Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
From the author of Whirligig: Longlisted for the CWA JOHN CREASEY NEW BLOOD DAGGER AWARD 2020 and shortlisted for the 2020 BLOODY SCOTLAND MCILVANNEY PRIZE comes the second in the series, The Devil's Cut. When a distillery owner's body is discovered on top of a remote Scottish mountain, forensics confirm that he died of natural causes. DI Corstophine's concerns are raised however, when the dead man's eccentric sister receives a message, apparently from beyond the grave. The police are dismissive until it appears the devil himself is intent on attacking other family members. Why is his daughter kept locked and sedated in her room in the baronial mansion? Who or what is stalking his son as he scatters his father's ashes on lonely summits? And what insanity is behind the horrific attacks in their small Highland town? DI Corstophine and his team don't know what they're really facing until it's too late. The Devil's Cut is an exploration of what constitutes sanity and how delicate that state really is; how such a perfect emotion as love can completely destroy a man.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 476
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
The Devil’s Cut
Andrew James Greig
The Devil’s Cut
© Andrew James Greig 2021
The author asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of the work in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd.
Cover illustration: Graeme Clarke
Published by:
Fledgling Press
1 Milton Road West
Edinburgh
EH15 1LA
www.fledglingpress.co.uk
Print ISBN 9781912280483
eBook ISBN 9781912280490
For Shona
…The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures; ‘tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. (William Shakespeare – Macbeth)
Prologue
He should have turned back when the first wave of nausea washed over him, leaving him grey-faced and shaking until the sickness eventually subsided. Instead, here he was, alone, doubled over and retching on the exposed mountain flank. He’d put it down to food poisoning – a queasy stomach offering the first indication that something wasn’t quite right an hour into his climb. Now, despite the strenuous effort of the final steep ascent, he was shivering with the onset of a sudden fever. Disturbing geometric patterns whirled in the circling mist as if warning of an imminent migraine attack. The summit was just a few more minutes climb, the path still obvious under his feet from the imprint of boots that had trodden and scraped this way before him. Leaning on a damp outcrop that offered little respite from the chill wind, he wiped his mouth clear of spittle before taking another drink from his water bottle.
“Sod it. I’ll just reach the top.”
The words were for himself, encouragement to persevere through the veil of shifting pearlescent vapour as he neared the summit.
Once the water bottle had been replaced in his backpack, he focused on the path ahead. With a look of fierce determination, he pushed away from the rock, continuing the journey upwards, leg muscles protesting with each laboured step. Breaths came in deep gulps, synchronised with the placing of each foot. His heart was hammering an uneven rhythm against his ribcage in protest, almost as if desperate to leave the confines of its bone prison. He decided to ignore it – that and the way his eyes insisted on adding curlicues around the periphery of his vision. The sun had long been hidden by the lowering cloud, coalescing into miniature wet jewels on his beard and adding to the cold sweat already beading his forehead. The wind gained in strength as the summit neared, whipping at exposed flesh. At the beginning of his ascent, a gentle breeze had provided welcome relief to his exertions. Here, nearer the summit, the breeze had strengthened into more of a gale and now clawed at exposed raw skin with icy barbs.
The weather never stood still on the mountains, changing so quickly that he knew better than to take off his waterproof – even when the sun attempted to bake him alive. God knows this wasn’t the time to take sick, alone on a mountain range at the onset of a Scottish autumn. He berated himself for not keeping in shape. Lugging those extra kilos of body fat up the hills had seemed like a good idea at the start – a well-defined trail easing upwards through the promise of finer weather than could reasonably be expected in late September. An Indian summer it was called. There was a reason it was called that; he once knew why. Now no amount of mental effort called forth the answer. It didn’t matter. He just had to reach the top and then he could turn back. An easy path once he cleared the false summit, here at the mountain’s upper reaches. The sun was probably still shining further down, away from the clouds that stubbornly hugged the mountain peak. Just a little higher, a few more minutes.
He may as well have been alone in the universe, wrapped in a cold blanket of moisture that conspired at times to obscure visibility to just a few metres. He wondered again at the wisdom of climbing on his own – the swirling mist adding to the feeling of disorientation that followed the sudden onset of his sickness. There were dangerous cliffs here, wander too far off the track and he could easily fall to his death. Foot followed foot, breath followed breath, heartbeat followed heartbeat – until the heartbeat stopped.
He doubled over in agony, clutching at his chest as a giant fist squeezed his heart. His feet staggered randomly off the track as he fought to stay upright, the intensity of pain white hot inside his ribcage.
“Must be a stitch.”
The words were forced out from between clenched teeth, giving voice to a comforting lie. He fumbled desperately behind his back to reach the small pack slung over his shoulders, liberating a plastic water bottle, which he upended to drink in urgent gulps. His other hand massaged his chest, trying in vain to unknot the muscle that held him in a relentless grip. At some level of consciousness, he was aware that he was having a heart attack; that he had fallen awkwardly onto the boulders underfoot; that he was dying. Not here. Not now. Not alone. His mind screamed a silent final eulogy through the pain.
Clouds gathered around him – spectral mourners reaching out to hold him in their damp embrace, depositing cold tears on his cheeks as the heat left his body with unseemly haste. The bottle slipped from his weakening grip. Caught by the wind, it bounced from rock to rock before becoming airborne on a powerful gust. It finally lodged in between two boulders; the neck jammed almost horizontally, facing away from the prevailing wind. There was still a mouthful of water left in the bottle, and as the wind veered around the rocks, an errant draft played over the neck – creating an aeolian dirge, which he heard long after his eyesight had faded.
Chapter 1Wake
“It’s how he would have wanted to go.”
