Shadow Man, page 5
Down the corridor to the incident room, scanning for June as he passes. As usual, the buzz of chatter fades when he enters. But this time, he’s come prepared.
‘Any chance of a hand with these?’ He holds out the cake boxes he picked up from the baker’s opposite his mother’s flat. ‘I think the cream’s starting to—’
‘Down here’ll be fine, sir.’ Pete moves a pile of folders onto a chair and pats a space on his newly cleared desk. ‘Those are Harry Gow’s, aren’t they?’
‘I think I’ve been a DI here long enough to know what’s expected of me, Pete. There are scones too, if anyone wants them.’ Mahler steps back and lets the feeding frenzy unfold while he leafs through the post-mortem results on Kevin Ramsay.
‘Massive internal injuries, in all probability as a result of a road traffic accident,’ Karen quotes. ‘Half a bloody novel to tell us what we already knew. Impressive, eh?’
‘Paint flecks recovered from impact wounds sent for analysis,’ Mahler points out. ‘Which might – I say might – just give us a lead on the vehicle used. Karen, I want you to keep on top of this. And in the meantime, be on the alert for reports of any abandoned or torched vehicles coming through. What have we got on Kevin so far?’
‘Not much,’ Donna tells him through a mouthful of dream ring. ‘All his pals are doing the three wise monkeys thing – heard nothing, saw nothing, said nothing. Though word is, he’d been flashing a bit of cash around the last couple of weeks.’
‘Dealing?’
Pete shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t have said it was his style, but I’ll ask around.’
Mahler nods. ‘And the girlfriend?’
‘Swears he was being a good boy, and told the FLO to do one when she offered support. But we’re going back to have another go at her today.’
‘Do that. And step up the house-to-house—’
June appears in the doorway. ‘So there you are! Christ, Lukas, I was about to send out a bloody search party!’
He starts to apologise, but she waves an impatient hand at him. ‘Never mind, you’re here now – just in time to get ready for the press briefing about Bunchrew.’
‘So it’s really Morven Murray?’ Pete gives a long, low whistle. ‘Man, my ma’s going to be in mourning for a week. What’s the town coming to?’
Donna rolls her eyes. ‘Here we go. All these Romanians and Bulgarians. Coming over here, committing our murders . . .’
‘I never said that!’ Pete protests. ‘But . . . Morven Murray, man. Killed in her bloody hometown, for God’s sake.’
June gives a weary nod. ‘Just waiting for the formal ID, but yes, it’s her all right. Why do you think that lot are camped outside our sodding door? Her bloody agent’s been on the phone already, and Press Liaison are getting all showy-offy at the thought of playing with the big boys for once. So as of now, Pete and Donna, you’re drafted onto the enquiry team. Lukas, you’re leading on both cases until Andy Black can take over Kevin Ramsay, and Karen, you’ll have to double up as needed.’ A quick scan of the room. ‘No questions, I take it? Fine, then. Lukas, you and Fergie—’ she breaks off to peer at the cake boxes lying on the desk. ‘Harry Gow’s, eh? Nice one. Here, have you bunch of gannets eaten all the dream rings?’
While she’s distracted, Mahler gives it one last try. ‘Ma’am, about the press briefing. I really think a senior officer—’
‘What, and waste that fancy suit you’ve got on? Not a chance.’ June gives him her Hannibal Lecter smile. ‘Come on, son. Mustn’t keep your public waiting.’
With Karen glowering from her desk, Mahler leaves to meet his fate.
10
THURSDAY, 29 MAY
Something wet. Wet and ice-cold and stinking, hitting his cheek and, fuck, running into his mouth. Donnie opens one eye and rolls onto his side as a gust of wind funnels freezing rainwater through the manky bin bag some eejit had thought would make a fine window for his manky fucking shed.
He sits up slowly, trying to ignore the lurch of protest from his stomach, and looks round. Some mannie’s gardening bits and pieces piled in one corner, rusty tools and those black flower-pot tray things, all topped with a thick, cobwebby coating. Like Dracula’s fucking castle, he thinks. And his fags? After a minute’s slowly mounting panic, he spies them on the bench by the door. No sign of a lighter, though. What good are fags without a bloody lighter?
