Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (4 page)

Sergeant Ellen McRae was having a hard time keeping track of everything. Technically she was meant to be handing over to the day shift in half an hour but problems with staff getting to the office and the sheer volume of work still to be done meant she would be here for a long time yet. On balance it seemed as if the coach was their biggest short term problem. The call had come in that a woman had been found in the coach. The Scottish Ambulance Service emergency helicopter was making its way there now. The conditions were not ideal and visibility was poor.  The pilot would have to take a judgement call on whether icing was going to be a problem for the blades. At the moment it was looking good to land at the farm which would let them pick up the woman. Sergeant McRae had spoken to the farmer George Rome and asked him to try and clear a good space for the helicopter to land. He had said the snow was deep but not so bad within the farm itself, which was fashioned around a courtyard. She hoped the woman could be reached.

***

Sandy Stirrit had a blinding hangover. He wasn’t sure what had happened to JJ last night but the last thing he remembered was lap dancing.
‘Why did we go there? It’s a shithole, we spend a fortune and I always end up feeling like this.’
Sandy was father to a baby girl. When he got home he remembered this and put his clothes straight into the wash basket to mask the scent of five different women which lingered on the fabric. His wife Karen would not understand why he went there and to be fair neither did he, not entirely. Sandy had an early start. He was still drinking at 1:00am. Fast forward five hours and he knew he shouldn’t be slotting the car keys into his Vauxhall Astra and heading off to another early shift. In a vain attempt to rid his body of alcohol he drank three pints of water before going to bed and a triple espresso from the pot as soon as he got up. He knew he shouldn’t drive but taxi expense accounts were practically non-existent these days and he had to rely on his own transport to get from A to B. When he got to the office no-one raised an eyebrow. Everyone working at this time of day said they hated the shift but they never considered trying anything else. Sandy had been doing a round of check calls to the police duty officers when he had picked up a tip from Motherwell. He had met Frank Simmons once before at a press event. He had been a young cop trying to impress an experienced hack but had seemed decent enough and Sandy had liked his company. It was also never a bad thing to get more cops on side when good leads could follow.

“Alright Frank,” Sandy said, “I imagine you have been caught up in the snow hell overnight?”

“Oh aye, It’s been murder. More than 200 cars abandoned and we’re also missing a bus somewhere.”

“A missing bus,” Sandy interrupted sensing he could be onto something.

“Yes we have a coach unaccounted for near to the M8.”

“I thought the motorway was closed?”

“It is but the driver will have taken the route near to the motorway along the old A8.”

“Is anyone missing?”

“Well the driver obviously but no word on anyone else at the moment.”

“Interesting....do you have anyone out there just now?”

“Yes, but its hard work. As I said we have hundreds of incidents out here but it’s one of our priorities. If you try phoning back in about an hour I might have more details before the shift change.”

“I will do Frank,” Sandy said, “Thanks for the heads up.”

***

It would be fair to say that George Rome was not enjoying himself. He had been out grafting in the snow for six hours already and was now having to create a makeshift helipad. Gerry helped as Jean looked after the patient. There was enough room in the yard for the air ambulance to land but clearing a good amount of space was going to be difficult in the time they had. The ambulance said that they should be there within half an hour. He improvised. George and Gerry turned over a flatbed trailer they had sitting in the yard and pushed it over using the larger of their two tractors. They then pushed the trailer along on its side, acting as a massive shovel. Judging by the scraping of metal on concrete the process didn’t sound particularly healthy and George knew he would regret the decision tomorrow when he assessed the damage. However, it was a small price to pay if they could help to save a life. Father and son managed to clear the space of around a squash court. They stood outside with their torches pointed towards the maelstrom and waited for their relief.

***

Detective Chief Inspector, Rosalind Ying, had taken control of the morning meeting at N Division. She had sent uniformed constables out to the farm who had searched the bus and reported back. What they had found changed everything and a forensic team was now on its way out. 

