Carrion Comfort Read online

  Ailie had never been to Niall Aitchison’s flat. It was in one of the narrow streets leading off the top of Union Street, a desirably central area, and when she reached the address it was a handsome, substantially built tenement block. Victorian, from the look of it, and Niall’s flat was main door with its own tiny strip of garden in front, so it was quite a pricey property – or at least it would have been until recently, when the bottom had fallen out of the market with the downturn in the oil business.

  He’d probably open the door and explain he’d just taken a bit of unpaid leave without making sure people knew. Ailie told herself it was irrational to be feeling nervous as she rang the bell, but there was no reply even after she rang again, a longer, imperative peal, and she stepped to the side, leaning forward to peer in the window on the left of the door with her hand cupped to the glass. The front room was neat, unremarkable – a sofa and a couple of chairs on either side of an old-fashioned fireplace, a large-screen TV at one end. And empty. No sign of a body – or a cat.

  ‘Are you looking for Niall?’ a voice said.

  Ailie turned round. There was a young woman with a child in a pushchair standing at the door to the upper flats with a key in her hand, just about to let herself in.

  ‘Yes,’ Ailie said gratefully. ‘I’m from his office – he didn’t come in last week and when he didn’t appear today we were getting concerned. Is he all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, as far as I know. I spoke to him – when was it? Oh yes, the Friday before last. He was just away off to Caithness, like he does at the weekend sometimes. Can’t remember the name of the place—’

  ‘Forsich,’ Ailie supplied. ‘He grew up there. His mother died quite recently.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the woman said. ‘He said he was keeping on the house, though, so maybe he’s stayed on to sort things out.’ From the pushchair came a little wail and she said, ‘Oh, sorry, he’s hungry. I’ll need to give him his lunch. All right?’

  ‘Of course. Thanks very much.’

  Ailie walked back down the street. That was an answer of a sort: at least he hadn’t been taken ill suddenly, as even quite young people were sometimes, and been lying there helpless or – well, worse, as she had begun to think he might be. But it still wasn’t like Niall not to answer his phone, wherever he was. Not like Niall at all.

  He’d been Pat’s right-hand man, staying behind in Forsich at his mother’s to handle the fallout when the drainage venture failed and Pat went off to Aberdeen to retrieve his fortunes, until such time as there was a place for him at Curran Services. She couldn’t remember the details – it was near enough ten years ago – but the death of a teenager had featured and there had been boiling hatred for Pat, and by extension for the representative who’d been, in essence, the scapegoat. It was brave of Niall to keep on a property in the place now his mother was gone, though considering the virulence of some of the correspondence that had crossed her desk she’d call it foolhardy, herself.

  As Ailie walked back to her office, her feelings of disquiet were stronger than ever. Niall had always been so utterly reliable; devoted to Pat and to Gabrielle as well – indeed, she’d sometimes thought his feelings for Gabrielle were more than just those of a loyal employee. Not that it would have come to anything; he was a quiet man, shy and, well, dull if she was being honest. She doubted if it had ever crossed Gabrielle’s mind even to think of him in that context.

  But now Ailie thought about it, there had been some big bust-up with Michie. She didn’t know any of the details except that the boss had talked about giving Niall a flea in his ear. Was Niall sulking in his cottage, deliberately remaining out of reach just to be difficult? That seemed perfectly possible.

  She’d have to report to Michie, though, and he wasn’t going to take it well. Niall might have a seat on the board but with Gabrielle absent there would be nothing to stop Michie, as the second-biggest shareholder, sacking him from his job.

  Niall ought to be warned. Ailie had been told that Gabrielle mustn’t be bothered, but she could always phone David, ask him to go round to Niall’s house and check out the situation. David was a nice lad, very supportive – he wouldn’t mind.

  She had almost reached the office. It was as she went into a shop to buy a sandwich to eat at her desk that a headline in the Press and Journal caught her eye.

  MAN’S BODY FOUND ON CAITHNESS FARM, it ran with the subheading, RAVENS FOUND HIM FIRST.

