The Innocent and the Dead

by Robert McNeill

  ‘I think so, Yvonne,’ Knox said. ‘Can you discover if he’s booking in?’

  Mason acknowledged this and entered the hotel. As she exited the revolving doors, she saw Tavener standing at a desk on the left of the reception hall. Mason crossed to a tourist information stand, picked up a brochure, and began leafing through it.

  The receptionist was booking in a Japanese couple ahead of Tavener. She smiled as she handed them their key. ‘Thank you, Mrs and Mrs Kanabe,’ she said, motioning to a uniformed member of staff standing nearby. ‘The porter will see you to your room. Enjoy your stay.’

  The couple gave a little bow, then moved off with the porter.

  The receptionist turned to Tavener. ‘How may I help you, sir?’ she said.

  Tavener said, ‘I’d like a single room for one night please.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the woman replied. ‘Let me check the register.’ She glanced at the computer screen in front of her, clicked a few keys, then said, ‘There’s a south-facing room on the second floor, sir. Would that suit you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tavener said. ‘That’ll do fine.’

  Mason moved to the door and left; a few moments later she re-joined Hathaway, who was standing a short distance away at the top of the Waverley Steps.

  Mason gave her colleague a nod and spoke into the radio mike. ‘Mason,’ she said.

  ‘Go ahead, Yvonne,’ Knox said.

  ‘He’s booked in,’ Mason said. ‘Staying one night.’

  ‘Good work,’ Knox said. ‘Okay, we’d better post a watch. Yvonne, Mark, you both take the first shift. I’ll ask the Tulliallan boys to relieve you at six.’

  * * *

  Tavener placed the holdall on a luggage stool at the foot of the bed, then took a seat at a desk near the window and keyed Forth Mercantile’s number into his iPhone. He asked to speak to the manager handling his account and, after a short wait, a voice said, ‘Hello, Sir Nigel. Liam Dallow, head of accounts. How can I help?’

  ‘I made a large withdrawal today, Mr Dallow. I’d like to know who handled the transaction.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, sir,’ Dallow said. ‘I’ll check your account.’ A short pause, then, ‘Ah, yes. The transaction was overseen by one of our junior managers, a Mr Colin Early.’

  ‘May I speak with him, please?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Nigel,’ Dallow said. ‘Just a moment and I’ll have your call transferred.’

  After a short interval there was a click on the line, then Tavener heard: ‘Early.’

  ‘Mr Early, Sir Nigel Tavener. I believe you were in charge of fulfilling a withdrawal for me. The sum of £100, 000. I had a bag delivered to hold the money. I picked it up from one of your tellers after twelve today.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Nigel,’ Early said. ‘I oversaw the transaction.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Tavener said. ‘Did you also oversee the placement of a device in a bundle of notes? I believe it’s known as a tracker.’

  A short silence, then Early said, ‘Yes, I did, Sir Nigel. It was carried out at the behest of the police, sir. I received a sanction order from a senior officer instructing me to do so.’

  ‘This officer, Mr Early, I’d like to know his name.’

  Early cleared his throat. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ronald Warburton at Gayfield Square Police Station.’

  ‘I see,’ Tavener said, ‘One more thing, Mr Early, will you tell me exactly where in the holdall the tracker’s located?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Nigel,’ Early said. ‘It’s inside a bundle near the bottom of the bag.’

  Tavener ended the call and sat in silence for a few minutes, then called room service and asked for a pot of tea and a round of ham sandwiches. He switched on the television and within seconds a picture flickered onto the screen.

  Tavener’s face drained of colour as he read the banner at the bottom:

  BREAKING NEWS: GIRL’S BODY FOUND IN FIGGATE PARK, EDINBURGH.

  A woman reporter faced the camera. Visible behind her was a group of police officers, who stood near a tent which had been erected near a stream. Tavener took the remote and increased the volume. “News just in from Figgate Park near Portobello in Edinburgh,” the reporter was saying. “The body of a young woman has been found partly submerged in a burn which flows through the park. Police aren’t releasing anything further at this time, but we’ll bring you more as we receive it. Moira Howell reporting for Lowland Television News, Edinburgh.”

