CHAPTER ONE
Dark red ichor wept from the fatal wound as the chainsaw blade bit deep, slicing its way through its victim. With a final groan the young yew tree toppled and fell, the scent of pine needles filling the air. Jock Earnshaw flicked the machine off, raising his visor and viewing the carnage with sad eyes. The dark red of exposed heartwood of the trunk contrasted with almost white sapwood, like blood on white skin.
He hated cutting down trees but sadly that was part of his job as grounds man and gravedigger for the small local cemetery of Springnoll. A village nestled in a valley, tucked away amongst rich pasturelands that were brooded over by the dark and ominous Lead Hills of Southern Scotland.
Jock took out his worn pipe from the top pocket of his overalls and made his way slowly to a mini-digger crouching on the pathway. He took a moment to catch his breath and admire the view. Skylarks filled the air with their songs as they competed for territory across the rolling fields. Droning bumblebees laboured through the wildflowers that adorned the verges of the single-track road that led past the ancient stone walls bordering the cemetery. No kirk stood on this ground, yet it was hallowed just the same. Graves dating back several hundred years peppered the rich grass, kept dutifully short and trim by Jock.
The hardworking bees would heave themselves over the walls like striped Lancaster Bombers eager to investigate the graveyard, hoping to find some fresh flowers laid out to feast on. They skipped across the gossamer threads of spider silk festooned between the blades of grass and older gravestones, their shimmering strands glistening in the sun’s rays.
As he watched a spring mist crept silently across the fields, rolling over the walls of the graveyard and caressing the gravestones. A chill crept down his spine. “I’ll make you something from the wood.” He said, clenching the pipe stem in his teeth. Ah cannae take and nae gie back, Ah debt can make the strongest crack, Ah swear tae ye by all that’s blest, I’ll gie ye back ma very best. Jock said the old rhyme in his head, knowing it would be heard.
Sighing and shaking off the uneasy feeling he watched the mist roll on, over the far wall and disappear in the morning light. Jock loved his job, loved the peace and tranquillity, but sometimes, somethings, gave him the creeps. He climbed into the digger and turned the key, starting the engine which coughed into life. The exhaust spat out a customary dark puff of smoke which billowed into the air, joining the blue smoke from Jock’s pipe. Carefully he began to inch across the turf, pushing the remains of the tree out of the way. He checked his grid map of allocated plots in the still spacious grounds. Plot 242 had been purchased almost ten years ago and now, sadly, it was ready to receive its resident.
This land had been the resting place for the local families of Springnoll since the 15th century, when the village first established itself from a group of individual small holdings into a community. Despite nearly six hundred years of existence, it had not grown much. No new housing estates had sprung up as there was no influx of outsiders demanding social housing. The whole village was a bit of a heritage site, attracting tourists in the summer months eager to immerse themselves in a traditional Scottish experience.
The cottages were low set and thick walled, some still burned peat for heating. They were set out in neat rows on either side of the main road that carried traffic through to the larger towns. Behind each house there was still a traditional acre of land which many continued to use to grow their own vegetables and raise chickens.
The owners of the cottages received grants and support to maintain their homes in the traditional way, their payment was to have an “open house” policy for tourists wanting to see inside the old buildings. Most cottages had an extension at the back, inaccessible to tourists, where all the luxuries of modern-day living kept the families warm and comfortable in the cold harsh winter months.
Taking his faithful turfing spade out of the cab of the mini-digger, he carefully and expertly removed the top layer of verdant grass, setting it to one side to be re-laid after the funeral. Satisfied that he had completed a neat job, he returned to the cab of his faithful old machine which ticked over with a low, slow, growl.
Carefully, Jock directed the mechanical arm as it clanked its way across the now exposed ground driving its forked bucket into the black soil beneath. Jock was a master at his job, in one scrape he had exposed an almost perfect sized hole, he neatly deposited the spoil to one side, ready to be used as back fill. Another scrape pushed the depth another foot or so, it only needed to be six feet down on this new gravesite, another couple of scrapes and it would be ready for him to finish off the sides neatly in preparation for the burial tomorrow. Three feet down and he swung the bucket over the growing spoil pile, but this time Jock was startled by a ragged strip of canvas dangling from the blades.
Stopping the machine, he climbed out and stood, puzzled by the rotting canvas swinging in the light breeze. He couldn’t fathom what it was. To his knowledge, this ground had never been disturbed, how had this got buried here? He looked again at the yew tree he had cut down; it was at least fifty years old and had been growing right on top of the plot.
