Candles and Roses (3 page)

‘As far as possible from you if he’s any sense. What was that about?’

‘Some scrote of an informant looking to screw a few more quid out of us.’

‘Fair enough. In that case, I fully endorse your proposed approach.’ She lowered herself on to the chair opposite McKay’s desk. The building was too old to accommodate the open-plan offices now commonplace in most of their locations, and McKay shared this room only with his DS, Ginny Horton. Grant assumed it was Horton who kept the office in order, although McKay could be surprisingly domesticated when it suited him. ‘How are you doing with the burglaries?’ There had been a spate of apparently linked house-breakings in the estates off Glenurquhart Road.

‘Ach. You know. Making progress.’

‘Is that McKay-speak for getting nowhere?’

‘It’s McKay-speak for working our balls off but apparently still not doing enough to get your arse off the line. With respect,’ he added.

Grant didn’t rise to the bait. She and McKay went back a long way, and despite McKay’s best efforts they’d always managed to maintain a more or less effective working relationship. ‘I’m here because we’ve just had a big one called in.’ She smiled. ‘But don’t worry if you’re too busy. I can find someone else.’

For the first time, McKay looked genuinely interested. ‘A big one?’

‘Murder, looks like. Body up on the Black Isle. Bit strange.’

‘Aye, well, they’re an odd lot up there.’

‘You know the Clootie Well, up by Munlochy?’

‘You’ve proved my point. Worshipping the fairies. That where they found the body?’

‘In the woods there. Shallow grave. Young woman, not yet identified. From the state of decomposition, it looks like she’s not been there long. A few days.’

‘I like my corpses fresh,’ McKay said. ‘So what’s strange about it?’

‘The grave was marked. Candles and vases of red roses. The sort of flowers you take home to Chrissie when you’ve something to apologise for.’

‘In her dreams. Who the fuck murders someone and then sticks flowers on the grave?’

‘Someone who cares about the victim? I don’t know. That’ll be your job.’

‘Oh, Christ, I knew that was coming. You want me to be SIO?’

She laughed. ‘Come off it, Alec. You’d be pissed as hell if I gave the job to anyone else.’

‘Aye, well. Maybe. But you know how stretched we are.’

She sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Aw, thanks, pet,’ he said. ‘In that case, your wish is my command.’ He paused. ‘Or at least it will be if you give those sodding burglaries to some other poor bastard.’

***

McKay was a short wiry man. With his close-cropped greying hair and generally belligerent expression, he looked like a textbook illustration of a chippy Scotsman. He knew that and made a point of living up to the image whenever he thought it might be useful. He was a Dundonian by background, but most people assumed he was a ned from Glasgow. He didn’t bother to disabuse them of the idea. Better be thought a streetwise metropolitan than a turnip-eating provincial. He had a university education, too, but didn’t advertise the fact. On the whole, people underestimated Alec McKay and he was happy to keep it that way.

He and DS Ginny Horton made a disconcerting couple, but again McKay liked it like that. Horton was English—
fucking
English, to use McKay’s standard phraseology—small, neat, anonymously pretty, with tidily bobbed dark hair and an amicable smile. Someone who, in McKay’s words, looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her arse. He knew from experience that that wasn’t the whole picture, either.

‘I don’t take the Munlochy turn, then?’ He’d asked her to drive so he could relax and concentrate on making disparaging remarks about how badly she was doing it.

McKay shook his head. ‘No. Best carry on up the A9 to the Tore roundabout, then take the Black Isle road from there. It’s before you get to Munlochy. On the right.’

She knew the area fairly well by now. At the weekend, she and her partner would sometimes drive over to Cromarty or Rosemarkie for a walk by the sea or to grab a bite at one of the cafes. But she normally took the more southerly route up through Munlochy, and the Clootie Well was a new one to her. ‘What is this place?’

‘Somewhere people go to worship the old gods.’ He winced at what he saw as the endless gullibility of humankind. ‘It’s a stream, basically. People hang up bits of cloth belonging to sick relatives so they’ll recover.'

She allowed him to finish his diatribe. ‘You think there’s any significance to the body being left there?’

‘I don’t imagine the killer thought she’d recover through the healing power of the well, if that’s what you mean. Maybe the body was intended as some kind of offering. Perhaps that’s the significance of the roses. Or maybe Helena’s right and the killer did care about the victim. Placed the body there to make some kind of amends.’

