Helena Grant sat curled up on her sofa, working her way steadily through the files that Mike Everly had sent over. She was feeling mildly guilty, as she still tended to when she worked from home. It had become more commonplace during the pandemic, of course. Although the nature of policing meant that most activities had to be carried out in the office, they had been encouraged to work from home whenever possible.
Grant had never felt entirely comfortable with the idea, though she knew this was mainly because she’d become too set in her ways. Even Alec McKay had been persuaded it wasn’t necessary for him always to be in the office from the crack of dawn to the end of the evening, though that might have had more to do with the rekindling of his relationship with Chrissie.
In her own case, the dynamic was the opposite. Following the dramatic ending of her previous relationship, she’d seen the office as a refuge. It was somewhere she could go and forget about her personal life, could throw herself into her work and depend on the support of people who, with a few exceptions, were primarily colleagues rather than friends. Home held few attractions for her.
It was the project that had brought her back home this afternoon. Earlier that morning, in preparation for the forthcoming kick-off meeting, Everly had emailed over to her a stack of detailed material relating to the consultancy work so far. She’d realised from a first glance that she’d struggle to make sense of it if she tried to read it on screen, so she’d printed the key documents off and then, on a whim, brought them back home to read. She told herself it was a sensible decision. If she’d stayed in the office, she’d have struggled to concentrate, distracted by the noise, the interruptions, the countless other claims on her attention. But she still had a sense that she was bunking off school.
On the other hand, the documents needed her full attention. There was a mass of material – reports, discussion papers, research analysis – much of it phrased in ways that felt almost like a foreign language. Even the most mundane words – agile, champion, road map – seemed to have different meanings. Her first thought, as she skimmed through the text and charts, was that she was well outside her comfort zone. Her second thought was that she was perhaps too far outside, and that she should bail out of this before she made even more of a fool of herself.
It took her a few more minutes, fortified by a strong coffee, before she persuaded herself that she was up to the job she’d taken on. She was an intelligent woman, accustomed to working with data and evidence. She had well-developed analytical skills. But she was trying to make sense of a document that, in part, was written in an unfamiliar language. As she worked her way through the material, she began to develop a suspicion that there was less to it than met the eye. She found herself increasingly highlighting passages, scribbling question marks and comments in the margins.
The overall thrust of the reports was sound enough, she thought, but some of the conclusions and recommendations were based on very shaky evidence. She was imagining how this material would be received if she were presenting it in court or to the Fiscal.
She knew she had to be careful not to dismiss the consultants’ conclusions too casually. There was a tendency among working police officers to mock anything that smacked of ‘management-speak’, as if the force had no scope to improve its effectiveness or organisation. Sifting through the jargon and obfuscation, there was considerable good sense in the recommendations, which she could envisage improving their work. It was just a question of distilling those gems from the mass of verbiage surrounding them.
Feeling in need of refreshment, she put the papers aside and went into the kitchen to make herself another coffee. Returning to the living room with the refilled mug in her hand, she walked over to the window and gazed out at the view.
This was why she’d chosen to live here, what had sold the house to her on first sight. From this slight elevation, she could look out across the Beauly Firth to the far shore, the dark mass of Inverness visible to the left, the sweep of the landscape opening up to the right. On a fine day like today, the waters were a pale blue, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.
She was turning to resume her work when she noticed the grey van parked at the rear of her own car, immediately in front of the house. She was sure it hadn’t been there a few moments earlier when she’d risen to go to the kitchen and she wondered vaguely who it might be. They didn’t get many vehicles down here. Occasionally, delivery drivers would park here to kill time between gaps in their schedule. But usually they parked further along the road where there was a better view of the firth.
As she watched, she saw a man jog hurriedly down the path back to the van. He had his back to her, a baseball cap pulled low across his face. He jumped back into the van, did a U-turn and pulled off down the street. She watched the vehicle disappear, noting its registration through force of habit.
She hadn’t heard the doorbell, but maybe he’d just left something. She walked back into the hallway and opened the front door. There was a neatly wrapped cardboard box sitting to the left of the door.
She’d heard, just before leaving the office that afternoon, about McKay’s strange delivery. She stepped out on to the path and walked round the package. There was no obvious address label or other marking. After a moment, she fetched her phone and took photographs of the box from various angles. She texted the images to McKay and then dialled his number. He answered almost immediately. ‘Hel?’
‘Are you free for a few moments?’
‘I’ve just been summoned by Brian Nightingale who wants to see me immediately. So, sure, take as long as you like. I see you’ve just sent me a text as well, so I’m clearly popular.’
‘I just wanted to get your view on something. Have a look at the picture in the text. Does that look familiar to you?’
There was silence for a moment as he looked at the photographs. ‘That’s at your house?’
‘Left just now. Grey van.’ She recited the registration number. ‘I only saw the guy from the back. White, average height. Wearing a black jacket, jeans and a baseball cap. Think he was wearing a face-mask, though I only saw that for a second.’
‘That’s a different reg from the one we were given for the delivery at the Gillans’ house. We need to get the package removed and checked out.’
‘I’m inclined to look at it first. I don’t want to end up making a fool of myself.’
‘You won’t do that. But your choice.’
Without saying any more to McKay, she went back inside the house. She found some disposable gloves and a sharp kitchen knife, then returned to the package. Leaning over, she slit down the parcel tape across the top of the box. Once she’d cut through all the tape, she folded back the twin flaps and peered cautiously inside.
Her first reaction was to laugh. The box contained what looked like some form of rag doll, a toy she might once have had as a young child.
‘What is it?’ she heard from the phone.
She raised the phone back to her ear. ‘I’m not sure, exactly.’ She had crouched down by the box and pulled it towards her to peer inside. ‘Some sort of doll.’
‘Doll?’
‘Like a cloth doll or a rag doll.’ She reached into the box and, taking care to minimise her contact, she tried to lift up the doll to get a better look. As she did so, any thought of laughter disappeared. ‘Christ.’
‘What is it?’
‘I was right. It is a rag doll. Quite an old, slightly threadbare one. Like a toy some child no longer wants…’
‘That’s very poetic, Hel, but–’
‘But it has a severed head. It’s an old, slightly threadbare rag doll. With a severed head.’