  She stooped to read it. The word ‘Forsich’ seemed to leap out at her from the page and suddenly she understood the clichéd phrase, ‘my blood ran cold’.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After his interview with Dr Kashani, DCI Strang went along to the reception area where there was a bench he could sit on to study her summary, the starting point for establishing the victim’s identity.

  Height, 5’8”, weight 145 lbs, estimated age – not very helpful, this last, since the only visible evidence related to the bone fusion, which is completed around twenty-five. There was no sign of age-related compression of the spine so, Strang reflected ruefully, it placed the victim somewhere between twenty-five and sixty. That didn’t narrow the field much.

  He had had brown hair, very slightly greying, and there had been enough left of one eye to show that they had been brown. No distinguishing features. Strang sighed. A defining birthmark might have been too much to hope for, but this was a description that could fit every other guy you passed in the street. Checking the list of Missing Persons hadn’t given them any possibles either, so DNA test results would be the next step and they weren’t going to arrive overnight. Checking dental records would take time too, but at least it was likely there would be some; the teeth, apparently, had been well-cared-for, with fillings in the back molars.

  Injuries, then. Apart from the gruesome assault by the ravens, the only blow was to the back of the head near to the base, delivered by something heavy, rounded and smooth. A stone, perhaps? It had fractured the skull and there was bleeding into the brain, but the man had still been conscious when he ‘suffered respiratory impairment’. The term amused him; you would, wouldn’t you, if you were face down in a bog?

  A scene was beginning to take shape in his mind: two people, walking along a boggy path, starting to quarrel violently. Tempers fray. One loses it, stoops to pick up a smooth, rounded stone and smashes it with lethal force into the back of the other’s head. The victim falls forward into the bog. The killer walks away.

  The reason for most violent crime is simple loss of control, but here … Strang frowned. People who are quarrelling tend to face each other. Even if the victim had walked away in disgust, wouldn’t he turn round if his companion came up behind him close enough to deliver a blow like this?

  Not so likely to be a quarrel, then. The victim, unsuspecting, calmly walking beside his killer? Male, female? Either was certainly possible. A long swing before the weapon made contact was all that would be needed to achieve considerable force and the dead man had been five feet eight; even quite a short woman could reach up to the back of his head.

  It didn’t have to be a stone. There were plenty of other things it could be – a cosh sprang to mind. That would mean premeditation: the victim lured to his death with malice aforethought. Then there was, of course, the big question: why had the killer come back and moved the body, leaving it where it could be found?

  Strang grimaced. He put Dr Kashani’s summary back in his briefcase. It had been exemplary: admirably clear and succinct and he doubted if he’d find much more that would be useful even when he had time to go through the details in the online report.

  He should get on up the road to Caithness ASAP, but he wanted to call at the police station in Thurso to make his number with DI Hay, in charge of what remained of CID there. The relationship was always a tricky one; he would be relying on the local force to supply some manpower (at SRCS’s expense) and while there were those rural forces that were delighted to be able to shift the problem onto someone else, there were
others that were distinctly prickly. He wanted to make sure he was up to date with the reports that had been delivered so far, so he took out his tablet to check.

  Nothing new, or particularly significant. Strang had just put it away in his briefcase when Dr Kashani came into reception on her way out. He got up.

  ‘Dr Kashani! I’ve just been reading your excellent summary. I’m very grateful – I just wish every path report I got was as clear as that.’

  ‘I’m glad it was satisfactory.’ She smiled; she had a very attractive smile.

  On impulse, he said, ‘Is it your lunch break? I’m just going out to grab a sandwich. Can I buy you one as a thank you?’

  She gave another smile, but a more constrained one. ‘No, thank you, Inspector.’

  He felt rebuffed. ‘No? Just a coffee?’

  ‘Sorry. My husband wouldn’t like it.’ She went to the door, taking out a gauzy headscarf that she draped over her head as she stepped outside.

  ‘Oh – sorry,’ Strang found himself saying to her back. He sat down again, feeling faintly aggrieved. He hadn’t noticed her wedding ring; he wasn’t asking her out for a date, after all. It was only a friendly gesture between colleagues. And, of course, he’d have done the same if she’d been fifty-five and matronly. Of course.

