had taken them by surprise. On the drive to the beach, they had seen that the public car park on the bents was busy, and Steele had spotted at least two vehicles with media logos emblazoned on the side.
‘Follow me,’ Reid called out. As they did so, they found themselves climbing, through a maze of head-high thorn bushes, thick with yellow flowers. The path turned into sand once more, until, without warning, it came to an end and they found themselves in a clearing in the middle of which a square tent, with an arched top and a small awning in front, was pitched. A rucksack lay at the closed entrance.
The area had been secured by two uniformed officers, both women: they had attached a circle of tape to the thick bushes. Slightly pointless, Steele thought, since there was only one way any human could approach, but he was not inclined to fault them for following procedure. Reid introduced the pair to Mackie. ‘Sergeant Grey, sir, and PC McGregor, both from Haddington.’
‘I know, Ian.’ The ACC turned to the senior uniform. ‘It’s as you found it, Alison, yes?’
‘Yes, sir. Neither of us have been into the tent.’
‘Good. Stevie,’ he said to Steele, ‘this is your investigation, your call. Do you want to go inside?’
‘Is the DCC coming?’ the inspector asked.
Mackie grinned. ‘No. He said he didn’t want to stand on your toes.’
‘Jesus,’ Steele exclaimed. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that’s a first.’
‘Tell me about it. What do you think?’
‘I think I’m going to look inside.’
‘Has it occurred to you that the victim’s companion might still be in there?’
‘And armed, Stevie,’ Wilding added.
‘It’s occurred to me. But if he is still here, unless he’s the stupidest murderer I’ve ever encountered, he’s lying in that tent with a bullet in his head.’
‘Unless he was afraid to make a break for it after he killed her.’
‘Come on, Ray, is that likely?’
‘Let’s put it to the test.’ Mackie stepped up to the tent, crouched in the small porch section, one knee on the ground sheet, and opened the flap that covered the doorway. ‘Empty,’ he announced.
‘I thought you said it was my shout,’ said Steele, quietly, as the ACC straightened up, easing the kink out of his back.
‘Christ, I’m stiff these days,’ he complained. ‘It is, Inspector, but I’m the senior officer here, by quite a way. If you’d been wrong about the guy waiting in there with a gun, and I’d let you go in before me, I’d have carried that with me through whatever was left of my short and inglorious career. Would Bob Skinner have let you go in first, if he’d been here?’
The inspector was about to answer the question, although it was virtually rhetorical, when Mackie’s mobile sounded. ‘ACC,’ he answered. ‘You have? That’s good, Superintendent; thank you very much . . . He’s what? . . . Jesus, I wasn’t expecting him till tomorrow. When’s he due to take off? . . . Them? Has he thought that . . . Forget that, who thinks at a time like this? Okay, I’ll handle this end. Thanks again.’ He ended the call and pocketed the phone. ‘Sorry, Stevie,’ he said. ‘You guys will have to find your own way back from here. The girl’s parents are coming up to Edinburgh this evening. They have a private plane and it’s taking off from Gatwick as soon as they can get fuel into it. I’ll have to meet them at Turnhouse and take them to the mortuary.’
‘You could always delegate it,’ Steele suggested.
‘Let me point something out to you,’ said Mackie. ‘The morgue is in which division?’
‘Maggie’s.’
‘Exactly. If I delegate this, it has to be to the divisional commander.’
‘Mmm. Forget I said that, will you, sir?’
‘I’ve forgotten. You carry on here. I’ll catch up with Mario tomorrow on what you find.’ He turned and left the clearing, PC Reid at his heels.
‘He’s a cool one, isn’t he?’ said Wilding, once the assistant chief constable was out of earshot.