“Good morning all,” she said scanning the room. There should have been more people here and they would need much more than this as the day went on. Half had been here for ten hours already while those who had made it through the snow so far accounted for roughly two thirds of the normal total.

“First up I’d like to say it’s been a great effort from the overnight team. It’s been a long, hard shift but we think we’ve managed to keep everyone safe and there were no major accidents to speak of. However...” DCI Ying left the word hanging. “...however we have a developing situation near to the Kirk o’ Shotts which looks likely to have major implications for us.”

Colleagues glanced at each other, unsure of what might be heading their way.

“As you may know a coach was found abandoned. At first it didn’t look like there was anyone on it – a farmer and his son managed to get to the coach and found a woman handcuffed in the toilet. Why she was there we don’t know, but what we do know is that she was left there in her underwear and now looks to be suffering from hypothermia. The woman, Mary Clark, is being treated in Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary and at this time it’s unclear how long it will be before we can speak to her. In the meantime we’ve sent two uniforms out with the Air Ambulance to conduct a preliminary investigation. We identified the woman from a passport in her handbag. We also found two tickets for the journey – one for the woman, and one for a child. The child has not been found and neither has the driver.”

“That’s all we need,” snarled an anonymous voice from the back of the room, “a fucking pervert. With any luck he’ll be dead already and buried in the snow. He won’t have got far.”

“That’s enough,” DCI Ying said, “Let’s not prejudge this before we even get started. We’ll be setting up in the major crime incident room here at Motherwell, active immediately.”

The addition of extra space at the headquarters had been controversial to say the least. The decision had been made to ensure there was always a spare room capable of handling a major case but operational staff had complained that space was already at a premium. They had lost the argument and on days like these no-one really complained.

“I appreciate that a lot of you have been here overnight but additional help will be needed.”

Everyone in the room nodded. In practice no-one claimed for overtime. It was cases like these that made the job worthwhile. What’s more a similar case two years ago had failed and they had ended up dragging the body of a 12 year old boy from the bottom of a quarry. He had been beaten to a pulp and dumped in a weighted sack and forgotten. The press had had a field day with it. One of the tabloids had dubbed it the ‘Cat Sack murder’. The label had no doubt sold a lot of papers but the family had been furious. DCI Ying wondered if this time would be different.

***

Sandy had been caught up in a round of calls to the emergency services all morning as he tried to establish the scale of disruption the storm had caused. Bored now, he had retreated from the newsroom and was sitting outside having a cigarette and coffee, freezing in the morning chill when he remembered the bus. His brain was running slowly this morning and he reminded himself he was getting too old to be out on the town on a Sunday night. Five minutes later he rang Motherwell again and was surprised when Frank answered.

“You still there Frank, thought you’d have been off for a wee kip by now?”

“It’s been a bit hectic.”

“Anything to do with the bus?”

“After a fashion.”

“Oh come on don’t dry up on me now.”

“I can’t say Sandy.”

“Did they find someone?”

“........”

“Frank”

“All I can say is that they have found someone on board.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Age?”

“Thirties.”

“Injured?”

“No comment Sandy. Look there will be an official statement going out on this in the next hour. I’ll get bollocked if I say anything more to you just now but keep in touch.”

Frank hung up and left Sandy holding the phone about twelve inches from his face, looking down the receiver as if some hidden gem was going to jump out and give him more information. He was intrigued and wondered what the police were hiding.

***

Rosalind Ying had that sinking feeling. The results from the Police National Computer had not been good. The driver, Stevie Davidson, was listed on the Sex Offenders Register. More than that he had tried to abduct a girl ten years ago when he was only fifteen but had been caught by a passerby and arrested. He had done two years but was released early on good behaviour. It seemed the authorities felt he was no longer a risk.

