Cold Grave (33 page)

There were tuts of exasperation all around as the Stirling cops showed their continued annoyance at the Weegie interlopers. The short bespectacled woman whom Winter and Addison knew to be the local Procurator Fiscal looked back at Croy and simply shrugged. Winter hadn’t waited for permission anyway. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had crouched at the far end of Barbie’s grave and framed a full-length shot.

He inched closer, ignoring the scowls that peeped out at him between mask and protective hoods, and filled his view-finder with Barbie’s headstone. It was a simple stone, much newer than the vast majority in the cemetery, solid grey and not yet beaten by wind or rain.

UNKNOWN

Died circa November 1993

I will fear no evil for thou art with me

Rest in Peace

The inscription managed to be poignant in its sparseness and touching in its message of hope beyond rationale. The top line was simply the reason they were there — to try to turn the unknown into the known. The last line was maybe a forlorn hope until then but the labours that were to follow perhaps gave Barbie a chance of peace after all.

Winter circled the stone, taking it from far more angles than was necessary, knowing full well it was increasing the impatience of the boiler suits and he would see the results of their irritation on their faces. Many Strathclyde cops had grown wise to Winter’s fixation for trying to include them in scene-setting shots but this lot were suitably naive for his purposes and a few cute tilts of his camera went straight over their heads — metaphorically at least. It rewarded Winter with hard stares and angry glares above Barbie’s headstone, fittingly furious by her grave and only he would know they were fuming at him rather than Barbie’s killer.

Finally, he stood back and let the cops about their business, having toyed with them long enough for his own purposes. As he did so, he caught a glint in Addison’s eyes that managed to express both approval and distaste. He glanced at Rachel and got only half of the look he did from Addison. She didn’t seem best pleased.

A brawny cop paced round Barbie’s grave, pushing to manoeuvre the gathered throng back, reserving a particularly violent gesture for Winter, in order to clear safe space for the pneumatic drill to begin its work. Once they were far enough back, Croy surveyed the room like a magician ready to perform his greatest trick but waiting until he was satisfied that his audience were suitably in awe of his talents. Croy looked towards the two other senior figures in the tent.

‘Ms Cruikshank? DI Addison?’

The Procurator Fiscal and the Glasgow DI nodded back at him, and Croy turned to the constables who held the drill and repeated the gesture. The officers swapped fleeting glances before one of them reached down to flick a switch and a low rumble immediately began to disturb the uneasy silence that swamped the room. Within seconds, it grew and grew until the noise became a clatter that turned into a pneumatic thunder, which must have rattled into Brig o’ Turk and halfway to Callander. It was loud enough to wake the dead.

The drill bounced back off the frozen earth at first, barely biting the surface; six feet below seemed a long way off. It was like drilling through concrete and the cop’s swear words only went unheard because of the infernal racket of the jack-hammer. It took just a few minutes to confirm what they’d all known: it was going to be a long, hard shift till they got anywhere near the girl’s coffin.

Half an hour passed and half a foot of soil had been displaced. The cops had changed shift on the drill; the first two having fallen back cold and hot and glad to be replaced at the helm. It was obvious that the initial rush of anticipation had already worn off and a weary hush had settled over the tent instead. It was hard work over the drill and nearly as hard to stand there and freeze while the others worked. After a while, Addison looked over to Winter and jerked his head in the direction of the tent opening.

‘I need to go over the photographs I want you to take,’ he murmured, the words meant more for Croy’s ears than Winter’s.

Winter followed him out until they were back in the open graveyard and saw that fresh snow was falling softly.

‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ Addison muttered. ‘Let’s get in the car.’

‘Discuss photographs?’ Winter asked incredulously.

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. What would I be interested in that for? No, I’m thinking car heater, Adele on the CD player and a wee drop of magic heating mixture,’ he said with a hearty tap against his back pocket. ‘I came prepared.’

They dodged past the waiting press pack and settled in his car, which was parked round the corner and out of sight. Addison switched the heating up to full blast, turned on the music and produced a hip flask of whisky from his pocket.

