Fourteen
There was a full scene-of-crime team in attendance when Bandit Mackenzie’s Traffic car taxi dropped him at the stone-built terraced villa, its gateway marked with coloured tape. Ray Wilding was waiting for him in the doorway, clad in a disposable white tunic. He waited as the chief inspector struggled into an identical garment.
‘When did we get the call?’ Mackenzie asked.
‘About two hours ago, sir. The victim’s a bookmaker: he didn’t show up to open his shop this morning. That’s not unprecedented, apparently. The board man has keys, so he let himself in, and he and the clerk got on with business. It was pretty brisk, this being a Saturday and all, but eventually the clerk found time to call Mr Starr. When he got no reply, he tried his mobile. When he got no answer there either, he left a message. After an hour, he called again, and still got no reply. They were having a bad day and the accountant was afraid that the float was going to run out, so he sent Smith, the board man, up here to find out what was up, and if possible get some more cash. When there was no answer to the front-door bell, Smith went round to the lane that runs behind these houses and let himself into the back garden. The door was locked, but he could see through the kitchen window well enough. When he’d stopped yelling, he called the police.’
‘What did he see that made him yell?’
‘Come on through and see for yourself.’ Wilding led the way into the house and through the hallway, until he reached the big kitchen.
It took all Mackenzie’s willpower, and possibly the fact that his senses were dulled by four bottles of strong lager, to keep from screaming himself. Gary Starr was sitting at an oak table in the middle of the room, his back to the doorway. His head was angled back, his eyes were staring, sightless, and his mouth gaped wide open. His legs and torso were bound to his chair by thick brown tape, which had been used also to secure his arms to the table top.
It was covered in blood. Mackenzie had never seen so much, but he knew that when an artery is severed, the heart, until it stops, keeps pumping it out. Both of the bookmaker’s hands had been severed at the wrist, cleanly. They lay on the table in front of him, palms upward. ‘Jesus Christ,’ the chief inspector whispered. As he did so, his stomach sent him a warning of imminent activity: he rushed over to the kitchen sink and vomited, retching until there was nothing left to come up, then turned on both taps to wash it away.
‘Magic,’ said a voice from behind him. ‘Now that’s what I call contaminating a crime scene!’
He turned to see a man glaring at him, red hair sprouting from beneath the cap of his tunic. ‘Who are you?’ asked Mackenzie.
‘DI Dorward, head of the crime-scene unit. You just beat me to the same question.’
‘This is DCI Mackenzie, Arthur,’ said Wilding, ‘from Queen Charlotte Street. He’s my new boss, as of yesterday.’
‘I don’t care if he’s the chief constable, Ray: that was as bloody stupid a thing as I’ve ever seen.’
‘Wind it in, Inspector,’ Mackenzie growled. ‘We’re all human, so I’ll have a wee bit less of the chat.’
‘No, you bloody won’t. I’m in charge of this crime scene, not you: it’s my responsibility to keep it sterile. Could you not have thrown up in the garden, man? There’s every chance that whoever did this washed the blood off his hands in that sink, and that he left traces of himself behind. There’s also every chance that they’re not there any more. Now please, don’t touch anything else.’
‘You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Dorward,’ the chief inspector warned.
‘Frankly, I don’t care whether I make an enemy of you. On the other hand, if my report is less than complete because of you, you’ve made one of me. Maybe you want to think about that. Now, are you the senior investigating officer?’
‘Yes,’ Mackenzie snapped, then paused. ‘At least I assume I am.’
‘This set-up’s all very new, Arthur,’ Wilding explained. ‘Maybe Mr McIlhenney will want to run this one, or maybe even Mr McGuire.’
‘Well, find out, please. I need to know who’s to get my team’s results.’ He turned and left the kitchen.
‘Some start, eh?’ Mackenzie murmured.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said his sergeant. ‘It’s your call whether you pass this one up the line.’
‘I suppose I’d better. Do you have a mobile? I came away in such a rush I’ve left mine in the house.’
‘I’ve got a mobile, and I’ve even got Neil McIlhenney’s number. DCS Pringle made me keep it close when I was his assistant as head of CID.’
‘Good, but before I call him, bring me up to speed. Has the doctor been?’
‘Been and gone. His provisional view is that the man’s been dead since last night.’
‘Come on into the garden,’ said Mackenzie, ‘before that man gets his Carmen rollers in an even bigger twist.’ He led the way: floodlights had been set up outside, and officers were working in their glow going over every inch of ground. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘There must have been at least two of them,’ Wilding replied. ‘One bloke on his own couldn’t have subdued the victim and trussed him up like that.’
‘Agreed. He was a bookie, you say? That can be a rough business; from the looks of it, he’s really upset someone.’
‘That’s a thought,’ the sergeant conceded. ‘But I can’t imagine who it could have been. I know Edinburgh, and I know the gambling scene around here. There’s nobody I can think of would do something like that, so if your theory’s right, I reckon we’re looking for someone from out of town.’
‘Was the victim in business in a big way?’
‘That’s another thing: he wasn’t. He had the one shop and that’s all. Looking at this house, it did well enough: property up here’s not cheap. Yet he wasn’t a high roller; no way was he that.’
‘So why would a business rival hit on him? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe somebody’s trying to take over all the small bookies. Could be they made Starr an offer and he refused it so they . . .’
‘Lashed him to the kitchen table and chopped his hands off? That’s a bit extreme.’
‘Sending a message to everyone in town, maybe.’
‘Maybe, but there’s something else. Remember I said that Starr was the victim of an attempted robbery yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was unsuccessful because Starr whacked off the thief’s right index finger with a bayonet. That’s one I was going to brief you about on Monday.’
‘Have we made an arrest?’
‘No. He hasn’t shown up anywhere in our area for treatment, plus he’s not known to us: his print isn’t on record.’
‘You don’t think . . .’
‘Hardly. Even if he was treated somewhere that we haven’t found yet, he couldn’t have been in shape to do that on the same day, even with a helper.’
‘So maybe he had two helpers. Maybe there were three of them, maybe four.’
‘In that case, why did he try to stick up Starr’s shop on his own? And how did a team of three or four get in here? From what I hear, that character in there wasn’t the most sociable man in town, and there are absolutely no signs of forced entry anywhere.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s the best lead we’ve got, and that’s what I’m going to tell Neil McIlhenney. Did anyone see this robber yesterday morning?’
‘Smith, the board man, he did.’
‘Get him back in, pronto. Have him do an E-fit for us, and get it out to the media. And when you do, don’t forget to mention the missing finger.’