“Fuck,” Rosalind knew this was going to be a massive case and that she had to make the right decisions now if they had any chance of finding the pair alive. The first thing to do was to appoint a team but she knew N Division did not have the resources to police this adequately. She picked up the phone and contacted Chief Constable, Norrie Smith. It was agreed that he would assume overall control of the investigation while she acted as Senior Investigating Officer. Norrie Smith told her he would select the team with the best experience in this field, bringing together IT, intelligence, family liaison and someone from the Major Crimes and Terrorism Unit (MCTU). They agreed to liaise with the media team who would call a press conference within the next two hours to issue an appeal for information. They both agreed that there had to have been more people on that bus who could help. When the conversation ended Rosalind sat back and took one long deep breath, slide her hands back through her hair.
‘I have to get this right.’

***

Arbogast felt like death. Why was it that every major moment of his life always coincided with a hangover? A friend from England had once suggested the Scots had a self destruct mechanism which seemed to have a habit of kicking in at just the wrong time. He had protested against that at the time arguing it was nothing more than a petty prejudice but perhaps it wasn’t too far off the mark. Arbogast thought the weather played a major part in the national psyche – the further North you went the worse the boozing became. He was surprised once, when visiting Thurso, to have found a sign on the main street pointing the way to the Samaritans. The suicide rate there was high but he wasn’t that bad yet was he?

Normally he would have driven to work but now that he was based out of Pitt Street he no longer had the luxury of a parking space. If he needed transport he’d use one of the pool cars. Leaving early he felt fresh in the winter wind. It was not snowing in Glasgow anymore and he knew it wouldn’t be long before heavy footfall and concerted effort would transform the city streets back to their everyday condition. His first appointment of the day was with the Chief Constable and the DCI. He imagined the first week would be induction heavy and work-light which suited him perfectly.  He was only half way there when his phone rang.

“Arbogast?” It was a tinny voice at the end of the line, number withheld.

“Speaking,”

“Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, here. I need you in the office. Presentable – and within the hour.”

“I’m just on my way in. I thought our meeting was at 10?”

“There’s been a change of plan Arbogast. I’ve seen your record and I need your expertise for a developing case. We seem to have a child abduction case out in Lanarkshire. I see from your files you dealt with the so-called Cat Sack case two years ago.”

Arbogast winced. It had been a difficult case to work and not one he liked to remember. They had tracked down the suspect but the boy had died. He should have done more.

“We all remember the case and there’s nothing more you could have done. You have recent, relevant experience which we can use. I’ll fill you in on the details when you get here. DCI Ying from Motherwell will be taking the lead. The team are meeting at Pitt Street. I want you to sit in on the press conference. The timing’s not great but we can’t pick the cases – you’re on the team.”

“Well I’m not sure how I’ll look. I...eh...fell in the snow last night and I’m not looking too pretty.”

“Too bad Arbogast”

After a heavy intake of breath Arbogast managed a “right” in reply

“Oh and Arbogast,”

“Yes sir?”

“Welcome to Major Crime.”

5

Arbogast looked out over the assembled press pack and wished he was in a better frame of mind. The conference room was an oddly proportioned space framed by a stage at the front with stairs leading up from either side. It had been digested into the bowels of the Pitt Street headquarters and was best known to the public as the backdrop to many a night of misery on television news bulletins. It reminded Arbogast of church mainly due to the countless sermons he’d heard here, that and its size. The room stretched back about 40 feet but was easily the same in height.  Halfway up pale cedar panelling gave way to expansive windows which in turn flooded the room with light. He entered the room from a narrow corridor to the right of the podium. For these occasions the stage was always redundant, replaced by a more intimate Strathclyde Police stall which was made up of two long tables sat side by side in front of a triptych of branded boarding, which made it feel like a post match football interview. For the first time today it was Arbogast who was sitting up front as part of the top team. Three of them sat at tables laden with radio and TV mics along with the dictaphones of the press corps. Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, sat centre stage with Rosalind Ying at his right hand. Arbogast sat uncomfortably on the left trying to make himself invisible. This was a big story. The press release had gone out first thing.