The Skeleton Road (26 page)

F
our days of hustling and checking out grainy CCTV footage had left Alan Macanespie with a vicious pain behind his right eye and a mouth coated in the residue of endless cups of sour coffee. What kept him going was his newly awakened determination to show Wilson Cagney he wasn’t a washed-up failure. He wasn’t quite sure how his new boss had got under his skin. But he had.

His enthusiasm for the task hadn’t rubbed off on Proctor, who seemed to be in the process of transferring his resentment against Cagney to his partner. Macanespie pinged a new set of stills across to the Welshman, who immediately grumbled.

‘I’m going to need new glasses by the end of this job,’ Proctor complained. ‘What’s this lot?’

‘Number four. Tenerife. That’s the last, I think. Unless there’s more to come from your last round of hustling?’

‘I’ve shot my bolt. There are several countries where I can no longer go on holiday for fear of being arrested at passport control.’ It was a weak joke but at least it was an attempt at the humour that had formerly characterised many of their exchanges. Proctor stared at the screen. ‘That’s definitely a woman. You can see where the wind catches her top.’ He pointed to slim shoulders and the definite outline of breasts and hip.

‘I agree. I was pretty sure after Madeira, but I don’t think there’s any room for doubt.’

‘Have you fed these through to the digital reconstruction woman?’

Macanespie nodded. ‘I told her this was the last bit of data she was likely to have from us, so she can get cracking on an e-fit. Hopefully the twenty-three pics we’ve sent won’t throw up too many contradictions.’

‘Yes, because if those images are the spotter rather than the killer, they might not all be the same person.’

‘See, when you die and go to heaven, you’ll be spending all your time telling St Peter how they could improve the place. You’re like a one-man weather system. Black clouds overhead.’ Macanespie shook his head in disgust. ‘I think it’ll be interesting to see what she comes up with. I’ve never seen one of these predictive e-fits before. Wouldn’t it be amazing if the printer spat out something and we all went, “Oh, it’s her”?’

Proctor snorted. ‘More likely we’ll go, “Looks like Picasso drew that one”. Or, “Who knew Hillary Clinton was a serial killer?”’

Macanespie was saved from having to reply by the arrival of an email. ‘Well, well, well, there’s a turn-up for the books.’

‘What?’

‘An email from the lovely DCI Pirie. I wonder what she’s got to say for herself?’

‘If you open it, you’ll save yourself from an early death from suspense.’

‘Christ, you’re a walking exemplar of Welsh humour,’ Macanespie muttered, opening the email. As he read Karen’s message, his expression grew increasingly incredulous. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said. ‘How the fuck did we not know this?’

‘What?’

‘Listen to this: “Dear Mr Macanespie, I’m just back from a trip to Croatia where I uncovered some information that I suspect you may not be privy to. In early 1992, a Serb detachment raided Dimitar Petrovic’s home village, Podruvec. In an alleged reprisal attack for the effectiveness of General Petrovic’s work, they massacred the children of the village, including General Petrovic’s two sons. His wife subsequently hanged herself. You can confirm this with the village priest, Uros Begovic. Some time later, Petrovic identified the leader of the Serbs. He assembled a small but loyal group of soldiers and they carried out a revenge attack that wiped out the commander and forty-six members of his family.” Forty-six? Christ, he didn’t do things by halves, did he? “Rumours of this massacre were circulating about eight years ago. It seems possible therefore that Petrovic not only falls into the definition of ‘war criminal’ and may indeed have been a victim of vigilante justice and in spite of the disparity in murder methods, might be an early victim of the killer you’re looking for. In which respect, had it occurred you that the reason for the change in MO might be something as simple as the killer not having ready access to ammunition for his gun? I look forward to sharing the fruits of your investigation and suggest we meet again to discuss collaboration moving forward. Yours respectfully, blah blah.” For fuck’s sake. “Respectfully”? She’s something else, that one.’

Proctor had the look of a man bemused. ‘Petrovic led a massacre?’

‘That’s what she’s saying. How in the name of God does one wee fat lassie nip across to Croatia for five minutes and dig up something the whole war crimes tribunal missed for years? Do you have any idea how Cagney is going to flay our arses for this?’ Macanespie sunk his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped.

‘This is not our responsibility,’ Proctor insisted like a reflex. ‘We can only investigate what’s brought to our attention. You and me, we were never responsible for teasing out reports on the ground.’

Macanespie looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘It’s a bloody big one to miss, considering we’re supposed to have had Petrovic in our sights.’

