A Deviant Breed (15 page)

‘Well she certainly has an opinion about wind farms.’

‘An’ everythin’ else.  She dinnae know wee Mary-Mo but ye’d think she did eh?’ Tyler nodded in response to the question directed solely at her.  ‘Aye, full o’ crack aboot a lass she never met.’  He hesitated and shrugged. ‘Mary-Mo was a wild lass,’ he sneered.  His eyes momentarily flashed.   ‘Weren’t a buck ‘ere aboot’ that dinnae fancy gettin’ into her knickers.  Aye’ an’ many tried but no’ so many as the likes o’ Lorna would have ye believe got lucky.’

‘Mary-Mo?’ Dunbar repeated. ‘Archie’s mum?’

‘Aye’, Mary, her middle name’s Morag – but she didnae care for either really.  She got, Mary-Mo all through school. I mind when –’

‘They named her after the witch?’ Tyler cut in.

‘Aye, but that was her mammy’s doin’, bein’ a Humes.  Mary said she added it when she registered her birth.  The old man wanted Mary after his mammy but her mammy registered her Morag after the Witch o’ Obag’s Holm.’  Liddle chortled again, took a swig and continued.  ‘Aye, Mary Morag English.  Owt’ te wind her husband up, ach, but what’s in a name?  Naebody bothered aboot all that back then – it was forgotten till Archie stirred it all up.’  Liddle was eager to get back to his story, to revisit a treasured memory.  ‘I mind one time after chapel she dared some of us to jump off Lowford Bridge into Spinney Pools but naebody fancied it – so she did.  In her best Sunday frock an’ all.’

‘So, Mary wasnae scared o’ the curse?’

Liddle scowled and thought. ‘Mary-Mo wasnae scared o’ anythin’!  But none of us boys ever played in that beck.  Or oor family’s before us.  Superstitious lot aboot here.’

‘So we hear.’

Liddle suddenly cackled and became animated. ‘Right up over her head it went when she jumped.  Hid nothin’ when she climbed oot agin’. 
Ach,
what a sight!  Ye could even make out the pattern on her knickers through it – and her breests.  Nae bra see!’ He shook his head and sighed before his features collapsed into a grotesque grin. ‘Aye, a vision she was.  Then himsel’ come along wi’ a face like thunder.’

‘Her father?’  asked Tyler, quite engrossed.

‘Aye, so – we off – like coursed hares but Mary-Mo – she just stood there, hands on her hips with that wet frock clingin’ to her beautiful young body –
ach
, what a sight.’

‘The local temptress then,’ Dunbar asked.

‘Ach, aye!  But she had it hard with her daddy – folk forget that.  Spirited is all she was.  There’s plenty o’ folk should look to their sels before they judge, wee Mary English. Kirk an’ Calvinist values still hold sway when it suits but the pews are queer empty come Sunday – aye’ there’s nae saints here aboot but plenty o’ sinners.  Archie’s ol’ grandpa would shake a few if he were still alive – a firebrand he was, aye’ an’ fierce wi’ it.’

‘His grandfather was a preacher?’ Dunbar asked.

‘Lay preacher – but you’d think him the Moderator the way he carried on, him and old Doc Petrie.  They had the local minister a’feared o’ them so they did.  He got to do his bit but they ran the show.’  He chugged at his Scotch and it fuelled his enthusiasm for another – and for the crack. ‘Ach, d’yer no’ ken that Laird an’ master mentality aboot’ here? 
See me?
  Aye’ well, gillie I was but nae servant.  It was a job o’ work.  Do the job reet an’ ye’ dinnae need orders, all’s as it should be.  So I did – an’ anyhow, I dinnae like anyone givin’ me orders.’

‘Is your friend Carsy a gillie then?’  Tyler asked.

‘
Ach no
– does a wee bit o’ beatin’ when he’s short but he’s no’ the knack or the nous.  But there y’are, he’s a fine example o’ what I’m talkin’ aboot. Cannae bide the idea that somebody’s got it better than him but will nae do anythin’ te pull his sel’ up.  Archie’s grandparents left the wee feller a fair pot, they say.  Nae surprise to me, the old bugger’ was tighter than the band on a barrel o’ malt.’

‘So Archie’s not well liked – is that what you’re saying?’

‘Archie has his airs an’ it puts folks’s backs up but I put that doon’ te his upbringin’. His granda’ lookin’ doon’ his snout at folk – an’ granny English fillin’ his heid wi’ tales of how important her family once was aboot here.  Tell ye the truth – yer wee mon’s a borin’ bugger.  Obag’s Holm an’ reivin’ is all he knows aboot or talks aboot.  An’ now he’s found it – well, it’s gone to his heid a wee bit, that’s all.  Thinks it’ll make him rich.’