  He wasn’t that much of hypocrite. Of course he wouldn’t; Dr Kashani had rather intrigued him with her fierce professionalism and he’d enjoyed making her laugh. And again, there was that sharp pinprick of pain. It seemed disloyal to Alexa to find himself attracted, even in this very slight way, to another woman.

  Strang gathered up his belongings and went out to have lunch. By himself.

  Monday was a quiet day for the Lemon Tree cafe, usually. Not today. Today it had been almost as busy as it had been on Saturday. Looking out from the little kitchen at the crowded tables with a jaundiced eye, Morven Gunn scowled.

  There were tourists there among a few regulars and from their conversation they weren’t just dropping in for a cup of tea on their way round the North Coast 500 scenic route – ghouls! One, a fat man whose face was sweaty, red and peeling from too much sun and who looked as if he might at any moment burst out of his Rangers football shirt, had actually had the brass neck to ask her how to reach the farm where they’d found the body; she had shrivelled him with one look and stalked away.

  Kirstie was taking the orders and serving, but she wasn’t her usual self. She was smart enough to know that being smiley and chatting up the customers was the way to bump up her tips but there was none of that today. She looked wan and was moving among the tables like a robot. If this was some sort of sulky protest about getting her pay docked she’d better snap out of it soon or she’d be looking for another job and Morven would be looking for a new waitress.

  She bent to get a fresh tray of scones out of the oven. The blast of hot air added to the heat in the tiny kitchen and she seized a length of kitchen roll to mop her sweating face. She hadn’t been prepared for the extra numbers, so she was hard-pressed to keep up with demand, and lunch orders would be starting any minute. She was turning the scones out onto a rack and when she heard the bell on the cafe door jingle again her first thought was, Bloody hell, how many more?

  The sudden stillness alerted her to the arrival of someone who wasn’t just another ordinary customer and she went to the door and looked through. The newcomer was a uniformed policeman, though with his chubby face adorned with an unconvincing moustache he could have been a schoolboy dressing up. She heard him say, ‘Kirstie Mowat? Can I have a word with you?’

  Kirstie was carrying a loaded tray. She stared at him, ashen-faced, and then she swayed and crumpled to the floor in a sea of coffee and smashed crockery. The customers at the nearest table jumped up and one woman screamed. The constable’s jaw dropped and he stood looking helplessly around at the chaos he had caused.

  Morven erupted from the kitchen. ‘Could you not have caught her before she fell, you useless gomeril! Don’t just stand there – clear up the mess, if you can’t think of anything better to do.’ She crouched over Kirstie as another woman came forward; recognising the local nurse she stood back.

  ‘She’ll be all right. Just leave her a wee moment,’ the nurse said and indeed Kirstie’s eyelids were fluttering, and she was struggling to sit up. ‘Take it gently, now, pet. That’s it – you’re fine. Just let me put an arm round your shoulders – there you are! Now, up we go − let’s get you onto a chair.’

  A chair was pushed forward and Kirstie, coffee-stained and starting to cry, slumped onto it. Morven brought a glass of water from the back and the nurse took it from her.

  ‘You drink some of that – that’s better, isn’t it? It’s all this heat – we’re not used to it. And I bet you didn’t have a proper breakfast before you came – is that right?’ Kirstie nodded, sniffling into a tissue a sympathetic customer had provided. ‘Is your mum at home? You just finish your drink, then I’ll take you back to have a wee lie-down – that’s all you’re needing.’

  As Kirstie sipped obediently, the constable cleared his throat significantly. ‘I’ll still have to speak to you, miss—’

  There was a swell of disapproval, a sort of growling mutter, and someone hissed. His face went bright red. Before anyone else could speak, Morven turned on him. ‘Not done enough damage? You’ve no right to speak to a minor without her parents present. You were lucky she didn’t hit her head on the corner of the table and kill herself or you’d be up for manslaughter. Now you can clear this up – you’ll find a shovel through in the back.’

