As she went downstairs, Caplan got a phone call from McEwan, telling her that Ghillies was putting in a formal complaint for assault. She told McEwan to let him, and was aware of the DCC having a chuckle.
‘It was obstruction of a police officer in the line of their duty.’
‘That’s not what Felix Vance witnessed.’
‘Through a brick wall? Honestly.’ She hung up, knowing it would go nowhere.
Who had the most to lose?
PC Stewart was ready with another handwritten message for her, the same number. Caplan took it, looked at it. ‘Has she said what this is about?’
‘Nope, and she refused to give her name.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘Oh yes. She said that you’d know who it was and what it was about.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Caplan said, adding mentally that she had enough to deal with.
On her way through the door, her phone flashed. It was Fergusson. Now she could give her friend an update on what Ghillies had said.
‘Ghillies was a decent cop, if a terrible human being, but is he involved in this?’
Fergusson said, ‘We did have a body last night.’
‘And that’s the worst of it. Now, somebody needs to put their hand up and fight our corner. Though I doubt it’ll make any difference.’
‘Well, the eyes of the media are on you now, your picture was in the papers. Don’t forget the power of public opinion. Somebody will talk to the wrong person and that’ll spur them into action. I don’t see Bill Robertson going against Ghillies’s advice and going public. I’d worry if they give you a designated liaison person. Those upstairs are nervous of the media.’
‘We don’t want to open that door,’ warned Caplan, ‘for personal reasons as much as anything.’
‘God, I bloody knew you’d bring that up.’
‘Me bringing it up isn’t a problem. I’m saying that you never, ever want a journalist digging into your personal life.’
There was silence on the line. Caplan looked at Craigo through the window of the office. Her sergeant was looking happy, busy, looking at the list then looking at the wall, occasionally looking out the window, oblivious to the undercurrents in the office.
‘Yeah?’ Fergusson sighed. ‘Actually the reason I called you was you have an appointment at four p.m. at the Crispy Bake House. Irene Kennedy had to come through me at Glasgow because you’ve not returned her calls to arrange a meeting.’
‘Who is she?’ Caplan looked at her watch.
‘Irene Kennedy’s maiden name was Irene Bellshaw. She’s Rachel’s sister and she’s up here in the arse end of nowhere to meet us. I have driven up here and have been hovering around waiting. I figure she has something important to say. Hence why I’m on the handsfree talking to you.’
‘Why did she not tell the main desk what she wanted like a normal human being?’
‘One word. Rory.’
‘You are Christine, aren’t you?’ The older lady bustled between them, hitching her leather tote bag up over her shoulder.
‘Irene?’ asked Caplan, aware of Fergusson sidestepping closer even though the coffee shop wasn’t that crowded. The three women formed a cluster, as if sharing a secret.
‘Yes, Irene Kennedy. I’m …’
‘Rachel’s sister.’ Caplan noted the shape of the face, the dreamy blue eyes; take away a few years and Irene could have been Rachel as she was, back at police training college, back when they had known her. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘A latte please.’
‘Green tea for me,’ Caplan said to Fergusson.
They took a table in the corner, talking about the weather until the waitress had stopped wiping crumbs from the top.
‘Thank you for going to see Rachel. I think it meant a lot to her. I gather that she hadn’t seen either of you for a long time.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Was it about the Ardman boy?’ asked Kennedy. She leaned back as the green tea and lattes arrived, Fergusson throwing her friend a dirty look at being reduced to the role of waitress.
‘Your sister seems unsettled by the way that case had turned out,’ Caplan said non-committally.
Kennedy nodded and took a sip of her latte. Caplan waited. Fergusson watched them from under her blonde curly fringe.
‘Did you go round to see Rory?’
‘We did.’
Kennedy snorted. ‘He screws around. He got between my sister and me. I didn’t speak to her for years because of him, controlling tosser.’
Caplan nodded in agreement. ‘Controlling to what extent?’ She let the question lie.
