A Deviant Breed (2 page)

Watt shrugged nonchalantly, but Dunbar knew him too well to fall for any pretence at open-mindedness. The Superintendent preferred the idea of an unexplained death; much easier to write off.

‘That’s for you to determine, Alec mon. Get busy; I’ll see you at the briefing.’ At that Terry Watt wheeled about and strode out closing the door behind him.

***

Thanks to his Grandmother’s scary stories about the Witch of Obag’s Holm, and being of that nefarious lineage; his surname being a windfall from one of those ancient family trees, Archie’s interest had always lain with the infamous Border Reivers and that territory of the Scotland-England border, a region so ungovernable it was known as the Debatable Lands. Now finally his years of obsessive research and tireless field work had paid off.  Until the day that his trusty metal detector chirped to life in Braur Glen, the legend of Obag’s Holm had been just that
– mere legend
. 

And what of that legend?  It was said that the Inglis clan were a particularly ruthless band of cut-throats even by reiver standards.  They reached their murderous peak during the mid to late seventeenth century under the leadership of their matriarchal Chieftain, Morag; however, from the moment Oliver Cromwell returned to parliament to seize the reins of power for a second time their days were numbered.  Ardent followers of the newly proclaimed ‘Lord Protector’ quickly set about enforcing the laws of the land with Puritan zeal, and rivals of the lawless Inglis Clan immediately began plotting their downfall.

The legend of the woman dubbed Obag by her enemies and that of her bloodthirsty kinfolk had survived as the stuff of ghoulish fireside tales on dark winters’ nights to scare children into their beds or to enchant weary travellers with over a dram.  Pele towers turned into raging pyres that consumed whole families.  Rival clansmen and women spirited away under cover of lowland mists to their lair, and there, tormented and tortured and put to death; their heads mounted on spikes across the Eastern Marches as a warning to others and, according to folklore, their flesh devoured at ungodly feasts

It was by way of Halloween entertainment laid on by his doting grandma that Wee Archie first heard mention of the Inglis Clan’s evil matriarch and where his obsession with discovering the truth began.  It was a quest that would win him few friends and singled him out as a weirdo amongst his neighbours and peers.  Down the years he had been the subject of cruel jibes and countless practical jokes on account of Morag but now! – a highly regarded archaeologist beat a path to his door and he found himself basking in the reflected glory of one of Scotland’s most intriguing archaeological discoveries for quite some time, and he liked the feeling that gave him.

The professionals feted him and pored over his copious notes. They gave him personally guided tours of the site –
his site!
  The extensive archaeological dig had so far failed to attract the media attention he had hoped for.  This latest intriguing development might; provided it did not adversely affect the ‘really important’ work now going on up there.  Either way, it struck him as a win-win situation.  The inevitable press coverage was bound to put his find, and as a consequence, their remote community on the tourist map.

Once the subject of scorn, he was now something of a local celebrity; regularly stopped and quizzed in the street, met with cheery welcomes and patted on the back now that serious people, academics and scholars were sitting up and taking notice. The find had brought long overdue recognition. It was well past time the Borders region enjoyed its rightful share of the lucrative tourist trade and he was perfectly placed and primed to provide expert guided tours.

He had already completed the first draft of a book about his search.  Perhaps he could get Professor Geary to write the preface or at least acknowledge his valuable contribution to the history of the Scottish Borders. 

***

Terry Watt slid in at the back of the briefing room with their guest, Professor Shelagh Geary.  He whispered an explanation to her of his role within the team.

‘I see my role as that o’ a guiding hand,
as opposed to hands-on supervisor.  That way, the SIO has a free rein, ye understand.’  It was a speech the team had all heard before and one that was interpreted very differently by Watt’s astute Detective Chief Inspector.  Alec Dunbar’s take on his Superintendent’s ‘free-rein’ management philosophy was: “If you dinnae touch the ball, ye cannae be blamed if it gets dropped.”

Terry Watt was a master at delegation and basically lazy, hence Dunbar had been lumbered with devising the operational protocols for the NHSCU.  All the same, it was a working relationship that suited them both.  Watt’s idleness meant less top down interference in how Dunbar went about his job, which was not always according to the manual. 

