A Deviant Breed (25 page)

‘Nae!?  Ah, well, the Minister has asked for you personally to meet with him and – Mr Mean-an’-Moody.’
 
Even saying the man’s name seemed to leave a bad taste in Terry Watt’s mouth.  ‘This very afternoon.  I told them you were doon the way, exhumin’ a grave,’  Dunbar was genuinely surprised but Watt was still in conspiracy mode.  ‘But lo and behold, yer’ back!’ Watt checked his watch. ‘And in good time to make that meeting.  Coincidence!?  I don’t think so.’

Dunbar decided not to grace Watt’s paranoia with any further denials.  The fact that his proposals had been adopted was enough.  As for why he alone had been summoned to Holyrood he could not imagine.  Actually he could, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up.  He placed a quick call to the Minister’s office, and after what felt like an age, Agnes, the humourless guardian of the Justice Minister’s gate, confirmed his presence was desired if it was convenient.  It was! 

***

Lawrie Minto stepped around his desk and welcomed him like a long lost friend, with a broad grin, familiar tone and extended hand.  Dunbar was wary and tried not to read anything into it.  Minto had a reputation that reached far beyond the halls of Holyrood.  It was said he could hide a haymaker behind his handshake, and agree with every word you said but still win the argument.  Was he about to be lauded or teed up?

A tall, square-shouldered man in his mid fifties rose from his seat at the same time and turned to greet him with an easy smile.  So this was ‘Mean an’ Moody’, Strathclyde’s notorious gang-buster.  Dunbar had several friends in the CID at Glasgow and even the toughest of them spoke of Adrian Moody in reverent tones.  Moody sported neatly trimmed, swept back salt-and-pepper hair and had the lightly tanned skin of someone a few weeks back from somewhere hot.  He was holding a copy of the SCHU protocols.  At least that’s what it read in gold lettering on the dark blue cover.  The only resemblance it bore to the plain document he and Watt had produced was the acronym Dunbar had invented, above the words ‘Operational Protocols’ together with the emblem of the recently inaugurated ‘Police Service of Scotland’ also picked out in gold.  It had undergone a makeover and morphed into a glossy brochure.  

‘Alec, you know Adrian Moody of course.’

Dunbar turned and offered his hand. ‘Only by reputation, Minister.  A pleasure to meet you, sir.’

‘Whatever it is you’ve heard about me, Alec – I’m much worse.’  He quipped, as he wafted the document in Dunbar’s direction. ‘You know, it put a few noses out of joint over our side, when we heard the Minister had handed this task to you.  And one of those snouts was mine.’

‘To Superintendent Watt,’ Dunbar corrected.

Minto shrugged apologetically at Moody.  ‘And there was I thinking you polis were all on the same side – ye is as precious and partisan as politicians, so ye are.’  He turned to Dunbar, adding, ‘Truth be told, I handed it to Bob Molineux, but it appears that by happy accident, it ended up in the right hands anyway.’

So it truly was a case of pass-the-parcel, Dunbar thought as Moody chipped in.

‘Whatever the route, it makes for impressive reading.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Moody flicked the pages. ‘I speak as I find, as you will learn.  Like a schematic for combating organised crime, Alec.  Don’t mind if I call you, Alec do you?’

‘Schematic!  Before you factor in that unpredictable human element I guess, and I’ve been called a lot worse by senior officers, sir.’

‘Aye, me too and yes, there’s always the human element to consider but still, an excellent foundation document on which to build a department that I intend to make the envy of police forces the world over.’

‘No pressure there then.’  Dunbar said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Please don’t misinterpret this as insubordination, gentlemen but, why am I here?  Why isn’t the co-author Superintendent Watt in the room?’

Moody and Minto exchanged knowing looks. ‘Too modest, Alec.  You’d ne’er get anywhere in politics with that attitude.’ Minto answered.  ‘But yer mon Terry Watt – now he’s a different kettle o’ fish.’

‘I know Terry Watt.  He worked under me in Bosnia on the mass graves job, and I use the word
worked
in the loosest possible terms.’  Moody added.  ‘As a result, I’ve read reports submitted by him, and how can I put this? Terry’s ability as a wordsmith is – well, monostichous.’

‘Single layered,’ Minto added helpfully when he saw Dunbar frown. ‘I think Adrian’s suggesting his writing lacks depth, Alec.  And your protocols lack nothing.’

