Rush to Judgement

by John Carson

  ‘How long ago was he the pathologist?’

  ‘He retired six months ago.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Alex jolted awake as the smell got sucked into her nostrils.

  The man was standing over her, something in his hand. ‘You’re just inhaling ammonia and your body is reacting to it, making you suck in fresh oxygen, which jolts you awake. Otherwise known as smelling salts. About time you were coming round, lazy cow.’

  ‘Where…what…?’ Alex struggled to get the words out. He was wearing a ski mask and she could only see his eyes and mouth.

  ‘Where doesn’t matter. You’re quite safe, I promise you. The what part of your question…well, need-to-know basis, I’m afraid. And right now, you don’t need to know.’

  Alex’s mind was clearing and she realised that her left wrist was handcuffed to the metal bedpost. She looked at it.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, in your condition and all, but needs must. You can sit up or lie down, it’s your choice. You’ll be able to eat and watch some TV if you like, but you have to stay handcuffed to the bedframe. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise you that. You’re just a tiny pawn in what is turning out to be a big game.’

  ‘What’s going on? I was in the hospital. How did I get here?’

  ‘No, don’t you worry your pretty little head about things. You were given a little sedative, nothing that will harm your baby, and I made sure you were comfortable while you were being transported here.’

  The room was warm and she heard a log fire crackling in the small fireplace. The curtains had been opened and she could see daylight. Grey sky. That was it.

  ‘Are we still in Blairgowan?’ she asked. Her mouth was dry and she was finding it hard to speak.

  The man left the room and came back with a tray with food on it. ‘Chicken soup, glass of water and some nausea medication. I know you don’t trust me, but the meds are there if the sickness becomes unbearable. And think about how you can’t leave the bed; if you’re sick, you’ll have to lie in it. The meds will help. If I wanted to harm you, I would have done it when you were unconscious.’

  He put the tray on the bed on the side that she was handcuffed. ‘I have to warn you, though: if you decide to throw the soup at me, you’ll get no more food. You won’t get toilet privileges. There’s a little en-suite there that you can use. But again, any funny business and no more toilet. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Have a glass of water. It will make you feel better.’

  ‘I’m not drinking that,’ she replied.

  ‘Still don’t trust me. Here, let me show you.’ He took the glass and had a drink from it. ‘There. I wouldn’t poison myself now, would I?’

  He left and she drank the water. Then she reached over herself and slid the tray closer. She was famished now. She grabbed the bowl of soup and managed to get it across and down onto the cover without spilling it. The soup tasted good. From a can, but still.

  She ate it up, focusing on the little TV, its screen blank. She was about to call him when she felt the tiredness kick in. Her eyes were getting heavier and all the light was being sucked from the room.

  Then she realised, just before she closed her eyes.

  He’d drugged the soup.

  Thirty

  ‘I was just thinking,’ Gary Whitman said. He was still in the kitchen and Vern was pottering about.

  ‘Oh yeah? That can be dangerous.’

  Whitman laughed. ‘You know how the hearse was crashed into the church? What if that wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I was working a case once where a guy was abducting women and he was taunting us. He crashed a car into a shop. Turned out he had taken a woman who used to work there. He crashed it just enough to draw attention but not to hurt himself. That got me thinking: what if…? I was going to go over there today and have a little nose around. You up for it?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Not with me. I mean with the big fella. I’m bleedin’ knackered now.’

  She thought about it some more. She had given thought to maybe joining the police, making a career of it in Glasgow. Working alongside Robbie Evans wouldn’t be so bad.

  Just then, Muckle came in with Sparky.

  ‘Sparky my boy!’ Whitman said, holding his arms out. Sparky wagged his tail and rushed over to the man, who rubbed the side of his head. ‘I was just saying to Vern here that maybe this nut job crashed the hearse into the church on purpose, to draw our attention to there. I’ve seen it happen before. Maybe you should go and have a look.’

  Muckle looked at Vern. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we have time to do this before we have to go on duty. Where’s Shug?’

  ‘At home with David. He won’t be in until it’s time to work. But let’s go. I’m bored already.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t join you,’ said Whitman. ‘My sciatica is killing me. Being rugby-tackled didn’t do me back any good.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Vern said.

  ‘Don’t you worry your head about that. You was doing what had to be done. I wouldn’t mind just going back to me hotel. Stretch me back out a bit.’

  ‘Sure. We can meet up later.’

  They left the house and got into one of the old Range Rovers that belonged to the estate, Sparky relegated to the back of the car. Muckle drove round to where the hearse had been chased and carefully negotiated the road until he came to the little lane and drove down it. The snow was coming down slowly again, gradually filling in the tyre tracks from all the vehicles that had come down here, including the tow truck that had taken the hearse away.

  Muckle stopped the car and Sparky sensed something was going on and started yelping in the back.

  ‘Sparks, enough. You’ll make me fuckin’ deef.’ Muckle looked at Vern. ‘Pardon the French.’

  She just smiled at him. ‘Come on, Sparky, time for work,’ she said, and the dog turned towards the back. She opened it up and let him out, grabbing his lead and handing him over to Muckle.

