Rush to Judgement

by John Carson

  ‘Thanks, Doctor,’ Harry said.

  The doctor left the room and Harry brought Alex up to speed on the investigation.

  ‘You going to talk to the funeral director?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes. Jimmy’s going to the mortuary, then we’re going to talk to Shug’s husband, David.’

  ‘I hope this damn sickness goes away soon.’

  ‘It will,’ Harry said. ‘If you do as you’re told.’

  ‘Okay, I’m feeling tired still. And you’re annoying me with your lectures. Go and get some bad guys.’

  He laughed and kissed her again. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ she said.

  Twenty

  Dunbar and Evans parked the car where Harry and Alex had parked, way in the back of the hospital where the mortuary bay doors were.

  ‘I don’t think I could live in a wee town like this,’ Evans said.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? No lap dance bars or dodgy wee brothels for you to frequent?’

  ‘I don’t go to lap dance bars. My new look did all the talking for me. I had no trouble getting a woman.’

  They got out of the car into the cold. The snow had stopped for the time being and the sun had made an appearance, but it did bugger all for the temperature. Dunbar had put sunglasses on, but Evans had forgotten his and was shielding his eyes.

  ‘All your new look said was, my bun makes me look like a lassie.’

  ‘Pish. Women love that look.’

  ‘What, the My Little Pony look?’

  ‘Should I be worried that you know about a bairn’s toy like that?’

  ‘My granddaughter plays with those things. And stop changing the subject. You looked like a bawbag who could only pull a sixty-year-old granny.’

  ‘She wasn’t sixty. You made a mistake there.’

  ‘Really now? You want me to call the station and have somebody ask around, just to be sure?’

  ‘Barely sixty. We had a nice meal out on her birthday. Her idea, not mine.’

  ‘You said you thought she was forty. Lying bastard.’ Dunbar pressed the button for the buzzer. ‘That must have looked barry in the restaurant. See that nice young man taking his old maw out for a meal. Tell me you at least had the decency to pull a beamer.’

  ‘Christ, you make it sound pervy now.’

  ‘It is fucking pervy.’

  ‘What’s pervy?’ a female voice said. A young woman was standing with the door open.

  ‘Nothing for you to poke your neb into there, hen,’ Dunbar said. They showed their warrant cards.

  ‘Mortuary assistant Stacey Nichols. I met your polis pals last night. You’re more exciting, though. Tell me what’s pervy. We need some excitement up here.’

  ‘Dead skiers not exciting enough for you?’ Dunbar said as they stepped inside and Stacey shut the door behind them. He took his sunglasses off.

  ‘Ah, that’s old hat by now. I need something to spice up my life.’

  ‘If you don’t keep that nose ring clean, I’m sure sepsis will give you a run for your money. Your boss in?’

  ‘I’m so clean, I squeak when I walk,’ she said, walking along a corridor.

  ‘That’s something you have in common with my boss here. He’s so tight, he squeaks when he walks,’ Evans said.

  ‘You’ve taken that too far,’ Dunbar said.

  Stacey laughed. ‘Never mind, DS Evans, my boss is tight as well.’

  ‘I can detect a lack of respect for people who are not only your elders but also your bosses,’ Dunbar said.

  She took them to the post-mortem suite, where Dr Valerie Henderson was waiting for them.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ she said, smiling. ‘I had a PM this morning, but after your call, I postponed it.’

  ‘Sorry to ruin your schedule,’ Dunbar said, not meaning it.

  ‘No, don’t worry. This is fascinating.’

  They all looked at the skeletal remains that had been inside the coffin, now lying on a steel table.

  ‘Forensics have taken the coffin away for processing. But they found this tucked into it. I photographed it before they took it away, as I knew you would want to see it.’

  She picked up a remote and the TV on one wall kicked into life. ‘By the wonders of modern technology, I can show you this photo of an old newspaper clipping.’

  Everybody stood and looked at the small clipping, which had been blown up to fill the large-screen TV.

