A Deviant Breed (19 page)

‘Take as much as you need – and as little as possible.’

‘Nice to meet you, Inspector, do call again,’ Salkeld said, as he dragged his overhead microphone down and switched it on.

‘Aye,’ Stella called out, from across the room.

‘You too,’ Tyler replied, following after her boss.

Salkeld spoke into the microphone, ‘Male caucasian, allegedly seventy-one years of age.  Third degree burns to his right arm, neck – which has been severed post mortem. I’ll return to that topic later and –’ The door closed.  His audience had left.

***

It was mid-afternoon when they emerged into the deep shadows of Cowgate, where the sun made only fleeting visits.  The gloom gave the impression night was already upon them.

‘Scottish or English?’

‘Like he said, an army brat,’ Dunbar answered.  ‘His dad served with the Black Watch if memory serves. They lived all over Europe and Hong Kong for a while.  He speaks pretty passable Cantonese; a good mon to have with you at a Chinese restaurant and good crack anytime.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Provided you don’t try and keep pace with him.  In all my years, I’ve only ever seen one person drink him under the table – and that was Stella.’

‘I can imagine that too.’

‘He’s a proud Scot, born of Scots, but raised and educated wherever his dad got posted, hence the mongrel accent.  He studied medicine at Cambridge and Edinburgh, played rugby for both and also for Edinburgh Northern, in the amateur era.  The best tight-head prop never to have represented his country – in my opinion.  You’ll get used to him.  Behind the banter and bonhomie Donnie’s a brilliant forensic pathologist.’  They stopped beside his car and Tyler leaned on the roof.

‘Man or woman?’

‘Stella!?  Ahh, well, the jury’s out, and none of us have ever dared ask.’

‘Don’t think I want to find out either.’

Rush hour was ill-named.  Short of slapping his magnetic light to the roof, crawl hour seemed more appropriate, especially since the tramway project, chronically overdue and way-over-budget had started, stopped, started again, and continued to stutter towards completion. Would it improve the city’s transport and ease the peak time traffic jams?  Alec Dunbar, not until they finish what they started and extend the tracks to Leith.

***

The office was abuzz by the time they got back.  DS Conroy leapt from his chair on seeing them and dashed across the room.

‘One in custody, Boss, and the dog-handler’s also recovered a bloodstained knapsack.  It had a heavy bladed knife, boning knife and rubber gloves inside it.’ They walked into Dunbar’s office, Conroy reciting from memory as they went. ‘I told them to get it all to Eugene ASAP.’

‘
Good!
  Poacher?’

‘
Doesnae know nothin’ about no bag,’
Conroy answered, mimicking the suspect. ‘That’s all he’s said so far.  Apart from, get me a lawyer.  The dog handler said he was fairly hostile when stopped and – but for the dog – thinks the guy was up for having a go.’

‘So who is he?’ Dunbar asked, slipping out of his overcoat.

‘Darren Carswell, born twenty-two, ten, seventy-nine.  Lives at Spinney Burn, with his partner and four wee ones.  Only one of them is his, he says.  I’ve checked the electoral roll. The address he gave is in the name o’ his partner, Stacey Bernadette Brogan.’ 

Dunbar hung his coat up on the stand and wandered around his desk.  The DS and Tyler held station on the other side.

‘Bits of previous; poachin’, theft, arson,’ Conroy continued, reading from a print-out. 

Dunbar eyed Tyler at that last revelation.

‘A few minor public order arrests – drunkenness an’ scrappin’ mainly.’ Conroy added, without looking up. ‘Assault, times two a few years back.’ Conroy wafted the rap-sheet and shrugged. ‘Fancies himself as a bit of a tough guy, by the sound o’ it.’

Falk joined them.  ‘That borin’ bastard Archie English’s in interview room one, sir.  Got him a cup o’ tea and pack o’ shortbread fingers outta the vending machine.  A quid!’ he gasped. ‘A feckin’ quid!  They’re sixty-five pence at the Co-op.’

‘Daylight robbery,’ Conroy sympathised.

‘Put it on exes,’ Dunbar muttered sarcastically.

‘Yeah?’

‘
No!
’ he snapped back.