‘Looking back? The long sleeve blouse on a hot day. I saw deep bruises more than once, but there was always a reason.’ She shrugged. ‘And then she said he was “worse” when he didn’t have a lady friend. I thought she meant mood not violence but now, I’m not so sure. And he’s been sweetness itself in the last year, so he has another mistress on the go. Well, when Rachel goes, poor cow might find herself saddled with him.’
‘Do you suspect that he’s undermined her investigation, our investigation? Is he capable of that?’
Kennedy nodded with a jerk of her head, a tic shared by her sister. ‘Of course he is. And I think she knew Ardman, whatever, would die with her, so she wanted to pass it on to – who? Three women she’d known for years? Three women who might push back against Rory. Three women not intimidated by him.’
‘Why was it important to him, though? He had no professional respect for her.’
‘It wasn’t important to him. It was to her, and that was enough for him to belittle it, this thing about the Ardman bloke. She had notebooks, photographs and everything. I bet he didn’t give you any of that documentation?’ She raised the glass cup of latte. ‘Am I wrong?’
‘You aren’t wrong.’ Caplan sighed. ‘We went to the house and asked him about her notebooks. They’ve gone. According to him.’
Kennedy nodded. ‘No, I looked for the notebooks myself. Not there. There was once a box file jammed full of newspaper clippings, some stuff she’d printed off the internet. Gone.
‘I met the neighbour. He said that Rory had been burning stuff. Rachel’s not even dead yet.’ Kennedy looked at Caplan, directly. Caplan had thought the smudging of the eye colour was due to the illness, but it looked genetic. ‘He has something to hide.’
Caplan was wary of being played. ‘It could be as simple as the fact that Rachel was in possession of documentation that she had no right to possess. Awkward if she was sacked at this time for gross professional misconduct.’
‘More likely to protect his reputation. But he was a womaniser. I bet that blonde cop, Linden, couldn’t face seeing Rachel.’ Kennedy nodded knowingly. ‘What did Rachel say to you about this?’ The cafe was suddenly noisy. Fergusson adjusted herself in the seat, holding her phone. ‘Rachel only made it into the CID because she got there before they got married. She wasn’t allowed to think for herself so she began to overthink her career.’
Caplan noticed Fergusson looking at her.
‘A detective constable who was known to overthink things thought that there was more to the Ardman situation?’ asked Caplan. ‘You see my dilemma.’
Kennedy shrugged. ‘When they hit the news she’d call me and tell me why she thought the most recent missing person was “one of hers or not”.’
‘One of hers?’ Caplan frowned. ‘But these were cases she never worked on. It does smack of a kind of arrogance, you must admit?’
Kennedy looked chastened. ‘When we found out Rachel’s condition was terminal, I got a phone call from somebody she knew at church. Rachel had given her something for safekeeping, for when she died. Rachel gave me something too. Rachel made us both promise to hand it over to you when she died, but I guess that time is now.
‘I remember the tears the night after the senior detective had called her in and told her to cease. She was threatened with all sorts, even a mental health assessment. It was the week before Christmas. She went home in a terrible state, and Rory told her she was an embarrassment to him.’ She mimicked her brother-in-law: ‘“That could damage my OBE for my charity work”.’
Caplan’s mind started to turn. ‘Did she back off?’
‘Of course not. It made her more determined. She was lucky that she went off on the sick when she did, otherwise they would have fired her. Rory would have been furious. But now all he does is talk to his old pals and get any movement on this case blocked. No money, no investigation.’
‘Are you saying, Irene, that Rory was actively blocking the funding for this investigation?’
‘Not in terms as definitive as that. More a discreditation of her opinions.’ Kennedy looked at Caplan, eyebrow raised. ‘Are they tripping over themselves to form a squad to investigate these bodies? No? Well, there’s your answer.’
Caplan didn’t look at her colleague but heard Fergusson let out a long slow whistle through her teeth.