He hauls himself upright and leans on an upturned wheelbarrow to catch his breath. Better. How long has he been here? He can’t remember what bloody day it is. His own phone is nearly out of juice, and the other one . . . there’s no way he’s touching that, not yet. He scrubs his hand on his trousers at the thought, and his fingers locate a lighter-shaped bulge in his pocket.
A quick smoke, then. Maybe a wee dram to settle his stomach and stop his hands from shaking. And then he needs to decide what he’s going to do. He can’t go back to work, he knows that, but he can’t stay here forever, can he? He needs to eat, for fuck’s sake. And . . . and he needs to talk to someone, someone who’ll help him think things through.
He takes a step towards the door, his eyes half-closed against the scabby grey light that’s bleeding through the cracks. And the world explodes into noise – a thunderous rumbling that’s everywhere at once, making the shed walls shudder. His head is banging, worse than it’s ever been, as though his brain’s being fried inside his skull. He drops to a crouch, whimpering, and waits for the din to stop. When it fades to a background rumble, he nudges the door open, in time to see the tail end of a yellow council lorry disappearing down the track.
Donnie slumps against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to batter its way out, and closes his eyes. The scaffies, for Christ’s sake. He’d let a fucking scaffy-wagon put the wind up him. Thank fuck there’s no one here to take the piss.
He’d worked on the bins, once, before it got all health and safety. Good lads, good craic. Good times. And now . . . now he’s stuck at the arse end of nowhere, scared to go home. Scared to go to work. And oh God, scared of what had come out of the darkness at him, two nights ago.
A shadow, that’s what it had looked like. A shadow grinning down at him, the knife in its hand glinting in the moonlight. Eyes watching him through the skull mask. Waiting for him to make a move. Daring him, Donnie realises, and he breaks out in a cold, slick sweat at the memory. If he’d done it at that moment, if he’d just turned and run . . .
And then it was too late to do anything. The shadow moved, fast as a dancer, and the knife was under Donnie’s ear, shiny-cold and terrible. The voice, firing questions at him – who was he, what was he doing there – then telling him to drop to his knees and strip off his jacket. And he’d done it, of course he had. Knelt there shivering in his rolled-up sleeves, gravel biting into his knees through his thin work trousers. Thinking he knows how this is going to end, and it isn’t right, it isn’t fair . . .
When the money had fluttered onto the path in front of him, he thought he was dreaming. But the voice had talked at him, told him this was his lucky night. Promised him more – thousands more, man, like a fucking lottery win! – if he’d just do what he was told and keep his mouth shut.
Dirty money? Christ, yes, he’s not an eejit. He knows where that kind of cash comes from, knows the sort of guys who carry wads of it around like it’s fucking sweetie money. Donnie had wanted that cash, wanted it so much his mouth had dried up and his breath had come out in weird, whistling gasps. And still, he’d hesitated.
A deal with the devil, that’s what it had felt like. Like if he reached out for the notes, the fucking things would burn him. And keep on burning, long after the cash was gone. But he’d done it, hadn’t he? Nodded once, and turned away. When he’d turned back, he was alone. His jacket was gone, and the phone and tablet the man had told him about were lying on the path.
He’d stuffed the tablet and phone inside his shirt and scooped up the cash, but when he’d tried to get on his bike to go home, the world had started spinning. He’d crawled into the trees and chucked up, again and again. And all he could think about was going back to his flat and drinking enough to make the whole fucking nightmare go away. But he couldn’t even do that, could he? The man from the shadows had told him what would happen if he did. And what if the bastard had lied about the money? What if the next time Donnie met him, the knife would be in his hand again, shiny and eager for his blood?
