Twenty-Two

  ‘Thank God for satnav,’ Noele McClair said, earnestly, as the entrance came into view less than a hundred curving yards ahead. ‘Without it, I’d have missed that turn-off altogether.’

  ‘This is the right place?’ Tiggy Benjamin ventured. ‘I can’t read the sign yet.’

  ‘It can’t be anything else. There’s nothing else showing on screen. Yes, there you are,’ she exclaimed as they drew closer. ‘OKW Forestry Solutions. Not Services any longer; everything’s bloody Solutions. Isn’t it funny how businesses these days feel they need to offer the answer to all your prayers.’

  As the car turned into the entrance, the detectives found themselves in a square clearing that looked to be two hundred yards wide. Three trucks were parked to their left and alongside them stood two pieces of formidable machinery with what appeared to be great gaping maws: stump grinders, McClair guessed.

  In the rear right corner of the site, a large timber building stood. The DI drove up to it and parked between two Land Rover Defenders. One was the latest model, the other considerably older. With Benjamin following, she stepped out, jogged up three steps to a glass door and opened it, after a brief knock.

  An unshaven middle-aged man dressed in faded blue overalls looked up at them from his chair behind a desk that could have been a recycling point. Paper and boxes were piled high upon it, in no obvious pattern or order. ‘Are you the polis?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘I’m Michael Weatherston. You’re a break from the CID norm, are you not?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ McClair countered as he rose.

  ‘No, no, nothing at all. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting two women, er ladies, that’s all. No offence intended.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Weatherston,’ she replied with a smile. We weren’t expecting a scruffy misogynist either. She kept her thought unspoken. ‘Welcome to the modern world. I assume that your assistant told you why we’re here.’

  ‘Aye, it’s to do with the plantation at Black Shield Lodge. But that’s all I know. Mr Sexton didn’t go into detail when he called us. He only said there was extensive storm damage. That doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

  ‘Did you no’ read the Dundee Courier this morning, son?’ A door behind Michael Weatherston opened and a second man stepped into the room, older than the first, old enough to be his father in fact. ‘I’m Frank Weatherston, second generation; this one’s the third. My dad, his grandfather founded the business. Oliver Kenneth Weatherston, his name was, hence the initials. He’s still with us believe it or not, but he’s ninety-two so he doesn’t come here any longer; he just sits at home instead with his pipe watching the racing on Sky. Come on through,’ he said, stepping back towards what McClair and Benjamin took to be his office. ‘I don’t come in every day myself,’ he admitted as they followed him, ‘but I decided that I would today after Ronnie Sexton called me, after he’d spoken to Michael. He told me what’s been found and said I could expect to hear from you. Michael was still at school when those trees were planted, but I was involved, along with my old man.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about the job?’ McClair asked.

  ‘I remember there was a lot of stone in the land. We had to break it up and take quite a bit out. We might well have made it easier to bury those remains that Sexton said you’ve found. It was bad land that, in more ways than one.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It was never cared for. Land ownership’s a privilege; it shouldn’t be a birthright. Before Mr McCullough bought the estate it had been badly run for years. The old laird never bothered with it, for he lived in London much of the time. I think he used the House of Lords as his dining room. As for his son, everybody knew he was an entitled prick with more ambition than brains: he was obsessed with the golf course idea, but he never realised that to pay for it he needed the estate to be profitable. Since the farm manager was pished for much of the time, that was never going to happen. One of the big problems was there was no attempt at security. Lying between Perth and Dundee as it did, the place was used for all sorts of stuff. The roads weren’t made up, or few of them were, but they were good enough to get a car up and out of sight. “Park and ride” had a different meaning to the usual up there, I’ll . . .’ He stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished. ‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Sorry, ladies.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ McClair chuckled. ‘We’re broad-minded.’