They sat around a pub table – the one nearest the comforting warmth of an open fire, some distance away from the noise at the bar. The assorted mourners nodded sagely as if hearing some wisdom hidden in such an anodyne statement, pints held close to their chests as they considered the import of the words. Jack McCoach, the focus of their attention, remained silent. For him to have been otherwise would have been noteworthy, reduced as he was to 2.7kg of ashes. He took pride of place, residing in a brushed pewter urn, which occupied the centrepiece of their table. It had been a week since the funeral service. Black clad as crows, they had formed a small part of the congregation, heads bowed respectfully. Singing half-remembered hymns in praise of a deity few there really believed in anymore. The minister had made a reasonable fist of it – praising the family’s charitable donations; dropping a few amusing anecdotes into the mix that were tame enough for church.
His wife and son both chose readings from the Old Testament, that rich source of pickings for all occasions. Jack McCoach’s wife, Emma, had read the bit about time for dying. What was it? To everything turn, turn, turn. There is a season turn, turn, turn. Corstorphine stopped the tune running in his head, aware that he didn’t have it quite right but that was the gist. He studied his companions, already well advanced in inebriation. Bryan Cobb, the managing director of the firm; Sandy McPhearson, the corpulent finance director, and then Robb McCoach – Jack’s son and supposed heir. What was the reading Robb had chosen, stood up there in the pulpit with a voice more befitting a southern preacher? The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me down to lie. Through pastures green He leadeth me– something to do with making the bugger’s eyes water? No, that’s Pink Floyd. Corstorphine shook his head in an attempt to bring clarity to his thoughts. He’d had enough.
“Sorry lads, that’s me.” He held his hands up at the protestations, offers of one for the road, a nightcap. “You’ll have to decide what to do with his ashes without me.”
“You’re a lightweight, Jimmy, gie the man a proper send off!” Sandy’s eyes had trouble focusing as he swayed in his seat. Corstorphine was put in mind of a bloated cobra wearing a blond wig. Why was he even here with these people? He’d joined the hillwalking club last year, another attempt at finding a life outside of work, an escape from the daily diet of petty crimes that all needed solving. Trouble was these hillwalkers did more drinking than walking.
“Aye, well.” Corstorphine nodded to the table, encompassing the pewter urn and its dry contents. “That’s me!” He placed his glass awkwardly on the table, the hard retort as it impacted punctuating his closing comment.
They watched him as he left, hand held loosely erect as he bid farewell to the landlord. The whole pub let loose a stored breath as the door closed behind him, conversation levels rising as if freed from an unwitting constraint.
Corstorphine stood outside in the cold night air, hunkering down into his jacket as he set his feet towards home. The streets of the small highland town were quiet at this hour – too late for the rowdy youths who had earlier congregated at the entrance to the kids’ playpark where they shared bottles of Buckfast, cigarettes and stolen kisses. Too early for the habitual drinkers who would soon be weaving random paths back to a lonelier existence once the landlord eased them out the door. He felt an affinity with the streets, a comfort in treading worn paving stones like he had when he was a bobby. How long ago? Corstorphine struggled with simple mental subtraction, the numbers refusing to play ball as they bounced from one slurred brain cell to the next. He admitted defeat. Call it twenty-five years, more or less. Twenty-five years since he was as new as his uniform, as polished as his boots. The town had grown in that time; new hotels springing up to cater to a burgeoning tourist trade, eager to sample the rugged mountains surrounding them. They’d brought their own problems: drunken fights as expense accounts encouraged the businesspeople on team-building exercises to excess; stag and hen nights ending in acrimony; walkers, mountaineers and skiers lost on the hills.
It was almost three weeks since he had received a call from the mountain rescue team about a man’s body found near the summit of Sgurr Thuilm. There was nothing remarkable about this; the mountain rescue headquarters kept in regular communication about rescues or body recoveries. He’d been talking to the team leader, Dr John Hesketh, during a Zoom conference call earlier that summer. What had it been about? Out of his fuzzy mind emerged a clear picture of the agenda – Emergency Response – Unified Agency Guidelines. All he could remember from the event was Dr Hesketh complaining that lost or injured people were given priority in terms of multi-agency support. Helicopters, Fire, Police, Ambulance, all made readily available in the event of an injury. But if the team found anyone dead on the hills, nobody was interested. As a result, the unpaid volunteers of the mountain rescue team often had the difficult and dangerous job of taking a body off the hill unaided.
He’d seen that for himself that night, standing at the side of a cold, dark Highland track as part of a solemn stationary convoy waiting for the mountain rescue team to appear. They had materialised out of a wild night, head torches bobbing in the air like fireflies, until the orange of their survival clothing caught in the spinning ambulance lights. It had taken six of them to carry the body, taking turns, two about, to clamber down the trail with Jack’s heavy weight lashed onto an aluminium stretcher. The team were exhausted, evident in the way they slipped and scrambled down the track towards him. It didn’t need the doctor to confirm the guy was dead – swollen tongue hanging out of colourless lips. He looked more like something that should be hanging on an abattoir hook than a human being. Corstorphine recognised him straight away, as had the rest of them. Jack McCoach was a larger than life character in every regard, owner of the largest distillery and one of the town’s major employers. His wife had been on the phone since three that afternoon, convinced that something had happened to him – insisting they send the mountain rescue out. He’d had to tell her not to worry, Jack was probably on his way home, but she’d sounded hysterical. She’d let it slip that she had an app on her phone that told her where he was, and he hadn’t moved from the mountain summit for the last two hours and wasn’t answering her calls. He’d sent PC Lamb out to check, and Jack’s car was still parked at the foot of the mountain. Then they’d received a call from the mountain rescue. A group of climbers out to bag a double Munro had seen his body just a few metres off the main path when the mist had momentarily lifted. Not that Dr Hesketh leading the recovery team could have helped him – he’d informed Corstorphine that Jack must have had a massive coronary and would have died within seconds.