‘Yeah, but that wasn’t exactly an active, current search, was it? I mean, yes, people were looking eight years ago when he dropped off the radar, but let’s be honest, nobody’d given him a thought for years until Pirie ran her CRO check.’

Macanespie sighed. ‘So, is this a game changer, or what? Do we add him to the list of victims and set up a meeting?’

‘I think we just get on with our own inquiries and ignore Pirie.’

Macanespie was too tired to argue. But he had a sneaky feeling Karen Pirie wasn’t going to be that easy to ignore.

B
y the time Karen had arrived home from Croatia, she’d been exhausted. The combination of the travelling and the stress of what she’d uncovered had left her drained. Phil had taken one look at her and prescribed a bath, a large gin-and-tonic and bed. ‘You never admit to yourself how much these investigations take out of you,’ he scolded her as he poured relaxing bath oil into the cascade of steaming water.

‘By comparison with the families and the friends of the victims, I’ve got nothing to complain about,’ she said, dumping her travel-weary clothes in the laundry basket.

‘OK, you’ve only got one bag of shit compared to their half a dozen. It’s still shit, though. You need to be kinder to yourself. You’re not indestructible.’ He rumpled her hair as she climbed into the bath.

‘Oh no? Want to bet?’ Karen groaned in pleasure, feeling the heat soothe her weary muscles. ‘Tell me about your day, take my mind off murdered children and vendettas.’

Phil sighed. ‘To be honest, I don’t think anything in my day would cheer you up. Tell you what, I’ll bring in my iPad and we can watch
Celebrity Masterchef
from last night. That’s a different sort of crime, but I guarantee you’ll have a laugh.’

She almost felt guilty for letting go the burden of what she’d uncovered in the Balkans. But she told herself the trade-off would be that next morning, she’d be ready to roll with some fresh ideas.

As she walked in with her giant cup of coffee the following morning, Karen knew she’d been half right. She was ready to roll. But she had nothing new to roll with. She turned on her computer and summoned up the smiling head-shot of Mitja Petrovic that Tessa Minogue had sent her. She knew she was probably projecting what she knew on to the image, but she did think she detected a certain steeliness in his eyes. He was attractive, no denying that. But he wasn’t some tailor’s dummy. There was a spark in his expression, a devil-may-care quality to his grin. And behind it, that uncompromising look. She wouldn’t have enjoyed taking him on in a fight.

Karen sipped her coffee and stared at the screen, her mind ticking off all the things they’d done and what might possibly still be left that could lead them in the direction of Petrovic’s killer. She was sure Maggie Blake had reacted to one of the names on that list of sixteen. However, there was no way of knowing which. Karen wished she’d thought of reading them aloud one by one. But it had never occurred to her that Maggie would have any reason not to blurt out any name she recognised.

So what might that reason be? To whom could Maggie owe silence that would trump her dead husband? Did she have a new lover who had decided to take Petrovic out of the game so he could have a clear run at Maggie? Was this nothing to do with the Balkan wars and everything to do with old-fashioned jealousy?

Karen leaned back in her chair, linking her hands behind her head. Was it likely? There had been no trace of a partner in Maggie’s life. She hadn’t mentioned anyone. Karen reckoned that if there had been someone new, it would have moderated the terms in which Maggie spoke about Petrovic. She wouldn’t have been nearly so keen to perpetuate the idea that he was still alive in Croatia; she’d have wanted him written off so she could enjoy her new life.

And nobody else had mentioned a new lover. Neither Dorothea Simpson nor Tessa Minogue had so much as hinted in passing that there was anybody else in Maggie’s life. But that didn’t necessarily mean Karen was chasing the wrong motive. Petrovic might have been taken out of the running by someone who then failed to talk his way into Maggie’s bed. But if that was the case, why had Maggie not admitted it? Could it be she felt guilty about her rejection? So guilty she’d protect the man from the consequences of murder?

‘Only if she thought she’d led him on,’ she said out loud, punching the air. Of course, that was the moment when Jason walked into the office. Mildly embarrassed, Karen mumbled a greeting. ‘I was just thinking of an alternative scenario,’ she said, clocking his wary look.

‘An alternative to what?’

‘What if Petrovic’s activities in the Balkans had nothing to do with his death? What if it was all much more mundane than that?’

Jason frowned. ‘How?’

She was moving too fast for the Mint, Karen thought. ‘Imagine some other guy was in love with Maggie Blake. Really besotted with her. Somebody who thought that if that annoying war hero General Petrovic was out of the way, Maggie would be his for the asking.’ She paused.

Jason nodded. ‘I get it. And he wouldn’t know that the general was actually her husband so if she moaned about him like people do when they’re married, he might have thought she was kind of suggesting she’d be up for somebody who treated her better, right?’