  The snow was coming down harder now.

  ‘Girls were found dead in this cemetery here,’ Muckle said. ‘It goes some way to the back.’

  ‘We can split up,’ Vern said.

  ‘There’s a nutter on the loose,’ Muckle said.

  ‘I think I can take care of myself, Muckle.’

  ‘Okay, okay, have it your way. I’ll take him way back there. The walk will do him good. Come on, boy.’

  Muckle walked past the side of the old church and he and the dog were soon out of sight as a high wind whipped up the ground snow, making it look like a blizzard.

  Vern walked past some of the debris from the smashed hearse and stood looking at the door to the church. For an abandoned building it was in decent shape, structurally. She reached out and turned the old doorknob, expecting the hinges on the door to creak, but they moved silently.

  She took out the small torch from her belt and shone it around. It was dusty and cold and there were cobwebs everywhere.

  She walked forward and the floorboards creaked alarmingly, but they held. The pulpit was straight ahead. Vern wondered when a minister had last held a service from up there.

  The windows were still intact, if caked with dirt, but a gloomy light fell through them. Wind whistled through gaps somewhere, but still this place felt a few degrees warmer than outside.

  She moved forward until she came to the first line of pews. Then she saw it.

  A woman hanging from the rafters.

  Vern’s breath caught in her throat, but she composed herself. She ran forward, bracing herself, and saw the chair tipped over underneath the woman’s feet.

  Christ, had she hanged herself?

  She righted the chair, stood on it, grabbed hold of the woman and pulled a knife from her pocket, then tried to take the weight and cut the rope at the same time. The knife was small, but it was d
oing the trick.

  Then, all of a sudden, she sensed movement near her, and the chair was kicked out from under her.

  She fell hard, landing on her back, and felt the air rush out of her lungs just as the black shadow was on top of her. She tried to bring the knife up but realised it had flown from her hand as she tried to save herself.

  There was a sharp pain in her neck, and then her eyes closed.

  ‘Come on, boy, there’s nowt here. Let’s go and see if Vern’s found anything,’ Muckle said to the dog. Sparky got confused for a moment and stood waiting for Muckle to throw a snowball. Muckle ignored him, but his boots kicked up the powdery snow and as it flew up Sparky tried to bite it.

  ‘Aw, come on, this is difficult enough, ya daft bastard.’

  Still the dog played as they approached the church – then he stopped and stood still, staring at the old building. The fur on his back went up and he started growling.

  Muckle got a bad feeling.

  ‘Come on, boy, let’s go see Vern.’ He started running through the deep snow as best he could, with Sparky pulling on his lead. The snow thinned out as they got to the car park, and Muckle had his baton out as the dog pulled him into the church. There was no way of making a covert entrance with the dog barking now.

  Muckle stopped short when he saw the woman hanging there. He took his phone out, Sparky going berserk. He tried to hold the baton in his left hand while he dialled a number with his right.

  ‘Vern! You here?’ he shouted. She should have shown herself by now.

  The phone was answered at the other end.

  ‘It’s Muckle. You need to get to the old church. We have another one.’

  Thirty-One

  Dunbar was standing out in the corridor. He called David, Shug’s husband.

  ‘Dave, it’s Jimmy Dunbar. I need to know how good you are on that computer of yours.’

  ‘I like to think I’m the best, but there are people who would probably argue with that.’

  ‘How good are you at doing searches on people?’

  ‘Ever heard of taking sweets from a baby?’

  ‘I need you to run a name. Albert Renfrew. He lived here in town until six months ago when he had a heart attack and moved down south. He was a pathologist. He retired from Blairgowan hospital.’

  ‘I’ll get on it now. Call you when I’m done.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Harry came out of the office. ‘You think it’s the same guy?’

  ‘Don’t you? Some light bulbs are going off in my head. He retired six months ago. He’s come up here at Christmas. He’s a friend of Dr Hamilton’s, so he can weasel his way in here to find out what they know.’

  ‘Bastard. Why didn’t we know about him before?’

  ‘He didn’t do anything stupid to put himself on our radar before. But if he’s taken Alex, then he’s put himself front and centre.’

  ‘We should ask Carter what he knows about Renfrew.’

  ‘Let’s get back upstairs and ask him now.’

  They walked back along the corridor and Dunbar’s phone rang. It was Evans.

  ‘Get back here, Robbie. We have a new lead, somebody we didn’t know about. I’ll tell you when you get here.’

  He hung up and they took the lift to the ground floor and went back to the security office.

  ‘Can you call Dr Carter for us?’ said Dunbar. ‘I need to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘Dr Carter left a wee while ago. He said he wasn’t feeling well and that he would see you later.’

  ‘Does he live in town here?’

  ‘On the outskirts. In one of the big houses on the new estate.’

  ‘Can you give us his address?’

  ‘HR would have to do that. I mean, they’re sticklers for policies. I think you might have to get a warrant for that.’

  ‘Alright, son, we’ll follow the rules.’

  They left the office again and Dunbar made a call.

