Too Soon a Death: A Scottish mystery where cosy crime meets tartan noir: Borders Mysteries Book 2 (10 page)

‘Will you still be here?’

‘If I’m not, one of the other doctors will see you.’

‘Can’t imagine finding that boy’s body last week would’ve been good for you. Not in your condition.’

Zoe hesitated before saying quietly, ‘I didn’t find him, Mr Griffiths. I was asked by the police to attend in case I could help identify him.’

With a grunt which Zoe had learned could signify disbelief, disapproval or simply a farewell, the old man took his prescription and left. She sighed. It was going to be another of those surgeries when she would have to correct assumptions and deflect questions about events she was only marginally connected with.

Both her next patients were in their late teens and consequently too wrapped up in their own lives to have any interest in that of their doctor, but then came a stream of older individuals with time on their hands and more curiosity about what went on in their neighbourhood. As Zoe examined the infected mosquito bites on Molly Lawton’s arm, legacy of a recent visit to Corfu, her patient nodded towards the newspaper sticking out of her shopping bag. ‘Says there his hands were bandaged. Was that why they wanted you to see him, because you were the one who’d patched him up?’

‘I’d never seen him before,’ Zoe said. ‘You’d best brace yourself. This may sting a little.’

Several subsequent patients repeated a rumour which Zoe was already familiar with: a fish processing company in Eyemouth had reported one of its migrant employees missing. She disappointed them all with her lack of insider knowledge. After their eagerness to involve her in their speculation, it was a relief to show John Wilkie into her consulting room. This wasn’t the first time they had met and she knew him to be a quiet and courteous man. About six months previously, when he was suffering from a bout of insomnia brought on by the stress of losing his job as a forklift-truck driver, she had prescribed him a short course of sleeping pills. He had made a return visit solely to let her know he felt a lot better and to thank her.

Today, John’s hunched posture and shuffling gait suggested he was in physical pain. ‘It’s my back,’ he said. ‘It’s been sore for a while but I could hardly get out of bed this morning.’

‘When did this come on?’ Zoe asked.

‘It might have been while I was decorating my daughter’s bedroom last week.’

‘Did you lift something heavy or fall off a ladder?’

He took off his glasses and began cleaning them with his tee-shirt. ‘I can’t remember doing anything.’

‘It’s possibly just a strained muscle but I want to check there’s no problem with your spine.’

John obeyed her instructions as she took him through a range of tests, observing as he stood as straight as possible, leaned forward and came back up slowly, then turned his head one way and then the other. It wasn’t until he lay on the couch and she was taking him through a number of movements to check sensation and reflexes that he spoke again. ‘Have they identified the laddie found down by the Chain Bridge yet?’

Saddened to discover he was like everyone else, Zoe replied more sharply than she intended. ‘As I’ve been saying all morning, not that I’ve heard. Tell me if this hurts, will you?’

‘I’m sorry, Doctor, you’ll be sick of talking about it.’ Despite still being horizontal on the couch, John removed his glasses and rubbed them again with the hem of his tee-shirt.

She gave him a rueful smile as she bent his right knee and then his left. ‘I’m just frustrated at people assuming I know so much more than I actually do.’

‘Please don’t think badly of us. It’s upsetting when something awful happens in your community. And this was a young person given a working-over then thrown off a bridge. Inhuman, I call it.’

Zoe had turned round to reach for her tendon hammer, not really listening to him. However, for some reason his words concerned her, so when she started testing his knee and heel reflexes, she asked, ‘What did you say?’

‘Throwing a boy off a bridge. I said it was inhuman.’

‘Oh. Yes, I agree.’

Unable to find any evidence of damage to John’s spine, she concluded he was suffering from muscle strain. He left clutching a prescription for anti-inflammatories after giving his specs a final polish.

Her last patient of the day demanded to know what nationality the dead boy had been, because she didn’t believe the local Chinese takeaway owners’ claim that their eldest son had left to stay with relatives in Inverness. Zoe advised her to think very carefully about what she was saying, but if she genuinely had cause for concern, she should tell the police about her suspicions.

A few minutes later, she made her way to the practice’s small kitchen. As she entered, Sergeant Trent sprang back from smelling her flowers. ‘They’re gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Birthday or admirer?’