‘That’s an understatement. When he was making his way up through the ranks, there was a time when he was known as “Fridge”. But that changed: later he was called “Dirty Harry”. There’s a story about him from years ago. Remember that time when there was trouble at the Festival? There was an armed incident and one of our guys was killed. Brian Mackie took down the gunman with a single shot from a Colt forty-five calibre pistol. The guy was on a motorbike, moving fast, and yet he hit him dead centre from seventy-five yards away. Maggie was there; she told me about it. It was an amazing shot, but the thing that everybody remembered was that afterwards he didn’t bat a fucking eyelid. He went over, looked at the dead guy on the ground, nodded and walked away. He’s the best shot on the force, no kidding.’
‘I’ll remember that if I ever have to ask him to sign an overtime chitty.’
‘Do that. But first, I’m going to see what’s inside this tent. I want the SOCOs in here, Ray. Dorward’s been warned. He should be on his way down. Give him a call and see where he is.’
‘You’re not going into the thing, are you?’ the detective sergeant asked. ‘You’re not suited up.’
‘No, I’ll just look from the doorway. I won’t go any further in than the ACC did.’
Before he had even started to move, another mobile sounded: his. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered, impatiently. ‘Steele,’ he snapped.
‘DC Montell, sir.’
‘Griff, what is it? I’m busy here.’
‘Sorry, boss, but I thought you’d want to know this: I’d have been on twenty minutes ago, but I’ve had trouble getting a connection. It’s about the dead girl: Alex knows her.’
‘Alex?’
‘Alex Skinner. I’ve just been speaking to her. Well, when I say she knows her, she’s met her. She knows who she was ... and she knows what she was. Believe it or not, she’s an artist, just like Stacey Gavin.’
‘She’s sure about this?’ He was aware of Wilding and the two uniforms staring at him, caught by the sudden urgency in his tone.
‘Certain. Alex bought one of her paintings for her father. Direct from the victim, off her market stall.’
‘Lovely,’ Steele murmured. ‘Just fucking lovely. Griff, are we chasing an art critic, do you think?’
‘If we are, it’s a pity he doesn’t specialise in rap music instead.’
‘Don’t put that in your note. Write one up all the same, and add it to the investigation file.’
‘What’s Montell been up to?’ asked Wilding, a barb in his tone. From time to time, Steele thought he detected a touch of animosity in the sergeant towards their newest recruit, but there was no sign of it affecting the performance of their unit, and so he had decided that, for the time being, it was as well left to lie undisturbed.
‘He’s been up to getting a result, mate,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll tell you about that later. Meantime . . .’ He walked over to the tent, knelt under the small awning, as Mackie had done, taking care not to touch the rucksack, and opened the flap.
He tingled, as he felt her presence inside, almost tangibly: it was as if she was haunting the space in which she had spent her last night on earth. A sleeping bag lay on the ground sheet, unrolled but crumpled: it looked big enough for two. Items of clothing were strewn around, jeans, bra, knickers and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, bright orange in colour, matching the description that the Thai waitress in North Berwick had given to Wilding during his second interview. Two KitKat wrappers and a Tetrapak of Sainsbury’s orange juice lay on the far side of the bag, alongside a used condom, knotted, and its torn foil capsule. ‘I hope he was worthy of you, kid,’ Steele whispered to the dead girl’s spirit. There was an unlit Tilley lamp against the far wall of the tent, and a flashlight close to where he knelt. Beside it, taking up most of the rest of the floor space, he saw a big black bag, a metre square with a zipper running round three of its sides. It was undone and, from what he could see, it was empty.
He eased himself out of the space and returned to Wilding, at the entrance to the clearing. ‘What’s he left us?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Apart from a copious DNA sample, and almost certainly fingerprints, nothing that I can see. I’m not going to open it, that’s for Arthur, but I’ll bet you that rucksack over there is Zrinka’s.’
‘That’s a move forward, though. He left us nothing at the last scene.’
‘What makes you so sure that the boy’s our killer?’
‘Who else would it be, Stevie?’
‘Maybe you’re right; maybe it was him. But if it was, it’s a hell of a change in his behaviour. Stacey Gavin was killed clean as a whistle; even allowing for the fuck-up at the crime scene we weren’t left a single clue. Why would