  Woman Goes Missing at Skiing Resort in the Highlands.

  Dunbar read the story. Caitlin McGhee, eighteen, was partying with a group of friends and nobody noticed she was missing until the following day. Despite a wide search, nothing was found. Police carried on searching for her.

  There was another photo of people searching in a field, with a dog handler in front. Dunbar noticed the old police uniform, just like he had worn. A proper uniform, he thought.

  ‘This was in the coffin, you say?’ Dunbar said to Valerie.

  ‘Yes. It was there with the body. The forensics man said he thought it had been put there after the skeleton was put in the coffin, so somebody would find it. It would have decomposed in the ground.’

  ‘Somebody sending us a message?’ Dunbar thought out loud. ‘Like they want us to know who this person is. For some reason, they don’t want us to waste time trying to solve the mystery of who she is, but would rather tell us outright.’

  ‘It would seem that way.’

  ‘Does this look like somebody who’s been in the ground for thirty years?’ Evans asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Valerie. ‘Only the skeleton remains, as you can see, with little bits of skin. Not much else. From what I can see, it looks like she was buried in the ground without having been put in a coffin. When she was in the coffin in the back of the hearse, her body had been wrapped in a new sheet, but previous to that she had been wrapped in some sort of cloth, which in turn was wrapped in heavy plastic. Most of the plastic was intact, holding her in place.’

  ‘Whoever was driving the hearse knew where this young woman was buried and dug her up.’

  ‘Maybe the same person who killed her thirty years ago,’ Stacey said. ‘Assuming that she was killed, I mean.’

  ‘You have a point,’ Evans said.

  Dunbar had one last look at the skeleton before looking at the pathologist. ‘Thanks, Doc. If you could send over a report of your findings to the station when you’re finished.’

  Twenty-One

  ‘Right then, young lady, let’s be having you,’ the porter said, coming into the room with the wheelchair. ‘Doc’s ordered an ultrasound for you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alex used her maiden name, Maxwell, for professional situations. This was a personal matter, so she was using her married name.

  ‘Hop aboard, and we’ll get you down to the magic land where all the fun stuff happens.’

  He helped her out of bed and got her into the wheelchair, covering her with a blanket.

  ‘Scream if you want to go faster,’ he said, turning around and guiding the chair out of the room with practised ease.

  ‘A nice, slow drive in the country will be fine,’ she said as they went to the lift.

  Downstairs, on the lower level, there were signs for the radiology department.

  ‘My, my, no skiers today. Usually, there’s one of them with a broken leg,’ the porter said.

  ‘Don’t jinx it.’

  ‘From your lips to God’s ears.’ He walked round to stand in front of Alex. ‘You’ll be going through that door there. They’ll come out and get you. Shouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He walked away out of sight and she could hear the ding of the lift bell. Then the lift doors slid closed and she was alone. With her thoughts.

  She had dreamed of being a mother for a long time, and now she was pregnant, she was filled with joy and excitement. But the sickness hadn’t come into play in her vision of pregnancy at all. Yes, the normal morning sickness, but no
t this debilitating illness. Still, it was going to be worth it. Having Harry’s baby. A dream come true.

  She smiled when she thought about him –

  The wheelchair suddenly started moving quickly as somebody grabbed hold of it from behind and began running.

  ‘What the hell?’ she said, trying to put her feet down to stop the chair, but she had hospital socks on and they did nothing to act as brakes.

  Then a wall was coming up fast and she crashed into it, the momentum throwing her forward, out of the chair, until her face met the wall. She bounced back and felt her hair being grabbed.

  Then something stung her neck.

  Then nothing.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Aye, as if business isn’t bad enough, some bastard comes along and takes one o’ me fucking motors.’ Tom Birrell, owner of Birrell & Son Funeral Directors, was standing in the middle of the yard with Harry by his side. He was an older man, and Harry thought he looked like he had one foot in the grave.