‘Neither.’

‘Oh.’ Trent nodded in the way people do when the answer to a question leaves them none the wiser but they’re too polite to enquire further. He accepted Zoe’s offer of coffee. She put on the kettle and got out a pair of mugs advertising a new treatment for heartburn and, although the window was open, switched on the electric fan. Neither of them spoke until they sat down.

‘The dead boy still hasn’t been identified, I see,’ Zoe said, before adding, in case she’d sounded disparaging, ‘It must be very difficult when you have nothing to go on.’

‘We’ve received a lot of tip-offs about who he might be. Most of them have turned out to be groundless. You always get those in a high-profile case like this, but we’re obliged to look into them all.’

‘I’ve been on the receiving end of several theories this morning. A migrant worker at a fish-processing factory seems to be the preferred outcome. But you’re not here to discuss the progress or otherwise in your investigation, are you?’

Trent pulled at his collar and loosened his thin tie a little. ‘I’ve come to share a piece of information with you which I shouldn’t. But I’d never forgive myself if something happened.’

Zoe stiffened. ‘What have you found out?’

‘You’re in no immediate danger. Not like . . . well, you know. But the boss tells me you’ve been asking questions and he’s worried you’ll try to get involved. Neither of us wants you to do that.’

‘Did Mather tell you to talk to me?’ Zoe suddenly felt even hotter than usual. How dare he send his sergeant to do his dirty work?

‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ Trent said. ‘I’d be for the high jump if he did.’ He waited briefly for Zoe to respond. When she didn’t, he continued. ‘Doctor Moreland, what that boy’s post mortem revealed was shocking. I can’t go into details, but it tells us we’re dealing with cruel and ruthless people. You mustn’t get involved.’

‘Why on earth would I want to?’

‘Forgive me for making assumptions, but I saw you with the body. You didn’t treat him as a piece of evidence like Doc Ferguson. You responded emotionally, I could tell.’

‘“Emotionally”? Ah, now I get it, Sergeant. Because your wife’s pregnant, you assume you’re an expert on all pregnant women and of course we’re entirely ruled by our hormones.’ Zoe rose to take her mug to the sink, even though she’d hardly touched the coffee in it.

Trent sighed. ‘Now you know why I’m not the DCI. I’m useless at expressing myself. Sorry.’

His shoulders slumped and he looked so crestfallen that Zoe took pity on him. She gave a quick laugh and said, ‘Well, if you did think like that, maybe I’ve just proved you right.’

‘My wife accuses me of being over-protective towards her, so maybe the problem’s mine. But if you’d seen what that boy had been put through, you’d understand why I’m here.’

‘Did you attend the post mortem yourself?’

‘It’s one of the worst parts of the job. I can take the smells and the blood, but what’s hard to bear is the suffering that’s sometimes revealed.’

‘The injuries on his face suggested he’d been beaten up a few hours before he died.’

‘That was the least of it.’

Seeing the policeman’s clenched fists, Zoe wondered if this was in response to the fate of the boy or if it indicated he was fighting the urge to tell her more. She knew from experience that silence often trumped questions when dealing with someone holding back, so she waited. Eventually, the words spilled out of him.

‘He’d endured weeks, perhaps months, of physical abuse. What we couldn’t see down at the riverside were cigarette burns all over his body, broken ribs and . . . worse.’

Still Zoe remained silent. The poor man needed to speak about this; it was obviously eating him up. He could hardly go home and talk it through with his wife.

‘The injuries to his palms were burns, and the pathologist found bruising on his wrists. That boy’s hands had been put against something very hot, like a cooker hob, and held there.’ Trent paused and took a deep breath. ‘He’d been sexually assaulted too. Repeatedly.’

They stared wordlessly at each other, united in their horror, then Trent asked if Zoe wanted to sit down. She shook her head, not annoyed with his attentiveness but still trying to take in what he’d just told her.

‘I think you should. You’ve gone very pale.’

She allowed him to take her arm and guide her back into a chair where she sat hugging her bump. Of all the things she’d become involved with over the past year, this felt the most shocking. Could Trent be right? Was it affecting her so badly because she was pregnant?

The policeman took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.’