  ‘In that case you’ll understand there’ll have been a few misconceptions, so to speak in those days. You can bet on that. Not just quickies either. There were even folk with camper vans that used it as an impromptu caravan site, and were never chased off. Ronnie Sexton told me that stuff used to get dumped up there. Clapped-out cars, even a three-piece suite once. So if you’re telling me that there’s been a body found under that plantation, the only way I’m surprised is that we didn’t find it when we were clearing the land, because we turned just about all of it over.’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘What should I do?’

  Xavi put the question quietly as he and Skinner stood in front of the white-painted mausoleum that Josep-Maria Aislado had created in the grounds behind the masia. It had been built for Grandma Paloma, his mother, and now held his own remains, and those of the most recent arrival, Sheila Craig Xavi’s beloved wife. They had left June indoors, preparing for the board meeting that was her next port of call.

  ‘Do you see the text as a threat?’ his friend asked.

  ‘Physically, no, not really. I only met the man a couple of times; he was younger then, but I can’t recall anything scary about him. That’s if it did come from Matthew Reid,’ he added.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Skinner pointed out, ‘he’s a suspect in the murder of a man half your age. Mate, if I learned anything in a thirty-year police career it was never to underestimate anyone with a pulse. Do you have any security here, apart from that fucking useless burglar alarm?’

  ‘I’ve never felt the need,’ Xavi admitted. ‘I keep very little cash here, and neither Sheila nor I were ever much for jewellery. Yes, she had some valuable pieces, but they’re in a safe, for Paloma if she wants them. And why is my alarm useless?’

  ‘I’ve always felt that domestic alarms are little more than a deterrent,’ Skinner replied, ‘and not much use at that either. Yours is not going to deter anyone who’s taken the trouble to come all the way out here, someone you should assume will be armed. Even the systems that are monitored have flaws built into them. Someone tried to sell me one of those for my Spanish house. He told me it went to a monitoring centre and the first thing they did when they received an alert was to phone the client’s home number. The client would have a code word that they’d use when they picked up. I told the salesman that in all my time in CID, I had never heard of a case of a burglar answering the phone. If there was a crime in progress all that call would do would be to alert the thieves that they should be out of there inside fifteen minutes, because there would be no chance of the cops responding any quicker than that.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘Employ a bodyguard,’ Skinner insisted. ‘Your man Kiko, he works for Intermedia, not you, out of the Girona office. You should have someone of your own. Someone to maintain the security of the whole estate, not just the house, by installing cameras and motion sensors. Someone to drive you, when you need to be driven. Most important of all, someone who’s responsible for your physical security.’

  ‘Where do I find someone like that?’ Xavi asked.

  ‘You ask someone like me.’

  ‘Ach, I’m all right Bob,’ he said. ‘I can still look after myself.’

  ‘This isn’t just about you, it’s about your housekeeper and your gardener. They live in the cottage, don’t they? And when she’s here, it’s about protecting your daughter as well. In London she’s anonymous; in Catalunya she’s a commodity. Kidnapping for ransom still happens, chum.’

  Aislado frowned. He scratched his white beard as he looked down at his friend. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. I shouldn’t be, Bob, but I’m a fucking innocent. Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Consider yourself asked. Where will you begin?’

  ‘With a suitably qualified guy I know who may be ready for a change of scene. Leave it with me. Meantime, let me see what I can do about that mystery text. Forward it to me, please.’

  As Xavi reached for his phone, Skinner took out his, and called a number from his Favourites list. ‘Sauce,’ he said as it was picked up, ‘what are you up to?’

  ‘Sitting on my hands at Fettes, Gaffer,’ the DCI replied. ‘I’ve been stood down from the Black Shield Lodge inquiry. ACC Stallings made the call.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, given that your wife’s family owns it. Becky didn’t have any choice, you know that.’

  ‘I do. Truth is, I’d put my hand up when she arrived. So, I can’t give you any updates, if that’s why you’re calling.’

