, could we get her a coffee?’
The Fire Chief nodded and dispatched a fireman to the task before leading them into his office and pulling out a chair for Mackintosh. She fell into it and cursed at her feet. The Fire Chief smiled and then retired from the room shutting the door behind him.
‘Are you having a special on bodies at the moment, Seoras? It’s Barra of all places, idyllic Barra, battered by the weather but not this.’
Macleod nodded and gave a half smile. ‘It is unusual, Hazel.’ He knew he was using her first name, but he could not help but feel for her right now. She had been up working on the previous body, co-ordinating her team on Canna and now had been hauled from bed to see this new and even more gruesome site. ‘But there’s something troubling me about this one. How do we think he was attacked?’
‘From behind by the looks of it. I have a footprint in the sand, partial because there is grass and vegetation underfoot which has obscured it somewhat, but you are looking at a boot. I’ll get a tread image for you as soon as I can. It was a knife and I’m thinking it was similar to the one used on Canna in that it was a proper knife. But it would take a strong arm to remove the head while holding the person.’