‘How have you been since I saw you last?’ Sharon’s stylist sported a tight ponytail and a name badge that spelled ‘Jackie’.
Maggie tilted sideways, ears flapping.
‘Busy-busy,’ Sharon’s voice was raised over the hum of the hairdryer. ‘We’ve such a hectic social life I can barely keep up.’
In the mirror, the corners of Maggie’s mouth turned down. Her social life was gone forever.
‘How’s your son these days?’ Jackie again. ‘I haven’t seen him in ages.’
‘Christopher? He’s fine.’
‘Still at Gordon’s?’
Through a tangle of damp hair, Maggie strained to hear Sharon’s response.
‘No.’
Dammit. If the boy had been at Robert Gordon’s, maybe Colin would have come across him.
‘He at uni, then?’
‘Not yet. He’s taking some time out. Sort of a gap year.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Seamlessly, Jackie moved on to the next topic on her tick-list. ‘You booked a holiday yet?’
Any conversation that followed was drowned by the hum of multiple hairdryers. Maggie sat sneaking surreptitious glances at Sharon Gilruth as Michelle worked methodically, smoothing sections in Maggie’s newly-shorn locks. Damn and blast! She pursed her lips. She’d hoped to catch some other snippets of gossip, perhaps find the opportunity to engage the woman herself in conversation. She sighed. All that effort for nothing. Well, next to nothing. She could have sworn she caught a look pass between Gilruth and Michelle.
‘That OK for you?’ Michelle flashed a back-view mirror behind Maggie’s head.
‘Oh…’ Her eyes widened. ‘Amazing.’ Maggie could barely recognise herself, so cleverly tamed were her unruly curls.
If her husband could only see her now. She caught a breath.
There was the eye, still.
But eye or no, she’d make George proud.
Use this glamorous new look to advance his cause.
Cross Purpose
The first-floor conference room, like everything else in Force HQ, was institutional: white walls, dark brown paintwork, recessed lighting, bog-standard office furnishings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any council building up and down the country.
‘When I told you to call a meeting,’ Detective Inspector Chisolm strode through the door, ‘it wasn’t the fucking G8 I had in mind.’
Christ, Brian thought, he’s on form. He’d heard the new DI had a short fuse, but this was pushing it. He ducked his chin. ‘No, sir.’
‘All I’m needing is a briefing from you and get the actions handed out.’
He squared his shoulders. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well,’ the inspector threw a handful of files down onto the table, ‘get this lot together, then.’
Brian looked round the room. A number of CID officers and a clutch of uniforms stood in small groups, heads bowed, absorbed in conversation or drinking out of waxed paper cups. Three people were already seated at the table: Dave Wood was a long-serving Detective Sergeant, a copper of the old school – a big man, with a bullet head and not that much in it. Dave’s sidekick, Bob Duffy, sat alongside him. Across the table, Douglas Dunn sprawled, his chair tilted back at an angle. Douglas was a graduate recruit.
He tapped a water glass with his biro. ‘Get your backsides over here, folks. Meeting was called for eight o’clock and it’s almost ten past.’
The officers started to attention. They slid one by one onto the empty chairs.
‘Let’s get this started,’ Chisolm cast his eyes round the table. ‘Burnett,’ he turned, ‘give us the background to the St Machar incident.’
Brian looked down at the notes in front of him. He looked up. ‘Sir. Incident was called in to emergency services at 19.07 last night. PCs Souter and Miller were first to respond, arriving on the scene at 19.16. They then commenced a search of the St Machar Cathedral precincts and were joined at 19.23 by PC Grassie, who…’
‘Hang on,’ Chisolm snapped, ‘who the hell’s Grassie?’
‘Community bobby, sir. Picked up the shout from his beat in Tillydrone.’
‘Continue.’
‘PC Souter located the body of a young female in the kirkyard behind the cathedral, close to its boundary with Seaton Park. The victim was lying on a tombstone and appeared to be deceased. A check of her pulse by Souter confirmed this to be the case. Backup and ambulance were called in by PC Grassie. SOCOs and an incident van were in place by 20.00 hours and the crime scene secured…’
‘What about forensics?’ the DI interrupted. ‘Are we confident at this stage that a crime has been committed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Toxicology?’