He’s finished his fag, but his hands are still shaking. Donnie looks round and spies the bottle of Bowmore he’d lifted from the kitchens that night, still a quarter-full. Aye, that’ll do. A wee something to take the edge off, stop him thinking about . . . fuck, about anything much. His mouth clamps round the neck and he sucks, feeling the burn give way to the warmth spreading through his gut. Calming him.
Fuck food, fuck the job, this’ll do for now. Until the pictures in his head go away. Until the devil comes to him again. The devil with the posh, soft voice and the shiny silver knife. Donnie takes another swig and hunkers down to wait.
11
FRIDAY, 30 MAY, 10.15 A.M.
Summer, shouldering its way into the Highland capital after a long, dreich winter and rain-soaked spring. Bedding plants poking nervous heads up on the Millburn roundabout, spelling out their message of one hundred thousand welcomes to the post-Easter tourists making the journey north. And the traffic backed up as far as the Longman, thanks to some idiot in a 4×4 trying to do a U-turn on the dual carriageway.
By the time Mahler gets to the mortuary suite at Raigmore Hospital, he’s running an uncharacteristic fifteen minutes late. And however unconventional Marco McVinish may be about some aspects of his calling, having spectators turn up late to one of his post-mortems isn’t one of them.
‘Good of you to join us, Sherlock.’ Marco, green-gowned and masked, gives him an impatient wave as he enters the gleaming white-tiled chill of the morgue. ‘Wasn’t sure you’d still feel like hobnobbing with riff-raff like us after your TV debut. We’re honoured, aren’t we, Jack?’
The assisting pathologist shrugs and mutters something incomprehensible behind his mask – which, Mahler concedes, pretty much sums up his own verdict on his performance at the press briefing.
‘Glad you found it entertaining.’
‘You looked bloody knackered, Lukas.’ Marco gives him an assessing glance as his assistant checks the instruments at his side. ‘Still do, frankly. You know, you don’t actually have to be here—’
‘I do.’ Mahler looks down at the body on the dissecting table. Morven Murray had been a beautiful woman, no doubt of that. Honey-blonde with classically regular features, if a little heavy around the jawline, and the kind of curves the tabloids like to refer to as luscious. Beyond a certain arrogance in the arch of her brows, it’s hard to see any resemblance to her pale, wintry-eyed sister. He wonders if it’s purely by chance that the siblings had made their lives on opposite sides of the Atlantic.
‘I suppose you do, yes.’ Marco looks down at the dead woman. He touches her forehead lightly, a gesture that’s half-benediction, half-apology. Then he steps back, flexes his gloved hands, and nods at his assistant. ‘Right then, let’s do this.’
He bends to his work, a benevolent monster stripping away layers of flesh and muscle. Reducing what had been a human being to its component parts. As always, Mahler leans back and lets his vision go slightly out of focus. There’s no official requirement for his presence here, and several DIs he knows would happily send the lowliest PC available, but he’s never been able to square that with his conscience. Confronting the young and untried with the reality of their nightmares to toughen them up isn’t going to make them better coppers. Harder, maybe, but not necessarily better.
And this is the genuine stuff of nightmares. Not the smell, though the stink of saw on bone has a low-grade horror all of its own. No, the smell is almost bearable, until it combines with the sound of a brain slithering into a receiving dish. He’s heard the sound more times than he cares to remember, and it still makes his stomach want to turn itself inside out. Focus. Think about the pile of actions from the morning’s briefing, the statements to be gone over . . .
‘Nasty.’ Marco finishes delivering something swollen and purple into a steel receptacle and shakes his head. ‘This is a nasty one, Lukas – very single-minded, your man here. Very calm under pressure.’
‘Calm? The woman’s been butchered.’
The pathologist nods. ‘Looks that way at first glance, doesn’t it? But the injury to the throat – care has been taken there, no question. One slash, ear to ear . . . from behind, I’d say.’ He mimics the action. ‘Minimal blood spatter over your murderer, you see? It all travels forwards. Incredibly violent, but very carefully planned. And incredibly, er, well-executed.’
Mahler grimaces. ‘How much strength would something like that take?’