  ‘If I wanted that, I’d have called my wife. No, this is something else, another investigation from which you’re not disqualified. It’s possible that I should be calling Lottie and not you, but your inquiry into those questionable deaths in Gullane is still open . . . one where I have a personal interest,’ he added, ‘given that they happened on my home patch, and that I was even a person of interest myself for a few seconds. I’m in Spain, Sauce,’ he explained. ‘I’m going to send you a screenshot of a text that was sent to Xavi here, with the originating number, a French mobile. I’d like you to try to trace the owner. I’d like you to try,’ he repeated, ‘but I don’t expect you to succeed. If it is who it might be, he’s far cleverer than us . . . or at least the bugger thinks he is,’ he growled. ‘That’s the mistake they all make in the end, Sauce. They underestimate one man too many. When I’m that man, I get really pissed off.’

  Twenty-Four

  ‘That was all very interesting, ma’am,’ DC Tiggy Benjamin observed. ‘I agree with what Mr Weatherston said about land-owning being a privilege rather than a birthright.’

  Noele McClair smiled, amused by the passion in her young colleague’s voice. She glanced to her left and saw a furrowed brow. ‘The problem is that it is a birthright,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t be!’ Benjamin complained. ‘It isn’t right that one person can own a big chunk of Scotland just because their seven-times great-grandfather bought it, or worse, was given it by some tyrannical old king.’

  ‘It might not be right, but that’s the way it is. When a state starts confiscating private property . . . apart from sanctioning foreign oligarchs, maybe . . . I’m not sure I’d want to live there. What about someone who buys land today? Do you approve of that?’ the DI asked.

  ‘It depends why they buy it and what they do with it. Mr McCullough, at Black Shield Lodge, he seems to have been a good landowner. He improved his estate . . . if you regard building a posh, exclusive, golf club as an improvement . . . and from what I’ve been told the farm’s well managed and profitable. But when he bought it, he didn’t have to show that he was capable of doing that, did he?’

  McClair laughed out loud. ‘Are you suggesting there should be a fit and proper person test for would-be landowners, like there is for owners of football clubs?’

  ‘Why not?’ Benjamin insisted. ‘McCullough owned a football club. He’d have had to pass a test for that.’

  ‘Yes, but who would make the judgment in the case of prospective landowners?’

  ‘Parliament. The people we elect.’

  ‘That means the government of the day, which rarely wins the votes of half of the electorate. And what would it do? It would set up a committee, of its like-minded pals, or worse, of civil servants, and would rubberstamp its recommendation.’ She paused. ‘Let me give you a tip, Tiggy,’ she continued. ‘This is you and me in the car, so it’s okay, but you should be careful about sounding off to a wider audience. The police service isn’t as authoritarian as it used to be, but it isn’t a hotbed for change either. And in this particular case, you might want to remember who the late Mr McCullough’s granddaughter is, and who she’s married to.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Benjamin whispered. ‘Point taken, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Did you take anything else from that meeting?’

  ‘Not really. It confirms what we knew already, that’s all. You?’

  ‘Maybe. We have to consider timelines in a criminal investigation. In this case . . .’ She stopped in mid-sentence as her ringtone blared out of the car’s speakers and Sarah Grace’s caller ID appeared on the central display. She flipped a small switch on her steering wheel to accept the call.

  ‘Sarah, hi. As you can probably hear, I’m driving.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ the pathologist replied. ‘You won’t be needing to take notes. What I’m about to tell you will be in the report that I’ll email you this afternoon. I’ve done as much as I can for now with what’s reached me. As I thought at the scene, the bones are those of a young adult male. There’s no remaining tissue, no ligaments attached. However, as Paul Dorward surmised at the scene, he met a violent end, with his fingertips being sheared off.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove of itself that his death was violent,’ McClair countered. ‘It could have been an accident that somebody decided to cover up. Unlikely, Sarah, I’ll grant you but that’s what the fiscal’s going to say.’