The body was sent to the coroner anyway, just to keep the paperwork tidy. There, Jack had suffered the final indignity of having his chest sawn open and heart removed, so it could be prodded and poked on a laboratory bench before being sliced into sections. The report had come back as death from natural causes, with weight and heavy alcohol consumption being contributory factors. Corstorphine realised the coroner must have removed his liver as well. Exactly how much of him was left in that urn?
A church bell let him know it was 11:00 pm, the sound apologetic and muffled, following the addition of leather pads to the clapper in June. Corstorphine glanced up at the clock tower, the hands confirming the bells’ announcement. He had some sympathy with the locals who’d been haranguing the council environmental health for years. The bells were never that sonorous, more discordant than tuneful, as if the foundry had offloaded failed bronze casts to those churches with less money. It was far worse when the bell-ringers practiced – or on a Sunday morning when the bell tower broadcast a tuneless cacophony for miles around. How young children managed to sleep through the noise was a mystery.
The thought of children brought his eyes back to a contemplation of the ground. His own children that never happened; a wife that died too young. The case last year that had almost cost him his career. Sometimes being a detective inspector was a cursed job, cleaning up the filth and social detritus that humans leave in their wake.
“You need your bed, James. You know drink always makes you maudlin.”
He smiled at the woman whose appearances at his side became less frequent every year. Her face in its frame of brown curls, looking at him with concern. A face he never stopped loving. A solitary tear appeared unbidden from his eye, and he blinked it away. When he opened his eyes again, she had gone.
“Aye, well. You’re right.” He spoke the words under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear even if there had been anyone else on the street. Some words are for the dead, or for comfort when you’ve nobody else to say them for you. Corstorphine fumbled in his pocket for his house keys, turning off into the quiet side street where he lived. Key in the door, he entered a house that was too large, too quiet, and held too many memories.
Chapter 2Séance
“I need to see a detective and I need to see one now!”
Sergeant Hamish McKee waved his hands slowly up and down, looking for all the world like a man drowning in slow motion as he ineffectually attempted to calm the woman down. She had marched into the station claiming to have information pertinent to Jack McCoach’s death on the mountain – said he’d been poisoned. Insisted she speak to a detective. Hamish tried one more time, picking up notepad and pen and holding them in full view of the reception window as if that might encourage her to speak to him.
“If you can just give me some details, Miss…” His voice trailed off. The woman standing indignantly in front of him had a look in her eye that gave him the strong impression that she probably didn’t identify as a Miss. They’d all had diversity training a few months back – Corstorphine had somehow managed to attract a far larger training budget than their small station would normally warrant. The word was that he had something over the Assistant Chief Constable who acquiesced to his every request, quite a turnaround from last year when they’d all thought the station was going to be closed. Even PC Lamb had been accepted for a firearms course, swaggering back to the station after a few days with a Taser and holster that he wore on every conceivable occasion. How he’d been able to get past the usual safeguards and checks that weed out the immature or incompetent was still a popular topic of conversation at tea breaks.
The sergeant racked his memory, searching in vain for the correct way to address someone who didn’t identify as a Miss – something the sexual diversity training hadn’t covered, as far as he could remember. An alphabet of acronyms flew past his mind’s eye, LGBTQ+.
Hamish suddenly felt old, too old for all this. First Covid-19 had turned the world upside down, his own parents adding to the daily fatalities as the deadly virus had swept through their care home. He couldn’t even be there for them at the end as they had each succumbed. The care home had tried to reassure him, tell him how they had each passed away peacefully; how a carer had held their hands at the end. It was meant to be a comfort, but he’d seen people die; the desperation to pull one more breath, the realisation in panicked eyes as the breathing stopped. The death figures appearing on the TV every evening; thousands upon thousands dying whilst the government applauded their own inadequacies, concealing the true death toll under selective statistics and downright lies. He’d like a few minutes with some of the mealy-mouthed MPs – old-style policing!
With an effort, he brought himself back to the present, facing the woman on the other side of the glass. He struggled to recognise her, which in itself was remarkable for someone who prided himself in putting a name to everyone’s face in the town. She was dressed quite flamboyantly. A bright orange jumper had leapt out at him as she entered the police station, white blobs resolving into focus as three-dimensional mice, rendered in wool, frozen in place across her chest. A more subdued skirt in heather hues covered her legs, but her feet were startling in bright purple heels. An attempt at colour coordinating her ensemble with a flowing chiffon scarf in much the same shade of purple was only spoilt by the close proximity of the bright orange wool. The word ‘Miss’ hung in the air, unattended and ignored until it faded into silence.
“A detective.” She repeated the word with a no-nonsense curtness, fixing Hamish with a look that reminded him of one of his primary school teachers who’d taken an instant dislike to the slow-speaking boy in front of her.
“I’ll see who’s available. Would ye like to grab a seat?”
She turned to inspect the plastic seats behind her. Some unidentified liquid had been spilt on two of them, leaving a dark stain that had spread like a Rorschach test. The remaining seats shared a miscellany of graffiti and knife marks – a clear challenge to those in authority on the other side of the glass.
“I’ll stand, thank you.” She sniffed, making clear her opinion of the seating choice on offer.