‘They’re running tests as we speak.’
‘Has Gourlay given us any leads?’
‘Blunt trauma to the head.’
‘Anything else?’
‘When the girl was found, her lower clothing was disturbed. And there was this…’ Brian hesitated. ‘Cross was what it looked like. In the vagina.’
‘Christ,’ Douglas muttered. ‘That’s a first – a corpse with a cross up its cunt.’
‘Don’t be so crude,’ Susan Strachan, the sole female DC retorted.
‘Enough,’ Chisolm threw a warning look. ‘Tell us about the cross, Burnett.’
‘It was a rough-looking thing, sir: couple of twigs fastened together with a rubber band. Place is surrounded by trees. And then there’s the park – Seaton Park, that is. It…’
Chisolm cut in. ‘Let’s move on. What about the rubber band?’
‘It was pink, sir, like the ones the Post Office use.’
‘Right. So you’re telling me these twigs could have come from anywhere?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the rubber band is one of thousands discarded at random by our beloved postal service?’
Brian lowered his head. ‘Sir.’
‘When will the pathologist be able to be more precise?’
‘When he’s good and ready.’ The words were out before Brian could stop himself. ‘Sorry, sir, but you know how he is.’
The inspector responded with a curt nod. ‘How about ID?’
‘Lassie didn’t have a thing on her, except for a wee spiral notebook – the kind of thing you’d pick up in a supermarket or a corner shop – a stub of pencil and a Yale key.’
‘Anything in the notebook?’
‘A few doodles, that’s all.’
‘Clothing?’
‘Converse trainers. Hollister jeans. Shirt had a label,’ Brian looked down at his notes. ‘Boden, it was. Waistcoat was one of those quilted jobs,’ he looked up, ‘like the nobs wear.’
‘Our victim wasn’t a schemie, then?’
‘No, sir. More like someone from the Chanonry or the West End. A student, maybe, but a well-heeled one, I reckon.’
‘I take it somebody has been in touch with the university?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ve been on to the accommodation office and asked them to check with their halls of residence – whether anyone matching that description hasn’t been seen in their room, has missed lectures. Though from what I can gather, neither of these would be that unusual.’
The DI pursed his mouth in disapproval. ‘No.’
‘I’ve also sent them a photo of the key, so we can check whether it’s been issued for any of the university’s accommodation.’
‘Have we managed to establish anything else?’
‘Not a lot, sir. The call was traced to a public phone box in Seaton. The caller, a young male, declined to give his name. Enquiries in the immediate vicinity haven’t been especially fruitful. From what this lot,’ Brian jerked his head in the direction of the uniformed officers, ‘have managed to establish, nobody seems to have seen or heard anything unusual
, and the only pedestrian we’ve managed to find is an elderly woman who was out walking her dog.’
‘Anything useful from her?’
‘Not really.’ Brian ran a hand across his brow. ‘Didn’t see another soul the whole time she was out, not except for this one guy.’
‘Description?’
‘Forties. Dark-haired. Time was vague. But looked to be loitering, the witness said.’
‘Has this information been verified?’
‘No, but I’ve circulated a description.’
‘Good. Well, brief all units, Burnett. The sooner we can trace, interview and eliminate this individual, that will give us one less thing to…’
‘Yessir.’ Dutifully he scribbled a note.
‘Is that it?’
He felt the colour rise in his face. ‘The Chanonry isn’t exactly hoatching with activity at the best of times, never mind late evening on a weekday, but I can tell you I’ve briefed the Press Office and amended the scene boundaries to allow access to the cathedral.’ Brian could feel the perspiration begin to seep from his underarms onto the polyester fabric of his shirt. He hadn’t got the measure of this new man from Glasgow yet.
‘Any questions at this stage?’ The inspector scanned the faces round the table.
