in the whole of the previous week, and had rediscovered the pleasure of feeling fresh in the morning.
But when he leaned over the body in the copse, encased in his white crime-scene tunic, he felt all the old familiar weariness flow back, covering him like a blanket.
‘Not another,’ he moaned, quietly, to himself.
He looked across at Detective Chief Inspector Joseph Gibson, his second-in-command. ‘What stupid fucker described this as a “suspicious death”?’ he barked.
The man’s curly hair was caked dark red with blood. It had flowed copiously, forming a round puddle, in the centre of which the victim lay, face-down. His wrists were bound behind his back with a strip of ratcheted black plastic, so tightly that the flesh bulged on either side of the ligature.
The dead man was wearing a light brown leather jacket, jeans and heavy boots. Gibson leaned over and pointed at the jacket, towards a mark in the middle of the back. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘It’s torn, and there’s blood caked around it.’
‘Stab wound,’ grunted Pringle. ‘What was the point of doing that if you’re going to blow the guy’s fucking brains out?’
‘The same as the other one,’ Kwame Ankrah interjected quietly. ‘To bring up the head for the killing shot.’
The Detective Superintendent and his deputy stared simultaneously at the African. ‘The other one?’ asked Pringle, incredulously.
‘Superintendent McGrigor is investigating a shooting in a place called West Linton. From what I have heard, the method was identical to this killing. These are executions, gentlemen.’
‘We’d better touch base with Big John, quick,’ said Gibson.
‘With more than him, I think,’ his Divisional Commander retorted. ‘Let’s get finished here though. Are the photographers finished for now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Doctor too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, let’s turn him over and see what he looks like . . . that’s if he’s got any face left.’
‘He will have,’ said Ankrah, bending down beside Gibson and turning the stiffened corpse over on to its back.
The man stared up at them with sightless, terrified eyes. The face was red with blood, from the pool in which it had lain, but it appeared to be unmarked. The hair which was not soaked and matted, looked thick and luxuriant, and light brown in colour.
‘Who found him?’ asked Pringle.
‘A dog-walker, sir,’ the DCI replied. ‘Eight-thirty this morning.’
‘Why would this guy be here?’
‘Depending on where he lived, he could have been taking a shortcut home, from the squash club, possibly. Or he could have been brought here.’
‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Not yet, sir. There’s no missing person listing to fit the bill.’
‘Let’s have a look, then.’ Pringle leaned over the body and, carefully, opened the blood-sodden jacket. He reached inside its inside pocket and took out a black leather wallet. Stepping away from the body, he opened it and looked inside. ‘Thirty-five quid in readies,’ he announced. ‘Let’s have a look at his plastic. Bank of Scotland Keycard, sort code 80-41-21; customer’s name C. Collins. Sunday Times Visa Card, holder’s name C. Collins. Colinton Castle Squash Club membership card . . . looks like you were right, Joseph . . . in the name of Charles Collins.’ He paused. ‘Territorial Army Mess membership card,’ he continued, more slowly, ‘in the name of Sergeant Charles Collins, Lowland Inf. Div.’
‘That’s who he is, then.’
He frowned slightly as an idle thought struck him. ‘Here, Stevie Steele’s away checking up on some TA guys for Andy Martin. Maybe we’ve found one for him.’
62
If Detective Sergeant Stevie Steele noticed the knowing look which Karen Neville threw in his direction as he entered the Head of CID’s outer office, he did not react to it. Instead he walked over to Sammy Pye’s desk.
‘Mr Martin wants to see me,’ he said.
The detective constable beamed up at him. ‘I know, sergeant. He asked us to take you in as soon as you arrived.’
Steele frowned. Neville’s glance had not unsettled him, but there was something in Pye’s tone which did. ‘Did he say what it’s about?’
‘He wouldn’t tell us, sarge. Come on, let’s not keep them waiting. You’re two minutes late as it is.’
Pye stood. ‘Tell you one thing though,’ he whispered, mischievously. ‘If you thought that Russian was tough, you should see Andy Martin on a bad day.’ As Steele’s jaw dropped, he led the two sergeants across the room, rapped on the Head of CID’s door and stepped inside.
‘DS Steele’s here, Boss,’ he announced.
‘Bring him in, then,’ said Martin, rising from behind his desk and moving over to the conference table, at which sat DCC Skinner, waiting.
The acting Chief grinned at the sergeant, registering his apprehension. ‘It’s all right, Stevie. Have these two been taking the piss?’
Steele glowered at Pye for a second. ‘One may have, sir.’
‘Sit down,’ said the DCS. ‘Have you got the names of those TA soldiers you told me about?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He took a notebook from his pocket and opened it. ‘They’re . . .’
Martin held up a hand. ‘Let me guess at some of them. One’s named Sergeant Charles Collins.’
Steele looked at him, astonished.
‘Yes, Boss, Curly Collins.’
‘Found shot dead in Colinton this morning.’
‘Eh?’
‘That’s right. Let me guess another. Sergeant Ryan Saunders.’
Steele nodded slowly.
‘Found near West Linton a few days ago, shot . . . executed . . . in exactly the same way as Collins. Hands tied, made to kneel, jabbed in the back with a knife, or possibly even a bayonet, to bring the head up then . . . Bang!
‘A few days before that, Saunders, in uniform, paid two and a half grand in cash for a diamond pendant in Raglan’s, where, shortly afterwards, a major diamond robbery took place. That, of course, is the shop where Arlene Regan’s boy-friend worked. The same Arlene Regan who pulled the pints for Saunders, Collins and their pals up in the TA Club.’
Skinner leaned forward. ‘My turn to play now. I’ll give you two more. First, Nathan Bennett.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Steele, ‘known as Big Red. But I had to get on to the Ministry of Defence to get his details. He was registered as an ex-serviceman, but he was never in the Territorials.’
The DCC was surprised, but he went on. ‘Missing two fingers from his left hand. Shot dead in Saughton Prison while awaiting trial for the Dalkeith bank hold-up.
‘My second guess. Malcolm McDonnell.’
‘Yes, sir. Big Mac, a Sergeant during his service. But he was the same as Bennett. An ex-regular, but he was never a TA member either. I had to go to MoD for him too.’
‘That’s curious too. Anyhow, McDonnell was a prison officer, stationed at Saughton. He disappeared after Bennett was assassinated, having set him up to be killed.’
Silence prevailed for a few seconds, until Stevie Steele sent it packing. ‘That’s very good, sir,’ he said. ‘Do you and Mr Martin want to try for the set?’
Skinner laughed. ‘No, it’s your turn now. Who are the others on your list?’
