Flesh Wounds (43 page)

There were police statements, interview statements and, of course, the confession. It was tempting to skip to that first, but given that it was likely to be the least reliable document in the box, Anthony decided it would actually be most instructive to read it last. Just like a live case, it was important to put together both a chronology of the investigation and a chronology of the events, developing a wider picture so that every piece of evidence could be valued in context.

Julie Muir’s body had been found on the Sunday morning by Capletmuir resident Malcolm Vickers, who was out walking his dog. It was discovered among a waist-high crop of wild garlic, evidently dragged there out of sight. Mr Vickers rushed home and called the police.

Bob Cairns and Mitchell Drummond were first on the scene. They had happened to be in the area attending an incident in nearby Gallowhaugh.

There were crime-scene photographs, black-and-white ten by eights. Anthony spotted these as he lifted the document that had been on top of them, glimpsing enough to recognise what they were before concealing them again. Tentatively, reluctantly, and feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic, he uncovered them once more and forced himself to look.

To his relief, he was largely spared her face. She was lying on her back, her head turned to one side, her long hair draped over her features. There were close-ups of the marks on her neck, the tight pattern of bruising and abrasions. These were easier to look at: they were just skin, just shapes. They could be anybody. It was the personal details that always got to him, the notes of uniqueness still sounding out through the cacophony of white noise that murder made as it turned the individual human form into anonymous and interchangeable shapes. It was the stories suggested by an unusual pair of shoes, an esoteric tattoo, a striking piece of jewellery. In Julie’s case, it was a ring. Her hand was resting on her chest, like a virgin in a medieval painting, drawing Anthony’s attention to how out of place this olde-worlde-looking item seemed against her trendy clothing.

According to the confession, Teddy Sheehan encountered Julie Muir on the pathway adjacent to the railway line, close to where she was found. He had gone out for a walk because it was a dry night, though not so dry back at home, where his sister was reportedly asleep on the settee having necked half a bottle of vodka. She was frequently asleep at that time, the statement said, though she would often wake up and continue drinking until passing out again or until the bottle was finished, whichever came first.

Julie smiled at him as she passed, which apparently made him aroused. He turned and caught up to her again further along the path, where he took off his belt, dropped his trousers and exposed him-self. Julie got upset at this and began to scream. Startled by her response, Teddy grabbed Julie and put his hand over her mouth, trying to keep her silent. As she struggled, trying to scream louder through his muffling hand, he became more concerned about getting into trouble and dragged her into the wild garlic. Panicked and confused by the strange state of excitement in which he found himself, it was here that he looped his belt around Julie’s neck and strangled her.

Anthony marvelled at the phrasing of the confession, the insights it offered into Teddy’s mind, the little notes and minor details intended to lend authenticity to the narrative. It was a case study in why the polis weren’t allowed to pull this shit any more. Cairns had written down precisely the version he thought would play best if it came to trial, and got this befuddled, frightened and quite possibly beaten educationally subnormal suspect to sign at the bottom.

He thought of Brenda right at the very start of the video, rambling but impassioned as she poured out her heart to her guest, before Fullerton let her compose herself and told her to take it from the top.

‘Oor Teddy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Everybody knew that. All those wee bastards that used to call names and throw stones: he always ran away. Never so much as turned around and told them to shut it. And when I finally got to see him on remand … He was scared, so scared. I asked him if it was true, if he’d done it, and he said he wasn’t allowed to talk aboot it. What does that mean? Not allowed? By who?’

Anthony could guess.

What did they do to you, Teddy, he wondered. What did they tell you would happen if you didn’t stick to the script?

‘Jesus,’ Adrienne said, the first word either had issued since they began poring over the contents of the box.

‘What?’

‘She was pregnant.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Pathologist’s report. Nobody else seems to have been aware of this. None of her friends or flatmates mentioned it in their statements. Her parents didn’t know either.’

‘Did her boyfriend?’ Anthony asked pointedly.

There had been a statement from Ewart in the file, with a note to say it was strictly confidential. Supporting the contention that his relationship with her was of little relevance to the case was his claim that he hadn’t even been at his parents’ house that night, and had no idea Julie was planning to drop by. She had only visited the place once before, for a dinner party a few weeks previously, but he’d driven her there.

‘Can think of poorer pretexts for a surprise visit,’ Adrienne suggested, ‘than to confront your boyfriend with the news that you’re up the duff in front of his scandal-wary parents.’

‘Can I see the report?’

Adrienne handed him the pages, which he traded for the confession.

There it was, in the clinical bloodless prose that reduced all that was once Julie Muir to a technical read-out of her final state.

The victim was approximately three months pregnant at time of death
…

He scanned the rest of the report, the precise description of the injuries to her neck, the corresponding condition of internal organs, the estimated time of death.

The ligature used to strangle her suggested a combination of metal and a softer material, probably leather. This was consistent with Sheehan’s confession that he had used his belt.

She had not been sexually assaulted.

Anthony was about to put the report back down when he saw it.

‘Fuck,’ he announced.

The most vital piece of information in the entire document was at the very top, and they had both bypassed it in their hurry to get to the details.

‘What?’

‘The pathologist’s name – it’s Colin Morrison.’

The van had maintained a steady pace for a long time, indicating progress along the open road, and Jasmine hadn’t heard any other traffic for a while. She had no way of verifying this, but she felt a growing sense of becoming further and further from anywhere populous. Thus when the van began to decelerate fear seized her, letting her know that her previous terror had been a mere overture. Truly, it was better to travel hopelessly than to arrive.

The van stopped and she heard a door open from the cab, though the engine was still turning. A fist banged on the side, close to her head, causing her to start.

‘Right,’ said the pudgy man, opening one of the doors. ‘Come on.’