Hamish sighed, impotently replacing pen and notepad on the counter between them, and entered the back office. Corstorphine hadn’t started his shift yet, his office shut and empty. PC Lamb was out walking his beat – synchronised with all the lassies going to work or taking their kids to school. That left DC Frankie McKenzie, early at her desk as always, bent over her PC and typing a report about the catalytic converter thefts that had hit the area like an unexpected plague. She looked up as Hamish approached, sending him a ready smile.
“Do you know that’s ten vehicles this week that have had their catalytic converters nicked? Ten! And those are just the ones that have been reported. I was chatting to the scrappy yesterday – palladium is now worth £1,900/oz, rhodium goes for £21,000/oz – they’re worth more than gold! Just a few minutes under the car with a cutting tool and they’re away. Bastards!”
“The local scrappie’s not dealing?”
“No way. He’s not that stupid. No, these are being sent down to Glasgow more than likely. Organised crime wants us to give them some leads but whoever’s doing this is too bloody quick. They can nick them in a couple of minutes, nobody knows it’s happened until their car sounds like a tractor, and then it’s too late.”
Hamish thought of the orange woman waiting in reception. “I’ve got this woman wanting to speak to a detective, she won’t say a word to me.”
“What’s it about?” Frankie’s interest was piqued. Not many people were able to get past Hamish’s implacable presence at reception.
“She said it’s to do with Jack McCoach.”
“What about him?”
“You’d best speak to her yourself. Seems to think it wasn’t a heart attack.”
“What do you mean, not a heart attack? Forensics confirmed it.”
Hamish just shrugged in response. This was above his pay grade.
Frankie frowned at her report. It would have to wait.
“Send her through then, Hamish. I’ll see her in the interview room.”
The woman entered the interview room like a cruise liner entering a substandard port, purple chiffon scarf in her trail like some flag of state. Frankie wrinkled her nose as the unmistakable scent of patchouli oil assailed her nostrils. Hippie. The thought entered her head automatically. The small towns around here had more than their fair share of wannabe flower children. They’d made their fortunes in London and elsewhere, then washed up in comfortable houses and farms where they smoked pot and dabbled in the arts. She appraised the woman as Hamish gestured her into the room. Late fifties, possibly quite out of her mind dressed like that. Bet she’s an artist, holidays in Bali, regular at the yoga and acupuncture. Crystal dangler!
Frankie indicated the chair opposite, noticing as the woman gave it a distasteful look before settling into its plastic embrace.
“How can I help you?” She spoke curtly, wanting to get this out of the way so she could get back to typing her report. “Ms…” Always best to lead with a Ms when in doubt, Frankie thought.
“McCoach. Patricia McCoach. I’m Jack’s sister.”
Frankie quickly re-assessed her. If she was one of the McCoach family, then she was loaded. Maybe she did have some information, although what could she possibly add to the facts surrounding her brother’s unfortunate death?
“And how can I help you, Patricia? Do you mind if I call you Patricia?” Frankie added quickly, seeing the woman’s bright red lips draw downwards in distaste.
“It doesn’t matter what you want to call me.” The words spat out as fast as bullets. “What is important is that you open an investigation into Jack’s murder!”
“Murder?” Frankie questioned. She sat back in her seat, eyebrows raised in doubt.
“Yes, murder, young lady. One thing the McCoach family all share is a robust constitution. There’s no way under God’s heaven that Jack died of a heart attack. My brother was as strong as an ox.”
Frankie could see the truth of the McCoach family sharing a robust constitution. The woman was built like a blimp, an orange blimp.
“Let’s start by taking down some details.” Frankie adopted a businesslike approach, pen poised above notebook as she requested address and contact details. She took the time to study the woman sitting opposite her, pen working on autopilot as it left a neat trail of words across the notebook’s page. Patricia was definitely on the wrong side of fifty, crow’s feet starting to etch fine lines around startingly light cornflower blue eyes. The purple chiffon scarf would be there to cover the wrinkles on her neck, riding up to settle under a chin that was well on the way to growing a twin. Her red lipstick had wandered far enough away from the contour of her thin lips to make Frankie wonder if Patricia may have applied her makeup whilst inebriated. The overall impression was one of a woman who had given up the unequal struggle to retain the effortless beauty of youth, resigned to letting herself drift on the prevailing current towards the inevitable.
Frankie decided to put her out of her misery. The cause of her brother’s death was clear.
“I’m sorry, Patricia, but the autopsy indicated that your brother died of heart failure. I can get you a copy of the report if that would help put your mind at rest?”
The woman opposite her expelled so much air from her rouged cheeks that Frankie expected to see her visibly deflate. She leant forward, jabbing a finger towards Frankie’s face.
“Did you check for poisons?”
Frankie inadvertently recoiled back into her seat to avoid the finger aimed at the bridge of her nose.
“The pathologist would automatically have run a suite of tests for toxins, but there was no doubt about the cause of his death. Both his heart and liver showed signs of wear and tear.” And evidence of heavy drinking – she decided not to vocalise that part of the report. “I’m afraid the exertion of the climb just proved too much for him.”
Patricia’s expression went through a number of transformations, ranging between raw anger and doubt before settling on sorrow. A sob escaped tightly clenched red lips as she wrestled in her pockets for a handkerchief, lowering her head to dab at eyes turned newly wet.
“I’m not mad!” The words issued defiantly from the downturned face. She looked up, moist eyes engaging with Frankie’s. “I believe he was killed. Poisoned. You have to investigate!”
“What makes you think he was poisoned?” Frankie was genuinely intrigued. It wasn’t every day that she had members of the public allege family members had been poisoned. What information could she have?
“He told me,” she said simply.
Frankie’s puzzled expression prompted an explanation.
