Cold Grave (14 page)

‘Which one?’ Rachel asked.

‘Adamski. It was sent directly to Paton and not copied to any of the others. It simply said, “Leave me alone”. No signature; nothing else. The others might still reply but, so far, that’s it.’

‘That big build-up for nothing,’ Danny sighed. ‘I guess it was worth a try. So do you have good news to go with your bad?’

‘Well, I also got the crappy lead to look into, of course. This bollocks about Lily being the daughter of gypsies, killed because she wanted to run away with some
gajo
.’

‘
Gajo
?’ Rachel asked.

Tony grinned.

‘I’ve been doing my research.
Gajo
is the Romany word for a non-gypsy. Like Muggles in Harry Potter, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve been online to see what I could find out.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s quite interesting actually. There are reckoned to be up to twenty-three thousand travellers in Scotland, all in. But they’re broken down into different groups. First up there’s your gypsy travellers, far and away the biggest group. They are gypsies by birth or, very rarely, by marriage. They have their own cultural identity and there’s a big emphasis on extended families and clan links. They’re the ones that have your big fat gypsy weddings and put a curse on you if you don’t buy clothes pegs from them. That’s a load of old-fashioned bollocks, of course, but you can’t beat a good stereotype.

‘There are New Age travellers, your anti-war hippy types. There aren’t too many of those and they and your traditional traveller families don’t really see eye to eye. Then there are fairground travellers, show people. When they’re not on the road, they mostly live here in Glasgow, even though most people don’t know it. There’s a tonne of them in Dalmarnock around Swanston Street, Shore Street and Cotton Street. One article I read reckoned a third of the local population there was show folk.’

‘So which group are we looking at?’ Danny asked him.

‘Gypsy travellers, if the rumourmongers in Callander are right. But even then there’s lots of different ethnic groups within that group. Ready? There are Irish Travellers, Romany Chals, Border Gypsies and Welsh Kale Romanies. You can learn a shitload of stuff on the Internet.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Danny grumbled. ‘But you said it was quite interesting. So how about getting to the interesting part?’

Winter blew out hard.

‘Tough crowd. Okay. Most of them are regularly on the move, usually staying in one place for less than a year, sometimes only for five minutes. But the local authorities provide them with official sites so they can settle for a few months and get the kids into schools. I had a hunt round the Port of Menteith area and there are a few official sites for travelling people not too far away but one in particular caught my eye.’

Winter paused as he looked at the other two to make sure they were listening.

‘You waiting for a drum roll, son? Spit it out.’

‘Aye, okay. There is an official site for travellers in Stirling — in Riverside.’

Narey and Neilson stared at him, seeing the smile slowly appear on Winter’s face.

‘It’s on a bit of land set back from Abbey Road. Less than two hundred yards from Laurence Paton’s house.’

Tony leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied look on his face.

‘Probably a complete coincidence,’ Rachel countered.

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Danny.

Tony’s expression lapsed into crestfallen and stayed that way until Rachel and Danny couldn’t contain themselves any longer and sniggered.

‘Never trust anything that looks like a coincidence, you know that,’ Danny told him. ‘How about you and me take a wee drive back out to Stirling?’

Tony grinned.

Winter and Neilson turned left over the bridge before Stirling railway station and drove carefully down the hill into Riverside. The Ochils loomed in front of them, caked in white like giant iced cakes, a pink haze rising over them, suggesting yet more snow could be on its way. The streets hadn’t been clear of the white stuff in nearly a week now; it lay piled up and frozen within a few feet of the kerbs on both sides of the road. Driving was a nightmare on the roads that remained open and there had already been several lives lost because of it. Worse still, there was no sign of the freeze beginning to ease.

It had been a week since the pair of them had last been in Stirling, paying an unauthorised late-night visit to Laurence Paton’s house. This time it was mid-afternoon but the light was already fading fast and it would probably be dark within an hour. Daylight in Scotland in deep midwinter lasted less than a third of a day and even that was assuming the rare appearance of the sun.