  Chapter Nine

  The call came in soon after Knox and Fulton returned to Gayfield Square. By the time they arrived at the scene, DI Murray was already on site together with Alexander Turley, the pathologist. The detectives arrived in Knox’s car, which he parked nearby. The pair took disposable overalls and shoe covers from the boot, which they donned before joining the others.

  DI Murray was the first to greet them as they approached. ‘It’s not Samantha Tavener, Jack,’ he said.

  Knox gave a visible sigh of relief.

  ‘I knew that would be uppermost in your mind,’ Murray continued. ‘I just heard from Gayfield the girl’s not been released yet.’

  ‘No, things haven’t gone to plan,’ Knox said. ‘The kidnapper appears to have gotten wind of the tracker.’ He nodded to the tent. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’m relieved it’s not Samantha. Do we know who she is?’

  ‘A handbag was found with the body,’ Murray said. ‘The victim is Patti McCormack, a couple of months short of nineteen. Stayed with foster parents in Dock Square, Leith.’

  Knox nodded. ‘We have a cause of death?’

  Murray pointed to the tent. ‘The body’s with Alex Turley. He’s doing a preliminary examination.’

  ‘Thanks, Ed,’ Knox said, then tapped Fulton’s arm. ‘We’d better go and have a word.’

  The detectives crossed to the tent, where Knox pulled open the flysheet.

  ‘Okay for us to come inside, Alex?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, Jack. Come away.’

  Turley was a stocky, bearded man in his early fifties. He stood beside the corpse of the young girl, which had been placed on a folding metal cart in the centre of the tent.

  The young woman was wearing what looked to Knox like a patterned skirt and a light-coloured blouse, both of which were soaking wet. Her head rested on a plastic pillow, a matt of dark hair framing her chalk-white face.

  Turley gestured to the body. ‘She was spotted by a youngster going after a ball he’d kicked into the burn. His mother called 999.’ Turley grunted. ‘Not a pleasant thing for a bairn to see.’

  Knox nodded agreement. ‘I was told she was found at eleven-thirty this morning. Do you know how long she’s been dead?’

  ‘Going by rigor in her smaller musculature, I’d guess sometime last night. Ten, eleven.’

  Fulton said, ‘Was she drowned?’

  Turley shook his head. ‘There’s some fluid in the lungs, obviously, she’s been half submerged for a dozen or more hours. But no, she was strangled.’

  ‘Sexual assault?’ Knox said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Turley said. ‘I’ll have to carry out a full PM to be sure, of course, but I don’t see any signs.’

  He rucked up the girl’s skirt and indicated her briefs. ‘See, her underwear appears undisturbed.’

  Turley pulled her skirt down again and indicated the victim’s face. ‘There’s a series of petechial haemorrhages on her cheeks and in her eyes. I believe a full dissection will also reveal fractures of the laryngeal cartilage. Yes, I’m sure she was strangled.’

  ‘I see,’ Knox said. ‘Thanks, Alex.’

  Turley nodded. ‘You’re welcome, Jack,’ he said. ‘Give me a ring later this afternoon. I’ll have completed the post-mortem by then.’

  Knox and Fulton left the tent and went back to DI Murray, who had a UV lamp in his hand and was examining the underside of a branch overhanging the Figgate Burn. He turned at Knox’s approach. ‘Turley able to give you the verdict?’

  ‘He won’t be a hundred per cent sure until h
e does the post-mortem, but he’s of the opinion she was strangled,’ Knox said, then added, ‘Has anyone notified her foster parents yet, do you know?’

  Murray said, ‘Yes, a couple of uniforms went to their place over an hour ago.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Bill and I had better go and talk to them.’ He indicated a plastic evidence bag containing Patti McCormack’s possessions. ‘I’d like to take a look at the contents of her handbag, Ed. How long will you need to hold on to it?’

  ‘I’ll have a colleague run some tests ASAP,’ Murray said. ‘I should be able to let you have it later this afternoon.’

  ‘Find anything else?’ Knox said.

  ‘A couple of fibres on the collar of her blouse. Forensics at Dundee will check them under a scope, but it looks to me like wool.’