“He told me from beyond – in a séance.”
OK. This was now officially weird. Try humouring her, she doesn’t look dangerous.
“I see.” Frankie didn’t see at all. “What did he tell you?”
“He wasn’t clear, the spirits often aren’t.”
I bet, Frankie thought.
“He said that he’d been poisoned, and that the others had to take care.”
“Which others, Patricia? Who has to take care?”
Her wet eyes darted around the room as if searching for the murderer herself.
“The family. He said that he was coming for the family.”
Patricia abruptly stood up, a finger jabbing in emphasis with the rhythm of her words.
“I have to go. I’m not mad you know – you have to do something about it!”
Frankie sat immobile as she heard Hamish lead her out of the station, leaving nothing but the scent of patchouli lingering in the air and a deep unease in her mind.
“What was that all that about?” Hamish’s head appeared around the interview room door.
“I’ve absolutely no idea,” Frankie replied.
Chapter 3Suicide
Corstorphine nursed his head in his hands, forlornly hoping that the additional support might offer some respite to the incessant pulse from deep within his forehead. He had hoped to gently pass the day away, sitting at his desk without doing very much, certainly not having to deal with Frankie’s confused report about Jack McCoach’s alleged poisoning as soon as he arrived. He wouldn’t have felt quite so bad today if he’d stuck to drinking beer last night, but it had only seemed proper to toast Jack with his own whisky.
“She said what?” Corstorphine’s voice had developed a croak.
Frankie narrowed her eyes, already well aware that her boss was experiencing the ill effects of poisoning himself.
“She said that Jack had spoken to her in a séance and told her that he’d been poisoned, and that someone was coming for the whole family.” She waited patiently for the words to sink in.
“A séance?”
She nodded encouragement.
Corstorphine removed his hands from his head so that he was able to shake it from side to side. He stopped almost immediately as fresh agony sprang from his temple.
“What the hell are we meant to do with a statement from beyond the grave?”
Frankie remained silent, lifting her shoulders slightly to emphasise her own bewilderment.
“God. I suppose we’ll have to make some sort of enquiries. I’ll talk to forensics again, see if there’s anything they can add.” Corstorphine waved her away. He’d had enough spirits already without adding to them. The number for forensics was on his speed dial.
“Corstorphine. Always a pleasure to hear from you.” The voice on the other end of the line was incessantly cheery. The only good to have come out of the string of murders last year was that Corstorphine had almost single-handedly ensured that the Inverness forensics department would not be subject to any cost-cutting reviews this fiscal, retaining a full complement of staff for the foreseeable future.
“Aye.” Corstorphine managed to encompass a lot of information in that single word, notably a clear signal that he wasn’t in the mood for any gallows humour. “The toxicology report on Jack McCoach – I want to go over it again.”
“The heart attack on the mountain?”
“That’s the one. Was anything found in his system that we should have any concerns about?”
“Just a minute, pulling it up on my screen now.” Corstorphine could hear a distant keyboard clatter down the line. He breathed deeply, feeling faintly sick, and willing the cotton wool to leave his head. The disembodied clattering stopped, replaced by the sound of a phone being picked up.
“Coronary arteries shot, lot of fat around the internal organs, liver damage. Yep – typical heart attack material. Why ask?”
Corstorphine decided to keep his source to himself for the moment.
“We had someone come into the station suggesting he may have been poisoned. Did you run a full toxicology on his body?”
The delay in any response told him all he needed to know.
“We gave him a once-over – but there wasn’t any doubt about it. Massive heart attack. He would have been dead within a couple of minutes.”
Corstorphine rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to shift the pain in his head ,which throbbed in sympathy with his own heart.
“What about any toxins that could have caused a heart attack – did you test for those?”
“Uh. Let me just check.”
He knew what the answer was going to be. A corpse is brought in, overweight and in poor physical health. Died during heavy physical exertion. They cut open the ribs, expose the heart to see extensive myocardial infarction. Cut out the heart, section it to confirm the muscle wall has turned yellow as the heart stops pumping oxygenated blood. Pull out the liver just to make it look as if they’re earning their keep. Write report. Job done.
“There wasn’t anything found.” The disembodied voice sounded hopeful, perhaps thinking Corstorphine would leave it there.
“Have you still got the biopsies, anything you can run a more detailed toxicology for me?”
“No, sorry. Fiscal released them for incineration. There weren’t any suspicious circumstances, cause of death as clear as day.”
“OK. Not to worry, probably nothing in it.”
He ended the call, deciding to make himself a strong coffee. Jack McCoach was beyond his help now – forensics couldn’t do much with whatever was left of him in the urn. A séance! Mumbo jumbo from beyond the grave. Good luck with getting that witness statement approved.
PC Philip Lamb was already making a pot of coffee, back from pounding the streets. Corstorphine had invested in a cafetière not long after making DI, and the rest of the team had soon jettisoned instant granules to join him. It was a small enough price to pay for a decent cup.
“Morning, sir, are you having one as well?” Lamb held the half-full cafetière up in the air as if he was speaking to someone with a hearing impediment.
“Yes, thanks, Lamb. Make it strong – and black.”
“Rough night, sir?”
Corstorphine grimaced. He must look bad if Lamb could see he was hungover.
“I was at a send-off for Jack McCoach last night – made the rookie error of finishing up with a few of his whiskies.”
“Beer before whisky, always risky,” Lamb intoned. He took Corstorphine’s mug and filled it with black coffee, handing it back with a smile.