Should the Justice Minister, Lawrie Minto and the top landing of the newly formed national force embrace his ethos for the proposed NHSCU and, should he secure one of the DCI posts on it, he would enjoy even more of a free-hand.  It was the main reason he had allowed Terry Watt to shuffle such a laborious task, earmarked for his boss’s personal attention, on to him.  Were they to adopt Alec Dunbar’s protocols, officers of Watt’s rank and above would be consigned purely to the role of overseers, while he and his counterparts handled the dirty business of gathering evidence as well as the fun part – targeting, chasing down and arresting the bad guys.

In truth, the job was hard enough without having to look over your shoulder and to date Dunbar had not felt like he needed to, at least not yet.  Terry Watt was ambitious enough to be a threat of course but he retained a healthy respect for his DCI’s talents.  For that reason Alec Dunbar was reasonably confident that he could rely on the man’s support on those occasions that he went
off piste
, as Watt liked to put it.  And as it was, Dunbar’s clear-up rate compared favourably with any other DCI in the country.  His stats earned him a degree of leeway, albeit, unofficially. 

Dunbar was relatively pleased with the team he had been able to assemble, with one notable exception, DI Briony Tyler. Having previously only ever seen her from a distance or from behind, she was even easier on the eye at close quarters, as evidenced by the knowing looks most of the men in the room shared as she took her place – able detective or unnecessary distraction?  Only time would tell.

At least he had secured the services of two reliable and experienced Detective Sergeants, Neil Conroy and Sean Faulkner.  The two sergeants complemented each other in much the same way Watt and Dunbar did; Conroy, a born administrator and Faulkner, or Falk as everyone knew him, the tenacious thief-taker.  Falk had presence and stature; a hard working and hard hitting ex-Royal Marine.  Cops and criminals alike respected Falk or very quickly learned to.  Sure, he was a bit of a loose cannon, that said, show Alec Dunbar a cop who always ‘went by the book’ and he would show you one that had done little worthy of note.  By complete contrast Neil Conroy went about things at a much more sedate pace but what he lacked in energy he more than made up for in patience and persistence.

***

Dunbar had not been sure what to expect but Professor Shelagh Geary was not it.  A shambolic figure who, from appearances, bought her clothes at a poorly supported charity outlet; she certainly did not dress to impress.  She looked as if she had just climbed out of a test trench.  All that was missing was the ubiquitous, worn down trowel.  Her mane of auburn hair perched precariously on one side of her head was held in place by a couple of biros and a ferocious looking comb that, in the wrong hands, could be utilised as an offensive weapon.  Professor Geary nodded politely at the assembled police team and shuffled to the front rummaging the whole time through a huge multi-coloured, patchwork shoulder bag.

‘Professor Shelagh Geary –’ Terry Watt announced steering her to the front of the room.  She offered a strained smile aimed at no one in particular and having finally found the pen she was searching for in her hair, turned to face them all, ‘– has kindly consented to brief you all on the background of this case.’

‘By that, I presume, Detective Inspector you mean –’ Geary began to say.

‘Detective Superintendent,’ Watt corrected, quietly but firmly.

She nodded abruptly in acknowledgement of her mistake and commenced rummaging in her bag again, ‘Forgive me, I’m not
au fait
with your rank structure.  On TV the detective in charge always seems to be an Inspector.’

‘TV cops are to policing as Indiana Jones is to archaeology, Professor,’ a voice over her left shoulder explained.  Professor Geary turned to look in that direction.

The husky timbre of his lowland Scot’s accent suited his appearance.  She found herself staring into the eyes of a handsome if somewhat pugilistic face, particularly around the bridge of the nose and arc of his right eyebrow.  It was a lived in face of practised impassivity that, on countless occasions she had no doubt, had experienced but restrained every emotion known to man.  His crooked half smile was almost lost amongst his thick, drooping moustache and more closely-cropped, greying beard.  All-in-all, he cut an impressive if unconventional figure for a senior detective. Athletically built and wearing a tailored, three piece tweed suit – with watch chain, she noted.  A bit of rough, buffed and polished to suave urbanity was how he struck the forensically observant academic.  By far the most unusual feature of his appearance though was the way he supported his right leg with a robust looking walking stick.  Stylish affectation or out of necessity, she wondered.

‘Heaven forbid,’ she huffed, having located her small notebook.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Alec Dunbar the SIO.’