  ‘Fine, Ed, thanks. Keep me updated.’

  * * *

  Number 23 Dock Square was part of a modern development situated near Leith Harbour, an area with an almost equal mix of commercial properties and residential flats. The McCormack’s flat was located in a block at the corner of a broad open square, and was accessed via an intercom. Knox checked the names alongside, then thumbed a button.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Mrs McCormack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Knox and Detective Sergeant Fulton. Do you mind if we speak to you for a moment?’

  A buzzer sounded and the door opened. ‘No, come up. We’re on the first floor.’

  As the detectives reached the top of the stairs, Mrs McCormack stood on the landing waiting for them. She was a buxom woman, her dark hair heavily streaked with grey. Knox saw her eyes were red and her cheeks tear-stained. Her husband stood behind her: a stocky, balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Knox guessed the couple to be about the same age – mid-to-late fifties.

  Mrs McCormack waved to a door on her right, which was open. She gestured to a room leading off a short hallway. ‘The sitting room is on your left,’ she said.

  When Knox and Fulton went into the room, she indicated a leather settee. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  The detectives complied, then the couple sat on a pair of matching armchairs. Mrs McCormack took a hankie from inside her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said. ‘This has come as such a shock.’

  Knox nodded. ‘I realise this is a difficult time,’ he said. ‘We only need to ask a few questions, then we’ll leave you in peace.’

  Mr McCormack gave a little nod. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It’s your job. We’ll do what we can to help.’

  ‘Okay, just to confirm,’ Knox said. ‘You were Patti’s foster parents?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs McCormack said. ‘She’s been with us since she was fourteen. Before that, she lived at the Allanbreck Care Home at Fairmilehead.’

  ‘Could you tell us anything about her history? Before you fostered her?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs McCormack said. ‘Her father left her mother before she was born. The woman was an alcoholic, frequently left Patti at home on her own. One night, when Patti was two, her mother went out drinking. The toddler swallowed some of the contents of a bleach bottle and was rushed to hospital. Social services got involved and Patti was taken into care.’

  ‘The Allanbreck Home,’ Knox said. ‘That was the only place she stayed?’

  ‘I think so,’ Mrs McCormack said.

  Knox said, ‘How did you come to foster her?’

  ‘Although she was an infant when she was taken into care,’ Mrs McCormack said, ‘the circumstances must’ve had an effect. Patti had a very troubled childhood. A care worker told us she suffered nightmares and had frequent temper tantrums. She was forever getting into fights with other children. Staff, too. This continued into early adolescence.’

  Mr McCormack gestured to his wife. ‘You see, Ellen and I have experience with difficult kids. We fostered two before Patti. A few years ago, we completed a course in behavioural counselling.’

  Knox nodded, then said, ‘Did Patti ever see her mother again?’

  Mrs McCormack shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘She died when Patti was five. Cirrhosis of the liver.’

  ‘Did Patti’s behaviour improve after she came to you?’ Knox said. ‘The temper tantrums, I mean.’

  ‘By and large, yes,’ Mr McCormack said. ‘We’ve had occasional rows and she could be difficult.’ He shrugged. ‘But that’s how it is with teenagers.’

  Knox nodded and said, ‘She had a job?’

  ‘Not since January,’ Mrs McCormack said. ‘She worked at one of those fast-food places in Princes Street.’

  Mr McCormack said, ‘You see, Patti was a bright kid, but she never really shone at school. Left at sixteen without qualifications. I think she found it difficult to settle.’

  Mrs McCormack nodded. ‘The burger place was her third job.’

  Fulton said, ‘Who did she pal around with? She had a boyfriend?’

  ‘As far as I know, she didn’t have any real friends,’ Mr McCormack said. A pause, then, ‘A boyfriend? I don’t think so.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Ellen?’

  ‘Not since Allanbreck,’ Mrs McCormack said. ‘She told me once she and one of the boys at the home had been really close. But I don’t think she’s been seeing anyone else.’

  Knox said, ‘Strange for a young girl not to have any social interests.’

  Mr McCormack said, ‘Patti wasn’t all that gregarious. She was quiet, withdrawn, even introverted. It took her a while to open up to anyone new.’