Karen managed to follow the mangled prose to a reasonable conclusion. ‘Exactly. So the mystery man goes off buildering with the general and takes the chance to murder him.’

‘How has he got a gun?’ Jason interrupted.

‘I don’t know. How does anybody get a gun in this country? Considering they’re supposed to be banned, they’re bloody everywhere. Let’s just say for the sake of argument that he got a gun and shot the general. So he comes back to Oxford and when it looks like Petrovic has done a runner, he moves in on Maggie. Who says no, she really wasn’t coming on to him. Because she wasn’t. She was just being polite, or not wanting to hurt his feelings or whatever. And she had the general to hide behind.’

‘So he’s done a murder for nothing. That’d piss on your chips.’ Jason took a Coke out of his desk drawer and popped the top.

‘That’s the understatement of the morning. But time goes by and there’s no comeback. And then one day, Fraser Jardine finds a body on the roof of the John Drummond and it all kicks off. And Maggie sees the man’s name on a list of potential suspects and she’s hit between the eyes with a terrible moment of guilt. It’s all her fault.’

‘Aye, like Adam and Eve and that. The woman made him do it.’

Who’d have thought that the Mint knew the Bible? Or that he could draw meaningful comparisons from it? ‘You are full of surprises today, Jason. But you’re right. In that moment, she realises that the general’s death is squarely at her door. So she hasn’t got the right to dob in the actual killer.’ Karen gave a wry smile. ‘It all makes a horrible kind of sense, doesn’t it? So we’d better start working our way through every name on that list until we find the mystery man.’

‘I printed the full list out while you were away. Names and addresses and that. Some of them have got car registrations as well, so we can double check that.’ He raked around in his desk drawer and produced two sheets of paper.

As Karen held out a hand to take it, her phone rang. The caller ID was blocked, but that wasn’t uncommon with calls from police phones so she took it. DCI Pirie,’ she said chirpily.

‘Karen? It’s Jimmy Hutton. DCI Hutton.’ She should have recognised the voice of Phil’s DCI. They’d been out in a foursome with Hutton and his wife a few times. But he sounded stressed, his pitch higher than usual. Her heart rate rose, the sense of panic in her gut familiar to anyone who loves a cop. But she tried to stay calm.

‘Aye, Jimmy. How can I help you?’ As if it was just a routine call between two officers of equal rank.

‘Karen, I’ve got some bad news.’

There was only one kind of bad news. ‘Jimmy? Tell me he’s alive.’ She was aware of the Mint getting to his feet and moving uncertainly towards her. Her mouth was suddenly dry, a sharp metallic taste on her tongue.

‘He’s been run over. He’s on his way to hospital.’

‘The Vic?’ Karen was on her feet now too, grabbing coat and shoulder bag. ‘I’m on my way, Jimmy. Hang on, would you?’ She held her phone to her chest and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Jason, I need you to drive me. Phil’s been in an accident. The Vic. Blues and twos.’

They ran out of the building, Karen with her phone to her ear, still talking to Hutton. ‘How bad is it?’

‘I’m not a doctor, Karen. He was conscious when they loaded him into the ambulance, that’s got to be a good thing.’

‘The Vic, yeah?’

‘The Vic. I’m heading there now.’

Into her car, flashing blue Noddy light clamped to the roof. Jason pulling out into the traffic like a madman, careering through the clogged streets, dodging in and out of bus lanes. Running red lights, jinking between cars and buses.

‘What happened?’

Hutton breaking up, then back again loud and clear. ‘So we were waiting for him when he gets back from the airport.’

‘This is the money-laundering bastard, right?’

‘Right. And he reverses into his drive. Big ugly fuck-off white BMW SUV, just what you need in Cramond. And we front up and he panics. Phil’s standing in front of the Beemer. Stab vest and everything, “police” on the front in big letters. Arms out, couldn’t be clearer. Fucking stay put, dickhead.’ Hutton abruptly running out of steam.

‘Only he doesn’t, right?’

‘Right. He stood on the gas and hit Phil full on. Didn’t fucking stop.’ Hutton’s voice cracking, like he’s on the edge of tears. Karen’s ears ringing, like someone slapped her on both sides of her head at once.

Hammering down Queensferry Road towards the dual carriageway and the road bridge over the Forth. Heart hammering too, like the Runrig song. Why is she thinking about Runrig now, for fuck’s sake? ‘He’s going to be OK, though. He’s tough as old boots, my Phil.’

‘Just get here, Karen. Just get here. He needs you.’