Geary offered her hand and Dunbar took it.  Years of scraping and scratching around amongst soil and a stone was etched into her skin.  To the touch her hand reminded him of his grandpa’s; warm, dry and rough, very rough.  In his early childhood, when Grandpa paid them a visit, he would catch young Alec by the face in his huge palms and plant a kiss on his forehead.  It always felt as if someone had taken a rasp to his cheeks and a scrubbing brush to his scalp, so stiff was the old gillie’s moustache.

‘That acronym again – SIO?’ Professor Geary repeated, turning back to Terry Watt.

‘Err, sorry, yes, it stands for Senior Investigating Officer.’

She scribbled a note, ‘
ahh –
of course.  I’m also unfamiliar with police jargon, hence the notepad, Insp – err’ sorry, Superintendent,’ she explained before eyeing Watt quizzically, ‘senior?
– But did you not say?’

Now it was Terry Watt’s turn to blush as stifled titters rippled around the room.  He scowled and scanned the team who immediately straightened their faces. ‘Aye, well, DCI Dunbar will run the enquiry – but I will oversee it,’ he explained, ‘and his 2i/c – sorry, second-in-command –’

‘That one I know.  I have one of my own, Dr Sebastian Vasquez, you’ll probably bump into him at Braur Glen.’

‘I –
I
won’t, unless something goes awry,’ he explained, eyeing Dunbar, ‘which it won’t.  The enquiry is in safe hands, aye, Alec and Detective Inspector Briony Tyler might meet the good Doctor but –’

‘Oh, I didn’t say he was good!’ she cut in. ‘Joking!’ she quickly added, ‘Seb’s invaluable, the Border Reivers era is his particular field of expertise, along with Celts and Picts and – ach, well I could go on but –’

‘DI Tyler,’ Watt said gesturing towards Briony.

Professor Geary turned to greet her.  Off-centre parted jet-black hair scraped back into a ponytail framed her pretty face.  Wearing the barest minimum of expertly applied make-up but no more than was needed to accentuate nature’s gifts; the young DI radiated beauty.  Tyler’s slim yet curvaceous shape was further complimented by the cut of her two-piece trouser suit.  If ever a girl had it all, Geary thought, as she took Tyler’s hand. 

‘Haven’t we met before, Inspector?’ she asked.

Briony Tyler feigned surprise but Alec Dunbar recognised the imbalance between the quizzical expression and fleeting glimmer of recognition in her eyes.  She in turn noticed that he had.  Uncomfortably aware of his inquisitive gaze, Tyler turned away and faced the team. 

Many things betray a person’s emotions – especially guilt.  You do not have to be looking into someone’s eyes to spot a lie when it’s being told – if you know what to look for and Alec Dunbar did.  Briony Tyler had hesitated for a split second and thought about confirming but bit her tongue, opting to frown as if confused and shake her head instead.  He also noted that her neck had turned red, which meant her face probably had too; hence she had turned away from him.  Tyler knew that he had seen through her veil but why deny the professor?  It could have a bearing on his inquiry and for that reason alone he must know but the briefing was not the time or place, so Dunbar filed a mental note of that intriguing encounter.

Having been introduced, Professor Geary was suddenly aware of a tangible air of expectation.  She scanned the team, took a breath and launched into the history of Braur Glen and the accompanying legend that had to be unpicked from the known facts before she could safely draw any conclusions about the site.  They all listened patiently but Dunbar’s was being tested, so he gently steered her onto the subject of the skull.

‘Oh!
Yes, well – your head without a body, which in itself would be curious enough were it not for the fact that until Plug, our born again digger,’ she chortled girlishly. ‘Sorry, in-house joke.  Plug’s something of a late-comer to our discipline but has embraced it with the zeal of an evangelist.  From roving homeless to roving archaeologist, quite a story in itself,’ she digressed.  ‘Err, sorry.  Plug, aka Peter Nairn actually discovered it.  All we had up until then was bodies without heads – or to be more accurate, skeletal remains that lacked their skulls and one or two vertebrae to be precise.  You can imagine how excited we all were, that is until it was noticed the skull had fillings in its teeth.’ She paused as if anticipating questions but none were forthcoming.  The team already knew that.  It was the very reason they had been assembled. Geary cleared her throat and continued, ‘There is however a common denominator, other than the fact they have been excavated in the same field.  Early days but the forensic pathology indicates that our victims suffered a similar fate to your victim – execution by beheading!’