  ‘Didn’t she like music, movies, that sort of thing?’ Knox said.

  ‘Reading,’ Mrs McCormack said, ‘Patti was a proper bookworm. Always had her head in a novel. Supernatural stuff mostly.’

  Knox said, ‘She didn’t go out much?’

  ‘Not all that much,’ Mr McCormack said.

  ‘Did she drink, smoke?’ Fulton asked.

  Mrs McCormack shook her head. ‘Neither.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Can you think of any reason she’d be in the Portobello area?’

  Mr McCormack shook his head. ‘You mean Figgate Park, where she was found?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mrs McCormack said, ‘One of our neighbours, Mrs Allen at 23/3, the flat above, has a black Labrador dog called Louie. Pattie loved taking him for a walk. She’d spend a good hour or more up at Leith Links with him.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘But I can’t think why she’d be at Portobello, no.’

  Knox closed his notebook and rose. ‘Okay, I appreciate your seeing us,’ he said. He handed Mr McCormack a card. ‘We’ll be in touch, but if you think of anything else in the meantime, no matter how irrelevant it might seem, please give us a ring.’

  The McCormack’s escorted Knox and Fulton to the door, then Mrs McCormack said, ‘I can’t think why anyone would want to do this to poor Patti. I wouldn’t have thought she had an enemy in the world.’

  * * *

  Tavener drained the whisky and placed the glass back on the drinks cabinet. The sandwiches lay on a plate on the table untouched, the tea cold in the pot.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, ran his fingers through his hair, then reached for the television remote and muted the sound. When he returned the remote to the bedside stand, he glanced at his hands and saw they were shaking.

  Only moments earlier, Lowland Television had broadcast a news update. The girl found at Portobello had been named, and Tavener had wept when he discovered it wasn’t Samantha.

  Nonetheless, the kidnapper’s words still haunted him: The police must not be involved. If they are, be advised you will not see Samantha alive again.

  Tavener rose and went back to the drinks cabinet and poured another whisky, the threat to his daughter still uppermost in his mind. His frayed nerves caused him to spill the drink when the sudden ringing of his phone gave him a jolt. He sat back on the bed, glanced at the screen and saw “Samantha”.

  ‘Hello,’ Tavener said.

  ‘Sir Nigel,’ the
kidnapper said. ‘I think you may have had a bit of a fright?’

  It took a moment for Tavener to realise the man was talking about the murdered woman.

  ‘If you mean the girl they’re talking about on the television news, yes.’

  ‘It could easily have been Samantha,’ the man said, then paused for effect. ‘And might be yet.’

  ‘I told you, I had nothing to do with the tracker,’ Tavener said. ‘And I’m speaking the truth.’

  The man said, ‘You’ll have contacted your bank and found it? You’re aware I was speaking the truth, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tavener said. ‘You were. They placed it in a bundle of notes at the bottom of the bag.’

  ‘You removed it?’

  ‘Yes, a foil-like sliver about a half-inch square. I flushed it down the lavatory.’

  ‘So, you booked into a hotel? You’re still in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Yes, the Balmoral.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve given this a bit of thought,’ the man said. ‘Decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.’ He paused then added, ‘You’ll meet me tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’ Tavener said. ‘What time?’

  ‘There’s a market on at the Grassmarket, starts at 10am. I want you to be there at ten-thirty. Understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tavener said. ‘I understand. Where will you be?’

  ‘Never mind. Just look around the stalls. Act like a punter. Carry the bag in your left hand. When you feel two sharp taps on your right shoulder, drop it.’

  ‘Drop the bag?’

  ‘Yes, drop it. I’ll be behind you long enough to pick it up and disappear.’

  ‘What about Samantha?’ Tavener said.

  ‘As soon as I’m in the clear, I’ll phone my mate and he’ll free her.’

  ‘And you give me your word no harm will come to her?’

  ‘If you do precisely as I say, she’ll be freed. On the other hand, if the police interfere, if I’m followed or arrested, my mate won’t get my call. That wouldn’t be good news for your daughter.’

  ‘The police won’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Good,’ the man said. ‘Let’s keep it that way, eh?’