‘Must have gone to some trouble with the roses and candles,’ Horton said. ‘If you were burying a body, you’d think you’d want to get it done with as quickly as possible.’

‘From what they’ve said, it’s a fair way from the road. You could bank on not being interrupted if you were doing it overnight. I’m not aware the doggers have taken to hanging out at the Clootie Well just yet, and I can’t think of anyone else likely to drop by. And this time of year it’s not even dark for that long, so you could see what you were doing. But, aye, it shows a certain dedication.’

They were heading down the A832, the main road into the Black Isle. The place was, as the locals said, neither black nor an isle. It was a peninsular protruding out into the North Sea, north of Inverness, bordered on three sides by the Moray, Beauly and Cromarty Firths. No-one seemed to know why it had been called ‘black’. Possibly because of its mild local climate which left the area relatively snow and frost free compared with its Highland neighbours. McKay preferred to think it was on account of the unenlightened heathens who inhabited the place.

After a mile or so, McKay gestured for Horton to slow down, pointing out the turning for the Clootie Well. The entrance was draped with police tape, a more formal echo of the festoons of fabric on the trees beyond. As they turned in, an ambulance was pulling out, presumably taking the body off to the mortuary.

Horton slowed to greet the uniformed officer controlling the entrance, waving her warrant card out of the window. ‘DS Horton and DI McKay,’ she said.

McKay leaned across from the passenger seat. ‘Morning, Murray. You’re not planning to delay us, are you?’

The police officer squinted into the car. ‘Alec, I wouldn’t delay
you
if my life depended on it. Which it probably would.’ He unhooked the tape and waved them past.

Horton parked next to the white scene of crime van, and they climbed out into the late-morning sunshine. There was a marked car closer to the roadside, which presumably belonged to Murray and his colleague. McKay noted that the car was occupied, and he walked over and tapped on the window.

The passenger seat was occupied by another PC, a red-faced, slightly overweight figure who gazed benignly up at McKay. ‘You’ve copped this one, then, Alec? Thought you would.’

‘Just lucky, I guess, Russ. Who’s in the back seat?’

Russ twisted in his seat and looked at the young couple sitting awkwardly in the rear of the car. ‘The two poor wee buggers who stumbled across the body. I thought you’d want to talk to them before they left, and they graciously agreed to hang around. That right, kids?’

‘You listen to Uncle Russ,’ McKay said, peering into the interior of the car. ‘Thanks for staying, you two. Not that Russ will have given you a choice. We’ll need to take formal statements from you in due course, but in the meantime I’d appreciate an informal chat while your memories are still fresh.’ He noted the paleness of their skin, the blank look in their eyes. ‘I’m sure it’s been a shock,’ he added. ‘I need to take a look at the site first, but I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘You sounded almost human there,’ Horton said, a few minutes later, as they were tramping through the woodland.

‘Aye, well. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’

Up ahead, through the trees, they could see the two white-suited crime scene examiners walking back towards the car park. McKay waved, and one of them walked over. ‘Morning, Alec. Why am I not surprised to see your ugly mug here?’

‘Because there’s a job that needs doing properly, I’m guessing. How it’s going?’

‘All done. Trust you to turn up when the party’s over.’ Jock Henderson was a tall, angular man who looked as if his centre of gravity was too far from the ground. McKay wondered where they found protective suits to fit him. He had a slightly shambolic air, but was good enough at his job.

‘Just in time to pick up the bill,’ McKay agreed. ‘Story of my fucking life. So what’s the story?’

‘Young girl. I’d say early to mid twenties, but the doc will no doubt confirm. No obvious signs of physical trauma, but I’d say she’d been asphyxiated. Suffocated, maybe. Dark hair. Five three. Slim built to the point of being skinny. Couple of tattoos which might be of use to you, though they look like fairly off-the-shelf designs to me. A dove and some sort of butterfly design.’

‘Any other ID?’

‘Nothing. She was naked. No other possessions as far as we can find. We’ll have to see if her fingerprints or DNA are on the database.’

‘How long you reckon she’d been here?’

‘Not long, I’d say. Few days. There were some signs of decomposition, but not a great deal. Mind you, the weather’s been bloody chilly at night, so you’ll have to wait on the doc for a definite view.’

‘What about these candles and roses, then?’

‘Christ knows. There are some funny bastards about, right enough. We’ve bagged them up and stuck them in the van as evidence. God knows what we’ll get from them.’