‘What about a phone?’ Duffy volunteered. ‘Didn’t the girl have a mobile on her?’
Brian shrugged. ‘No sign of one.’
‘Could have been nicked.’
‘I guess.’
‘Fuckin great!’ Dunn stopped doodling. What next, sir?’ he cast an insolent glance towards his superior officer.
‘Next,’ Allan Chisolm fixed him with a gimlet eye, ‘we ask ourselves a number of questions: how did this girl arrive at the scene? On foot? By public transport? Or could she have been dropped off there by car? Where did she sustain her injury? At the scene? Elsewhere? What are the access points to the scene: roads, paths, gates, walls? Think of its proximity to Seaton Park, the High Street, King Street, St Machar Drive. What are our opportunities there: lines of sight, CCTV, cars, buses, houses, flats, university buildings? Who might have seen something?’
Douglas Dunn picked up his pen. He started doodling again.
‘Are you hearing me, Dunn?’
‘Loud and clear, sir.’
‘Has anyone contacted the bus companies?’
‘I’ve had uniform do that, sir,’ Brian responded. ‘And the taxi firms. They’ll canvass their drivers. See who was in the area.’
‘That brings me to the next thing.’
A dozen or so pairs of eyes focused on the inspector.
‘We need to be looking at where this incident is pointing.’ He paused. ‘Which begs the question…Do we need to run the investigation on HOLMES 2 and if so, at what level?’
There were groans around the table. The massive analytical and research facility offered by the Police National Computer, they knew from experience, would also spew out a mountain of useless information.
‘I see I have your commitment for that,’ the inspector offered a tight smile. ‘Remind me, who’s on Disclosure?’
An auxiliary officer raised a hand.
‘Well, make sure it’s tight as a drum. Where I come from, investigations aren’t completed on evidence, they’re completed on paperwork.’
Chisolm changed tack. ‘What’s your take on the thing, Burnett?’
Brian felt beads of perspiration begin to prickle his brow.
‘Well?’
‘Judging by the contusion to the skull, the way the body was lying on the slab, the whole setup, it looked like the girl had been arranged. Staged, you might say.’
‘That so?’
It wasn’t a question, Brian decided. All the same, he felt the need to justify himself. ‘It couldn’t have happened by accident, sir. It was a conscious act.’
‘So it wasn’t a mugging?’ a DC chipped in.
‘Forensics have found no trace of a weapon.’
‘Plus the victim was found flat on her back. When they’ve been hit on the back of the head, ladies…’ Douglas threw a wink at Susan, ‘tend to fall on their tits.’
‘Quite.’ Chisolm’s face was a mask.
‘So who would do a thing like that?’
‘Goths?’ one of the uniforms suggested.
‘Possibly.’
‘Some sort of religious freak?’ One of the DCs. ‘There does seem to be a ritual element.’
‘Could it have been a tribute of some sort?’ Susan offered.
‘Tribute?’ Duffy scoffed. ‘You’re bloody joking. What about the unzipped jeans, the knickers pulled down? And the thing was in her vagina, for God’s sake.’
‘More like some nasty wee perv.’ Uniform again.
Chisolm’s eyes swept the room. ‘We’ll need someone assigned to looking at who’s got form for this sort of thing.’
‘We’ve already checked out some of the usual suspects, sir,’ Brian responded. ‘They were all doing their dirty little deeds elsewhere.’
‘And what sort of perv pays a tribute like that to some wee lassie, tell me that?’ Duffy was fired up now, pen jabbing at his pad.
‘Given what we already know, which is the most probable?’ Chisolm cast his gaze around the room.
‘Goth, sir.’
‘Rubbish,’ Duffy shot back. ‘That cross holds the key to the whole thing. And it definitely wasn’t some wee Goth that put it there.’
‘Well,’ the DI gathered his files together. ‘Before you hand out the actions, Burnett, allow me to summarise.’
Brian glanced down at the table. The inspector’s fingers were drumming an impatient beat.