“Thank you, Lamb.” Corstorphine couldn’t raise the energy to fire off a riposte and took himself back to the quiet of his office. Sipping his coffee, he wondered why Jack McCoach’s sister had alleged that he’d been poisoned, and who could she mean was coming for the family? He saw Frankie was sitting back at her desk and tapped on the glass panel dividing his office from the rest of the back room. Frankie looked up, saw his hand waving her in.
“Sir?” She stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the door handle.
Corstorphine indicated she sit. Looking up increased the intensity of his headache, probably not helped by the fluorescent lights.
“This woman who was in earlier. What do we know about her?”
“Patricia McCoach, sir?”
Corstorphine nodded – gently in case his brain rattled around like a dried prune in its skin.
“Nothing, apart from the fact she’s Jack McCoach’s sister. She’s never been in the station before. I can’t say I’ve seen her around town. It’s the first we’ve heard of her – even Hamish didn’t recognise her.”
“Find out what you can. She’s probably just another fruitcake but I don’t want to take any chances. If she thinks there’s someone out to get at the McCoach family, I’d rather we knew about it.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll see what I can find.”
Corstorphine stared at his screen, opening up the monthly report for crime figures, which needed his attention before he sent it off. He frowned at the list of petty crimes, which was higher than normal for the time of year. As a tourist destination, the town was subject to seasonal peaks and troughs of visitors. They brought the additional baggage of thefts, assaults and motoring offences, along with their eagerly anticipated spending. By rights, the rate should be on a steady decline as winter approached, just leaving the background noise of local miscreants to contend with. He highlighted the crimes that needed attention before the powers-that-be spotted them and gave him the third degree. Top of these were the catalytic converter thefts. Someone must know something. Angle grinders or whatever they used weren’t the quietest of tools, surely somebody must have heard or seen something? Then there was the Peeping Tom. Five women had reported seeing someone lurking in their gardens, peering in at bedroom or bathroom windows. If he wasn’t found, then someone would more than likely dispense some rough justice themselves, especially as it became widely known a pervert was on the loose.
Corstorphine sighed in exasperation at the sordid side of life that lay exposed in the spreadsheet. Serving as a police officer soon introduced you to those facets of human nature that are normally kept hidden. What drives a man to spy on women in their own homes where they should feel secure, creeping into back gardens? Does the thrill satisfy some urge? Would it nourish a darker need that might lead to sexual assault? Whoever it was, he needed to be found before he did something more serious. Corstorphine put the crimes on the team brief. He just hoped to get through the presentation without Lamb making one of his dreadful quips.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
Corstorphine looked up to see what had caused Hamish to leave his seat at the front desk.
“What is it Hamish?” He asked the question more tersely than he’d intended, the after-effects of his hangover making him more irritable than normal. Corstorphine tried a smile to ameliorate the harshness in his tone, the unnatural combination causing Hamish to pause even longer than was usual before constructing his first slow sentence.
“I’ve just had a call from the railway station. Seems some poor lass has fallen in front of a train. They’ve asked for assistance.”
Corstorphine uncurled from the chair he’d slumped into. “It’s okay, Hamish, I’ll go. No foul play reported?”
“No, sir. Seemingly she just stepped in front of the engine as it pulled into the station. I don’t think there’s any hope of her surviving. The ambulance and fire service are already on the way.”
Corstorphine’s eyes picked out Frankie and Lamb in the office, switching from one to the other as he decided which one to take.
“Frankie, we’ve a potential suicide at the train station. Can you come with me? Lamb, you hold the fort.”
He wondered at his use of the expression, suggestive of cowboy films from his past before realising that Lamb had recently been slipping western slang into his speech ever since Taser training. He’d have to watch that; it was obviously catching.
They arrived at the station just a short while later, the ambulance and fire engine already sending regular flashes of blue from the emergency vehicles parked in front of the entrance. Corstorphine pushed through the crowd impeding progress as they held mobiles aloft to capture the mangled young woman’s body that lay across the tracks.
“Put those bloody phones down and give the girl some respect!” Corstorphine wasn’t in the mood for taking any prisoners today. Frankie joined the station staff, helping to move the crowd back as Corstorphine crouched down at the edge of the platform. The other emergency services were already down on the tracks, protective clothing stained with the woman’s blood. Two of the ambulance staff looked towards him with an unvoiced question, gesturing with the body bag they held.
“We have to wait for the transport police to arrive. This is their patch by rights – just cover the poor lass for God’s sake.” He turned away from the sight, screwing the lid down on his emotions.
“Do we have any witnesses?” Corstorphine asked the question out loud, searching the faces in the crowd for any response.
“I saw it happen.” The voice was quiet, coming from one of the uniformed station staff helping Frankie move back the crowd.
He took in her ashen face, realised she was close to fainting.
“Hold my arm.” Corstorphine offered a hand as he approached, felt the tremble in her grip as she held onto him. “Is there somewhere we can sit in private?”
She pointed to a door marked ‘Staff’, untrusting of her voice. The room held a few chairs and a table; mugs of half-drunk tea and coffee lay on the surface where they had been hurriedly abandoned. Corstorphine led her to a chair, watched her as she placed hands on shaking knees. He shut the door, closing off the sound of hushed voices, camera clicks. She looked up at him, tears forming in her eyes.
“She just ran in front of it. I couldn’t do anything to stop her. It happened so quickly.” The words came in small torrents, forced out before she started to sob – body shaking in wracking spasms.
“It’s OK.” Corstorphine spoke the words automatically, realising it was anything but OK. Even hardened professionals took suicide badly: the waste of a life, the feeling of guilt that they could have done something to help if only they had known.
