Snow Storm (9 page)

To be fair,
most of what she’d seen of Glasgow involved nights out in bars a
sight trendier than the ones through in the Burgh, and Gayfield
Square was a similar monstrosity. Glasgow did look a lot more city
scape than Edinburgh but even so she hadn’t expected something
straight off the set of Blade Runner which it turned out was just
as well. It looked a lot like they’d taken over a contact centre.
Hardly glamorous, which was a bit of a surprise considering the way
these arseholes liked to strut about the place.

That Wilson
one looked like someone had put vinegar in her coffee. Black, the
small one with the big attitude needed a charisma transplant and
Edwards, well, he was just sleaze incarnate. These two put Campbell
to shame, although if ever anyone was deserving of a boot in the
balls that one was. Ever since she’d given him the brush off at the
Christmas night out it was like he was on a mission to expand the
bounds of pedantry. Cock. She wondered if you could sue someone for
sexual harassment on the grounds of looks and thought alone and
then dismissed this idea as possibly a bit too 1984.

Edwards just
seemed to take himself a level too seriously though. The way he ran
his fingers through that clearly high-lit hair of his. He really
did give her the dry boke.

She wasn’t
sure how Burke remained so calm about the preening egos on display.
Maybe he didn’t have much fight in him. Maybe he was just more of a
middle manager than anything. He did look pretty pasty, spent too
much time indoors you might say. Still, she’d have thought he’d
have a little get up and go about him; all those stimulants he
seemed to be on.

At first
glance she’d put his age around 27-28. She’d been a bit dismissive
of him when he introduced himself; thinking he was an overfamiliar
colleague having a go at giving her the chat as soon as she walked
through the door. The job could be a bit like that and she was
fairly used to it anyway, mainly finding it annoying. It hadn’t
helped that he’d introduced himself simply as Burke. It was two
days before she figured out he was actually the boss, and only then
because Campbell had gleefully filled her in while trying to
introduce her to the more social side of the station as he put it.
“Funny kettle of fish” was all he’d really been able to confide,
before adding that “there were some rumours floating about” and
changing the subject back to an offer of an after-hours drink in
The Cask and Barrel. Again, she’d declined.

He drummed
his hands on the wheel as they made their way down a slip road on
to a mind numbingly gridlocked M8.

“
Timing’s
never been my strong point,” he told her, messing around with a
radio that had now lost the station, struggling as it did with the
difference between east and west coast. He gave up and chose the CD
already in the machine instead, which sounded like Green Day on a
rough day, before they’d sold out. “I don’t suppose you like stiff
little fingers do you?”

“
Sir?” was
all she said in response.

“
The band.”
he replied, looking slightly alarmed.

“
Oh.” she
said, knowing full well. “No.”

He switched
it off, looking slightly dejected. Maybe it was a dose of Seasonal
Affective Disorder that made him this way. She was sure he hadn’t
had those bags under his eyes six months ago.

“
I suppose we
should talk about the case then.”

“
Yes
sir.”

“
Well?”

“
Sir?”

“
Every second
word doesn’t have to be sir.” He said. “This isn’t Full Metal
Jacket. What are your thoughts on the case so far? I’m genuinely
interested. After all, detection is what I do, supposedly, when I’m
not being condescended to of course. So feel free to enlighten me;
do you for instance subscribe to the Campbell hypothesis, stating
that all this is the result of a drug war raging between two rival
scumbag factions? Oh screw it. I need to smoke this thing.” He
began rummaging in the glove box while at the same time trying to
keep the steering wheel steady. They didn’t teach that on the
advanced driving course. He pulled out an e-cigarette and put it to
his lips, inhaling and then breathing what looked like a huge sigh
of relief, blowing water vapour against an already condensation
covered window. “This isn’t an infringement of your human rights by
the way. It’s perfectly legal.”

“
Batter on.”
She heard herself say.

“
It’s just a
tad embarrassing.” He confided. “Anyway, you were
saying?”

“
I
was?”

“
Well no, but
you were about to be I’m sure. So what’s the story? Is Campbell
right?”

“
Honestly?”

He shrugged
in response.

“
I’d prefer
you didn’t tell him this.”

“
Goes without
saying.”

“
I
do.”

Burke nodded
his head slowly in what looked like contemplation, though for all
she knew he could have been thinking nothing at all. Some people
had mastered the art of merely looking thoughtful, much like her
dad had mastered the art of looking as though he was listening when
her mum rattled on about whatever DIY tasks she had in store for
him on his holidays. “Assuming this is the case of course, it does
imply that this might not exactly be the summit of the body
pile.”

“
True.” She
agreed.

“
In which
case, I would imagine it’s only a matter of time before someone
starts running a book on it.”

It was true.
Campbell had already broached the subject this morning.

“
What number
should I put you down for?”

“
I’d say
another two anyway. Although, I’d prefer it didn’t
happen.”

She nodded in
agreement before remembering herself. These were, after all, human
beings. It was far too easy to get caught up in looking at them as
stats for clear up rates.

“
Purely from
a selfish point of view.” Burke admitted. “These sudden puddins are
getting in the way of my day to day duties as defined by she who
must be obeyed, AKA Mrs Burke.” He smiled. “Which reminds me, I’ve
got to pick up a Christmas tree from Gorgie City Farm before I go
home or there’ll be hell to pay. Anywhere I can drop you on the
way?”

“
Gorgie
should be fine for me.”

“
Really?
Where are you headed anyway?”

“
Marchmont.
It’s a nice night for a walk.”