‘What is it?’ Winter enquired.

‘Ardbeg.’

‘Very nice.’

‘Too right it is.’

Addison swigged a mouthful of the cratur and shivered as it disappeared inside him. Winter followed suit, letting it warm his mouth before it slid down and set fire to his throat.

‘Better,’ Addison sighed.

‘Yeah.’

They sat in silence and looked through the windscreen, watching the flakes tumble onto the ground. Adele crooned in time to the drill and the flask was passed between them at regular intervals, only sips now but Addison’s share was still bigger as the DI took full advantage of not driving.

‘Funny fucking business this,’ Addison offered.

‘Yeah.’

Adele had stopped rolling in the deep and now she was banging on about rumours.

‘So how come you knew about it?’

‘What?’

‘How did you know about this Lady in the Lake stuff? Our DS Narey been chatting to you?’

‘A bit. Said she wanted photographs done and she’d rather keep them in-house than let Central do them.’

‘Right.’

Addison rolled the window down an inch or two and lit a cigarette, drawing deep on it and puffing the smoke towards the gap.

‘You do know this car constitutes a place of work and therefore you are breaking the law by smoking.’

‘I’m a police officer — of course I know.’

Adele was now turning tables.

‘What do you make of that prick Marty Croy?’ Addison asked.

‘Nothing much.’

‘He and Rachel seem a bit chummy, don’t you think?’

‘Never noticed.’

Addison aimed another long gasp of cigarette smoke through the open car window.

‘Good-looking bastard, too. I hope he’s not mowing Glasgow’s lawn.’

‘We should head back in and see how they’re getting on.’

‘Suppose. Cosy in here though.’

‘I’m going in for a look.’

‘Sit on your arse. It’s colder than Thatcher’s heart out there. Being stuck in the office does my head in but at least it’s warm.’

‘You stay if you want but I’m going back in.’

Winter heard a stifled laugh as he slammed the door closed behind him. Sod him. Back inside the tent, the work continued and he could see they’d made significant progress, although there was still a long way to go. His eyes were drawn to Croy and Rachel, standing side by side and observing the dig. As Winter watched, Croy leaned in close to Rachel, far closer than was necessary and whispered something. Whatever it was, Rachel smiled and dug her elbow playfully into the DI’s ribs. Winter’s immediate urge was to grab one of the shovels and wrap it round Croy’s head. It was also his second urge.

He managed to resist it but sent some serious thought waves over to Rachel, mentally ordering her to look at him instead. Bizarrely, it seemed to work and she stared over at him, confusion quickly giving way to annoyance. She said something else to Croy and headed out the door, a passing glare telling Winter to follow.

‘What the hell was that look for?’ she hissed at him when they were both outside.

‘What was Croy saying to you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Croy. He whispered something to you that made you laugh. The two of you seemed pretty pally.’

Her eyes flashed back angrily.

‘Are you jealous?’ she hissed. ‘Unbelievable. What are you, twelve? Stay out of my way, Tony. I’m doing my job here and I can’t afford to have it cocked up because of your fragile ego.’

‘I’m doing my job too. Or at least I will be as soon as your friend Croy gets his flatfoots to dig a fucking hole. I’ll be in the car.’

As Winter slid back into the heat of the car, Addison greeted him with an exaggerated smile.

‘Change your mind?’

‘Just shut the fuck up, give me some of the whisky and change the bloody record. Put something else on instead of that sentimental pish.’

It was three torturous hours before the cops were far enough down into the frozen grave that they could abandon the jackhammer and begin the even more laborious process of finishing the last painful foot or two by hand in case they hit the coffin and damaged its contents. The clang of shovels echoed round the cemetery as they dug, a jarring cacophony that seemed more in keeping with the surroundings yet more eerie in the morning mist.

