A Deviant Breed (28 page)

‘Do you want babies, Detective Inspector Tyler?’

Tyler almost gagged. ‘I – I haven’t really, erm, no, probably not, I –’

‘Oh!   Do you like to have sex with lots of men too?’

Dunbar grunted as he choked down a belly-laugh.

‘No I bloody don’t!’ she snapped indignantly.  Archie nodded his approval.

‘So, grandpa was pleased to see the back of your mum, but grandma wasn’t.  Is that how it was?’ Dunbar asked.

‘Yes.  They would argue about it sometimes.  I would hear them.’

‘Did that not upset you?’ Tyler asked. 

‘No, they weren’t shouting at me. I was only wee, it wasn’t my fault.’

‘They shouted – and argued about your mother?’ she pressed.

‘Grandma used to say that he should not have sent her away.’

‘He sent her – she didn’t run away then?’ Dunbar asked.

‘He said run away, grandma said sent – either way she went.’ Archie obviously did not, or could not differentiate. ‘I didn’t care, I was only –’

‘Wee, yeah you said,’ Dunbar cut in, looking at Tyler.

It was a conversation that was not really getting them anywhere, and it was becoming increasingly clear that, should he make a telling revelation, the lack of an appropriate adult or social worker’s presence would render any evidence inadmissible.  They both got up to leave.

‘Have you discussed any of this with Ruth Linklater from the Edinburgh Herald?’ Archie shook his head. ‘But she has asked?’ Dunbar pressed.

‘Yes, it got quite irritating actually.’

‘We’re not doing it to irritate you, Archie,’ Tyler soothed.

‘No, I know – I used to watch Taggart with grandma, remember.  They did it all the time – asked about people’s families when they were investigating crimes.’

‘That’s right,’ Dunbar reassured him. ‘Why have you not told Ruth though?’

‘I don’t want her to write about my family – I want her to write about me and my search for Obag’s Holm, and the Professor’s work of course.  So I told her mammy’s name was Morag, wicked like the witch, and that she changed her surname too when she married that salesman and moved doon south.’  He grinned mischievously.

‘Okay!  Maybe you should stick to that.’

Archie nodded. ‘Yes, anyway, I’ve asked her not to come here anymore, just to phone me if she wants to talk about my discovery.  She has bad breath,’ he added, wrinkling up his nose and wafting the air demonstratively. ‘Smoking – disgusting –
yeuch!
’

Back in the car the two detectives quietly mulled over yet another strange encounter with Archie English.  Dunbar started the car and pulled away.

“God plants his seed not man,” Dunbar eventually said, quoting Fraser English.

‘Absolving himself from getting his daughter pregnant, the dirty bastard,’ Tyler hissed. ‘Why didn’t he stop Farish abusing Archie though?’

‘Because Farish had the dirt on him,’ Dunbar suggested.

She nodded her agreement. ‘We should throw his corpse on the council tip with the other garbage and filth when we’re done.  One thing’s for sure, if we put Archie on tape – he
has
to have an appropriate adult in the room.  That is one seriously troubled individual.’

‘Troubled?  I’m not even sure he has any real sense of just how fucked up his childhood was.  But you’re right. 
So!
  Do you still think we should lock him up?’

‘It’s not him,’ she said, for the first time.

‘Tell that to Molineux – he might listen to you.’

‘Do you think Fraser English did away with his daughter?’

‘Starting to look like it, wouldn’t you say?’

Tyler nodded. ‘By the way, have we got a positive ID on Kenneth Edward Murray?’

‘Nope!  But I don’t even want to think about it not being him.  Remind me to check in with Donnie Salkeld when we get back.’

Tyler checked her watch. ‘Will he still be there?’

‘If he isn’t, I’ll ring the bugger at home.’

***

They assembled in the briefing room, the whole team, bar the civilian data-input clerks.  The detectives’ shift had ended an hour earlier but Dunbar decided that if Detective Chief Superintendent Molineux wanted to play games, he would keep them on the meter a while longer.