‘Not trying to be a smart
– Alec
.  Sorry, couldn’t resist,’ he continued, ‘but monostichous seemed the most appropriate adjective.  And I’d read enough by the end of the first page to know that Terry Watt had never so much as touched the keys when this was being put together.’  He flicked through it again. ‘What with eight forces all wanting a slice of the cake, composition of the new unit was a thorny issue, until I read this.  Your solution is elegant.’  Dunbar almost blushed. ‘A dedicated team based within the central belt between Glasgow and Edinburgh with –’

‘
Ach!
I know just the place,’ Minto cut in. ‘Near Chapelhall – Danza-Pak, a former storage facility o’ theirs – ample office space, kitchen, a wee canteen, shower and WC facilities, ample parking, big loading bay, security fencing, CCTV.  Danish company, downsized and relocated to Copenhagen.  Twenty full-time, half a dozen part-time jobs doon the swanny and the knock-on – suppliers, local small businesses – another half dozen or more maybe, a damned shame but –’ he eyed Moody, ‘Sorry, Adrian, you had the floor.’

‘Thank you, Minister.  Sounds ideal, well placed for access to the motorways and major routes north or south.  I’ll check it out.’  He scanned the document and tapped a page. ‘As I was saying, satellite offices around the country.  SCHU detectives muck in with divisional colleagues on a day-to-day basis, with emphasis on field intelligence and source management until called upon when a job that requires the unit’s attention is flagged up in that region.  Then those officers establish an operational centre in readiness for the SCHU task force’s arrival, as well as bolster the team and provide local knowledge.  I love it.’

‘To be fair, Mr Moody, it’s not unlike America’s FBI model,’ Dunbar explained modestly.

‘Like I said, elegant.’

‘As you might have already gathered, Adrian will assume the directorship when SCHU goes operational, Alec, and you are to be his first appointment – if you want the job?’ Minto announced, with a broad smile.

Moody nodded, ‘Aye, it’ll piss off one or two DCI’s back home but – I’ve looked at your detection rate stats, and if you put this – ’  he flicked the document again, ‘ – into practice, mine’ll be the easiest job on the unit.’  Moody stood up and offered his hand.  ‘Welcome on board, DCI Dunbar.’  Moody eyed Minto, who nodded his approval and as they shook hands on his appointment, Moody added, ‘Now, what’s the crack with this case you’re on?  Sounds like the plot of a Hammer Horror film.’

***

As they left the building together, Adrian Moody stopped Dunbar on the steps. ‘I couldn’t help noticing the limp.’

‘Car crash, but on the mend, sir.’

‘It’s not permanent then?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good, good – I want my DCI’s leading from the front.’

‘Front and centre.’

‘Excellent!  So – this DI Tyler, product of Tulliallan I hear.’  Dunbar nodded. ‘Quite some report she knocked together.   Thorough, coherent and progressive if a bit –’ He didn’t need to finish that sentence, they both knew what he meant.

‘Yeah, she’s made quite an impression on the top landing.  A star in the making. 

‘In the ascendancy by the look of it.  So, detective or just found the uniform unflattering?’

‘Too soon to say, sir, but trust me, she’d turn heads in just about anything.’

‘A looker then?’

‘And then some.’

‘Eye candy or substance?’

‘Both.  Cerebral, aye, and ambitious – and there’s nothing wrong with that.  She seems grounded and pretty switched on.  Doesn’t miss much.’

Moody slapped the document. ‘Police officer or policy wonk?’

‘Copper first and foremost, sir – keen but green.’

‘But?’

Dunbar sighed.  ‘What I look for in a detective is someone who is entirely focussed on the job, not weighing career advancement against operational necessity.’

‘I agree, Alec.’  He paused for thought, ‘Okay, so, I more or less have a free hand regarding recruitment of my core team.  But I have to do it with one eye on seven other former force areas.  I don’t want to be accused of bias.  Then again, I’m not going all inclusive just to make friends and assuage egos.  I want the best team I can put together.
Each DCI can bring a DI and a DS of his or her choice on board, and also make recommendations for the DC positions,
but! 
Any officer with the appropriate experience can apply. They will of course, compete for posts.  I’m going to set up a series of interviews and I’d like you on that panel.’

‘Right enough, sir.  My DS I don’t even have to think about.  As for the others, I’ll let you know.’