She emerged into a gathering gloom, rainclouds darkening the skies and making it difficult to gauge the time of day. She was outside an isolated cottage, hills and woodland stretching away behind it. She couldn’t see any other houses. By a rough estimate of how long she had travelled, it could be Perthshire or it could be the Borders. She had no idea.

The van drove off again as soon as she was clear. She hadn’t seen the driver at any point.

She was led towards the cottage, trembling with every step. She wanted to run, but it was as though she was caught in a tractor beam, paralysed by the knowledge that she would be caught and punished.

She took a closer look at the building as she walked across the weed-strewn path. The windows seemed strange: reflective and yet completely opaque. It took her a moment to realise that they were all covered from the inside by aluminium foil.

A cloying, chokingly fetid smell filled her nostrils as she stepped inside, and she was struck by a fierce, humid warmth at odds with the absence of carpets or indeed furniture.

Nobody lived here. Nobody had lived here for a long time.

She could see light spilling from slightly open doorways either side of the hall, dazzling to eyes that had grown accustomed to the dimness of the van and the glowering conditions outside. It was too bright to look directly into the rooms at first, but down at floor level she could see wide plastic tubing running through the gaps between the doors and the frames, leading along the downstairs hallway and disappearing through a hole cut in a wall at the rear. It was a makeshift ventilation system. Her eyes caught a glimpse of foliage as she was directed up the stairs. It was a cannabis farm.

In the top hall she passed two more rooms turned into nurseries, before being led into a starker chamber. It was a single bedroom, though it didn’t contain anything to lie down on. The floorboards were bare, and the only wall covering to speak of was a rampant outbreak of mould resultant of a humidity not normally found at this latitude. In the centre of the room was a wooden table with two foldaway chairs on either side.

The room had a single window, possibly the only one in the house not lined with foil. It gave a view to the rear, showing the rain begin to fall on the stark hillside behind the cottage.

She took a couple of paces forward, not knowing where to put herself. It looked like a cell, but for some reason she was relieved that it didn’t have a bed.

Pudgy closed the door and stood just in front of it.

‘Take your clothes off,’ he said.

Jasmine froze, revulsion over-riding the defensive impulses that had previously compelled her to obey. Instinctively she gathered her arms about herself. Pudgy took a surprisingly speedy step forward and punched her again.

She fell to the ground amid another explosion of light and pain, all of her previous hurts revisited and amplified by this further blow.

‘Take your fuckin’ clothes off and put them in a pile,’ he shouted.

He backed away again as she struggled woozily to her feet.

Her hands were shaking so much that she could barely grip the buttons on her overcoat. Slowly, she managed to remove it, fold it over and place it on the table.

‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘Get on with it.’

She became conscious of the little assurances she was giving herself:
he’s
not taking my clothes off; he’s keeping his distance; there isn’t a bed in here. Any time she caught herself doing this, she recalled what Fallan had taught her.

We don’t listen to fear properly. We feel it, but we try to explain it away. When we rationalise it, we’re looking for reassurance. We’re looking for reasons why it’s going to be okay.

This was not going to be okay.

She had to listen to her fear, but equally she could not let her senses be overwhelmed by it. She could not give in to panic and desperation. She had to stay in control.

She undressed as commanded, placing all of her clothes in a pile on the table. Pudgy watched her, arms folded. She tried not to catch his eye, aware he was watching her the whole time. He was detached from what she was doing, but only in the physical sense. He was an intent voyeur, empowered by feeling no need to disguise his gaze. She was the one afraid to be caught looking.

He remained against the wall until she was finished. She flinched and backed away when she sensed him move, but he only came as far as the table to pick up the clothes. Then he retreated from the room and locked the door.

She was left standing next to the table, naked, scared and confused. Instinctively she went to the small window, driven by thoughts of flight. It looked paint-stuck, but she could use a chair to break it. What then, though?

This was why he’d asked her to undress; or at least she hoped so. No need for ropes and restraints when your prisoner is one storey up in the middle of nowhere and hasn’t a stitch to cover herself against the November rain.

A moment of despair was dispelled by further panic as she heard footsteps announce his return. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, placing down a mug full of water and a chipped bowl.

‘Water in, water oot,’ he muttered, smirking to himself, then withdrew once again.

Outside the rain grew heavier.

Jasmine sat down on one of the folding chairs, hugging her arms to herself though the room was stifling.

She was too scared even to cry.

‘So if we’re secretly investigating the DCC,’ Anthony said, climbing the stairs to Colin Morrison’s flat, ‘is it ripping the piss to be pulling overtime on it?’

‘This could be our last ever pay packet from the force,’ Adrienne replied. ‘Might as well try for a heavy one.’

They were joking about it but they each knew how deep they were in. Neither of them had slept well, and both of them had lied about why, as if a refusal to name their fears would somehow ward them off. Adrienne said it was because one of the kids had woken her in the night complaining of bad dreams. Anthony suspected that it wasn’t her daughter who had been visited in the darkness by demons from her own subconscious.

Anthony claimed his bleary appearance was down to playing
Team Fortress 2
online until the small hours. Truth was he had tried, but he couldn’t concentrate. He had logged on to a server and joined the blue team, but he wasn’t sure whether he truly was on the blue team any more.

They were both nearing the end of their shift by the time they had finished up at the Fiscal’s offices and tracked down an address for Colin Morrison, but there was little question of them clocking off. It was easy enough for him, but potentially more of an issue for Adrienne.

‘Have you got to get back for the kids?’ he asked.

‘It’s okay,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a nanny, and I always check with her before a shift starts, to make sure she can stay on if work gets complicated. This definitely qualifies.’

‘So she scores overtime too. Everybody wins.’

‘Or it’s one more person on the bru if this goes tits up.’