‘Greenfly, probably. Still, you can take a bunch home to the missus, Jock. Save having to stop off at the petrol station next time you fuck up.’

‘You’re still as funny as a turd in a single malt, Alec. But we love you that way.’

‘Aye, so I understand. How long for the report?’

‘As soon as possible, Alec. You know that.’

‘Quicker than that, Jock. You know me.’

Henderson gave a mock bow. ‘Your wish is my command, oh mighty one. Now piss off and let me get on.’

McKay laughed and continued past Henderson up the track towards the woodland, Horton following behind. A few moments later, they reached the spot where the body had been found. It was a clearing, with relatively thick woodland surrounding it. The turf had been lifted and piled in one corner, and the hollow of the burial place was exposed.

‘What do you reckon?’ McKay asked without turning round.

‘It’s remote enough, I suppose,’ Horton said. ‘Can’t imagine there’d be much risk of being disturbed here overnight. Would have taken a while to remove the turf, but not that long to dig the grave itself.’ She crouched down by the hollow, running a trickle of earth through her fingers. ‘Ground’s dry and pretty loose. Wouldn’t have taken long to dig this out. Take it from a gardener.’

‘I’ll bow to your superior knowledge.’ He looked around. ‘Assume the killer wanted the body to be found?’

‘The roses suggest it wasn’t intended to be hidden for long, anyway,’ she said. ‘Plenty of people go walking round here. It was likely that someone would spot it. Although it would have been less conspicuous once the roses died.’

‘And why here? It all looks very carefully planned. Just a conveniently remote spot, or does it have some significance?’

‘I saw the strips of cloth as we drove in,’ Horton said. ‘Weird.’

‘Very weird,’ McKay agreed. ‘But it’s just superstition. And if people are desperate enough—if their loved ones are ill or dying—they’ll give anything a shot.’

‘Careful, Alec,’ she said. ‘You’re in danger of sounding human again.’

‘Aye, you’re right. The place must be getting to me. Let’s go back and have a blether with those two youngsters instead.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I’ve really got to go soon,’ Jo said, conscious she was already struggling to form the words.

‘You can’t go yet,’ Dave—or was it Pete?—said. ‘Thought we were set to make a night of it.’ He looked genuinely downcast, but she knew that was because he’d had more on his mind than just heading off to a nightclub. She wondered momentarily whether she should invite him back with her now, just to put him out of his misery. But, drunk as she was, she took another look at his doughy overweight face and rejected the idea as quickly as it had entered her head. She didn’t even fancy him. He was just a bit of company, part of a group she’d latched on to, the way she often did when she was out on the town these days. She’d fancied Pete—or was it Dave?—more, but Jade had copped off with him, so she was sitting here with the leftovers.

The pub was open till midnight and had become busier than ever in the last half-hour. The punters were young enough to make her feel old, and most looked more successful than she’d ever be. Not just wealthier—though they were probably that—but more settled, more relaxed, with partners or groups of friends. Like they might have real homes to go back to.

That was one reason she hated coming into Manchester. She preferred just hanging around her local in Brinnington. It didn’t have much to recommend it, but it was friendly and the clientele was old enough to make her feel like a teenager. She knew a few people—not exactly friends, but people she could spend an evening getting pissed with. Most of them were in the same boat, one way or another. Divorced, unmarried, or saddoes who’d never had a real relationship in their lives. Some had kids they wanted to get away from, some just had empty bedsits they didn’t want to go back to. Most, unlike Jo, were locals who’d spent their lives in this nondescript suburb. She could understand pretty much everything else, but not that. Why would you want to stay there? For that matter, why would you want to stay anywhere without a good reason?

‘Go on,’ Dave said. She was pretty sure this one was Dave. ‘Just a bit longer. Have another drink.’ He was a brickie, she thought, or a plasterer. Something like that. He’d told her earlier. They were southerners—real southerners, that was, from Surrey or Sussex or somewhere, up here working on a job. She’d thought all southerners were rolling in money, and there were jobs down there for the asking. Dave had said no, it wasn’t like that, not any more. ‘First it was the recession, then it was the bloody immigrants. Bloody Poles and Czechs and Romanians, undercutting us and taking all the work—’ He’d stopped, conscious of the way she was looking at him. She didn’t like that talk. People should be able to go where they liked, work where they wanted, that was what she thought. If the likes of Dave weren’t good enough to compete, well, that was their tough luck, wasn’t it?