‘You do that, sooner rather than later.  Now go reel your weirdo in, and get your head into kick-starting SCHU.’ They shook hands and parted company.

***

He had barely left the car-park when his phone started ringing, deep inside his pocket instead of tuned into his hands-free.  He swung his car off Holyrood Road, into the entrance to the Dynamic Earth Exhibition and pulled over.  It had stopped by the time he had rooted it out.  Briony Tyler.  He called her back.

The headless corpse from the English gravesite was en route to the path lab and, even if it was not spoken, they both hoped it was Kenneth Murray; otherwise they had another head to find.  Much to his relief, the skull did appear to have been Fraser English’s, because his skeleton was missing its head, but only comparison with the bone sample Eugene took would confirm that.  She also told him that she had instructed the gravedigger to backfill it again.

‘You do realise that when we’re done with it, we have to restore the skull to its rightful place?’  He waited and heard her gasp.  He really should not tease her, but he how could he resist? ‘But that won’t be for a while, so relax.’ He almost felt her do so.

‘How was your day, sir?’

‘Interesting.’

‘Will I see you back at the office, or in the morning?’

‘Tomorrow, good night, Briony.’

16

His meeting with the Minister and the Director apparent of SCHU had put him in the mood for celebrating, but as usual, he would be doing so alone.  After what Elspeth had said, he would probably be pushing his luck and perhaps tempting fate into the bargain by asking Briony Tyler what she was doing, so he phoned Ruth Linklater instead.  If he could not find time during work hours, he would make time in his own.

As expected, the reporter had jumped at the chance of an ‘off-the-record’ chat with the SIO of the most intriguing case she had followed for quite some time.  Neither one was fooling the other.  They were both experienced enough to know that at best he would be looking to do a little horse trading for information.  Dunbar also hoped that Ruth would see it as an opportunity to get on his good side and maybe give her the edge over her rivals.  They agreed to meet at The Abbotsford at 7:30pm.  Enough time to shower, change and grab a bite to eat. 

The previous night’s meal did not look all that appetising after spending the best part of twenty-four hours refrigerated under cling-film.  He turned the plate upside down, gathered it in its clear plastic shroud and dumped it into the bin.  Instead, he made a sandwich and booked a cab, pulled the stopper from the Pinot Noir and poured a generous measure. 

He had been in two minds whether to walk.  The Abbotsford was not that far from his house and he had time, but the cab proved to be worth every penny.  Before they had even got halfway, a squall driven up the Firth of Forth from the North Sea lashed the city, and he had opted for a flimsy, summer-weight windcheater.  Dunbar had not been in the Abbotsford for quite some time and as soon as he stepped over the threshold wondered why.  It had hardly changed at all, at least, not as far as he could tell.  It always brought the fictional Boston bar, ‘Cheers’ of eighties TV fame, to mind – “
where everybody knows your name”
.  Not true.  For a start many of the city centre’s bars relied too heavily on foreign workers or changed in step with the student terms.  Down the years he had been served by every conceivable nationality and accent under the sun, but tonight the accent was undeniably native, with a West Highland lilt, if he was not mistaken. 

Any resemblance to Sam Malone’s fictional bar in Boston had more to do with the layout than the staff and clientele, atmosphere or aesthetics.  The handsome bar stood in the middle of the room; an island in a heaving sea of drinkers but still a nice place to unwind after a hard day’s work. 

‘What can I get ye’ there?’ A straight enough question delivered with a friendly and ready enough smile, but he did not know Dunbar’s name, nor did either of them care.

Dunbar opted for a pint of Best and with perfect timing Ruth appeared at his elbow.  She added a large house white to the order, the dryer the better.

‘Am I speaking to you?’ she asked, but not until she had her drink in her hand.

‘Apparently.’

‘You sent me away from your crime scene searching for a non-existent press liaison spokesperson.  I looked a right twat when I rocked up at Fettes Ave, demanding an audience.’  He rolled his shoulders, feigned regret and steered her to a corner table away from the ears that pricked up when she mentioned a crime scene.

‘So whose decision was it to bless us with Christina Dean?’ Dunbar eyed her blankly. ‘Molly?’ 

He shrugged in response, knowing fine well it was the latter. 

‘Is he shagging her?’ Dunbar shrugged again, but this time genuinely.  He had no idea, only a gut feeling.  ‘I hope so.  It means she’ll keep her job a wee while longer, and we’ll always leave briefings better informed than we –’

‘But none the wiser,’ he cut in.  A play on a classic F. E. Smith’s riposte he could not resist – too good to waste – but it seemed he had. Ruth eyed him blankly.

