Chapter 20 #2
Tufty appeared from somewhere behind Scenes’ Transit, bearing two large wax-paper cups. Somehow, he’d managed to swap his fighting suit for the full Police-Scotland-uniform black, complete with peaked cap, stabproof vest, high-vis waistcoat, and overstuffed utility belt.
‘Got to go. Official duties call.’ Logan hung up, then frowned at Tufty. ‘How did you . . .?’
The wee spud did a wiggly turn, showing off his new outfit.
‘The Monstrous Mildewed Maiden made me fetch a bunch of stuff from the station, and I always keep a spare T-shirt and trousers in my locker. That and clean socks. And pants.’ A sage nod.
‘In this job, you never know when clean pants might come in handy.’ A pause.
A blink. ‘Oh, and:’ he held out one of the cups, ‘ta-daaaa!’
Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘If this is meant to be a bribe, you can stop right there. Rennie’s my sidekick.’
That made him deflate a bit. ‘Oh . . .’
‘Mind you,’ Logan accepted the cup, ‘shame to waste it.’ Taking a sip of iced coffee far nicer than anything they served in the tenth circle of Hell.
Then the pair of them stood there, drinking their drinks, while not very much happened on the riverbank down below.
The Sky News drone whined past again, doing a slow pan this time.
Tufty produced his phone. ‘DS Rennie did get me to dig out details on everyone reported missing since last Sunday.’
Course he did.
‘Lazy sod.’
A pout. ‘But I did work hard!’ Holding out the phone. ‘Look I did make maps and graphs and everything!’
‘Not you: Rennie.’
The pout turned into a smile. ‘Oh. That’s OK then.
’ Tufty poked at the screen. ‘I did also research every burglary in the Greater Aberdeen Area for the last six months. In case our victim is of the cat-stealing variety. Then I did a geographical analysis, cos you can totes profile someone based on where they dump a body. Did you know most people won’t cross running water to do it? Like they is witches or something.’
‘Are you getting to the point, or do I have to beat you to death with your own truncheon?’
‘Right: results.’ He scrolled and scrolled and scrolled some more. ‘Here we go. Missing persons is a dead end: we’ve got a schoolteacher – female; a bus driver – in his sixties; a fifteen-year-old girl; a violinist – five foot four; and a mother of two. None of them matches our victim.’
‘Anyone work in a tattoo parlour?’
‘No. Should they?’
So much for the gloves being a clue. ‘Apparently not.’
‘Oh, OK. Which leads us onto burglaries.’ Poke, scroll, fiddle.
‘There’s heaps and heaps of shopliftings, but we can discount all of those, cos people don’t usually do it in the middle of the night.
And the only places still open are twenty-four-hour supermarkets, casinos, clubs, and all-night petrol stations.
And they ain’t gonna kill someone for robbing them. ’
Oh, to be a naive wee PC again.
‘Yeah . . .’ Logan took a scoof of chilled coffee. ‘Remind me to introduce you to the guys who own Secret Service, on Windmill Brae. Steal from their club and we’re fishing you out of Rubislaw Quarry. In bits.’
‘And then I did a pattern analysis to see when and where the break-ins happened, cos I was told to look for our victim going on a spree. And that does give us these.’ He held his phone out again, showing a map of Aberdeen with clusters of red dots superimposed over it.
‘Biggest splodges are multiple hits on the same night.’
Not a massive amount of help.
‘Suppose it’s a start.’
‘And then I did put my Thinking Head on.’
A pair of figures emerged from the marquee, not wearing the standard white SOC Tyvek suits, but pale blue ones. Or ‘going the full Smurf’ as it was known.
‘And my Thinking Head did ask: “Who else does wear all black, Lovely Tufty, but does not burglarise cats?”’
The lead Smurf stopped, just inside the cordon, and threw back her hood.
Took off her safety goggles and mask, then shook her hair free.
Which didn’t help much, because it was stringy with sweat.
Isobel needed her roots done, too – the greys were beginning to show.
But the crows’ feet and laughter lines didn’t change the fact that she was still a very attractive woman. Until you got to know her.
‘And I said, “I does has no idea, Mr Thinking Head. Who?” And my Thinking Head did go: “Muggers!”’
Smurf Number Two performed the same unhooding procedure, only with far less catwalk-model poise.
But then Sheila Dalrymple was one of those tall, thin, angular people, who seemed to be constructed entirely out of coat-hangers; with trendy glasses and a wide flat face.
Carrying their mobile pathology kit in a blue plastic evidence crate.
‘And I did said, “That’s a very clever point, Mr Thinking Head.” Because Mr Thinking Head is very clever indeed.’
Isobel said something to one of the Scenes team, pointing back towards town.
They nodded, then scuttled off to make a phone call.
Tufty held out his phone again, where a couple of small dots were superimposed on a map of Duthie Park. ‘So I did a search on muggings in the vicinity, because if you mug someone you mug them when they’re on foot, right? Cos it’s hard to mug someone who’s in a car. They can just drive away.’
Instructions issued, Isobel scrunched her way across the pebbles to the common approach path.
‘Only there wasn’t a lot of them, when I checked. I think muggers want somewhere with more foot traffic after dark, and the park isn’t really a shortcut to or from anywhere.’ A wee shrug. ‘Sorry.’