  ‘This is where it was?’ Harry said, nodding to the empty space with the small snow banks forming a rectangle where a vehicle had been sitting. The snow that was coming down was doing its best to fill in the blanks.

  ‘What a great detective you are.’ The old man shook his head.

  A younger man walked over from the direction of the garage. He was smiling but still looked austere in his black suit with white shirt and black tie.

  ‘Dad, the detective here is only trying to help. They found one of our hearses and he has to know why it was taken.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘Anderson Birrell. I’m the son in Birrell and Son Funeral Directors. Call me Andy.’

  Harry felt funny about shaking the hand of a man who dealt in death, so he didn’t offer, keeping both hands in his coat pockets.

  ‘I thought business was good round here? Dead skiers, dead car accident victims. I thought you had it made?’

  ‘You thought wrong,’ said Birrell Senior. ‘A big conglomerate moved into the town up the road, giving me competition. Time was, we independents wouldn’t step on each other’s toes. We had an unwritten boundary. We would call each other up. We’ve got a busload of orphans that are on your side. Need a hand?’

  Busload of orphans? Harry thought. Jesus. ‘I get the picture. Now you’ve got a missing hearse that was found with a body in it. It’s smashed up, probably beyond repair, and even if it wasn’t, it would still be impounded.’

  ‘Christ, if I wanted to hear doom and gloom, I would have put the news on. Talk about the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘Tell me when you noticed it was missing.’

  The old man huffed and puffed, and Harry thought for a moment that he was trying to blow the garage down.

  ‘When you lot called. I live in a flat above the funeral parlour down on the High Street. The vehicles are parked here. Two in the garage, but they’re the newer ones. This one was an older model. A bit like my wife; still worked but needed a wee tickle to get going nowadays.’

  Harry did his best not to screw his face up. The man had to be seventy if he was a day and God knows what his wife looked like. He tried not to imagine her being tickled, but sometimes the mind ran the film anyway and you were stuck with it.

  ‘I only heard about it this morning from Dad,’ said Anderson. ‘I live in the flat too, but I was out playing poker with some friends.’

  ‘Poker,’ Old Man Birrell said. ‘He plays shite. I’m surprised he hasn’t lost the fucking business by now.’

  ‘We only play for fun, Dad. If I was going to bet with anything, it would be you. Can you imagine the advert now? Why live in your own place when you can share the same flat as a grumpy old bawbag?’

  ‘Enough of your bloody cheek. You would do well to get your own place instead of carousing with those slappers and getting blootered at the weekends.’

  ‘That was in my younger days. I’ve grown up now.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Is the yard locked?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Naw, is it fuck. Who in their right mind would want to chorie a fucking hearse?’

  ‘Dad, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Somebody did.’ In his right mind. There was only one person Harry knew of in town who fit the description of not being in his right mind.

  ‘The coffin in the hearse was new, so we’re thinking he might have stolen that too. Was there a coffin in the hearse?’

  The old man curled his lip. Made a few sounds as if struggling to find the right expletive. ‘No.’ He settled on the one-word answer and spat it out like a child might spit out a piece of broccoli.

  ‘We only keep them in the workshop at the back of the garage,’ Anderson said.

  ‘Do you know if any are missing?’ Harry asked, digging deep for his patience.

  ‘Again, I only got woken up by some of you lot,’ said Birrell. ‘I mean, I get up early but not that early.’

  ‘Where do you keep your inventory?’

  The old man nodded to the garage again. ‘In there. It’s bigger than it looks from the front. There’s a workshop in the back. We make them and store them there.’

  ‘Can we have a look?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Birrell turned from the spot where the car was and walked up to the personnel entrance next to the garage door. It was more like a small warehouse than a garage. He took a key out of his pocket and suddenly stepped back.

  ‘Aw, would you look at that? Some bastard smashed the lock!’ He was about to touch it when Harry stopped him.

  ‘Where?’ Anderson said. ‘Oh, dear. What is this place coming to?’

  ‘I’ll take it and put it in a bag. It might have prints on it,’ Harry said.