The extra toil also forced the cops to haul in large gas heaters to provide more heat inside the tent. Despite the temperature climbing to a balmy minus eight, the officers were complaining it was so cold the sweat was freezing on their backs. By eleven, they were almost out of fit constables, as the digging took its toll, but they knew only the final inches of soil lay between them and their prize. At long last the resounding clang of metal on wood rang around the tent like a shot from a starting pistol.

Every eye turned to the two cops inside the grave. Addison, back inside after his prolonged break, shot a glance at Winter and they both instinctively took a step forward to get a better view. The group had been joined by a young, pretty blonde that Winter took to be Professor Kirsten Fairweather and the Central Scotland pathologist, Dr Angus Comrie, an angular man with tufts of grey hair on either side of a bald pate. He was dressed in a ground-length green apron, the only person in the tent wearing anything other than white, and he assumed control of the final proceedings.

‘Gently,’ Comrie told them softly. ‘Scrape away the last of the soil until the coffin lid is exposed. Do not rush at this stage.’

Ten minutes later, they could see fully exposed oak and Winter rattled off a further series of photographs, documenting the first sight of the coffin in nineteen years. Dr Comrie instructed the officers to fix ropes to the rings on the lid and they were at long last ready to raise Barbie from the grave.

Winter’s eyes scanned the tent and he knew, beyond doubt, none of them was feeling what he was. Rachel was probably the closest but even she was consumed by expectancy rather than the more primeval urge that had a grip on Winter. Nothing could drag him from that spot until he saw Barbie emerge. He couldn’t help but think that his mother, the woman who had lost her life because of his stupidity, had been only a few years older than Barbie when she died. He knew it wasn’t the time to think about it and tried to squeeze the comparison from his mind, forcing himself to remain in the moment.

After such a long and backbreaking effort, it took only seconds for the coffin to be raised fully and laid out on the canvas sheeting that surrounded the hole. Winter’s senses were on full alert as Comrie, calm and dignified, had the officers remove the screw that held down the lid. Addison and Croy, as the senior officers present, took a place on either side of the coffin and constables stood at either end, their hands poised to remove the cover. Winter strode forward forcefully, straight in front of a cop he could hear cursing behind him. His shutter finger was itching like a gunfighter’s, his nerves jumping and heart thumping.

For a split second, the base of the coffin disappeared from Winter’s viewfinder and it took him that moment to realise it had been caused by the lid passing through his sights. And, suddenly, there she was.

Barbie
.

Winter’s mind and finger were a blur as he raced off shot after shot. She filled his frame — her broken bones, her gaping smile.

‘Enough,’ Comrie instructed. ‘This isn’t a red carpet. She isn’t some kind of film star.’

Speak for yourself, Winter thought.

Barbie’s coffin had been carried from Brig o’ Turk cemetery and placed, with as much solemnity as the situation demanded and as much decorum as it allowed, into the back of a waiting hearse. By then, it was nearly noon and a large crowd of curious locals had gathered at the gates, trying to uncover the reason for the rare drama that had visited their sleepy village.

Few, if any, of them had known that Barbie rested there in the first place but soon enough they all knew she had departed. If Professor Fairweather did her job, if Rachel did hers and if Winter and Danny could help with their own brand of amateur assistance, then it was to be hoped that Barbie would never return to Brig o’ Turk. Instead, she could be buried properly at a place that suited whatever remained of her family when they were found.

Rachel had followed the hearse, first into Stirling, where Dr Comrie carried out the procedural necessities before signing Barbie over to the pastoral care of Kirsten Fairweather, then on the road to Dundee in the wake of the professor’s procession.

In terms of practical use, there was no real point in Narey being there when Barbie arrived in Dundee but she felt the need. Fairweather was going to do the clever stuff in terms of finding out who Barbie actually was.

When she got to the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification, Narey had to freeze under the ever-hostile stare of the steel-haired Annabelle. Rather than give Kirsty’s formidable receptionist the pleasure of turning her to stone, Narey phoned Julia Corrieri to get an update from Glasgow, safe in the knowledge it would annoy the receptionist.

‘Hi Sarge. Good drive?’