The shock of someone dying violently in front of you isn’t something that can ever be fully prepared for. Trainee doctors at least were broken in gently – given a cadaver, the person’s life story told to them before they start, so the donated body is afforded respect. Maybe start with a hand – sawn off, dissected, tendons pulled to make fingers grasp at air; until by the end of their studies each one is given the brain to hold, the weight of it somehow once containing memories, emotions, personality.
The body on the tracks was an anatomy lesson laid out in chaotic and bloody disorder; entrails spread greyly over steel and stone stained red. A human jigsaw that bore little resemblance to the young life this puzzle once contained.
“Tell me what happened. Take your time.” Corstorphine waited for the woman in front of him to stop shuddering, held his handkerchief towards her as she raised her face.
“Thank you.” Her voice came as a whisper as she dabbed at her eyes, switching his handkerchief to her nose as she blew wetly into it.
She suddenly looked at him, eyes wetly apologetic.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. You keep it.” He smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way. “We’re issued police handkerchiefs for this very reason.”
She smiled weakly back, aware of his poor attempt at humour. The breath she took was deep but not as shuddering as before.
“I noticed her because of the stick. We keep a close eye on anyone with disabilities, just in case they need a hand – but she was a regular.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No. But she took the Glasgow train every Monday.” She looked up at him, almost pleading from tear-streaked eyes. “That’s why I didn’t offer to help her. She knew the platform, knew where the edge was. I don’t understand why it happened.”
Fresh tears started to flow, her shaking hand ineffectually holding his handkerchief against the flood.
“You’re not to blame.” Corstorphine’s eyes sought out Frankie through the small window in the room, saw her taking statements from some people in the crowd. “Just take me through it step by step if you’re able.”
Her shaking eventually subsided again.
“The Queen Street train was approaching. I looked up and down the platform in case anyone was acting strangely.” She looked at him hopefully. “It’s one of the things we’re trained for, you know – in case anyone does anything… stupid.”
Corstorphine nodded encouragement. “Go on.”
“She must have known the train was almost here.” She paused, reliving the moment, aware that this was no accident. “She threw herself off the platform. There was nothing anyone could have done! The driver braked but the wheels went over her.”
She looked at him in wonder. “There was silence. Just the brakes scraping and the wheels sliding on the tracks. I ran over to see if I could do anything to help but I could only see bits of her under the train – and the blood.”
The door opened and the station supervisor entered. Corstorphine exchanged a brief nod before engaging with her again.
“That’s been a great help. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else, you just take it easy. You’ve had a terrible shock.” Corstorphine turned to the supervisor. “Can you get me the recording from the platform cameras? It looks like a suicide, nothing anyone could have done.”
He made to leave the two of them alone. “You may want to sit with her awhile until she’s well enough to go home.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her, detective, and don’t worry, I’ll be in touch.” He forestalled Corstorphine’s next words.
“OK. Thanks.” The words felt inadequate as he rejoined Frankie; the crowd dissipating as if by magic, but Corstorphine knew they merely wanted to avoid getting involved. He had sympathy with that at least. Ahead of him lay the grim task of identifying the dead girl and then having to tell her parents. It was a duty that fell to him as the senior officer, and one that never came any easier, no matter how many times he’d had to impart the news. Somehow, the younger they were, the more it took out of him.
Chapter 4Witches Coven
The large Edwardian house stood on its own in half an acre of land, mostly given over to trees and shrubs through which the original garden designer had woven meandering herringbone brick paths. The front of the house was given over to parking, with a well-manicured hedge kept just above head height and affording privacy from any rare passers-by. The back of the house looked out over a large lawn, illuminated at this late hour by the yellow flicker of flame torches embedded in flower beds bordering the grass. At the centre of the lawn stood an ornate metal ornament; a sphere formed out of curved stainless-steel sections, an arrow piercing the structure and aimed heavenwards at the night sky. A waning moon hung in the cloudless night, a sliver of silver resting crescent-like on black velvet cloth.
Hidden amongst the trees, the voyeur had been watching since before dusk whilst the women decorated the sculpture with yellow sheaves of wheat, branches of rowan, berries shining as red as drops of blood as they caught the last of the sun. A table had been carried out of the house with shared merriment, then breads, wines, apples, and cheeses were brought out to cover the table surface. It had taken a strong effort of will not to succumb to his hunger and raid the table when the women had re-entered the house, leaving the garden prepared for whatever party was to follow.
He stood there undecided. Should he leave now, and risk being seen by one of the unexpected visitors, or wait until the party was in full swing? He decided to wait.
With the onset of darkness proper, the women filed out of the house, transformed now in flowing robes and foliage crowns. The voyeur’s breathing became shallow and rapid, tongue darting over lips turned suddenly dry. He pulled his phone out, set it to record and pointed it at the women in the clearing – this was shaping up to be a rewarding night.
The woman heading the procession wore small horns on her head, silver paint glistening on her cheeks. They joined hands, forming a loose circle around the lawn centrepiece, speaking some words he couldn’t catch. As they fell silent, they circled slowly left, completely in step with one another. The circle moved faster, their movements became more wanton, their voices louder. He caught occasional glimpses of thighs and breasts as their loose garments exposed flesh until they may as well have been dancing completely naked around the metal orb. The early evening still retained the warmth of the day, a breeze just gentle enough to rustle leaves and detach early sacrificial victims to winter – curling and pirouetting before impacting the ground with the slightest of sounds. The women suddenly froze – had he been seen? Without any signal that he could detect, they dropped to the ground, all except the woman wearing horns who stood as if in supplication to the waning moon. The women on the ground raised their heads from the cold earth and their arms towards the sky, swaying like some giant pale sea anemone caught in a cross-current. They chanted as one in a low, rhythmic undertone, quite unlike any sound he had heard before.