Zoe leaned back in her chair, trying to look more composed than she felt. ‘I’m fine, really. If it’s any consolation, you’ve managed to convey the seriousness of the situation far more effectively than DCI Mather’s evasion ever could. You’re dealing with sex-traffickers, aren’t you? People think girls are the only victims but as I found out when I did some voluntary work before coming here, that’s not always the case.’

‘It’s one possibility, yes. We’re working with the Human Traffic and International Unit who know a lot more than we do on the subject.’

‘Now you’ve told me this much, will you share how he died?’

‘You’re a bit of a chancer on the quiet, aren’t you, Doctor?’ Trent said, yet he must have realised he’d gone past the point of no return. ‘They think he was electrocuted, although a specialist’s coming over from Glasgow to confirm it. And that’s positively the last bit of information you’re getting out of me. I must go.’

Zoe walked him to the health centre’s front door. Just before leaving he said, ‘We’re making none of this public, except for the injuries to his hands.’

‘I’m a doctor, Sergeant. None of it will go any further.’

Trent looked cheerful as he left, obviously believing his mission to curb her curiosity about the boy’s death had been a success. And while common sense told Zoe he was right to warn her off, deep down she knew his only achievement—apart from revealing a sensitivity she hadn’t seen before—had been to make her even more determined to find out what had happened to the dead boy.

Ara. His name was Ara.

TEN

Someone, she’d forgotten who, once told Zoe that now she was living in Scotland she should never let the weather put her off doing something, because if they all did this, the country would grind to a halt. Judging by Margaret’s reaction to the news that she planned to visit a garden centre in Kelso on Thursday afternoon instead of going home and putting her feet up, this advice hadn’t come from her.

‘It’s far too hot out there, Doctor Zoe.’

‘If I overheat I promise to sit down for a while in the cafe with an iced drink.’

Margaret’s face had gone red, as though she could feel the heat Zoe would be exposing herself to. ‘Nothing will grow if you plant it now.’

‘It’s really just to get some ideas. I don’t plan on buying anything except maybe a couple of books.’ Zoe smiled to let Margaret know she appreciated her concern. ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’

However, when she opened the Jeep and felt the temperature inside it, she almost changed her mind. Resisting the urge to open all its windows, she waited for the air-conditioning to take effect then set off. A few minutes later, driving slowly through the village, she noticed a blue Fiesta in her rear view mirror. It was some way back, also keeping to the speed limit, and maintained the space between them as she slowed down to let the postie’s van out of a side road. Then it fell back and disappeared from view.

As her car gained speed, Zoe turned the music up loud and tried not to think about the dead boy and how he must have suffered. She failed miserably. Having attended post mortems herself, she could imagine only too well the scene in the mortuary as the pathologist went about his work, pointing out evidence of abuse to the police and other observers. The cigarette burns, the cracked ribs, the burnt hands. And worse. The bruising on the boy’s face was rendered almost irrelevant by the sadistic nature of the treatment which must have caused his other injuries, yet for some reason she had a strange feeling it was important. She just couldn’t work out why.

The satisfaction she’d experienced at extracting information from Sergeant Trent had vanished. He should never have told her so much. He probably realised this too by now, and she felt burdened by having to keep the knowledge to herself. Last year, her friendship with Kate had nearly been destroyed by what Kate viewed as Zoe’s secretiveness, and since then she had tried to be more trusting. In this instance, though, there was someone else’s reputation to consider.

As she neared Kelso, a blue Fiesta came up behind her. It looked like the one that had followed her through Westerlea a little earlier and, now she came to think of it, had trailed behind her on the way back from Moffat on Saturday. She’d taken nothing in about the driver then, so couldn’t tell if the person wearing a baseball hat and dark glasses today was the same one.

On impulse, she indicated right and immediately took the minor road that ran round the back of Kelso Racecourse. In her hurry to escape the other car, although she had no idea if it was following, she came close to losing control of the Jeep as she took a tight bend much too quickly. Shocked into recognising she was endangering not only herself and her baby but anyone unfortunate enough to be coming in the opposite direction, she slowed right down. As she passed the racecourse entrance, she allowed herself a brief glance in the mirror. No Fiesta, no other vehicle at all.