Chapter 7
FIFE
DI Art McKenzie sat back in the passenger seat, quite happy to let his colleague do the driving today.
‘Mr Mister, or Johnny Hates Jazz?’ Cameron said from the driver’s seat. Art must have looked like he was dozing off, and Cameron hated driving when Art was getting some shut-eye. He said it made him feel like a chauffeur. Art told him if he was his chauffeur, he’d fire his arse out the door.
‘Johnny Hates Jazz,’ Art replied without any hesitation.
‘Really? What about Mr Mister’s “Broken Wings”?’
Art looked over at him. ‘Their one hit? Nah. I like “Shattered Dreams”.’
‘Good choice. My Morag couldn’t stand me playing eighties music.’
‘That’s when the rot set in,’ Art said, turning to look out of the windscreen.
‘Nothing to do with me not doing my own ironing, then?’
‘Trust me, if you’re not together on a music level, there’s nothing else left. The rest of it is just padding.’
‘Liking eighties music and refusing to iron my own shirts. Wow. I was fucked from the start,’ Cameron said.
Art looked at him. ‘Why didn’t you iron your own shirts?’
‘I tried. I was shite at it. Morag said just because she worked from home didn’t mean to say she was my personal housekeeper. So I ended up paying somebody to iron them.’
‘You weren’t… entertaining this woman, were you?’ Art asked.
‘What? No, of course not. I mean, I was pleasant with her, but I didn’t try anything on. Besides, she was almost the same age as my mother.’
‘Aye, I can see that would be a disastrous move, right enough.’
‘We just stopped communicating.’
‘Her words or yours?’ Art asked.
‘Hers, of course. I communicated to her every day when I asked her how her day went. Her answer? “Oh, just the same as every day.” What the fuck does that mean? You were shagging the postie?’
‘You don’t think she was, do you?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘He’s an old bloke. Ready to retire. Complains about his back all the time and smokes like a chimney. He’s honking from his cigarette smoke.’
‘You smell that through the letter box?’
‘Not quite. But if we get a parcel or something that needs to be signed for. The old bastard has BO as well. If Morag was sleeping with him, then that would really crash my ego.’
‘Left here,’ Art said. ‘Where the sign is pointing for Arncrouch.’
‘You sounded just like Morag there,’ Cameron said, turning left at the Give Way sign.
‘You didn’t hear me telling you to iron your own fucking shirt, did you? I’m just telling you because you seem distracted.’
‘She used to give me directions because she thought I was a dozy bastard.’
‘That too.’
The sun was out, and Art was beginning to feel the heat in the car, so he rolled down the window, feeling the wind jump into the car. Up ahead, the road was blocked off with police vehicles and a silver Volvo XC90.
‘Sherlock’s here,’ Art said, nodding to the SUV. Ronald ‘Sherlock’ Holmes, one of the pathologists from Dunfermline.
Cameron pulled in behind the last marked police car.
A Uniform was standing in the middle of the road.
A big bulldozer of a man, with hands like shovels and a face that only a dog could love.
He made The Rock look like a pimply Boy Scout.
He was from the Highlands, where he no doubt knocked down trees for a living, without the aid of machinery.
‘Cameron, ya fuckin’ baw bag,’ PC Don McCoy said, all thoughts of respect for colleagues of a higher rank gone out the window. ‘And yourself, Arthur. How’s things this morning?’
‘Fuck me,’ Art said under his breath. Another twat full-naming him. But what could he say to the big bastard? He’d tried telling the man before, when they were raiding a pub one night, but McCoy was so busy throwing somebody through a window that he didn’t hear Art.
‘Don, ya big fucking hairy twat,’ Cameron said, grinning at him. ‘Why are you standing in the middle of the road like a John Deere on steroids?’
‘Fuckin’ somethin’ goin’ on in that fuckin’ hoose,’ McCoy said, nodding over his shoulder. ‘I’m guessing that’s why you pair are here?’
‘No, we’re just passing through, Donald, and we heard this wee village is nice this time of year,’ Art said with a deadpan face, full-naming the big bastard.
McCoy’s brow furrowed for a second before he started laughing. ‘Oh ho, ya bastard, ye nearly had me goin’ there! Fuckin’ passin’ through. Good one.’
The smile suddenly left his face and Art’s heart skipped a beat for a moment: he thought the other man had suddenly taken offence. Then they heard the sound of a car approaching.
‘Go ahead, lads, I have to deal with this.’
Art and Cameron looked round to see an old man approaching in his car. They heard McCoy using the words ‘fanny’, ‘closed’ and ‘get t’fuck’, strung together in a sentence informing the unfortunate driver that police presence was ahead and please come back later.