  ‘David? Sorry to be a pain, but I need some more info, if you can manage it.’

  ‘I’m only too happy to help a friend of Shug’s. He says hi, but he’s away to get ready for work.’

  Dunbar told David what he needed.

  ‘Stay on the line. That’s so easy I could do it in my sleep.’

  ‘I bet Carter’s packing his suitcase now. He’s fucked up big time and I bet he’s on the run,’ Harry said, getting agitated.

  ‘What if he’s working with this Renfrew joker? Maybe he helped Renfrew. Got Alex down to radiology so Renfrew could grab her.’

  Dunbar’s phone rang and he answered it, thinking it was David. It was Muckle. Dunbar listened before hanging up.

  ‘Muckle’s at the old church where the hearse crashed. Another woman’s been hanged. He’s calling it in. We have to get round there.’

  ‘I have to go see Carter. I have to know if he’s involved.’

  ‘You can’t do that, Harry. You might do something stupid.’

  ‘I’m going, Jimmy.’

  ‘Okay, I can’t stop you, but I’m sending Robbie with you.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  ‘Meet me over at the church later.’

  Just then, Evans came marching in.

  ‘Don’t get comfortable,’ Dunbar told him. ‘Harry will explain on the way.’

  Thirty-Two

  Harry and Evans were sitting in the big Land Rover waiting for Dunbar’s call.

  ‘Jesus, sir, I’m gutted about Alex. If I get my hands on the bastard…’

  ‘Me first, Robbie.’

  Harry’s phone rang and Dunbar gave him the address that David had acquired. Evans put the address into Google Maps and they left the hospital car park.

  ‘This pathologist has just gone to the top of our list,’ Harry said after explaining what had gone down in the mortuary.

  ‘How did he get Alex out if he took her?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  They drove along Main Street before taking a left and heading out of town. They were going up into the hills when they found the street they were looking for. Evans slowed down and they started looking at house numbers. They were old properties fronted by high hedges and thick stone walls. They obviously valued their privacy here, even in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘There. Number thirty-nine,’ Evans said, pointing. A BMW X5 sat in the driveway. Harry wondered if there was gravel under all the snow. Two trails led to the wheels.

  ‘Let’s go and see if he’s in,’ Harry said as Evans parked behind the BMW, blocking it in.

  They got out and walked through the snow on the pathway. It was coming down more heavily now and Harry pulled his collar up against the cold, wet flakes.

  He banged hard against the solid wood.

  No answer.

  He tried again, stamping his feet, not so much from the cold but from the adrenalin running through his body. He banged louder and they waited, but still nothing.

  Evans walked over to the bay window and put his hands up against the glass, peering in. The curtains were drawn, but there was a gap at the bottom.

  ‘Sir, we need to get in. Carter’s slumped over on his settee.’

  Harry started kicking the door, but it was solid and didn’t budge. Evans took out his extendable baton and smashed the living room window, having to break through both panes of glass in the double glazing; even in old houses you needed to keep the draughts out. He broke the glass all around the window frame, knocking the little shards out, and kept his baton in one hand as he climbed through. He pulled the curtains apart, throwing light into the room, and Harry could see the doctor lying on his side.

  Evans walked over to the man as Harry climbed through. His entry wasn’t quite as dignified as Evans had been, but he got the job done.

  He stood looking at Carter, at the open, empty eyes.

  At the needle in his arm.

  ‘He’s well deid,’ Evans said. ‘I’ll call it in.’

  ‘Where’s my wife, you bastard?’ Harry asked the
dead man.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Well, well, the gang’s all here,’ said Gibson, the scene of crime chief, as he pulled his white suit up. ‘Maybe you could go inside and help fuck up the crime scene, just like that big gawk with the radge dug. I thought he would have known better, being an ex-copper.’

  ‘He went through some tough shite in his job as a copper, not working in fucking Trumpton like you. He knows exactly what he’s doing. I just hope the same can be said for you.’

  ‘I’m the best there is round here.’

  ‘Then we’re all fucked, aren’t we?’

  Dunbar closed the door of the patrol car he’d come in and walked away. The snow was blowing across the cemetery, making him squint his eyes. Half of him wanted to trample around more than he had to, just to piss off the forensics man, but he kept it professional.

  Inside the old church, Sparky was growling at a big uniform who looked like he ate a couple of cabers for breakfast.

  ‘Go and watch the door, son,’ Dunbar said, and the uniform nodded.

  ‘For a big bastard, he’s fairly sweating,’ Dunbar said to Muckle. Sparky relaxed when he saw who it was.

  More suited techs were photographing the body. Dunbar looked over.

  ‘Any idea who it is, son?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Muckle.

  The dead woman’s long blonde hair had fallen down, covering her face.

  Then Dunbar had an idea. ‘You took photos of the dead girl who was found the other day?’ he asked the tech with the camera.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they’re on the card in your camera there?’

  ‘They are indeed. We make multiple copies back at the lab of course, but yes, they’re on here.’

  ‘Can you show me some? Particularly of her hands if you took any.’