They both cast a glance left towards where Wallace Place lay behind the Edwardian terrace that ran the length of the left-hand side of Abbey Road. On the right was a cycle shop and Danny parked opposite it, leaving a hundred yards or so to go to the opening that would take them into the recessed parcel of land that formed the travellers’ site. Neilson and Winter emerged somewhat reluctantly from the relative warmth of the car and zipped up their jackets, Danny pulling a woollen hat over his head as they carefully negotiated the icy pavements.

The entrance to the site, wide enough to take mobile homes, chalets and caravans, was guarded on both sides by a seven-foot-high wall. As Winter and Neilson passed through the opening, they saw a large piece of land with a number of static mobile homes plus caravans of all sizes, trailers, a couple of pieces of what seemed to be fairground equipment and half a dozen cars. Not surprisingly perhaps, given the weather, there was no one to be seen and the two men looked at each other as if deciding which door they should try first. Danny hesitated, then nodded towards the biggest of the caravans, a grubby once-white vehicle on their right that had clearly seen better days. Winter shrugged as if to say ‘why not’ but before they were halfway there they were stopped in their tracks by a voice from behind them.

‘What do you want?’

The pair spun round to see a stocky fair-haired man in his mid-thirties advancing on them. He had clearly stepped out from one of the vehicles to their left. The freezing temperatures didn’t seem to bother him as he walked directly over to Winter and Neilson wearing just jeans and a checked shirt. He didn’t stop until he was within a couple of feet of them.

‘I said, “What do you want?”’

The man’s tone was hostile and Winter could see Danny bristling at his manner. Danny was getting on a bit but that wouldn’t stop him from having a go at this guy, no matter that he looked like he could be trouble. There was a scar running under the stranger’s left eye and his muscular frame complemented his threatening demeanour; it was more than enough to make Winter think twice about tackling him.

‘We’re just looking for some information,’ Danny told the man without taking a backward step, his voice controlled and non-confrontational but firm.

‘You all right, Jered? What’s going on?’

Someone else had stepped out of a caravan: a tall, young guy with short dark hair and a sullen expression. This has gone well, Winter thought. Inside the site two minutes and already they were being faced down.

‘I’m all right, Peter,’ the first man told him. ‘Asked these gentlemen a reasonable question but I don’t have a proper answer yet.’

‘Is that right? Well maybe they should just leave before I make them leave.’

Danny turned to the younger man, an amused smile on his face.

‘Now why would you want to make us leave, son? That’s hardly hospitable, is it?’

The slim teenager squared up to Danny but was met with a scornful grin that stopped just short of laughing in his face. Before Peter realised it had happened, Danny had reached out a hand and gently tapped the young guy’s cheek with his open hand.

‘Hey, cut that out,’ Peter yelped, stepping back and looking at Danny warily. Neilson simply looked at him and turned back to the man he had called Jered.

‘You’re right,’ he told him. ‘You’re entitled to a proper answer. We’re looking for information about a missing girl.’

‘What makes you think she’s here?’ the aggressive tone was still evident in Jered’s voice. If anything, it had hardened.

‘We don’t. We know she’s not here but we hoped you could give us some help finding her. She disappeared a long time ago.’

Jered stared Danny down as he weighed up what he was being told.

‘How long ago?’

‘Nineteen years?’

Jered’s face screwed up in surprise.

‘Nineteen years ago? Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘Nope.’

‘So who is this girl?’

‘That’s what we’re hoping you’ll tell us. We think she might have been a traveller.’

Jered looked from Neilson to Winter and back again, chewing on the corner of his mouth. He finally nodded, as much to himself as to the two strangers on his site.

‘You’d better come see Uncle then. He’s the only one here who might be able to help you. You mind your manners though.’

‘I always do,’ Danny told him.

Winter and Neilson fell into line behind Jered as he led them to the large, grimy caravan that had been their first choice. Peter, the angry teenager, watched them balefully, his angst increased by another smirk in his direction from Danny. Jered stopped on the steps to the vehicle and turned.

‘Wait there.’