‘How?’

‘Tourism, books, guided tours.  Ach!  It’ll no make any o’ us rich an’ if it does bring money in there’s plenty o’ smarter folk than Archie here aboot that will beat him to it.’

‘How well did you know Wilson Farish?’ Dunbar asked.

Liddle drained his Scotch and shook his head. ‘Naebody knew Wilson really, cep’, Archie.  Kept his sel’ te his sel’ did, Wilson. Queer feller.’

‘Queer?’

‘Aye, strange – probably that way as well.  Ne’er bothered wi’ a woman that I know of but say what ye’ like aboot him, he was a dedicated teacher. Wee ones were just as welcome around his hame as in his classroom, so they were, but that’s done with now innit?’

‘You mean infirmed?’ Tyler asked, as she exchanged a knowing look with Dunbar.

‘Yer mon’ was a hypochondriac but nae anymore, hey?’ 

‘Was? But naemore?’ Dunbar repeated.

‘Aye’ well, did he not pass awa’ last neet.’  Tyler and Dunbar eyed each other. ‘I’d have thought ye knew aboot that.  Polis was there, so they were.  Fire! Ach, shame poor mon – terrible way te’ go.  Aye, like me – ailed wi’ his lungs.  Nae sae good on his pins either, but he was nae as badly as he made oot.  Could nae carry him oot o’ his burnin’ hoose last night though.  So maybe he was nae fakin’ it,’ he mumbled as he poured another measure. But Dunbar and Tyler were already heading for the front door.

9

The debris the fire fighters had dragged out to gain better access lay strewn across the pavement, and the scene was still attracting attention from neighbours and a couple of nosy hoodies, who probably should have been in school, circled nearby on their BMX bikes. Dunbar pushed on the door and called out as it swung open.

‘Hello!’ Dunbar peered into the gloom.  There was no mistaking Wilson Farish’s grim fate. The hallway had been reduced to a soot-blackened tunnel.

The beam from Station Officer Barrie’s helmet-mounted Petzl strafed the hallway as he appeared from the gloom of the sitting room.  He stopped in his tracks as he caught Dunbar in his torch light and spotted his ID strung around his neck.

‘DCI Alec Dunbar,’ he announced.  ‘And this is Detective Inspector Briony Tyler.’

SO Barrie looked a little startled.  Was it that two detectives of their rank had taken the trouble to visit the scene or was it more to do with how attractive DI Tyler was?  Dunbar could not be sure.  His composure regained, and with introductions out of the way, SO Barrie was more than happy to talk them through his findings.

As soon as they entered they were plunged into darkness.  SO Barrie led the way and switched on a huge hand-held torch as well as he entered the sitting room.

‘Electrics have gone, so just follow me and mind where you step, love,’ he warned, shining the torch on the sodden hall carpet, coated in detritus from the fight to stem the blaze.  ‘Fighting fire is a messy business,’ he explained, unnecessarily. ‘That’s why we wear rubberised safety boots, not kinky boots,’ he added with a sly wink.

Tyler bristled at his patronising attitude but let it go, being more concerned with the how and why of it all.  And if he thought her boots kinky, he must have led a very sheltered life. 

The cause of the fire was the result of a familiar combustive cocktail, as he put it.  Take one open fire, add old age, infirmity and a large measure of alcohol and the result – yet another fatal domestic fire statistic.  He apologised if he sounded blasé.  He was. 

He shone the torch on the ceilings.  ‘No smoke alarm either.  Just cannae tell some folk.  Looks like the old boy had been having a nip of brandy – well, a tumbler full of the stuff.  Check out the broken glass in the hearth, and the bottle lying on its side with no stopper in it,’ he added, picking out the items with his torch as he spoke.

The three of them fanned out into the sitting room.  The air was still thick with the stench of burnt PVC, plastics and human flesh.  It was fairly easy to imagine, and something thousands of elderly folk might do every night all over the country without incident.  All it takes is that one careless moment, just as the safety ads proclaim.  It looked very much as SO Barrie had described it, a tragic accident.  Wilson Farish had been careless, a familiar routine that in a fleeting moment had had fatal consequences.

The seat of the fire was self evident.  It fanned out and up from the edge of his fire-grate coating every surface in a slimy, sooty residue of chemicals, ash and human fat. The frame of the mirror above the fireplace had melted and dripped onto the 1930s tiles.  The mirror glass lay shattered into a thousand pieces in the hearth.  One of Farish’s charred slippers remained wedged under the corner of his remote-controlled, orthopaedic chair, no doubt jammed there as he thrashed his legs in the throes of agony.  The old man’s walking stick had been fused by the heat to the seat frame and arm.  Dunbar felt something pointed brush his scalp as he moved to the middle of the room.  He looked up.  A tacky, plastic chandelier had melted into stalactites.