‘
Might’ve known.  Sweet Jesus! Does he ever shut up about his feckin’ ancestors?’

‘Rarely,’ Tyler replied.

‘I gie’ him a bundle o’ blank statement forms to rip up an’ drop outta’ the window every few yards on the way up.’

‘Why?’ Tyler asked.  The other two knew better than to do so.

‘So he can find his way back hame.  There’s nae feckin’ way I’m drivin’ the tedious twat back!’

Tyler let out a high pitched squeal of mirth that delighted them all.

‘You’re a sergeant, Falk – delegate,’ she advised, still beaming with amusement.

‘Aye, right enough, ma’am. Grease can do it.’

‘Grease?’ she repeated.

‘DC Reece, Greg Reece – Grease! 

Tyler shook her head.  What nickname she had earned by now, surely she had one.

‘Shit, I hope he’s our mon, sir.  Havin’ that clown behind bars’ll be purgatory for the scum he does his time with.’

‘
Right!
  To business, Falk and whoever, grill the poacher,’ Dunbar ordered. ‘The DI and –’

‘Contradiction in terms, boss. Grill o’ poach which is it?’ The Glaswegian cut in

‘Ha-bloody-ha, you know what I mean, ye Weegie smart-arse.  Oh, and square up his brief beforehand.  If the nobheid was up to his old tricks send him home with an appearance at the local Sheriff’s court to think about.’

‘For poaching!?’

‘For anything – for cocking himself at the dog-handler.  For wasting our bloody time! Whatever it takes to wake him the hell up, and stop the clown acting like a feckin’ country commando.  So!  Let’s get to it.  We’ll take boring of Bentock, you poaching and pissing-me-off from Spinney Burn.’

***

Archie English had finished his cup of tea and eaten the whole packet of shortbread fingers.  Not a crumb in sight.  OCD determined that the crumbs were swept into the wrapper.  It was then carefully folded, pressed and twisted at each end into a sweet wrapper to contain them.  Its presence though, still troubled him, so he stared at the two-way mirror blankly to take his mind of it and was both pleased and relieved when Tyler and Dunbar entered the room.  He immediately removed the wrapper from the table and handed it to Tyler.  She had no idea why, but pocketed it anyway.

‘That’s a two-way mirror, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Aye, it is.’ Dunbar replied, taking his seat. 

Archie stood up and stepped right up to the glass cupping his hands around his eyes and resting them against it in an effort to see through.

‘That’s the whole point, Mr English – you cannae see out, but we can see in.’

‘Is someone watching us now?’

‘No,’ he replied.

Archie turned and looked at them both, ‘How can you be sure, if you –’

‘I usually do the watching, while other detectives do the interviewing.’

‘Ahh, I see.’ He was very pleased to hear that and resumed his seat. ‘Detective Sergeant Faulkner’s a gruff sort.  Glaswegian, if I’m not mistaken.’  Neither of them answered.  ‘I’ve never been there, but Grandma was an avid fan of Taggart.  Never missed an episode, which meant, neither did I.  And I have encountered one or two Glaswegians, that is, tourists, you know, visitors, walking in our area.’ He eyed them expectantly.

‘Don’t watch TV cop shows,’ Dunbar responded.

‘Why would you, when you do it for real?’

‘So you’ve never been to Glasgow, Archie?’ Tyler asked.

He shook his head. ‘Grandpa didnae like it.  Said it was a wicked place.’

‘Has its moments,’ Dunbar concurred.

‘Been here a few times –
not in here!
Edinburgh!  Grandma used te’ bring me.’

‘Don’t tell me, Grandpa didnae like it,’ Dunbar gently mocked.

Archie nodded. “Nae less of a harlot than Glasgow.  Just wears a prettier frock.  What’s it got that Gala or Coldstream hasn’t anyway?”  Is what he used to say.’

‘Depends what you’re looking for.’

‘The other detective, dinnae catch his name, was nice, quiet and polite.’ 

Unable to get a word in, Dunbar imagined, as he shared a knowing look with Tyler. 

‘Anyway, I’d sooner deal directly with the person in charge.’

‘Good then we –’

‘At the site,’ he continued, ‘only Professor Geary and Dr Vasquez are allowed to discuss their work with me – or mine with them.’