‘And what was it? The thing that she left you?’
‘This. And this was the one she left to her friend.’ Kennedy pulled a small bubble-wrapped packet from her handbag. ‘There you go. I don’t know what’s on them. They’re password protected. And don’t look at me like that. You would’ve tried too. I need to get my train.’ She stood up, straightening out the sleeves of her jacket. ‘My sister had her heart invested in this. Rory’s a bastard. She deserves some closure before she passes.’
Caplan said goodbye, regarding the two flash drives, one blue, one red, lying in their bubbled envelope, between the empty latte glass and the cup of green tea.
Fergusson waited until Irene Kennedy had gone out the door. ‘I’ll bet you a fiver you break that password within fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ll do it in five.’
In the end it took her ten minutes, but only because her phone rang as she was typing in her second guess. There were a lot of scanned newspaper cuttings and official documentation, neatly filed, some of which Rachel would not have had legitimate access to.
Caplan read on, tapping out the names and case numbers on the system. The flash drives were full of pages that looked like little cards where Rachel had written the name of a missing person, along with, sometimes, a number that closely resembled a case number but was altered to fit some code of her own. Caplan recognised some of them as ones that she herself had put together. Rachel had put crosses over some and ticks over others, working her way through, altering her little files. Some of the names turned up alive and well, others turned up in hospital, others turned up dead.
Then she read a letter from a mum whose son had died by drowning after being missing for a period of time. Caplan could imagine Rachel interviewing her and bonding with her. When the inquiry concluded that the boy had died by accidental drowning, the mum had written a touching and heartfelt letter to the supportive police officer.
And that would stick with Rachel, trapped in her unhappy, childless marriage.
Rachel had got a canonical four: Ardman, Stratton, Welsh, Pottie. The inclusion of Welsh and Stratton was only questionable with hindsight. And through access to material that Rachel didn’t have.
Despite precise filing, Caplan was overwhelmed with snippets, Post-it notes, links to websites, the list of email addresses and scanned photographs. As far as the victims went, some were names she was familiar with, others she’d never heard of. Caplan started scribbling. There were sixteen names in all. She was sure most of them had turned up; dead by natural causes, dead by accidental death. But the amount of documentation Rachel had gathered was breathtaking. As Caplan scrolled through the document, she began to wonder, as Rory Ghillies had, if there was already some malignant process going on in her head, impeding her cognitive processes. Which is exactly what Rory would say.
Then she came across something highlighted in yellow. A printout of something from Companies House. She read it: Fayer Construction. Then Rachel’s handwriting: Owned by Albion Construction. Which owns Spire.
Then a list of directors. Caplan saw the name Ghillies, R. It was Rachel, not Rory. Plus Vance, F and W.
Aklen had said something about opening and closing companies under different ownership. Sharp practice but not illegal.
She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, listening to her instincts. This put Lisa Stratton right in the mix. Rachel had noted the argument against Welsh – her mental health struggles and her close and concerned family – but not against Stratton, one of the two names Caplan thought didn’t fit.
So what was Rachel thinking?
Did that mean it was personal?
Caplan felt a rush of excitement, seeing what Rachel had seen. Stratton’s murder did fit, if it was about her murder, not about the victimology.
Just like Bethany.
‘Oh Jesus.’ She put her head in her hands.
‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ Craigo looked at his watch.
‘Not really.’ Caplan stood up and walked out her office into the incident room. ‘I hate to do this to you guys but we’ve been handed some more information. At the moment, I’d be refused the cost of overtime, because it’ll be seen as not having any bearing on the current case. So, unpaid, but I need help. I’ll send out for fish and chips.’
‘Throw in a wee Irn-Bru and I’ll be right here, missus!’ said Mackie.
‘Me too,’ said Craigo, sticking a pen behind his ear and rolling his sleeves up.
‘Lizzie Fergusson and Sarah Linden will join in remotely,’ Caplan said, wondering what carrot she’d need to dangle there.