‘Come on, before he suggests we go for a pint,’ Art said, moving forward, Cameron hot on his heels.
‘Aye, I wouldn’t like to be in the boozer with him when he has one too many.’
‘One too many what? Fucking kegs?’ Art said. Another Uniform was standing at the front door of the cottage, a female whom they recognised, and who wasn’t on the comedy circuit.
‘Morning, sir,’ she said, and they nodded to her.
‘See? That’s how it’s done,’ Art said as they walked into the dim hallway.
‘I’ll let you tell McCoy that, will I?’ Cameron suggested, and he was answered with where he could shove that suggestion.
There were white-suited forensic techs walking about, one with a camera.
‘Have you ever wondered why there aren’t any forensic techs who are serial killers?’ Cameron asked.
‘Surprisingly, I don’t lay awake at night thinking about that stuff. Obviously you’ve got too much time on your hands. Get your mother to teach you how to knit. Or iron a shirt.’
‘I’m just saying. They would know all the tricks on how to get away with murder.’
‘You’re giving me the fucking fear now, talking like that. Next thing you know, you’ll be talking about how a young detective can get away with murdering his older colleague.’
‘I have thought about that.’
Art looked at him. ‘Walk in front of me, ya wee bastard.’
Cameron stepped in front, grinning.
A Uniform pointed along another hallway. ‘It’s along there, sir.’
The room, potential crime scene or the body, Art wasn’t sure which one the man meant, but it was maybe all three.
Ronald Holmes was suited up, on his knees, looking down into the hole the chimney had made. Dust was on his knees and other parts of the suit. The hood was pulled up and a mask pulled down.
‘No need to get on your knees when I come into the room, Sherlock,’ Art said.
‘Aye, you wish,’ Sherlock said. He was a few years younger than Art and had an affable personality. He smiled at Cameron. ‘Give’s a hand up here, Cam, my bloody knees have locked.’
‘No problem. I know you older boys need a hand from us young ones now and again.’ He smiled, stepped forward, and reached out an arm. Sherlock grabbed it, and Cameron hauled him to his feet.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sherlock said. ‘You know the knees were never designed to be knelt on? It’s an unnatural position that us as human beings invented.’
‘What have we got down there?’ Art asked.
‘Skeletal remains. Decades old, I would say, but we’ll have somebody come in and have a wee look at them, for the record. The clothes are degraded but mostly intact. It was also wrapped in a plastic sheet. It looks like a child.’
‘A child?’ Cameron asked. A cold fear ran down his spine as he thought of his own two children. He hated not seeing them every day, and now knowing this skeleton was a child made him want to see his kids and give them a big hug. He fought his emotions for a moment before composing himself.
Sherlock nodded. ‘Part of the chimney has landed on it, so I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but it looks like the size of maybe a seven- or eight-year-old. The chimney landed in the middle, tearing through the plastic. Right now, though, it’s just a guess, but definitely a child.’
‘I’m assuming foul play?’ Art said, his voice low. Children dying always had an effect on him.
‘I’m not sure yet. I want to take the plastic wrapping off carefully. The forensics crew will have to dig it out and, after I get it on the table, I’ll call you with my findings,’ Sherlock said.
‘Thanks, doc.’
Art and Cameron left the room and walked back the way they came.
‘Let’s go and talk to the men who found it and called it in,’ Art said.
He knew that if DCI Alan McRae had been here, he would have been leading the investigation.
‘I want to go and have a word with Daisy, Alan’s sister.
I spoke to her on the phone, but I want to speak to her face to face. ’
‘Fine by me.’
Outside, they watched as the mortuary van stopped at the end of the street and started reversing back towards the door of the cottage.
‘Come on, Cam, let’s get out of here before we get blocked in or something,’ Art said, and they waited until the black van was stopped before walking round it and heading back to their car.
They heard McCoy before they saw him.
‘Now, ya baw-heided cunt!’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Art said. ‘I hope that’s not the chief constable doing her rounds.’
‘I don’t think McCoy would care,’ Cameron said. ‘He’s off his nut.’
They rounded the corner to see McCoy with a red face like his head was about to explode, a woman sitting behind the wheel, her window down and her mouth open.
‘Don’t make eye contact with him, for fuck’s sake,’ Art said, as they speed-walked to their car.
McCoy turned round to them. ‘See ye later, lads!’ he shouted.
The woman turned to look at them. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘Nope,’ Art said. He jumped in, Cameron right beside him and Art got the engine running. They took off, with McCoy waving goodbye to them.
‘Fucking arsehole’s waving now. All we need is somebody calling Standards,’ Art said.
‘Deny everything,’ Cameron said.
‘Way ahead of you, brother.’