pair of outside broadcast vans, the battered BBC Scotland Volvo, and a collection of crappy hatchbacks were parked in front of a patrol car – blocking the road about a third of the way down. Most of the journos were still in their cars, staying out of the rain, but the TV crews had set up on the pavement with the barricade in the background, doing serious-faced pieces for the next news bulletin, clutching umbrellas and microphones, trying not to look as if they were creaming themselves with excitement.
Bastards.
I opened the door and climbed out. Icy rain stinging my ears and forehead. ‘Just keep your head down, and your mouth shut.’
She clambered out after me, pulling on her leather satchel – the strap diagonally across her chest, like her own private seatbelt – following as I marched towards the line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. With any luck we’d get through into the scene before anyone noticed us.
PC Duguid stood on the other side of the cordon, in front of the patrol car; glaring out from beneath the peak of an oversized cap. His fluorescent-yellow high-vis jacket was all slick and shiny. Like his face. Only not as ugly.
Duguid jerked his chin up and tapped two fingers against his nose. A car door clunked shut behind me. Then another one. Then an English accent, all marbles and plums, at my shoulder: ‘Officer Henderson? Hello?’
I kept walking.
A duffle-coated woman waddled alongside, thrusting a microphone under my nose. ‘Is it true you’ve uncovered a second set of remains?’
Someone else: ‘Have you identified the first body?’
‘Any comment on the new Dundee victim, Helen McMillan? Will Douglas Kelly be speaking to her parents?’
‘Your own daughter went missing, does that give you special insight into how the victims’ families are feeling?’
I kept going: just three more feet till the safety of the police tape. ‘We’re pursuing several avenues of enquiry.’ Never give the bastards anything they can quote.
A squat man barged in front, ears like knots of gristle, broken nose, little digital recorder in hand. ‘How do you respond to criticism that your botched investigation into Hannah Kelly’s abduction eight years ago left the Birthday Boy free to kill— Hey!’
I shoved him to one side and ducked under the cordon, holding it up so Dr McDonald could follow. PC Duguid leaned back against the bonnet of the patrol car, grinning. Gave a wee salute. ‘Morning, Guv. Like the bruises: very fashionable.’
‘You tipped the bastards off, didn’t you?’
The grin grew wider, pulling his chubby cheeks with it. ‘Bottle of Macallan, Guv. What’s a boy to do?’
I marched past, didn’t give him the satisfaction. Or a knee in the balls.
Dr McDonald trotted up beside me. ‘Did he really tip off those reporters for a bottle of whisky, what kind of police officer takes bribes like that, I mean it’s not right, is it, we should report him …’
Yeah, see how much good that’d do.
A dirt track led away from the road, grass growing down the middle, disappearing into the gap between two sandstone buildings.
Cameron Park must have been impressive once – back when this was an exclusive neighbourhood. A manicured landscape of oak, elder and ash; rhododendron bushes with their gleaming leaves; beds of flowers and shrubs; a duck pond; and a bandstand with a paved area around it for dancing … Now it was a rest home for weeds and litter. A shopping trolley stuck out of the long grass, nose up, one wheel missing, empty crisp packets caught in its metal grille. The rhododendrons were huge sprawling masses, their leaves trembling in the rain, the ground beneath them thick with shadow.
Three blue plastic marquees had been erected in the undergrowth, one – the largest – next to a dirty-yellow digger and a long trench gouged through a barbwire patch of brambles. The second was beside the crumbling bandstand, the third just visible behind one of those massive rhododendrons.
Flickering light came from inside two of the tents – crime scene photography casting the silhouettes of kneeling figures against the plastic walls.
A voice boomed through the rain: ‘I don’t care – get it bloody sorted!’
Dr McDonald flinched.
A prick in a grey Markie’s suit with matching overcoat marched out of the tent by the bandstand, carrying a brolly and a stack of forms. High forehead, close-cropped hair like a Kiwi fruit, long nose, not much going on in the chin department. ‘Amateurs …’
A uniformed PC scurried out after him.
The prick slapped the wodge of paper against the PC’s chest, then turned his back on the poor sod, leaving her in the rain while he pulled out a phone and made a call.
She stared at the back of his head for a moment, stuck up two fingers, then stomped off down the path towards us. Muttering all the way.
I nodded at her. ‘Julie.’
‘Guv.’ PC Wilson jerked her chin in my direction. Rain drummed on the rim of her bowler, a blonde ponytail drooping and damp at the back. Her eyes were two tiny slits, mouth working on something nasty. She didn’t stop. ‘I swear to God, I’m going to swing for that sheep-shagging bastard.’
‘The boss about?’
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the bandstand, as she passed us. ‘Comes down here acting like we all fell off the fucking Thick Wagon.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Swing for him!’
Dr McDonald peered at me through her rain-speckled glasses. ‘Is it always like this, I mean I enjoy a bit of team-based horseplay as much as the next psychologist, but it does feel as if … Ash?’
I set off again, making for the bandstand. It looked ancient: the woodwork crumbling and saggy – boards missing in the cladding, half the roof gone. Swirly bits of cast iron formed decorative flourishes between the bloated pillars, the metal pitted and stained with rust.
‘Ash?’ She was back again, doing a weird hop-skip thing until her feet were in step with mine. Left, right, left, right. ‘Is there anything I should know about before we interact with your team, I mean I’ve never met any of them and it’s going to be in an enclosed space and you know I’m not good under social pressure and you’re the only one here I know, so—’
‘Why don’t you let me do the talking, then? Just until you feel more comfortable joining in.’ Which would have the added bonus of shutting her up for a bit.
The blue plastic marquee next to the bandstand was about the size of a double garage, with ‘PROPERTY OF SPSA SCENES EXAMINATION BRANCH – OLDCASTLE – TENT C’ stencilled in white along the side.
The prick was still on the phone, wandering up and down, kicking at tufts of yellowed grass. But as we got within spitting distance he looked up, narrowed his eyes. ‘Hold on …’ He stuck the mobile against his chest. ‘Where the hell have you been? Shift started three hours ago.’