‘We could do with McPhee.’ Mackie sounded wistful.
Caplan smiled, nodded, and gave Craigo her credit card before going through to try to explain to Aklen how late she was going to be.
Caplan put the phone down and rubbed her ear. Linden hit and did not miss. One of Caplan’s team had leaked it to the press that the dead body was that of Bethany. They had been at Robertson’s front door, wanting a statement. They wanted a statement from the senior investigating officer as well. She tried to call the FLO. Engaged. Robertson’s landline was also engaged and his mobile was switched off.
Caplan put the phone down on Linden, refusing to take any more abuse. Then the phone rang.
It was Andrew McEwan. Was she available for a press conference because she was going to have to answer for the actions of her team? She told him they had just made an important break but wasn’t going to tell him because HQ had a leak. Then she excused herself and hung up.
The phone went again.
Caplan swiped at it. ‘Yes?’
‘Can we have a word?’ Ryce sounded worried, which wasn’t like her. The pathologist was normally the epitome of fractious efficiency.
‘Can it wait?’ Caplan closed her eyes. ‘Two minutes ago I was being berated by Linden because somebody on my team had leaked the identification on social media before she knew. Then Andrew McEwan decides it’s my fault, so he phones and I’m now deaf in my left ear. Bill Robertson’s neighbour saw on Twitter, X, that Bethany’s body has been found. The helpful neighbour turns up at Robertson’s to offer his condolences and to ask if there was anything he could do. And then postulated a few reasons why I might be lying to him.’
‘Should the FLO not keep people away?’ asked Ryce.
‘The FLO thought it was another nice neighbour handing in some cake. Please tell me you have done the PM and I can release a fact to the world, or my superiors. Nobody is going to be happy until I’m lying on your table.’
‘Can you get yourself to my office right now, before you talk to anybody else? Put your phone off and get here. Now.’
‘You do know that I’m ninety minutes away?’ Caplan looked at the clock, at Craigo and Mackie, heads down, working hard, following the life of Lisa Stratton.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait.’
Caplan was wearing gloves and a scrub cap when she entered the post-mortem suite at the hospital. Ryce was already gowned, gloved and masked. She was looking at a piece of paper hanging on a clipboard, waiting.
‘You took your time.’
‘I jumped every red light, it was the best I could do. What’s up?’ She turned to look at the body lying on the table, covered now by a plastic sheet. The post-mortem hadn’t even started. Shivonne’s head was a mass of white, black and red. The initial incision hadn’t been made.
Ryce said, ‘You can see why I know the leak of identification hasn’t been made from this office. She’s been ‘not Bethany’ since you mentioned the pilonidal sinus. Some young journalist was watching the police, monitoring the calls, waiting for the body of a young woman to be found on a remote location and put two and two together. There’s nothing we can do about that until stupid people find some sense of social responsibility.’
Caplan looked at the body again. Ryce was pawing at the clipboard then doing something with a plastic-covered file, something that would be much easier if she took her gloves off. Caplan waited. Ryce was deep in concentration. She’d never been guilty of Linden’s silence power play.
The face of the victim was so disrupted, it was difficult to see the pretty young woman that she had been, mostly because there was no intact bone to give her face any contour; the forehead and the cheekbone were depressed and bloodied. The jaw had been pushed over to the left. She looked like a broken puppet. Caplan studied her. The battering had been more severe on one side. While one eye could have been sleeping, the other eye was a sunken pit, a black slit in the purple balloon of her socket. There were three piercings in one ear, four in the other.
Caplan showed Ryce the photo on her phone. The piercings and the holes matched.
Ryce walked over to the slab, her rubber-soled boots squeaking lightly on the light blue floor. ‘We have here the body of a white female, probably early twenties. Dark reddish hair, dyed, natural colour dark brown evidenced by the body hair. Five feet six and eight-and-a-half stone.’