‘Surprisingly little. I’ll get the full report over to you asap, but precision would be the key here, not physical strength. Whereas the other injuries . . .’ he pauses to examine a ragged wound on the woman’s thigh. ‘Yes, carried out post-mortem, fortunately for her. No evidence of bleeding, you see?’
‘Your thoughts on the type of weapon used?’
‘The throat? Hard to say. But the torso wounds are likely to have been made by a shortish blade with a serrated edge – around five to six inches, I’d say. In fact . . .’ Marco bends to take a closer look, frowning. ‘Yes, that’s odd. The throat injury will have been made by a right-handed person, slashing down like so from behind. Whereas the other injuries . . . the angle of the cuts indicate they might have been made using the left hand.’ He straightens up, turns to Mahler. ‘A couple of options for you. One, this was meant to be relatively straightforward – quick, professional, tidy. But then . . . something changed.’
‘Like what?’
‘Maybe he started to enjoy himself.’ The pathologist steps away from the table, nods at his assistant. ‘He decided to take a little time over his work, perhaps. Add a few little finishing touches.’
‘Christ Almighty, Marco.’
‘I know. But there’s another possibility, one you’re going to like even less. Two different instruments used, two different methods employed – does that suggest anything to you?’
Put like that, of course it does. Mahler looks at the two sets of wounds, and back at the pathologist. ‘Let me get this straight. You think we could be looking at more than one person?’
Marco strips off his gloves and tosses them into a bin before replying. When he turns back to Mahler, the harsh overhead lighting picks out the lines of weariness carved into his face.
‘This doesn’t happen here, Lukas. Not in Inverness – Christ, you can count the number of murders we’ve had in the last thirty years on the fingers of one hand! This . . . this isn’t us.’ Marco looks down at the body on the table. And shakes his head. ‘I can hardly believe I’m saying this. But yes – based on what I’ve seen, it’s entirely possible you’ve got two killers on the loose.’
Mahler has only been away from Burnett Road for a few hours, but his in-tray has exploded while he’s been gone, and it looks as though a pack of Post-it notes have been having a party across his computer screen.
He detaches the Post-its, scans the urgent ones and sifts through the pile of folders and reports. Completed statement from the fiancé, the rest of the hotel staff interviews . . . and a note from Fergie to say he’s been collared for a diversity awareness refresher course and won’t be back for the rest of the day. With Karen doing a follow-up visit to Kevin Ramsay’s girlfriend, that leaves him with Skivey Pete and a couple of DCs to draw on if anything urgent comes up. Perfect. He spots Pete heading for the fire escape for one of his thirty-minute fag breaks and moves to intercept him.
‘How are we doing with the hotlines – anything I should know about?’
Pete shakes his head. ‘Bit of weeping and wailing, couple of ranters wanting to know why we’re sitting on our arses while folk get murdered in their beds, the usual stuff. Oh, and Morven’s agent, Hadley, rang for you. Wouldn’t leave a message, but he’s free between two and half-past today if you want to call him back.’
‘A whole half-hour? I assume you sounded suitably impressed.’ Since news of the murder broke, Glyn Hadley has become the family’s self-appointed spokesperson on all Morven-related matters, popping up on everything from Reporting Scotland to The One Show to voice moist-eyed tributes to her charm and talent.
Mahler can’t decide whether the man’s cynically milking his fifteen minutes in the spotlight, or whether he was actually as close to the dead woman as his tearful media soundbites suggest. But if Morven had any real friends, so far they’ve been keeping well under Mahler’s radar. Which means talking to Hadley might be his best hope of getting an insight into the woman behind the public persona. Hadley had been her agent since the start of her career – he’ll know better than anyone what enemies she’s made along the way. And she will have made enemies, Mahler’s sure of it. The rumours that are beginning to emerge already about her behaviour behind the scenes practically guarantee that.
He moves the Post-it with Hadley’s contact details to the top of the pile and scans the list of statements Fergie’s left for him. ‘This kitchen porter that’s gone AWOL—’
