Anderson got out of his car at Hill Road, Invernock, and stepped into the circus of tape, lights and the twitching of the neighbours’ curtains, spectators on the morbid. He hoped it didn’t show that he had no real handle on what was going on. The term ‘going in blind’ didn’t quite cut it. It happened in the police as it did in any other large organization. Messages didn’t get passed on, cases moved faster than the paperwork, and incidents happened in the order they happened; they didn’t wait their turn. But at some point, the buck stopped, and Colin Anderson had a feeling this was going to be at his door. For now, though, he was totally in the dark. All he could think was that Aasha’s case was close to resolution and he could run the two investigations for a while. Patterson had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. At least he hoped that was the case.
He wasn’t sure that he had the energy to give this new case everything it deserved, but felt slightly better when he spied Costello’s Fiat bumped up on the pavement. If he was in the shit, she was in it too.
He walked up the cracked pavement to the front of the bungalow, picking his warrant card from his pocket, noticing an elderly woman sitting in one of the police cars, a uniform sitting with her. The woman’s pose was familiar and spoke volumes; her head down, she was shaking. Either a relative or the one who had found the body. Then he realized what had caught his eye initially were the pricked ears and head of her dog, front paws up on the dashboard, panting, watching the comings and goings in and out of the house.
The uniform at the door signed him in. Anderson noted Costello’s loopy signature four signatures above. After picking up a couple of shoe covers, he entered the house, seeing the loft ladder immediately, the gaggle of cops round the bottom, sensing that something horrible had happened. It was quiet, no wisecracks.
‘Do you want to go up and look?’ asked the young cop who introduced himself as PC Nicholson. He offered a wan smile; his relief that others were coming to take charge was obvious.
‘Yes, who’s that outside in the car? The woman with the dog?’
‘That’s the neighbour, Elsie Fortune. Lives at number seven. PC Donnelly’s just explaining to her what’s going on. She nearly fainted. We didn’t think she’d be able to walk to her own house. The guy at number five made her a cup of tea.’
‘Did she find the body?’
‘We think a man called Dennis MacMillan found the body and promptly fell down the loft ladder, knocked himself out. I nearly did the same thing myself.’
‘You OK now?’ Anderson asked.
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘So who is MacMillan?’
‘He’s been visiting Mr James Pearcey, the eighty-one-year-old deceased, during lockdown and came round today to deliver his shopping. He couldn’t get in, so he called on Mrs Fortune and they gained access together. They still couldn’t find Mr Pearcey until Mr MacMillan looked in the loft. The ladder wasn’t down when they first entered the premises – it was MacMillan who opened the hatch.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘It’s a bit odd, sir.’
‘Obvious cause of death?’ Anderson asked.
‘You’d better look for yourself.’
‘That bad? And the bloke who’s still unconscious – a paid carer?’
‘More a neighbour. He attends the local church and—’ Nicholson was interrupted by a ‘Hey!’ from the loft hatch.
Costello’s head appeared, her blonde hair up in a net. ‘Anderson, you need to get up here. Nicholson, can you give the hospital a ring and see if MacMillan’s regained consciousness.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Her head retreated, loudly quoting the Jane Tennison line about her not being the bloody Queen.
Nicholson pulled up his Airwave as Anderson put one foot on the loft ladder.
‘Did MacMillan go up here?’
‘Nobody witnessed it, but he fell from somewhere.’
James Pearcey was sitting in a chair, a comfortable chair with wooden arms and thick cushions, head rolled backwards, eyes open, staring at the image on the screen of the young girl in her sunhat. Blood ran from the side of his mouth, down his light-blue shirt to a cascade on his lap.
Anderson looked in horror at the garrotte round the victim’s neck which had caused the eyes to stare and the purple lips to swell, the dark engorgement of the skin. The thin band of dark blue may have been his own tie. A black marbled fountain pen was caught in the back, twisted tight. This death had not been peaceful or quiet. He recoiled when he saw the small grey circles on the back of the swollen wrists, the head of the nails hammered through the joints, pinning his hands to the wooden arms of the chair. And then the dark congealed bloody mess, the crimson apron that seeped from his groin over his lap, the chair, spilling on to the carpet underneath.
He acknowledged the revulsion that twisted his stomach and ran through the scenario. The home cine film, the image of the naked young girl, maybe two or three years old. His heart sank further: the covert nature of the little cinema in a roof space – these images would be for private viewing, private pleasure. And Pearcey had been up here and joined by somebody for whom he had not provided a chair. Pearcey himself was calm, now the business of his agonizing death was over, content to look at the girl for his eternity.