He stepped inside the caravan, closing the door behind him. Neilson and Winter exchanged glances, both wondering what the hell was going to happen next. The difference between them was that Danny seemed to be enjoying himself. Winter settled for moving from foot to foot in an attempt to stop the cold of the snow creeping in through his shoes.

The door opened again and Jered’s stern face poked out, gesturing them inside. Winter and Neilson climbed the short steps. The caravan was surprisingly warm, thanks no doubt to the paraffin they could smell as soon as they entered. It was also dark and it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust after the bright snow-light of outside. When they did, they saw an old man with long grey hair sitting in a battered brown leather armchair by the heater, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a steaming mug in his hands. With his dark eyes, sallow skin and long hair, he immediately reminded Winter of a Native American stuck on a white man’s reservation.

‘This is Tommy Baillie,’ Jered explained, taking up a place at the man’s shoulder.

‘I’m Danny Neilson. This is Tony Winter.’

‘Polis?’ the old fellow asked them pleasantly.

‘No.’

‘Sit down, sit down. Can I offer you some tea?’

Both men declined as Danny took a soft, green chair facing the man across the heater while Winter made do with perching on a stack of boxes that wobbled slightly as he sat down. Baillie eyed them slowly as he cradled the mug in his hands, peering at them over its rim.

‘Young Jered tells me you’re looking for a lost girl,’ he said softly.

‘Not so much lost as unidentified,’ Danny replied. ‘Her body was found nineteen years ago.’

Baillie sipped some more of his tea, his eyes closing momentarily as he swallowed.

‘Long time ago,’ he told them.

‘Not that long,’ Danny countered. ‘Not when you get to our age.’

‘Ha,’ Baillie cackled. ‘Our age? You’re just a boy, Danny boy. Cannae be much over sixty while I’ll no see seventy again. So who was this girl?’

‘She was found at Inchmahome on the Lake of Menteith. It was all over the news at the time.’

‘I’ve not got a television set and I never buy a newspaper,’ Baillie replied. ‘I’ve got a radio right enough but that’s for the music, not for the news.’

That seemed to be all the old boy had to say on the matter and his attentions had returned to the contents of his mug, alternately blowing and taking wary sips. Then he abruptly stopped mid-sip and looked up at them.

‘Where are you gentlemen from?’ Baillie asked them. ‘Are those Glasgow accents I hear?’

‘Yes, they are.’

‘Glasgow. Interesting. Interesting.’

Tommy resumed his pedestrian swallowing of the tea, seemingly lost in thought.

‘This girl of yours. She was murdered?’

‘Aye, she was.’

‘A terrible thing. And ye think she was a traveller, this
chavi
, this girl?’

‘We think she might have been, yes.’

‘Interesting. Interesting. Do you have children of your own, gentlemen?’

‘I do,’ Neilson told him. ‘A daughter. Tony is burden-free.’

‘A burden?’ Baillie repeated. ‘Well, maybe they are at times, right enough. A joy one day and a burden the next but a responsibility till the end of time. Is that not right? Children are very important in the travelling community, Mr Neilson. We are an honourable, proud people and it is my job to protect and preserve the traveller way of life. We live as a culture. It would be a terrible, terrible thing indeed if a young
chavi
was killed like you say. That would be an eternal curse on every one of us.’

‘That would be the case in every community, Mr Baillie,’ Neilson told him. ‘I’m sure we would all want justice if that happened.’

Baillie either didn’t hear Danny or, more likely, just ignored him.

‘My duty is to protect our children from damaging outside influences. Do you understand? There’s a family member, a young cousin of Jered here, who has got himself into serious trouble. Or so we hear anyway. The boy — Sam Dunbar — isn’t in touch with the family. But that doesn’t mean we don’t care. Our problem is that if we go in there to try to sort it…’

‘All sorts of things could kick off.’ Neilson finished the sentence for him. ‘What sort of trouble is it that you think the boy is in?’

The old fellow tilted his head to one side and puffed out his cheeks.

‘Narky stuff. Very bad.’