‘The severest burns to the victim were concentrated down his right side, where the alcohol ignited. Note the area around the fireplace is where the fire was concentrated.   The rest of the room is mainly just superficial smoke damage.  And being disabled, the poor bugger didnae stand a chance.’ SO Barrie took centre stage now and stood with his back to the fireplace.  ‘Looks like he got in a tangle with his Zimmer frame, fell forward onto his fire, sloshing alcohol all over his right side and knocked the bottle over.  The booze acted as an accelerant and
whoosh!
  The old boy was turned into a fireball.  Couldnae disentangle himself, couldnae get up, couldnae douse the fire.’

‘Or he knocked the bottle over and suddenly made a grab for it and tumbled and got entangled in his frame,’ Dunbar offered. 

SO Barrie lit him up as he focussed on him, forcing Dunbar to dip his gaze. ‘Aye, plausible enough, yeah, that – that would have created a reservoir of accelerant for him to fall into,’ he replied, as he re-enacted Dunbar’s suggested scenario in slow motion.  ‘Reaching across himself with his left hand cos’ he had his glass in his right, hooks the frame, drags it over and falls – I like it, Chief Inspect –
errrr
?’

‘Dunbar.’

‘I don’t,’ Tyler said, as she crouched to examine the walking frame. ‘It’s been cut.  Is this lying where it was found?’ she asked.  Dunbar recognised the look on her face.  It was the face of a copper who knew, or at least suspected something wasn’t right.

‘Nae, it was cut it off him in the hearth. He was wearin’ it, over his arm and head.’

‘I don’t think it was an accident.’

The fire investigator gasped. ‘Trust me, love –’

‘
Inspector!
’ she snapped back.

He made a pretence at an apology that amounted to little more than a half-hearted shrug. ‘How I described it, or yer boss here did, is how it happened –
Inspector
.’

‘Go on, Briony,’ Dunbar encouraged.

She fixed SO Barrie sternly. ‘Only yesterday morning, Wilson Farish told me that he never put his walking frame beside the fire. It would get too hot to touch.’

SO Barrie’s eyes widened and he glanced at Dunbar.

‘I didn’t accompany the inspector yesterday,’ Dunbar explained.

‘I think he was struck with it,’ she continued, then demonstrated. ‘He tried to stand put his arm up to parry the blow – it went over his arm and head.  It wedged over his body, in the position your colleagues found it.  He then fell into the fireplace and his attacker poured the brandy over him.’ 

SO Barrie did not appear convinced by her argument.

‘He told me that his carer once burnt her hand on his Zimmer frame after he had left it beside the fire.  For that reason, he never left it there again.  Mr Farish always hung his walking stick on the rear of his armchair when he used the frame.  He would place the frame behind the chair upon returning and use the stick, which I note is still in situ, and the chair’s arm for support.’ Tyler looked around and pointed towards his charred walking stick lying in the grime between the fire-grate and chair. ‘Whoever tried to make this look like an accident obviously did a pretty good job, but they didn’t know his routine.’

Station Officer Barrie cleared his throat. ‘Is that it!? Because his stick is where it should be and his frame isn’t, you suspect foul play?’

‘Yes! Getting entangled does make it appear accidental – but that was the killer’s mistake.  His death was deliberate and the method probably unplanned.  Farish was struck with the Zimmer frame, fell across his hearth and couldn’t get up.  The killer improvised and seized their opportunity to make sure he went up in flames by pouring the brandy over him.  This was no accident.’ Tyler eyed Dunbar, who indicated that she should continue with another bob of his head.  ‘
That!
– And the fact that we’re investigating a double homicide which, through our enquires, we have linked to the deceased, Wilson Farish.’  Suddenly SO Barrie’s jaw slackened.

‘Who reported the fire?’ Dunbar asked.

SO Barrie seemed suddenly flustered.  ‘Errm, an elderly neighbour, next door, she tried to help but the heat and smoke beat her back.  He was well ablaze by then, mind.  Bless her, she had a go.  Got some nasty burns to her hands, poor old love.  The hospital kept her in, not so much because of her burns but – well, it was a dreadful shock for her.’

‘I can imagine.  What time last night did this happen?’

‘We received the treble nine call at 21:37 hours,’ he answered, checking his notes.

‘What made her look in? It’s a terrace, was she passing the window?’ Tyler asked.

‘I presume so.  I don’t know.  I haven’t spoken to her yet.’