‘We have a dead female in a graveyard with a head injury and a makeshift cross up her…’ Chisolm cleared his throat, ‘vagina. No evidence as yet of other molestation. No ID and no suspects. Would that cover it, Sergeant?’
Brian’s underarms were damp by this time. ‘Pretty much.’
‘Anything you’d care to add?’
‘No, sir.’
Chisolm steepled his fingers. ‘Well, Burnett, you’re SIO, so sort out your priorities. Right now I suggest you get some of this lot along to Old Aberdeen, turn the place over with a fine-tooth comb. Send a DC out to the university and see if we can get ID on that lassie ASAP. Grab yourself another couple of uniform if need be. Meantime,’ the inspector raised his eyes to the ceiling, looked down again, ‘I’ll chase up those sluggish bastards in Forensics.’
Brian shifted in his seat. ‘Sir.’
The DI gathered together his files, scraped back his chair, got to his feet.
‘Oh, and one last thing. If we’ve got a major inquiry on our hands, we’d better give it a name. Any suggestions?’ He studied the faces around the table.
Wood bit his nails.
Duffy ducked his head.
‘Murder in the Cathedral springs to mind,’ Dunn piped up. Douglas couldn’t pass up an opportunity to remind everybody that he’d been to uni.
‘We don’t know that it was murder, ya wanker.’
‘Plus, it wasn’t actually in the cathedral.’
‘And why the cross? We’ve no idea what that’s all about.’
‘Nothing, most like,’ muttered the doodler. ‘Some of those dirty pervs get their rocks off on stuff like that.’
‘If we can’t explain it,’ Susan Strachan had been quiet up till then, ‘why don’t we call it Operation Cross Purpose?’
‘Any advance on that?’
Chisolm’s gaze was met by a circle of bent heads.
‘Well, then,’ the inspector stood. ‘Go to it.’
A First Time for Everything
‘Comin up for a dance?’ The man jerked his neck towards the jiggling mass of heads.
‘Well…’ Maggie hesitated.
After failing to make contact with Jimmy Craigmyle on the phone number Brian had given her, she’d spent an abortive afternoon checking out nameplates on bedsit doorways up and down Crown Street. She decided then that her only option was the nightclub.
The evening hadn’t started well. She’d hoped to collar the doormen. There were two of them, built like barrels, hands like hams. Maggie tilted her face towards one of the shaven heads.
‘Is Jimmy Craigmyle working tonight?’ she asked.
‘In you come, ladies.’ The man either didn’t hear or didn’t want to.
Maggie felt a shove at her back. The pressure of the queue carried her forward in to the foyer.
Now Maggie’s eyes darted to the sunken arena and back again. The guy was bordering on the repulsive. Still, she wasn’t sure what the form was for refusing a dance these days, and besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
‘Come on,’ he grasped her by one bare elbow, propelled her down the stairs. He wasn’t much taller than she, shirt flapping over skinny trousers. A gold chain gleamed at a hairy neck. Above it, a full mouth, flat nose, eyes so small as to be piggy. Maggie caught a whiff of aftershave, and behind that the rank odour of sweat. Time was she’d have been thankful for such manly excretions. She cast her mind back to those early days after George’s death, when she’d nosed out every last trace of him, clung to it like a drowning person would a piece of flotsam.
She struggled to replicate the moves of the girls nearest to her, for women seemed to outnumber men by about four to one. Replete with tattoos and tangerine tans, they bopped up and down, buttocks compressed in Lycra miniskirts, boobs spilling out of push-up bras. Surreptitiously, Maggie tugged down the frock she’d filched from Kirsty’s wardrobe. She’d been shocked at how striking she looked with the new hairstyle and heavy makeup: hot, in today’s parlance. Horrible word.
She caught the man’s eye. He must have taken this as an invitation, for an arm snaked out, a hand closed around hers. The palm was damp, she registered, before it clamped around her waist, pulled her close. So close Maggie could feel shirt buttons make small indentations down her front.
‘Come here often?’ Strong fingers pressed into the small of her back.
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