“Day turns to night, and life turns to death, and the Dark Mother teaches us to dance.
Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Nemesis, Morrighan, Tiamet, bringers of destruction,
You who embody the Crone, I honour you as the earth goes dark, and as the world slowly dies.”
Any eroticism he’d felt as the women had danced in front of him evaporated as the words reached his ears. The ritual was more like a display of strength, leaving him feeling emasculated by their strange behaviour. Whatever had just occurred appeared to be over as the women laughed and joked, pulling robes tightly together before heading towards the table to pour glasses of wine. He waited until their chatter was loud enough to cover his footsteps, then made his way back towards the road. Just a short run across the gravel, each step sounding loud to his ears until he reached the pavement beyond. He risked a quick glance behind, and the blood froze in his veins. A dark figure stood at the edge of the trees, red eyes shining unnaturally bright in the glow from the house windows. If they’d raised the devil, he was looking straight at him. His response was primeval. A nascent scream strangled in his throat as his body demanded oxygen to fuel muscles already powering him away from danger. He ran without thought, feet pounding pavement and eyes wide with fear.
PC Bill McAdam was working a late Monday shift, calculating how much the additional 10% uplift would add to his monthly salary, when his interest was piqued by a man running full tilt down the pavement in front of his patrol car. Too late to be catching a train or bus for work, so what was his rush? The guy was running fast, like he was in a panic. He certainly didn’t conform to the usual lycra-clad runner that was becoming a more familiar sight on the pavements. The PC shadowed him, cruising quietly behind and checking his rear-view mirror for signs of any pursuit. Nothing. The street was deserted this far out of town. In this area the houses tended towards mansions, large gardens spreading themselves languorously along the road. These occupants didn’t take buses or walk, and they certainly didn’t run like this. PC McAdam turned on the blues, illuminating the runner in strobing light. He stopped immediately, bent double as if fighting for air and turned to face the police car with a look of relief. McAdam lowered the passenger window as he pulled up to the pavement, taking the time to have a good look as he drew to a halt.
The guy was no athlete, that was obvious from the sound of his breathing. He’d had to deal with people having asthmatic attacks before and they had made less noise than this. McAdam automatically began mentally transcribing details in readiness for writing them up later in his notebook. Age mid 40’s: average height, round face, slightly pudgy and sweating profusely. Thinning ginger hair, comb-over hanging listlessly down one side of his head, exposing a circular bald pate. Dressed entirely in dark clothing: black trousers, black jacket, black sneakers. That looked like a black beanie in his jacket pocket. He may as well have carried a placard saying burglar.
“Evening, sir. Can I ask what the emergency is?”
Spittle flecked the man’s lips. He wiped them with the back of his hand, his breath coming in tortured bursts.
“They’ve raised the devil!” The man’s voice was hysterical, the pitch high as the words forced their way out of a throat constricted by lack of air.
McAdam had been in the force for long enough that nothing surprised him anymore.
“I see, sir. And whereabouts did you see this diabolical event?”
The man stared wild-eyed back down the road. “The big house, the one at the end. They’re all witches or something.”
McAdam checked his rear-view mirror again. Something in the guy’s wild stare made him half expect to see somebody in a Halloween costume, it was only a few weeks away after all.
“The last house on the left?” McAdam queried. This was the home address of Patricia McCoach and one of the houses he’d been tasked with keeping an eye on. The team brief mentioned something about a threat being made to the McCoach family, nothing to back it up, just Corstorphine wanting their houses checked now and then. “What’s your name?”
“Stevie. Steven Lyle.” He started shaking.
McAdam turned around, looking back up the road and seeing nothing. Something had spooked the guy.
“OK, Steven. Just take a few deep breaths. What were you doing at the house – are you a friend of the family?”
His eyes briefly held the policeman’s before finding the pavement more worthy of attention.
“I’m just out for a walk, nothing else. I must have been mistaken. Sorry to take your time, officer.”
Whoever Steven Lyle was, he was as much a poker player as he was an athlete.
“Do you have any ID on you, sir?”
His expression turned to worried in a split second. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not for going out for an evening run – unless there’s anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Guilt was written all over his face. “No. Nothing else.”
He fumbled in his jacket, extricating a driving licence from his wallet. McAdam took the licence from the comfort of his driving seat, stretching an arm out towards the open window. The photograph matched a younger, thinner and more hirsute version of the man standing awkwardly beside the patrol car.
“12 Strathyre Avenue. Is that your present address, Steven?”
“Yes, officer.” He shuffled from foot to foot, shooting worried glances back up the road in between guilty looks at the constable.
“Here you are, sir. Have a pleasant evening.” McAdam handed the driving licence back, watching sheer relief flood across his face. “We’ll be in touch if I hear there’s been anything amiss tonight – just to clear you from our enquiries.”
“Oh. No, nothing amiss. I’ll be off then?” He spoke as if asking permission, receiving a curt nod from McAdam in return.
He turned off the emergency lights, watching Steven Lyle walking away until he turned a corner and was lost to sight. Pulling his notebook out of a top pocket, Bill laboriously wrote down Steven’s details, together with the time and location, before turning the car back to the McCoach house. From the comfort of the road, nothing looked out of place. Five cars filled the drive, lights shone from downstairs windows. He could hear music and laughter coming from the house, nothing that gave him any cause for alarm. He added this to his notebook, just so Corstorphine could see he’d taken the brief seriously, before continuing his circuit around the town.
In the shadows a figure watched as the patrol car drove away. He was patient. There would be other opportunities when the house wasn’t so busy. He needed her to be on her own for what he had planned.
Chapter 5Box of Spanners
C