‘Back to first principles, what have we got?  What do we need?  And what connects the late Fraser English, Kenneth Edward Murray and Wilson Farish?  Apart from losing their heads that is, because something must.  Happily, thanks to Mr Murray, the much feared resurrection of the ancient blood feud is looking less likely, so what are the alternatives?’ Dunbar asked.  He turned to the face the white board.  ‘Focus on the incident tree.  There has to be a common denominator.’ 

They did as instructed and before long ideas and opinions bounced around the room. Location was the first and obvious one. 

‘It suggests the perpetrator has a connection to the area – or at least a good knowledge of it.  Are they a local or merely a regular visitor?’ Falk offered.

‘Or was Archie’s website what drew them to Braur Glen?’ someone else proffered.

‘If that is the case, is it the mysterious bloggers, MI or MII or both?’ Tyler wondered, out loud, stepping up alongside Dunbar.

‘Another tenuous link seems to be paedophilia,’ Dunbar mused.

‘Unless Archie English’s makin’ it up, boss,’ Falk said. 

A theory Dunbar and Tyler had discussed on their drive back from Archie’s house and dismissed. Both of them doubted whether Archie was capable of that level of creative thought, nor was there anything to gain.  It could slow the enquiry down, and that seemed to be the last thing Archie would want.

‘Let’s assume he wasn’t, and that Wilson Farish was a paedophile,’ Tyler said. ‘The forensic and DNA evidence suggests that Fraser English engaged in an incestuous relationship with his daughter to the extent that he got her pregnant.  What we’ll probably never know is at what age her father began to have sexual relations with her.  Case studies support the likelihood that the abuse would have begun before puberty and that is also the opinion of the criminal psychologist who has reviewed the case.’

‘Was Kenneth Edward Murray also a paedophile?’ Conroy asked.

‘Another question we need to find the answer to,’ Dunbar answered. ‘From the evidence we have there is every indication that he was a sexual predator, and lost at least one job on account of it.  But did he also seek out under-aged victims?’ Dunbar slapped his palm on the white board. ‘Where do their stories intersect?’ he asked, before drawing freehand lines from each victim to the other two.  Having done so, he replaced the pen’s top and stabbed at the intersection with it.  ‘That’s where we will find the killer.’ His case review was met with weary nods and murmurs of agreement.  ‘Go home, get some sleep and tomorrow let’s try to find the answers to some, if not all of these questions.’

As they began to disperse Dunbar held Neil Conroy back. ‘Do you need somebody riding shotgun in here with you?’ 

Conroy forced a weak smile and shook his head.  ‘Nae, sir.  Could have done wi’ a Taser though for those two.  Well, Molly anyhow, Tell-ye-Watt was just goin’ along wi’ anything the boss said.’

Dunbar nodded his understanding.  That was Terry Watt’s M-O.  Unfortunately Neil Conroy, despite being just as capable as any DI that he might have appointed office manager, lacked the rank to lock horns with two detectives of Molineux and Watt’s ranks.  From across the room Tyler noticed the brief exchange and warmth of the handshake as she slipped into her coat.  Happily, they ended the day in the same way they had started it, as friends. 

***

Donnie Salkeld was not at home.  That left Dunbar in two minds as to whether to track him down or not.  He decided he would.  Better he began the next day armed with all the facts, as opposed to chasing some important ones down. Finding Donnie would be easy enough; extricating himself afterwards would be the tricky bit.  The pathologist was at a function at the Roxburghe Hotel in Charlotte Square.  Again, gate-crashing the function was not what troubled Dunbar; it was the fact it was an Edinburgh Northern RUFC Old Boys gathering.  It would be a raucous and drink-sodden affair, and perhaps not the best place for a former Jed-Forest player to be.  Dunbar could hear them from the concierge’s lectern in the foyer.

‘Are you with the party, sir?’

‘Not exactly,’ he replied, looking beyond the man and in the direction of the noise.

‘It’s a private function,’ the concierge explained, as he fiddled with a discarded napkin, scooped from one of the coffee tables when he breezed up to greet Dunbar.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘And I’m afraid I can’t grant access unless –’

‘Don’t worry, I’d probably need that if you did,’ he said, nodding at the napkin.

‘A napkin, sir?’ the confused young man asked.