A niggling feeling grew in his gut, Jock didn’t know why but he carefully stepped to the edge of the grave and that niggle turned into a lurch. There, sticking out of the ground, surrounded by the remains of more canvas, was the unmistakable bones of a human arm. “Shit” he swore out loud, panicking and rushing back to his cab to check once more the site plan. This was definitely the right plot, he hadn’t made a mistake, this ground was supposedly untouched. Jock picked up his mobile, this wasn’t right. Who was in 242?
CHAPTER TWO
Margaret Beatie’s day had started shitty and had gone downhill from there. It was a typical end of the month, a get everything done at the last-minute scenario and she really didn’t need the phone call from Jock.
She listened with growing concern and panic to what was being said, scribbling down details. “OK, this is serious Jock. I need you to cordon off the area, put up barriers and tape, prevent anyone from going over there. Then I need you to call Harry and get him in with the other machine, open plot…” She frantically battered the computer keyboard, opening the database for burials and typed in the site plan to select a vacant space, “Plot 769. It is at the opposite end of the graveyard, I will explain to the family that the plot they had purchased was wrongly allocated, we can’t cancel the burial tomorrow, but I need to call the police, this must go through proper channels.”
“Will do Maggie, leave it to me, I could start the new opening with my digger…”
“NO, don’t move anything! We don’t know if this body is hundreds of years old from some battle or what. It could be more serious, there could be a risk of infection. We need to leave everything as it is until the police investigate.”
“Oh, alright, aye I never thought of that.” There was a click as Jock hung up to carry out his instructions and Margaret took a deep breath and called 999.
“Emergency Services. Which Service do you require?” The polite and professional voice on the other end of the line enquired.
“Police please.” There was a short pause then another control room official answered.
“Police, what is the emergency?”
“Hi, I’m Margaret Beatie from Springnoll Council, we’ve found a body.” There was a frantic rattling of keyboard keys through the line and some quick-fire questions about Margaret’s contact details.
“Are you with the body right now?”
“No, the body is in the graveyard.” A short silence ensued as the control operator clearly considered that this might be a prank.
“In the graveyard?”
“Yes, we were opening an unused plot for a burial tomorrow and we have dug up a body that clearly should not be there.”
“Oh, yes, I understand now. Right, we will have some officers on their way. Please don’t disturb…” she didn’t get a chance to finish.
“I know, we’ve cordoned off the area and left everything the way we found it, I’ve moved the burial tomorrow to a different plot as far away as possible from the site.”
“That’s great, is there someone down at the graveyard just now?”
“Yes. Jock Earnshaw, he is one of the groundsmen. Henry Fawcett, our junior gardener is there too. It was Jock that discovered the body.”
“That will be fine, some officers will be with you shortly.” The line went dead. Margaret logged out of her computer, month end would have to wait, she needed to be onsite when the police arrived. Grabbing her coat, she made her way through the old and slightly shabby council building, feeling guilty at being relieved she was out of the office.
Detective George Caldwell stared aimlessly at the report in front of him, he hated paperwork. It read fine to him, but the Chief Inspector (or troll bitch from hell as he liked to think of her) wasn’t happy. Apparently, it wasn’t politically correct enough, might offend people. Sighing, he scored out a section and re-wrote it in more neutral language, the world had gone mad when a criminal’s rights not to be offended outweighed the trauma and distress they had caused the victims and their families.
He looked at his reflection in the glass partition dividing his small office space from the other officers in his team, his face looked tired and disillusioned, sick of life and the horrors he had witnessed. His gaze inadvertently fell on the picture of a rosy cheeked smiling child of around six or seven, eyes twinkling as she looked in adoration at the person taking the picture. Closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to rise, he looked away again and shuffled his papers, shutting the folder and putting it in the out tray.
A younger officer put his head around the door, “Sir, got something that might interest you.” The officer nodded with his head for George to come out into the main office. Rising wearily, he followed, doubting if anything would really interest, shock, or surprise him ever again. Making his way over to the officer’s desk he glanced down perplexed at the bare fake wooden surface. The officer grinned, “This is something you have to see for yourself sir, just got the call in.”
Grunting in acknowledgement, George followed the officer out into the carpark shaking his head as he watched him dance around like an eager puppy. “What the hell is this all about Fraser?” George opened the officer’s car door and took the passenger seat.
“A mystery sir, in the village of Springnoll.”
“Springnoll? That’s like four houses and a chicken, isn’t it?” George managed a small smile as he watched Fraser laugh at his joke, oh to be young and eager to right all the wrongs in the world.
“I think they’ve built a few more houses since the Magna Carta was signed sir, population of about three hundred, give or take including the farms around it.”
“Well, I won’t let my head get turned by the bright lights and cosmopolitan lifestyle.” George stared out of the window as Fraser navigated the car onto the motorway. “What’s the mystery?”
“Possible murder, not sure yet.”