  With the lock safely in his pocket, Harry pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  ‘Light switch is on the left,’ the old man said, happy now to be behind the detective should somebody come barrelling at them with a shovel.

  There was no barrelling, no shovels, only two cars: a hearse and a limo.

  ‘The workshop is through the back,’ Anderson said.

  They walked past the gleaming black cars, past a little office and through a door into the back. There were two shelves holding coffins and the lower one had an empty space.

  ‘It’s gone,’ said the old man. He looked at Harry. ‘Was the coffin you found dark brown?’

  Harry couldn’t remember. ‘I think so.’ Weren’t they all the same?

  ‘You think so?’

  Anderson stepped in. ‘What he means, Chief Inspector, is no, they’re all different. To the untrained eye, they might look similar, but they’re different.’

  Clearly, judging by Birrell’s look of incredulity, not all coffins were made the same. ‘Hold on.’

  Harry took his phone out and looked at the photo he’d taken of the corpse in the coffin, hanging out the back of the hearse.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Jesus. What did the bastard do?’ Birrell looked at Harry. ‘Yes, that looks like the same one. Expensive bastard it was too.’

  ‘Do you have security cameras?’

  ‘I wish I had now. Any idea who stole it?’

  ‘Not yet. But I don’t think it was joyriders.’

  Twenty-Three

  Harry pulled in behind the big police Land Rover and climbed into the back of the behemoth. It wasn’t the size of a double-decker, but it felt like it after the Vauxhall.

  Dunbar was tossing a coin in the air. He slapped it onto the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m not playing your stupid game,’ Evans said.

  ‘What’s happening, boys?’ Harry asked.

  ‘We’re tossing a coin to see who’s picking up the tab in the bar tonight,’ Dunbar said. ‘Call in the air.’

  Evans shook his head and sighed. Dunbar tossed the coin.

  ‘Tails,’ Evans said.

  The coin landed. Dunbar looked at it, saw it was tails and turned his fist into his right palm so it was now heads.

  ‘Loser. Beer’s on Robbie.’


  ‘Best of three.’

  ‘Wee bastard.’ Dunbar tossed the coin again.

  ‘Heads.’

  Dunbar saw it was heads and turned the coin into his palm again. ‘Sorry, son.’

  ‘You’re cheating.’

  ‘How am I cheating?’

  ‘You just are. I can tell.’

  ‘You can tell heehaw.’

  ‘I can. You always cheat. You’re no’ right in the heid. It’s an illness with you.’

  ‘You hear that, Harry? That’s the sound of a sore loser.’

  ‘Call it what you want, I’m still not picking up your drinks tab. You’ll just get blootered since you’re not paying for it.’

  ‘That’s fine, son. We can have a few swallies and then maybe go to the chippie afterwards. There’s a nice lassie works in that one in the High Street. What’s her name again?’

  Evans shook his head. ‘Maybe I’ll buy a couple.’

  ‘He always comes round to my way of thinking,’ Dunbar said, smiling. Then to Harry: ‘How did you get on with that crabbit old bastard?’

  ‘How do you know he’s crabbit?’

  ‘Because when you left, he called the station complaining about you. Said you didn’t have a clue who stole his hearse. He was in a right strop, the sergeant said.’

  ‘He was not a happy camper. But the hearse and coffin came from that funeral director’s place right enough,’ Harry told Dunbar and Evans. ‘His son, Anderson Birrell, was nicer. I think the old boy needs to retire. He saw nothing because he lives above the parlour in the High Street and the garage and workshop are in the wilds. How did you get on?’

  ‘A newspaper clipping was put in the coffin along with the body,’ Dunbar said. ‘Somebody wants us to know who she was.’

  ‘Somebody dug her up, then gave us her name. Was the clipping a photocopy or an original?’

  ‘Original,’ Evans said.

  ‘Right,’ said Harry, ‘let’s get on inside Shug and David’s place and we’ll see what the computer whizz has for us.’