  ‘I’m within my rights,’ he said stubbornly. ‘And it’s up to you to clear up the mess.’

  Morven advanced towards him, crockery crunching underfoot. ‘We’ll see who’s got rights. We don’t pay your wages to get rudeness. Get out my cafe! You’ve not heard the last of this.’

  The ripple of applause settled it. Clutching the tattered rags of his professional dignity about him, the constable retreated with a sinking feeling in his inside. Maybe this was one of these things said in the heat of the moment that people didn’t really mean, but he had a nasty feeling that the old bag had meant every word of it.

  And he still had to interview the girl, at home this time. He could only hope her parents were more reasonable.

  DCI Strang had just finished his lunch when a call came in from Angie Andrews, in Edinburgh. She was the Force Civilian Assistant allocated to admin for the SRCS and a constant source of stress for Strang, who was haunted by the fear that she’d be poached by someone who could pull rank on him; she had the rare talent of combining superb efficiency with an amused acceptance of the deficiencies of others. His only comfort was that she scorned any form of hierarchical respect and top brass tended not to like being treated as just another of Jock Tamson’s bairns – and not one of the brightest, at that.

  ‘Where are you, Kelso? Still dossing around in Aberdeen? You’re in luck, then. The station there’s sent through details of a witness with something to say about your Caithness case and they’re happy for you to follow it up, so you better get your ass over there before you go.’

  Strang brightened. ‘Great timing, Angie. Give me the details.’ He wrote them down, then paused, frowning. ‘Tell the hotel I’ll be late, OK? I was hoping to get it all kicked off up there today but once I’ve spoken to this Ailie Johnston and called in at Thurso, I’m not going to have time to set up anything for tomorrow morning.

  ‘Still, if she’s got something useful to tell me it’ll be worth it,’ he said, adding darkly, ‘If.’

  Angie laughed. ‘Cheer up, misery guts! Could crack it wide open, for all you know.’

  ‘Oh sure. Maybe it could.’ He was trying to feel more optimistic as he rang off. People who phoned in after a murder weren’t all nutters. Just most of them.

  She hadn’t wanted the nurse to take her home. The last thing Kirstie needed was her parents to be given a dramatic account of what had happened in the cafe; it was going to be hard enough anyway
to think of an excuse that would fob her mother off, especially since her head was still swimming.

  When they reached the gate at the end of the short drive leading up to the farmhouse, she turned to her escort with her most charming smile. ‘Thank you so much for looking after me. I’m feeling fine now – just the heat, you know, and I’ve learnt my lesson about not eating breakfast.’

  The nurse glanced towards the house. ‘Someone’ll be in, will they? Just in case you have another funny turn.’

  ‘Oh yes. Even if Mum’s out, Dad’ll be back soon for his lunch.’ Not yet, with any luck, and if Mum really was out she’d have a chance to leave a note saying she wasn’t feeling well and slip upstairs to bed. Then she could pretend to be asleep when someone came to check; that would give her time to figure out how to deal with the situation.

  Kirstie waved an airy goodbye then let herself into the house quietly. She was in luck: there was no one in the kitchen. She scribbled her note then went upstairs and got into bed. Despite the sticky heat she was shivering – with shock, she supposed. She hadn’t believed that Calum would tell but he had, obviously. The policeman hadn’t wanted to speak to her for fun.

  She had no scruples about lying if it worked, but if Calum had dobbed her in there’d be no point in denying his story – they wouldn’t believe her. So, they’d want to know why she hadn’t come forward like he did once she’d heard what had happened. So, what could she say?

  It wasn’t as if Kirstie had done anything wrong, not really – certainly nothing the police would care about. But if Dad and Mum found out she’d been sneaking out to meet Calum in the cottage in the middle of the night they wouldn’t buy the idea that it had just been to sit and chat.

  If she could get to the police, talk to them before someone came to the house, maybe she could persuade them not to clype to her parents. She’d seen them setting up in the village hall earlier on; she could go there and speak to them before they came to find her.