“
If you
sure.” He said. “Still living that student life eh?”

“
I try.” She
replied

It was dark
by the time they pulled up on Gorgie Road and she hit the frosted
pavement. It felt like the air was damper now, as though the cold
would cling to you and sink into your bones.

She knew she
was trapped in the student life, in a specific point in time,
through her own choices.

Sudden puddin’ number
three arrived or was discovered at least in a more timely fashion;
conveniently around half nine as the office, if not Burke’s brain
had already swung into action. At least this particular murderer
had shown something like consideration. As it turned out it was the
cleaner who had discovered the corpse of the former Oleg Karpov
around an hour before CID got word of the situation. On arrival at
work and being in possession of a spare key, she had found him in
the hall or maybe more accurately all over the hall, such were the
forces involved in the ballistics used by criminal elements these
days. Presumably Mr Karpov’s assailant had disapproved of the more
traditional paisley patterned décor and favoured a more Jackson
Pollock inspired theme employing a natural palette.

He’d received the call in
his office at least, far preferable to doing so while supposed to
be in a state of slumber.

He’d
despatched Campbell and Jones before leaving and they were already
on scene, suited up along with the forensics team.

Burke donned a similar
white overall and matching shoe covers and made his way across the
Police line and up the driveway. His feet crunched on gravel, the
reassuring sound of money.

Being on a
corner afforded the house more room, its façade was imposing and
slightly gothic in comparison to its neighbours which were more
standard Georgian box style buildings.

He passed
under a substantial entrance porch, nodding at the uniformed boy by
the door. He recognised the face but couldn’t place it. Hazard of
the job. In another context he might have mistaken the same face
for one he’d put away.

The hallway
was vast, dark and foreboding. Burke wondered if this display was
for the effect of warning off burglars. He half expected to see a
stuffed bear in full hind leg standing frontal assault. A testament
to the ‘bravery of Major Chumley-Something-Or-Other who’d shot the
bugger on the way back from doing something colonial.

It was like the setting
for Cludeo. Only he didn’t think it was Professor Plumb in the
drawing room with the lead pipe on this occasion, more likely some
rocket with a Kalashnikov and most definitely in the hallway going
on the amount of airborne claret.

He realised he’d never
seen anything like it, outside the realm of horror films and
possibly even then not so much. How could a human being even
contain that much blood?

What looked to be some
serious money’s worth of artwork had been splattered with a
combination of different tissue types and some pricey looking china
had been shredded along with half the wood panelling that made up
the lower walls and the side of a grand staircase that you wouldn’t
want to walk on now for fear of getting some nasty looking skelves
through your best brogues.

He presumed
the vase had once sat on top of the granite plinth that now rested
against the mashed remains of the space between the deceased’s
ears. A chandelier lay across his back, having plummeted from its
original mooring in the ceiling, probably after being cut out by a
hail of bullets, judging by the circle of tell-tale holes. He
wondered what all if this was worth, the usual trinkets the rich
liked to surround themselves with, a Rolex Oyster here, a Tiffany
lamp there. It all mounted up. There was no limit to what you could
spend if you wanted to. They said that lottery winners were
generally quite happy until they moved to a smarter area and then
resumed the game of keeping up with the Joneses, just at a higher
level.

“
So did he
grab the plinth as he fell or do you think he had it pushed onto
his head after the fall?” he finally asked; as Dr Brown’s beefy
head moved around in shock, closely followed by his substantial
jowls.

“
Jim, you
need to watch that,” he replied. “My ticker’s not what it was and
no offence but I don’t much fancy getting mouth to mouth from
you.”

“
None taken,”
Burke laughed “And likewise if I’m honest. I’ve considered having
DNR tattooed on my forehead for that very reason.”

“
You might
want to be careful though some of these places don’t have the best
record on infection control,” the doctor replied without a trace of
irony.

“
Well, what
do you think did for this one?”

“
Oh I’d say
Mr Kalashnikov,” Brown said, looking tired. “Either that or Mr
Uzi.”

“
Was there a
Mr Uzi?”

“
Haven’t the
foggiest.”

“
Something to
google when I get home.”

“
Indeed.”

“
Anything
standing out?”

“
Other than
the fact that our killer or indeed killers over egged the pudding
somewhat?” “Subtlety is a lost art.”

“
It is. They
meant it though, that’s a certainty. You don’t manage to spray that
amount of lead about the place without having to stop to reload a
good few times.”

“
Good
point.”

“
And they
don’t seem to have been shy about finishing the job. I’d say they
knocked over the plinth. The cursory look I’ve been able to get at
what is left of his head indicates there isn’t much of a face left,
which seeing as the plinth as at the rear of the skull indicates it
has been rather shot up.”

“
So he
wouldn’t have been able to grab it, that being the
case?”

“
Well there
is always the possibility. That’s why some marksmen, notably the
SAS have a tendency to go for the mouth shot. Obviously part
bravado, partly the fact it encumbers the primitive part of the
brain and stops any twitching movements, shooting the hostage in
the head as you laugh your last, that sort of thing. I’d say our
boy here was a bit past trying to balance on a plinth though. We’re
dusting the whole place for prints, naturally.”

Burke made
his way through the entrance porch back to the driveway and out
onto the street where he found Campbell and Jones looking decidedly
non-plussed.

“
Well what
have you got for me?” he asked expectantly.

“
Not a
sausage boss,” Campbell said rubbing his eyes like it had been a
rough day, seemingly oblivious to the fact it was only half past
ten.