“What do you mean we’re not sure? There is either a body or not?”
“That’s the thing sir, they’ve found a skeleton.” Fraser skilfully weaved through the traffic heading South.
“Where?”
“In the graveyard.”
“Are you taking the piss son?”
“No, I mean in a part of the graveyard that should be empty, the ground doesn’t appear to have been disturbed.”
“There’s been a lot of battles around here Fraser, might be more archaeological than homicide.”
“That’s why SOCO are there right now, trying to determine if they should call the museum or get us involved, but it looks suspicious alright, body was wrapped in a canvas tarpaulin.”
“Fuck, looks like this is going to be fun.” They sat in silence as Fraser took the turn off onto the single-track road leading to the village.
Margaret Beatie stood at the entrance to the graveyard and watched the officers in white paper suits and masks march in and out to their incident vans. Some were on their hands and knees searching through the tight knit grass. There was blue and white tape cordoning off the area and a white tent set up over the open grave. She sighed and shook her head, what a mess.
“Hi Maggie, you alright?” Arthur Colquhoun, the local Blacksmith, had joined the increasing number of people gathered around the entrance.
Maggie turned and gave him a small smile, “A bit of a shit show I’m afraid. I hope they’ve finished before the funeral tomorrow.” She looked up as another car pulled in and was directed to a sectioned off parking space by a uniformed officer. Maggie’s hands tightened on her handbag as she saw two men step out of the vehicle and make their way towards the tent.
“What we got here Jean?” George peered over the edge of the hole, watching the SOCO carefully exposing skeletal remains.
“Strange one I’m afraid George.” Jean Foster furrowed her brow as she joined him at the graveside, “Judging by the soil density,” she stood up and looked at her notes, “and I’m guesstimating here, still waiting on lab analysis,” she pursed her lips and flipped over a couple of pages, “it has been disturbed but not for around fifty to sixty years.”
“Fuck, not an ancient battle then?”
“Nope, sorry, you can take the archaeologists off stand by. They didn’t make canvas tarpaulins two hundred years ago.”
“Just what I needed, a fucking cold case murder in a sleepy hamlet in the middle of fucking nowhere.” George sighed and stared at Jean, he had known her a long time, most of his career in fact. She was an absolute genius and a detective’s best friend. “I need as much info as you can get from this bag of bones Jean. Facial reconstruction, DNA, and remnants of clothing labels etc. You know the drill.”
“You want the good news or the bad news?”
“Bad news.”
“There are no traces of clothing in the soil or around the body, he…”
“We know it’s a John Doe then?”
“Seen the pelvis so yes, high probability it’s he. Anyway, he seems to have been buried naked, so your label idea is out of the question. Don’t hold out much hope on a DNA match or id, didn’t have any records fifty years ago, so tick that one off your list. The facial bones are badly smashed, as are several other bones in the body, like a road traffic accident, our boy was run over good and proper.”
“So, no fucking facial reconstruction either, fuck Jean is there any good news?”
“Steady on George, that is the good news. It will take some time but with the new computer systems in place, I think we can confidently reconstruct most of the features, hopefully the dental records will help us identify the victim.”
“Hallelujah.” George muttered as he turned to go, “How long before he is out of the ground.”
“Should be finished by the early hours of the morning, we’ll keep the area cordoned off, but any surface evidence will be long gone. She watched him as he started to leave, “George…” He stopped and cocked his head back, “How are you doing?”
He hung his head and paused, “As well as can be expected Jean, no parent should bury their child.”
“No George, they shouldn’t, and for the record, Mary isn’t thinking straight either, she shouldn’t have left you, it wasn’t as though it was your fault. I mean you didn’t give Stacy bloody cancer.”
George visibly flinched at the word, “Well, tell that to her, divorce papers came through last week, signed them and sent them back the same day.”
“I’m so sorry George.” Jean almost reached out, but she knew he would not appreciate it. George was old school, he was the last of the old-style coppers, made his way up through the ranks to detective and then detective inspector.
He had been married late, meeting Mary at some singles club. She was younger than him by nearly twenty years, raised a few eyebrows around the place, but when they got married and she fell pregnant that was the best thing that had happened to George. The marriage had only lasted the time that little Stacy lived, she was the glue that held them together. When she died, well so did they. George was almost at early retirement age, though the last few months had aged him more than his fifty-five years.
“Thanks Jean, I appreciate that.” He pushed through the tent flaps and looked at the crowd at the gate, as expected the press vultures had arrived and were busy interviewing the bystanders. George motioned to Fraser, “Where’s the gravedigger?”
“I put him in one of the vans out of the way.”
“Good man.” They walked together to the police vehicle parked at the end of the row of slowly increasing parked cars.