‘Well, the girl’s an idiot, thank God.  Her poker-face wouldn’t fool a three-year-old – but heaven forbid they replace her with someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Whenever she opens her mouth we could all put our feet in it.’

An unfortunate turn of phrase, given that one would be hard pressed to fit anything other than what nature had shoehorned into Ruth’s.

“I’d sooner take my chances wi’ the jaws o’ a snappin’ turtle than risk ma willy between those gnashers,” a former boss had once said after a press briefing.

More disturbing to Alec Dunbar at the time, was the fact that the thought of oral sex with her, had actually crossed the man’s mind.  It was not that Ruth was bad looking but she boasted a mouthful of teeth even a horse might be embarrassed by and which, her speech often struggled to breach, coupled with a tongue that also seemed to need far more room than her mouth allowed.  It gave her voice the moist clack of someone wearing ill-fitting dentures, especially when excited or agitated, which was quite often.  Add to that the heavy Dundee accent, that all her years in the capital had failed to tame, and it took a familiar ear to accurately discern what she was saying. 

Maybe it was simply a failure to understand her questions then and Christina Dean was not quite the idiot she thought?  No, Ruth was absolutely right.  Molineux’s press liaison of choice was out of her depth once seasoned hacks with the scent of blood in their nostrils encircled her.  It takes an agile mind and firm hand to control a press briefing.  Alas Christina lacked both.

‘The question you maybe should be asking is, how long will Molly hold onto his?’

‘
Oooow
, is he –?’ she began.

‘Eight police forces’; former HQs all over Scotland full o’ bosses – into one top landing, won’t go,’ he cut in with a wicked grin. ‘Do the math,’ as Elspeth says.’  Ruth frowned. ‘She spends way too much time around Americans,’ he added, apologetically.

‘Too many Supers and Chiefs?’

‘Way too many.’

‘What about Chief Inspectors?’ she asked slyly.

‘Them too I suppose.’

‘And you?’

‘Pastures new,’ he offered with a wink.

She smiled. ‘I’ve always rated you, Alec.’

He cocked his head in appreciation. ‘Who’s your source, Ruth?’

She dipped her head and hooded her eyes.  ‘
Ach,
you know better than to ask me that.  You know fine well we guard them just as jealously as you do yours.’

‘Do I need to remind you that I have two unexplained deaths and a murder to solve?’ She tried her best to look sympathetic, as she shook her head.  ‘It can’t all be coming from Archie English.’

Ruth shook her head again, but not in denial or sympathy this time – more in despair. ‘That mon suffers from monomania,’ she whined. ‘He’s only interested in one thing.  I cannae get him to open up about anything but that bloody Witch o’ Obag’s Holm and her clan o’ murderous in-breds.  I went after the human story, the personal story – ye know: his childhood, the runaway mum, Morag.  Can you believe it?  They called her Morag – with a family history like theirs!’

Dunbar noted her use of the name, Morag not Mary, as he nodded sympathetically.  He didn’t correct her. ‘We haven’t had any joy tracing her; have you?’

‘Not yet!  Anyway, that’s my angle, her, and her fire and brimstone father.’  She threw up her hands.  ‘
Nothing!
  It’s like she never existed.  Instead, he seriously suggested I run with “The Witch is Back” angle.  Can ye believe it?’ She gasped before gulping at her drink.

‘It’d draw the ghouls and tourists; which is probably why he suggested it in the first place.  Obsessive he may, but make nae mistake, opportunistic,’ Dunbar teased before changing the subject. ‘Got anything that might have escaped our attention?’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘What else you got to trade?’

She had!
  But what would it cost him?

***

It had stopped raining.  Ruth watched him walk away down Rose Street through a pall of her cigarette’s smoke.  Aye a canny one for sure that Alec Dunbar, and still fairly buff for his years.  Ruth usually went for younger guys.  At her age, not difficult: they all seemed younger. Neither did she kid herself that they fancied her.  Young bucks are only after a quick shag.  And an easy, older woman who knows her way around a mattress fits the bill perfectly after a few bevvies.  For her part – they rarely stop for breakfast, win-win.  Ruth was a ciggie and brew breakfast girl, but she would make an exception for Dunbar if he ever turned up with coitus in mind. Aye!  She would shag Dunbar just for the hell of it. 