In an incongruous nod to domesticity, a small table sat beside the chair, with a cup and saucer, a plate and two ginger biscuits. It was the only furniture in the room, apart from a small bookcase tucked under the eaves, full of metal film cassettes. Behind the chair was a huge projector, most of the film on the second reel. It had been paused, stuck for ever. Pearcey sat in his room, devoid of any furniture, any natural light, and watched his cine films.
Anderson looked round to view the image on the screen properly. The naked child sitting on the rock, waving at the camera, palm of her hand out, her hat falling over her forehead, throwing the shadow over her face.
Costello stepped forward, her eyes also drawn to the screen. ‘Well, there’s your answer, Colin. They just can’t leave it alone, can they?’ She looked back at the body on the chair.
‘Who had been forced to watch what, I wonder.’ Anderson wanted to close his eyes, turn off the cine film, but he let his gaze linger on the purple face for a while. This looked very close and personal. This had taken time.
Had Pearcey felt comfortable enough to take somebody upstairs to this private viewing room? Or had he been forced?
Costello was pointing at a pair of binoculars sitting on top of the bookcase of film reels, so Anderson walked to the Velux window and lifted the blind a little. Now he had a direct line of sight to the play park across the road. The hedge, the dog, the American-style letterbox at the end of the path. Nobody came near Pearcey’s house until lockdown had demanded it. What had the Good Samaritan, MacMillan, found out?
He looked closely at the film cans, each sitting in a small groove in the wood of the shelf. Numbers were handwritten on peeling white labels. They looked like dates. 24 06 59. A long time ago. Pearcey was in his eighties. The kids on here would be filmed live in those days. As a crime, it was as old as death itself.
Taking a final look around, the white screen hanging from the rafters, the kid in the sunhat, the conversion of the small loft to this secretive room, the special stairway, he had the sensation that a cold dead hand had just stroked the back of his neck.
‘Costello, can you get these films logged and transported back to base as soon as possible? And dig up a projector.’
‘Or take this one. If we get forensics to prioritize it?’ she offered.
‘Good idea.’
Costello joined her boss at the side of the body. ‘Is this Pearcey?’
‘That’s my working hypothesis …’
‘Not an easy man to get any background information on, on a first pass, but I will get the boys on to it.’
‘Not easy as in “kept a low profile”?’
‘From the look of it. No wonder. James Pearcey? Mean anything?’
‘Nope, not at all.’ Anderson shook his head.
She looked around. ‘This looks like a pervert’s paradise – isolated from the house, sitting there nibbling his ginger biscuits while looking at naked children in his own wanking castle. It’s disgusting.’
‘Can we keep an open mind, Costello?’ he said with no real conviction.
‘You are ignoring the obvious. If you hear hooves, think horse not zebra and all that shit. If you get a brown envelope from the taxman, think bill not rebate. There’re laws in the universe.’ It was Costello’s turn to look at her watch. ‘Can I go and see MacMillan now, get his story. It’s gone five and, remember, I got the short straw to go to Jim Bryant’s retiral barbecue tonight.’
‘Sorry about that. You’d think food poisoning and a global pandemic might have put him off. Yes, you go,’ Anderson said. ‘One of us should. I’ve not been told who else is working this.’
‘I was told to attend, that’s all. You know MacMillan is a Christian?’
‘Yes, Nicholson said.’ Anderson frowned at the non sequitur. ‘Is that against the law now?’
‘A Christian finds the body of a paedophile who has been tortured to death. Might be something there?’
‘Oh. Those Christians. They go around doing this to defenceless old men, do they?’
‘They might if they are a fire-and-brimstone, burn-in-hell-all-ye-who-don’t-put-the-toilet-seat-down type rather than the scones-in-the-vestry type. They do sing a lot. I’ll interview him. Just a bit curious about this finding the key and getting the neighbour as a witness. It’s a bit too neat.’ She shouted down through the hatch, ‘Is MacMillan able to talk?’
‘He will be by the time you get there. What are we doing with Norma?’
‘Who?’
‘The dog? It’s Pearcey’s dog. But Elsie’s man is allergic, as she’s told Donnelly a hundred times.’
Costello rippled her fingers, asking for Anderson’s car keys. ‘I’ll get to the hospital and take a statement, get hold of his clothes. Where does he live exactly?’