‘A flag of truce.’ He flashed his ID. ‘Would you see if you can locate Professor Donald Salkeld and ask him to join me –’ Dunbar looked around – ‘here would be fine.’

The concierge nodded.  ‘Can I have a waiter get you anything meanwhile?’

‘Coffee?’

‘Certainly.’  The young man strode away, snapping his fingers at someone lingering in the adjoining room.

A scowling Donnie Salkeld appeared in full traditional Highland dress and clutching a tumbler of malt, but his expression immediately changed when he saw Dunbar sitting on one of the leather sofas, sipping coffee from a fine bone china cup.

‘Do you no’ want something stronger, Alec?’ he boomed.  His accent was richer, and thicker, broader and an octave lower than usual.  Drink seemed to have that effect on him.

‘Hello, Donnie, and no thanks,’ Dunbar said, as he eyed him up and down. ‘Hired or owned?’

‘Where am I going te find anything off the peg te fit this?’ he replied, giving him a twirl and slapping his ample girth with his free hand.

‘Canny tartan – but not Salkeld?’

‘Wilson – my mother’s kith and kin.’

‘Sorry to bother you but –’

‘Ach, it’s nae bother, mon.  The chairman has decided te interrupt oor reminiscences wi’ a bloody speech.  Perhaps as well, his true personality remains tightly confined until lubricated by liquor,’ he added, staring at his glass like a guilty party.  ‘And from the moment he starts, you spend the rest of the evening desperately seeking the cork.’  He rolled his eyes and slumped into the opposite seat. ‘Got an irritating voice too – like knackered chanter.’ Donnie took a swig of his malt and smacked his lips. ‘Satisfyingly mellow, twenty-five years in the oak and warms all the way doon – can I nae tempt yer’?’

He could, but Dunbar was not about to be. ‘I’m good,’ he replied, raising his cup.

‘You’re drinking tea –’

‘Coffee.’

‘Even worse at this time o’ night, in one o’ Edinburgh’s finest hotels, with a bar that boasts a fine selection o’ malts. That’s just plain wrong.’ Dunbar shrugged. ‘I take it you’re here about the less then happy reunion o’ the heid and arse end of the late Mr Murray?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Heids without bodies, bodies without heids. I have a theory; maybe one o’ ye Jed-bugger boys had reintroduced heids to your annual Hand Ba’ street game.’

‘If only it was that easy, and they used the heids o’ Englishmen.’

‘Did I not read somewhere that Murray was from Norfolk.’

‘If it is the same mon – he grew up there but his family came from Peterhead.’

‘Ahh, so when are you going to bring me a whole body to dissect?’

‘He’s whole now.’

‘Aye, but ye could’ve cleaned the bugger up – wee Stella does nae mind the slicing and dicing but says she’d have took up nursing if she’d wanted to wash bodies before working on them.  Never happier than when she’s having a moan.’

‘Still pissed off at you about the other day?’

Donnie frowned and shook his head. ‘She takes it all in good part – the huffing and puffing’s all an act, and she gives as good as she gets.  Quite taken with your new DI though.’

‘Thought you said that Stella was in a relationship.’

‘For want o’ a better word, and mercifully, my imagination won’t take me there,’ he offered, with a knowing look.  He took another slug of his malt. ‘I’ve met the other half – but it’s no’ better.  Talk about the ugly face of feminism.  That’s one member o’ the sisterhood who must have forgotten to take her bra off before burning it.’ Dunbar nearly spilt his drink and a couple of Americans seated across the aisle flashed disapproving looks their way. ‘Aye, it would account for the frizz that crowns her overcooked face too – sun-bed addiction.  I’ve told her and Stella’s sick o’ telling her.  Skin like beef jerky.’

Dunbar cocked his head in the direction of the eavesdroppers.  Donnie Salkeld shuffled in his seat and swung his massive shoulders around to look, parting his colossal thighs, and in the process, exposing the truth of what a true Scot wears under his kilt.  Dunbar grimaced and glanced over his shoulder, hoping nobody had just walked through the front doors.  When the Americans saw the battered features that crowned the bulk filling the sofa, they immediately looked away.