The noise from inside the pub interrupted her musings on how big the lean DCI’s cock was.  A fellow smoker nudged his way out of the door. They shared the silent, knowing camaraderie of the excluded.  Ruth preferred the Abbotsford before the smoking ban, better atmosphere, the kind she had grown up with as a girl, when her mam used to send her to fetch her dad from the pub, and later on, as a cub reporter, where she would listen intently to the collective wisdom of more experienced hacks.

She preferred every pub before the ban.  Pick the worst dive in the city and if you were still allowed to smoke indoors, that was where she would drink.  She particularly resented being the only smoker in company, like tonight when she had kept having to interrupt the crack for a few quick drags; often sharing her smoke with people that under any other circumstances she would prefer not to share the air with.  Oh, aye – she would love to give up, but folk frae Dundee are a stubborn breed, and Ruth Linklater’s never been a quitter.  The guy took out his fags.  She sparked-up her lighter and lit his smoke. 

‘Where I come from this practically passes as a proposal,’ she joked. The smoker grinned as he took a long draw. He was no Alec Dunbar but the DCI had stirred something in her and he was not available.  ‘But I’d settle for a quick shag.’ The guy barely hesitated before offering her his arm.

***

The thing with reporters is that they rarely let facts get in the way of a good story.  They look for an angle, a hook; facts yes, provided they do not detract from the narrative, and never at the expense of being relegated to page two. Ruth drew the line though at witches and curses.  Catching the editor’s eye is the best way to guarantee a front page, and nothing does it better than the hint of something salacious – in this case, a sexy young siren from a lonely backwater in the Scottish Borders.  Ruth’s job was to entertain.  She would deny it but that was essentially all with which she had to concern herself. 

Mary English had been out of the picture since the birth of her son, or at least very soon after, but it was that detail the wily reporter had fixed upon; the wild child daughter of a zealous lay preacher and pillar of the community.  Yes, that was the story within a story.  Teenage pregnancy was a hot topic, what with all the political moralising and punitive benefit cuts; and in Mary’s day, with a lay-preacher for a father, it was little short of scandalous, and scandal sells newspapers.

Cops on the other hand have to concentrate on facts.  The story emerges as a by-product of evidence gathering but is of little concern to them, apart from the way it may have shaped events or perhaps identifies a viable suspect, which subsequently leads an arrest and conviction.  Dunbar had eventually traded an exclusive about what was found in Fraser English’s grave for what she had uncovered, which was surprisingly little, not least because she had been looking for a Morag English, not Mary and with the investigation at such a delicate stage, Dunbar decided not to point that out.

Ruth would probably have found out about the discovery in the grave by morning anyway.  So who had walked away having gained most from the deal?  Stalemate.  It was a fair trade.  Fortunately for Dunbar, Ruth’s source, probably a cop after a bit of pin-money was not privy to the discovery at St Dabid’s Kirk yet.  Or they were but were holding out for more money.  He hated corruption as much, if not more than he hated some of the criminal scum he had to deal with.  One thing was for sure, she would never give her source up.

***

No sooner had he got his team focussed on the day’s objectives than Molineux turned up unannounced with Terry Watt in tow to conduct a senior management review of the case.  It is hard to concentrate on the job with the two most senior detectives in the force poring over your work, looking to find fault, intent on proving why it is that they hold such exalted ranks.

‘You call this progress?’ Molineux asked, studying the incident tree on the whiteboard. ‘Anacapa – looks more like an-abortion.’

Watt alone chortled at the boss’s attempt at a joke.  In police parlance, the chart and incident tree are known as Anacapa, named as it is after the island off California that disappears in the Pacific Ocean’s mist. The evidence is there, it’s just that sometimes it cannot be seen.

‘Suspects –
none!
  Victims –
three,
too date!  And witnesses –
few
, and how they are all linked?  In no obvious way.’  Unlike his boss though Dunbar was beginning to see answers emerge between the gaps. ‘Strikes me your case is circling the pan, Detective Chief Inspector.’  Molineux turned to face him.  ‘I hope this morning’s review doesn’t see me with my hand on the pull chain.’

‘Do you need me, gentlemen?’  Dunbar asked refusing to be drawn.

‘Oh, I think I can find my way around a murder room without your help,’ Molineux sneered.

‘And Detective Inspector Tyler?’