‘No idea. Nicholson will know,’ Anderson said, handing over his car keys without really thinking; he was busy looking around the room, taking it in so he had a reference until the crime scene pictures were ready. ‘I wonder who the girl in the film is. Was it left deliberately on that frame? We could get that face enhanced, even with the shadow. Do you think aging software can do that, from two years old to what? Sixty? Fifty? The date will be on the can.’
‘It’ll be crap if she likes Botox. So who did it? A female perp? Somebody smaller and weaker than him? Even with him being an old man, they had to nail his hands to the arm of the chair to take their time over killing him.’
Anderson looked and swore. He then said very quietly, ‘Costello, Tony Bannon has been put in charge of the Aasha Ariti case.’
‘Yes, I know. I said I’d rather be reassigned to this with you.’
‘Did you?’ He was touched by her loyalty.
‘Yes, I’d have to train him; it’s taken me years to get you under control.’ Costello’s tone was light, recognizing that her boss was struggling with something. ‘The Aasha case is going to be a poisoned chalice, Colin. You are being given a get-out-of-jail-free card. Bannon’s being thrown to the wolves. He’s been out of CID so long that he doesn’t recognize the scent of them circling. Give it a week and he’ll request a post back to Complaints – they’re used to being unpopular.’
‘What do you mean?’
They both looked down at the sound of somebody important arriving – lots of ‘Sirs’ and ‘Hellos’.
‘Paedophilia. Racism. The media are going to be all over these two cases, no matter what we do. Zeitgeist and all that.’
‘Do you think Aasha was a race issue?’
‘She had dark skin – of course it will be a race issue. Even though she’s a Catholic born in Romford, the bampots on both sides will turn it into one.’ She looked round. ‘And then there’s this – all this here. And Pearcey sitting there, enjoying it at his age.’
‘Maybe we should wait until we see what’s on the rest of the films.’
‘Well, you can watch them. I’ll sit that one out, thanks. I’m away to talk to MacMillan.’ She knelt down to clamber through the hatch, leaving him to his own thoughts. No doubt her boss was back looking at Pearcey and trying not to imagine the pain.
Anderson waited until Nicholson’s head appeared through the hatch and asked him to fill in the blanks. ‘So what happened here exactly? The deceased didn’t trust MacMillan enough to give him a key? Is that right?’
‘The friendship was a very recent thing, sir. But Mrs Fortune said MacMillan was very concerned to gain access – understandable, good community spirit, post-virus in a small village like this. The loft ladder was up and the hatch closed when they first came in. She goes out with the dog for, quote, “a couple of minutes”. And came back in to this. She claims to have no prior knowledge of the attic space.’
‘Despite the Velux window?’
‘The blinds were never open, so she presumed that Pearcey was too old to get up there. When she comes back in, MacMillan’s unconscious and the loft hatch is open. She called an ambulance.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did MacMillan decide to suddenly open somebody else’s loft hatch? What was he looking for?’
‘No idea.’
‘I’ll come down now before I feel any more nauseous.’ Anderson climbed down into the hall which was now crowded with crime scene techs. ‘That ladder’s an impressive bit of kit.’
‘I think it’s more substantial than usual due to his age,’ Nicholson said. ‘The ladder lifts into the hatch by this electric motor – there’s a switch on the wall. The handrail folds up inside it. It’s light but very strong.’
Anderson had noticed the two handrails, enough to help an elderly man who might be struggling with his balance to gain access to the loft, frequently and safely. ‘Does Pearcey have children? There are reels and reels of film up there.’
‘If these are family films, why not keep them in the spare room? There are some photographs – there’s one on the table next to his chair. Same people – family?’
‘Well, offenders don’t go round with the words “I am a sex monster” on their forehead. If he’s kept under the radar, he did that for a reason. Did somebody know and take revenge? Was the killer a victim?’ Anderson walked into the front room, reminding the crime scene tech that they’d like the films, the cans and the projector back at the incident room as soon as possible. How long had it taken Dennis MacMillan to gain Pearcey’s trust? Not enough trust to give him a spare key.
Anderson looked at the photograph on the table: the one thing in the room that wasn’t in its rightful place. It was still in its large frame, and the old string on the back showed that it had been hanging until recently. A family picture – three men, one of whom might have been the deceased aged about forty. One woman, three boys, two girls – the kids ranging from young teens to toddlers. Could be something or nothing. There was nothing else lying around, no half-done jigsaw, half-read book. He told the crime scene tech to dust the picture for prints in case it had been handled. And who were these people? He took a photo of it on his phone before he looked out of the window into the back of the hedge, then lowered himself, hearing his knees squeak, to the level of Pearcey’s chair, the slightly odd angle it sat at. Now he could see through the gap in the hedge, the play park neatly framed by the cut of the laurel.