Isobel clambered up the steep bank to the lay-by, with Sheila struggling along behind her – having a lot more difficulty, carrying that crate.
Logan lowered his voice to a whisper and sidled closer to Tufty. ‘Try to not say anything stupid, OK?’
Isobel pulled herself over the railing, snapped off her purple nitrile gloves, and nodded at the pair of them. ‘Acting Detective Chief Inspector, Constable.’
A wave from Tufty. ‘Hi, Doc.’
She gave him a scowl in return. ‘That’s Professor McAllister.’ Then started towards her filthy Range Rover, but Logan held up a hand, blocking her way. Politely.
‘Anything you can tell us?’
‘Of course.’ She regarded his hand with disdain. ‘I can tell you that we do post-mortem examinations in this city, rather than indulge in random guesswork.’
Helpful.
‘Isobel, you must’ve noticed something. Come on, we won’t hold you to it. Just . . . any idea on time of death?’
There was a long, imperious pause.
‘You do know how we estimate time of death, don’t you? With a rectal thermometer and some complicated mathematics. Which we do back at the mortuary, not knee-deep in a river.’
Logan pinched his eyebrows in and up, in a sort of spanked-puppy-dog look.
Her mouth pinched. Then a breath hissed out.
‘But I suppose I can speculate that the remains have been in the water for a number of hours – probably overnight, going by the lividity and level of predation by marine fauna. Cause of death is yet to be determined, but if he was alive when the trauma to the back of the head occurred, he wouldn’t be for long. ’
Sheila Dalrymple struggled over the railings and staggered to a halt, joining the congregation. ‘Verily, ’twas a mighty blow he suffered. Near rent his skull in twain, it did.’
Everyone stared at her.
‘Don’t do that.’ Logan turned back to Isobel. ‘What about ID? When you went through the guy’s pockets: driver’s licence, credit card, library membership . . .?’ He got nothing back but a flat, dead stare. ‘Fine: how quickly can you get fingerprints and DNA?’
Her eyes narrowed, in a way that suggested she was about to tell them to fornicate somewhere far from here. Then: ‘DNA will depend on the lab. But don’t expect miracles – everyone’s got the flu, so they’re woefully understaffed. As for fingerprints? Wait until the body’s dried out, then we’ll see.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a photo of his face? Pocket contents?’
A tut from Sheila. ‘I’ faith, some villain had plundered our fallen friend’s possessions long afore we lay our hands upon his damp apparel.’
‘What?’
Isobel sighed. ‘The victim’s pockets were all inside out. Are we to assume you weren’t responsible? It’s not uncommon for police officers to conveniently “forget” the importance of crime-scene management.’
‘We didn’t touch him!’
‘Then ’twas truly a villain that performed the vile search –’ Sheila leaned in for a conspiratorial wink, ‘perhaps even the miscreant you and your stout fellows seek!’
Isobel massaged her temples. ‘Sheila, I need you to chase up the duty undertakers. Make sure they’re on their way to collect the remains, OK? Please.’
A nod. ‘Be of good cheer, my lady, for I shall stir their sluggardly pot!’ And off she stalked, taking her crate with her.
Soon as she was gone, Isobel let loose a long-suffering breath.
‘Someone gave her a box-set of romantasy novels. That Diana Gabaldon has a lot to answer for.’ She undid her SOC-suit zip, revealing a sweaty grey shirt and purple tie.
‘We took some reference shots before putting the remains in a body bag. Sheila will email them to you. But I doubt they’ll help with identification – going by the extensive edemata and ecchymosis, he was severely beaten for an extended period. ’
Tufty binged upright. ‘Rapist!’
Eh?
Isobel peered at him. ‘Your constable appears to have Tourette’s.’
‘No, no, no, no.’ The wee loon shook his head. ‘We were playing “Who Dresses All In Black In The Dead Of Night?”’
‘I don’t think that’s a very funny game, Constable.’
Logan stepped in, before she eviscerated the daft sod. ‘It isn’t meant to be. And Constable Quirrel’s got a point; see if you can light a bonfire under the lab – I need to know if our victim’s DNA matches any rape kits.’
She stood there, frowning for a moment. Then pulled her shoulders back. ‘I require a favour.’
‘Do you now?’
‘I understand you’re having a gathering on Sunday. A barbecue. I want you to invite Colin.’
‘Ah . . .’ Logan grimaced. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate, with—’
‘For goodness’ sake, it’s been twenty years! If Colin can get over the fact you and I used to be sexually intimate, surely you can too.’
Wow.
OK.
He tried again. ‘It might not be appropriate, because half the guests are police officers and your Colin spends most of his time writing articles about how useless we are!’
‘Oh. I see.’ Isobel didn’t even blush. ‘Well, I want you to invite him anyway. All his work friends have been made redundant, and he needs some sort of outside interest.’ She rustled off, without so much as a ‘thank you’.
‘Fine. But I want those DNA results ASAP!’
If she heard that, it didn’t show. Instead she climbed into the Range Rover, started the engine, and growled away into the scorching afternoon.
‘Sa-arge,’ Tufty fluttered his eyelashes, ‘about that barbecue . . .?’
‘No. Now go find me some rapists.’