‘I’d like a copy of your report. I’m particularly interested in the accelerant.  For instance, was the alcohol used to mask another inflammable liquid?’ Dunbar said, handing him his card.

‘If that bottle had enough in it – it wouldn’t need any help.’

‘I’m not ruling this fire in or out of our enquiry at this stage.  Do you understand, Station Officer Barrie?’  Dunbar added, with emphasis to the man’s rank. 

Tyler smirked.  It was not subtle but she appreciated it even if SO Barrie did not.  Not mate, not pal and definitely not love!  Dunbar had shown due respect to SO Barrie.  Just as SO Barrie should have done, when addressing her.

‘Of course, but I won’t get the results of any residue and chemical analysis back overnight.  As soon as I have anything, you’ll be the first to know, Chief Inspector Dunbar.’

‘Where’s the body?’

SO Barrie consulted his notes again. ‘McAleavey’s undertakers in Newstead.  The infirmary’s morgue was full.  But they won’t do anything with him until the post mortem and I suppose –’

‘No they won’t,’ Dunbar cut in.  He checked his watch and hissed. ‘Too late now. We’ll get the body moved to the path lab at Edinburgh in the morning.  Our forensic pathologist will be doing the PM.’

‘Sorry, are you asking me to –’ SO Barrie began.

‘Thinking out loud,’ Dunbar replied. ‘No, we’ll take it from here, and the neighbour?’ 

‘Borders General, Galashiels.’

Dunbar turned to Tyler. ‘Get on the blower and get Eugene down here ASAP.  Tell him tonight would be good.’  She nodded and headed for the door. He turned back to SO Barrie. ‘Her name?’

SO Barrie consulted his notes yet again. ‘Err, Mrs– Sarah Dodds.’

‘Can you secure the scene until I get a uniform here?’

SO Barrie shrugged.  ‘Yeah sure. I’ve a bit to do yet.’

‘Good.  Can you mark out the approach path from front door to where Farish was found, and tell our officer not to enter?  Oh, and try not to disturb anything else.’

‘I – I suppose.  What about my investigation?’

‘Invaluable, Mr Barrie. You’re the expert where the cause of the fire is concerned.’  Dunbar checked his watch again.  ‘And your report?’

‘I’ll email a copy up to Fettes Ave as soon as I have it typed up.’

‘No, we’re not working out of HQ.  Send it to the email address on my card.’ Dunbar wheeled about and marched out, his mind racing.

‘A very grumpy Eugene, plus two en route.  I said you’d authorise the OT,’ Tyler said, as they got back into the car.

‘Good shout in there, Briony.  If this is the work of the killer, we know he’s not far away.  That should make it easier to catch the bastard.’

She glanced at him.  Was he being sincere or patronising her?  Dunbar remained fixed on the road ahead, a study in concentration.  Either way he was right, and after all, he had gently slapped the cocky Station Officer down for calling her “love”.  She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt – he
was
being sincere.

‘Bit of a coincidence if it isn’t, and the MO doesn’t fit the bill,’ she eventually said.

‘Immolation? 
If
this has anything to do with Obag’s Holm – fire played its part.  The supposedly righteous, God-fearing but obviously sadistic militiamen tied Morag up in chains.  Then, after making her watch her people tortured and executed, forced her to walk back and forth over hot stones on a bed of smouldering peat.  Each time she fell, they’d drag her up and make her do it again, until she could walk nae more.’  Tyler looked stunned.  ‘Aye, I’ve been swotting up on it too.  Then the bastards fastened her to a stone gate-post and built a pyre of green wood around her, so that she’d burn slowly – a taste o’ purgatory to come.  To be sure she suffered, they damped it down with water from the wee burn every so often, to exact every nanosecond of exquisite agony out of the –
“base and vile witch
.
”

‘And that was their idea of God’s work?’ Tyler gasped.

He nodded and continued, ‘Aye, and before the fire got too good a hold on her they put it out and took her head off.  Her fire-blackened head with its locks all but singed off, and those of her kin, were mounted on spits across the Eastern Marches as a warning to others.’

‘I hadn’t got to that bit.  And the headless skeletons the Professor’s team are finding?’

‘Who knows, chances are some will be Inglis clansmen and women.  Some victims of theirs too I imagine.  That’s for the folk combo to figure out.’

‘Who?’

‘Shelagh and Sebastian,’ he answered, with a broad grin.

‘Hang on – you don’t have a copy of –’

‘Took a peek at Archie’s website.  He’s switched-on enough to put the sensational and salacious stuff up front and centre.’

‘Maybe that’s where the killer got their inspiration from.’

***