He hoped MacMillan was talking. Was he involved in some kind of ring? Had he come here to destroy the evidence? ‘Has anybody found a computer?’ he shouted as he walked into the hall and bumped into Jessica Gibson and Mathilda McQueen. ‘Pathology and forensics, joined at the hip?’
‘May as well be,’ said Gibson. ‘There’s not many bosses I can ask this, but is it safe up there? You know?’ She patted the growing bump on her stomach.
He nodded. ‘Yes, I would think so,’ he reassured her. ‘It’s horrific and bloody, but there’s no sign of drug abuse or needles – just take care going up the ladder. When is it due?’
‘Another eight weeks yet,’ she said, looking warily at the loft ladder.
‘Well, enjoy the sleep while you can. Mathilda, the deceased may be a paedophile, so we need to secure any electronic devices.’
‘I’ll get the tech boys on to that. What’s going to happen to that dog?’ asked McQueen. ‘It’s sitting in your car, Colin, as if it’s desperate for a shit.’
‘Bloody Costello. I’ll see you two later,’ he said, leaving them to their jobs.
He knew the drill, but there was something bothering him. Not the fact that Costello had left the dog in his car. While he’d feel guilty taking another dog home, he’d feel worse if this wee dog was dragged off to the rescue centre. There was something else. What was it? The timeline was wrong. It was about half past three when the body was discovered at number nine. He had responded quickly. What time had Patterson said he’d got the call from Detective Chief Super Toastie Warburton to ‘redeploy’ him? About eleven? That meant either there was a gap in the space–time continuum or Warburton knew in advance that this was going to happen. Interesting.
He signed out of the crime scene, the uniform at the door gave him his keys back and asked him if he was going to the retiral barbecue, adding that it was going to be quite an event – rumoured there was going to be a free bar. Anderson lied that he was sorry that he couldn’t make it but he had a sick two-year-old in the house and he needed some sleep. Those were the words spoken, but the words running through his mind were that he’d rather poke his eyeballs out with a stick. His wee dog had just passed away; he really wasn’t in the mood for good humour. He asked for MacMillan’s address to see where he lived in relation to the deceased’s bungalow. The sky was clearing and it was getting colder. And that recalled to mind the wee mongrel who might be having a dump in his car. He hurried back to where he had parked the old BMW to find Norma rolled up in the front seat, a wee scrappy, spikey dog, shaking like a leaf in her sleep. Hearing him, she woke up and jumped, front paws padding on the window, her tail wagging like a metronome.
Norma. She’d go to the police kennel where she’d be outside all night, whereas in his house there was a warm bed under a radiator. Yes, it was his own dog’s bed, but Nesbit was a generous spirit and he had no use for it now. Anderson turned, pulled up the zip on his jacket, opened the door, got the dog out and bent to make sure her lead was secure. But as he placed his hand on her collar, she cowered and retracted her top lip, showing a set of very fine canines.
He removed his hand before she removed his fingers, and apologized to her. She wagged her tail in forgiveness, then they started down the path towards MacMillan’s house. His phone told him that the road was the long way round and the path that crossed the grass was much quicker. MacMillan had good reason to be present at the house. He wondered if the good Christian had a daughter. He definitely had a wife who was conveniently away at the moment. A man of faith might well be infuriated by child abuse, but it would take a father to be provoked to violence, or a victim not strong enough to fight back. It was finding the key so conveniently that troubled Anderson, a thought he tumbled over in his head as Norma trotted alongside him. Had MacMillan fetched Elsie Fortune for corroboration purposes? MacMillan being unconscious meant they had not spoken, so Anderson would soon know if their stories did not tally, but the neighbour had secured a witness to that fact that he had discovered the body, even if they had not been together at that precise moment. The dog was a good way to get Mrs Fortune out of the house, while … While what? While MacMillan went upstairs to perform that degree of injury to James Pearcey and nobody heard a thing? That was rubbish, not plausible even to his own ears. It didn’t mean that he hadn’t been over earlier to kill him and then made sure he had a witness when he found the body. That fitted better. It was convenient. It was all just a little too convenient.