The line went dead. She didn’t think it was a black hole. She thought it was just that Jimmy Hutton couldn’t speak any longer. She couldn’t work out why she wasn’t crying. Why she wasn’t feeling anything except a terrible urge to get to Phil’s side.

‘You all right, boss?’ Jason said without taking his eyes off the road. Just as well since he was doing over a ton, horn blaring and light clearing people from their path.

‘Bastard ran him over. Went right over the top of him.’

‘What? In the street, like?’

‘No, it was a take-down. Guy rapes his wife then gives her to his pals. That’s his speciality. But they’re doing him for money-laundering. And he just drove straight into Phil.’

‘Fuck.’ Jason pressed his lips tight together. She realised he was close to tears.

‘He’ll be OK. He’ll be fine, Jason.’ She kept telling herself that all the way across the bridge and down the motorway and along the dual carriageway and into the emergency bay at the Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy. Karen leapt out of the car almost before it had stopped. ‘I’ll see you inside,’ she said, running as fast as she could into the A&E department.

When police officers are brought injured to hospital, everything changes direction to focus on their needs. The emergency services cleave to each other in times of crisis and nothing stands between an injured officer and the care he or she needs. So as soon as Karen identified herself she was hustled through to a tiny waiting room where she found Jimmy Hutton and a couple of guys she vaguely recognised. They were all huddled on chairs, hunched up as if making themselves appear smaller would somehow help Phil.

Jimmy struggled to his feet like an old man and drew her into an embrace she didn’t want. All she could hear was a mumble of apologies and other well-meant pointlessness. ‘What are they saying?’ she demanded as soon as she could disentangle herself.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘It’s not good. He’s unconscious. They think he’s got internal injuries as well as broken bones. Both legs, his pelvis, ribs.’

Her heart seemed to tighten. She couldn’t draw in enough air to keep dizziness at bay. ‘Where is he?’

‘They’re prepping him for surgery. The good news, Karen, there is some good news… The good news is, no head injuries.’

‘I need to see him.’

‘I’ll get a nurse,’ one of the other guys said.

As he left, Jason came in, looking as young and frightened as she’d ever seen him. ‘Any news?’ he asked.

‘They’ve got to open him up and find where he’s injured,’ Karen said. A thought struck her like an electrical charge of rage burning along her veins. ‘You have arrested him, Jimmy? The bastard who did this? You do have him in custody?’

Hutton ran a hand over his bald head. ‘We were stunned, Karen. He was gone before we could do anything to stop him. There’s a nationwide alert out for him and his vehicle. He’ll not get anywhere, not with the ANPR cameras. They can search the data in real time. They’ll get him.’

She didn’t know what to do with herself. Literally. Sit down, stand up, walk around, bang her head against the wall. They were all equally possible, equally ridiculous. If Phil was here, he’d tell her to get a grip.

Her immediate problem was solved by the arrival of a middle-aged Asian woman in blue scrubs. ‘I’m Aryana Patel,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be operating on Mr Parhatka.’

‘I’m his partner,’ Karen said. ‘His bidie-in.’ To clarify what kind of partner.

Ms Patel nodded. ‘I have to tell you he’s quite poorly but we’re reasonably confident that with the right intervention, he’s going to make it.’

‘“Reasonably confident” – what does that mean?’ It was Jason, his fear transposed into aggression.

‘It means they’re not making promises they can’t be sure of keeping,’ Karen said, laying a hand on his arm. She faced Ms Patel. ‘Can I see him before he goes into surgery?’

‘He’s unconscious. He won’t know you’re there. And…’ She made a face. ‘He’s not been cleaned up yet.’

‘I’m a cop. I’ve seen the human body fucked up in even more ways than you have, Doc. He might not know that I’m there right now, but I need to be able to say to him at some point down the line, “I was there. I held your hand. I kissed you.”’

The doctor nodded. ‘I understand. Come with me.’

Nothing Karen had witnessed before had prepared her for the wave of shock and pain that hit when she saw Phil. His clothes had been cut free from his body but they still lay under and around him like the shed skin of a lizard. His legs were all unnatural angles. Bone pierced the skin in at least three places. His face was paler than she’d ever seen it; he looked, bizarrely, as if he’d shed pounds since she’d left him that morning tucking into a bowl of grapefruit and pineapple. She wanted to throw herself on him, to protect his broken flesh from more damage. But the stolid, sensible Karen was still in charge. She stepped to his side and took his limp hand in hers. She raised it to her mouth and kissed his fingers, noticing his knuckles were scraped and raw. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You know you’re my hero, Phil. You give my life a meaning I never expected it to have. So you better get a grip and get back to me. You hear me? I love you.’