  She laughed. ‘Maybe, but the stab wound will be harder to explain away.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Grace confirmed. ‘Beyond a reasonable doubt, you are investigating a murder.’

  Twenty-Five

  ‘Do I sense you’re not a happy man, Captain Torres?’

  Karen Neville smiled as she heard an intake of breath on the other side of the phone call.

  ‘Do not make it any worse, Senora Neville, please. That was the worst performance I have seen by Madrid all season. The coach, he has to go. I don’t care that we are still in the Champions League, that cannot be allowed to happen.’

  ‘My daughter watched the game,’ she replied. ‘Her dad has a package with all the La Liga games and she was at his place. Unlike you she’s a very happy girl. She said that Barcelona played out of their skins.’

  ‘Then may they stay outside of them,’ Torres growled. ‘The only good thing about the situation is that the Catalans have no chance of winning the championship. That is ours.’

  ‘Then it could be worse, Juan. Now, I’m guessing that you didn’t call me just to sound off about your football team.’

  ‘No, Karen. There I do have good news for you.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘No, I have news, you can decide how good it is. I have traced the number that you asked me to check. It’s on the Movistar network, but it’s not a contract phone. It’s a pay-as-you-go, on a SIM card that was sold with twenty-five euro credit. The network says that so far it has only been used once, to send that text. When my people checked it was switched off, but when it becomes active again we will be told. Then we should be able to locate it. It was bought last year in a back-street store near Las Ramblas, the notorious avenue in Barcelona where half of the pickpockets in Spain make their living. Una calle muy peligrosa,’ he muttered. ‘A very dangerous street.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there, with my ex-husband. Both of us cops and he was robbed. To make it worse, the idiot had his police ID in his wallet. He didn’t even know it was gone until he went to pay for drinks in the square. How did the buyer pay?’ she asked.

  Her hope that it had been by card was dashed quickly. ‘Cash.’

  ‘So why should I think that any of this is good news?’ she sighed.

  ‘Because the shop has a security camera that is not obvious to customers and they keep the recordings for a year. In an hour or two I will have the transaction on video, and will be able to see the buyer. It is possible our resource base will identify him . . . or possibly you will recognise him yourself. I will send you the recording as soon as I have it.’

  ‘You’re a star, Juan. We owe you one.’

  ‘You owe me several, Karen, and I will collect, you can be sure of that.’

  Neville was smiling as the call ended. It lingered as she found Noele McClair’s number and called it. She was expecting to hear a ringtone; instead the line was busy. Knowing that McClair would be advised she was on the line, she held on, only to receive a curt text. ‘I will call you back.’

  She pocketed her phone and crossed the room to make a coffee. The Nespresso machine was still hissing and dispensing when she was interrupted. ‘Noele,’ she exclaimed, pouring cold milk into her cup as she spoke. ‘Thanks for being so quick.’

  ‘No worries. I was checking with my mother about my son, or I’d have picked you up straight away. You have news.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s fairly positive.’ Quickly she told her of the report by Captain Torres. ‘I expect to have the footage today. Obviously, I’ll forward it to you as soon as I receive it. Noele,’ she said, ‘I feel I’m at the stage when I have to report this to Lottie Mann. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘Would it matter if I wasn’t?’ McClair replied. ‘It’s a duty call, Karen, I appreciate that. If you can avoid telling DCI Mann of my personal involvement, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but Lottie being who and what she is, I’m not hopeful. I will try though. However,’ she added, ‘if Lottie’s being briefed, I think you have to do the same with Sauce . . . that’s if you haven’t already.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ the DI admitted, ‘but other things have got in the way for us both. You’re right though. We’re dealing with one resurrection in Perthshire. He needs to know that there might have been another.’

  Twenty-Six

  ‘This is a nice car,’ June Crampsey observed as Kiko joined the C road that led towards Girona, and the Intermedia head office. ‘Posher than the Tesla that you drive.’