‘Yes,’ Caplan said. Ryce had her full attention now.
‘It was noted that Bethany didn’t have any tattoos. Shivonne did. Maybe Bethany did and her dad didn’t know about them – they’d be mostly covered by clothes.’ Ryce moved over to the body and deftly rotated the upper torso towards her, pulling down the plastic sheet. ‘Whoever did this knew about the tattoos and removed the skin where the tattoo was, in an attempt to delay identification.’ Ryce pulled a face. She pointed to a huge scab on the pale, white skin of the young woman’s back. ‘There. Can’t tell you how painful that would be to remove. I doubt they would have given her any local analgesia. As we would expect, she’s had her left canine tooth removed. And there’s been an attempt …’ Ryce shrugged. ‘. . . I have no idea of the level of insanity we are dealing with here, but the left fibula has been smashed with something, days before she died. The fracture line has indents above and below it, so somebody took a few attempts. I’ve seen that on a drowning victim who got their leg trapped between two boats in a high swell, but they had bruises to the inside of the leg. This lady does not.’
‘Same injuries as the other victims?’
‘Yes, enough to make a pattern.’ Ryce laid the body back down on her back as carefully as if Shiv was able to feel the hard chill of the stainless-steel tray. ‘Before you ask, the DNA is already away.
‘Wait.’ Ryce rolled the body towards her again, this time holding it by the waist, then drawing the sheet back, pulling it down slightly so Caplan could see the lower back and the upper part of the buttocks. ‘As you see, there’s a few cuts. The purple patchwork’s from how she was lying after her death. Bethany Robertson had a year out of uni on medical grounds for a pilonidal sinus. This lady has had no such operation, as you noticed. Even with all the skills we have nowadays the scar tends to be ugly, there’s very little skin at the base of the spine to make it pretty. As far as the press are concerned …’
‘“Identification has been confirmed but is not being released until members of the family have been informed”,’ quoted Caplan.
‘I wanted to run something else past you. We looked back at the post-mortem pictures of who was hunted down, who got, let’s say, chased. In particular, I’ve been looking at the X-rays that were taken at the time. And, well, I think we might’ve found another pattern. It’s not clear, it might not even be accurate, but some of the victims have been subject to blunt-force trauma.’
‘Did we not know that already? Shiv has had her face caved in. Xander’s face was a mess. You plucked his expensive tooth out from his throat.’ Caplan swivelled to the left on her seat, thinking, then swivelled back to the centre.
‘Yes, what we found could be from previous trauma. It could be from a lot of things. But the final insults, those perimortem, are always, always longer than they are wide.’
‘Hit with a stick, a tyre iron? A baseball bat but not a hammer?’
‘Not a hammer. While alive, they are beaten to break ribs, arms, lower legs. It’s a beating but never fatal. When they want it to be fatal, they go straight for the head.’ She spread her hands, like a magician.
‘There’s a period of being beaten for torture, and then they’re beaten to death by blows to the head to kill them? With a time gap in between?’ Caplan let out a long breath.
‘What if they are beaten to keep them compliant? Then killed with a beating to the head when they are no longer of use.
‘I’ve enough here to request support to review your canonical five. And any others you wish. The blows are of different strengths which could mean many things, but it could suggest different people. Strong men. Weaker women. But over a period of time. And one more thing? Rod Taylor of the Rod-Todd situation, who’d been in a committed homosexual relationship for twenty years?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘Well, he had sexual intercourse with a woman before he died.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You heard.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am.’
Caplan thought for a moment. ‘The name Stevie? Male or female?’
‘Stevie Wonder? Stevie Nicks? Can be either. Over to you now. I presume you are staying in town tonight. Hotel?’
‘Sarah is putting me up. A huge pile of documentation to go through then a big bed, hot bath, ensuite, plush carpets, central heating. Don’t know how I’ll cope.’ She shook her head, trying to shake out the Fleetwood Mac song that had floated in.