‘Wilson Farish is dead,’ Dunbar said, getting straight to the point.

Archie didn’t react to the news.  He stared blankly back at Dunbar.  After a moment a slightly confused expression crept across his face.  ‘So I heard,’ he eventually said.

‘Does that not trouble you?’

‘Grandpa always said, the dead get their just deserts, be it in heaven or hell.  So I never think about the departed.’

‘How do you feel about it though?’ Tyler asked.

He turned his head to meet her gaze. ‘Feel?  How am I supposed to feel?’

‘How did you feel when Grandpa died?’ she asked. 

Good ploy, Dunbar thought; draw him out by making him revisit his past.

‘It made Grandma sad and that made me sad for her.’

‘Only Grandma?’ Archie nodded. That tactic seemed to have failed. ‘And when Grandma died?’

Archie sighed and eyed them in turn. They obviously were expecting a much different reaction to their questions than he was capable of.  This was the very kind of situation that confused him and how the anxiety began.  With that, the panic attacks followed, and he did not want that to happen, not here.  Not in front of them.  His Grandpa used to say they would have to send him away if he could not learn to control his tantrums.  He said the polis would come and lock him away.

‘I got their room!’ he announced. 
There!
  He was back in a happy place.  It was a big day when he got to move all their untidy stuff out of the big bedroom and put all his things in it, except the big bed, he loved the big bed.

‘No big deal then?’ Dunbar asked.

‘
Yes!
They had a great big comfy bed.  I was still in my single bed, the one that I’d had since I was a boy. Their bed was much bigger.’

‘Win, win,’ Dunbar offered sarcastically. The DCI’s quip seemed to confuse Archie again.

‘Are you thinking – appropriate adult?’ Tyler whispered in Dunbar’s ear.  Her boss shrugged.  Archie was not under arrest or on tape, but if it came to that, without an appropriate adult in the room, any evidence obtained would be thrown out of court as unreliable or having been obtained under duress.

‘No thoughts on Wilson then?’ Dunbar asked.

Archie frowned. ‘Not really. He was virtually house bound and in constant pain.  I imagine his passing came as a relief.’

‘A relief!?’ Dunbar gasped.

‘Yes.’

‘He burned to death.’

‘Yes, that must have been unpleasant, but he’s at peace now.’

‘Someone broke into McAleavey’s parlour o’ repose, cut his head from his body, stole it and mounted it on a spike at Obag’s Holm,’ Dunbar said, scrutinising him for the slightest reaction – and he got one.  Excitement!

‘
Really!?
How strange and yet –’ He paused.

‘And yet?’

‘Well there’s no avoiding the symbolism or significance.  That was the fate of many of Obag’s victims and most of her clan according to accounts.  The practice back then was to mount the severed heads on spikes.’

‘Yes, so I understand.  Can you shed any light on who that might have been?  And why Wilson Farish’s head should end up at Braur Glen?’

‘An ancestor of his led the militia against the Inglis Clan.  He wasnae Scottish, you know.  He just lived up here longer than he lived in England and liked to pretend he was – but he wasn’t.  A Sassenach!’ Archie chortled gleefully.

‘Yes you said.  But who apart from you knew that Wilson’s ancestor led the attack on Obag’s Holm?’

‘A relative of his ancestor,’ Archie corrected.  ‘And he did for a start, but not until I informed him of the fact,’ he added smugly.

‘Anyone else?’

‘I might have told the Professor and she her team, I don’t know.’

‘So it’s not common knowledge?’ Tyler asked.

‘It’s on the website that Captain Farish led the attack, and in my manuscript.  I haven’t included the information that Wilson is distantly related though.’

***

The interview concluded where it began with a confused man-child, who was only interested in talking about himself and his find and two detectives still bewildered by the strange events that had brought them all together.  Dean Carswell eventually admitted setting snares, but only after Falk suggested that the police would ask the court to recoup the costs of the forensic examination of his knapsack, which would surely connect him to it.  It was a bit of a bluff, but it worked.  Carswell had no alibi for the night of Wilson Farish’s murder.  He had been out most of the night lamping and checking his snares.