New Blood – Chapter 1

The incident that gripped the nation began on a crisp, mid-November evening of 1996. The location was the Meadows, a recreation area lying immediately south of Edinburgh’s medieval Old Town. Though rather exposed to the elements, the Meadows can be a pleasant enough place to wander across during summer days but in the dark of Edinburgh’s long winter evenings, the Meadows is best avoided, or at least crossed as quickly as possible.

At the precise moment the incident took place, Paul Wingard, a gaunt young man in his late teens, was running around the perimeter of the Meadows. Paul was a medical student as well as a dedicated athlete and he usually trained alone. For company, he normally plugged himself into his personal stereo system. That particular evening, he was barely halfway through his training session when the incident occurred but, because he misunderstood what was actually taking place, he did nothing to stop it; a fact that would niggle away at the young man’s conscience for many years thereafter.

Having just completed a long stride down the south side of the Meadows, he was gathering his breath and energy for another long stride along the northernmost section when he noticed what he took to be two drunken down-and-outs arguing and struggling with each other next to the tennis courts in the north-east corner of the Meadows. The last thing Paul wanted was to get involved with the pair so, as he drew near, he increased his pace to pass them as quickly as possible. He also moved further out onto the grass. The lighting in that part of the Meadows allowed only a brief glimpse of the face of one of the figures, and then only because that person who, presumably hearing the sound of Paul’s approaching footsteps, had turned his head to look at him as he approached. Paul saw the person’s mouth open to scream what he guessed would be a stream of obscene abuse but the volume on his stereo was well up so he was unable to hear what was shouted – though he could guess – and then he was passed. He made a mental note not to go near those two princes of the pavement again that evening. With yet more drink inside them, there was no knowing what they would do.

Being so close to Edinburgh’s famous university, many of the fine, old houses in nearby Bruntsfield and Marchmont have been converted into student accommodation for the ever-increasing number of young people attracted to work and study in the city. Most are university students but swelling this number are the many nurses and trainee doctors who work in the nearby Royal Infirmary on the north side of the Meadows. Each morning during term-time, a tide of ill-rested humanity on their way to lectures or patients, plod dejectedly north across the Meadows. Some hours later, at the end of the day, those same young people flood eagerly and joyously back south to their little bed-sits to prepare for yet another evening of communion and rapture.
There is a dark side to the Meadows, however, and time and again it has proved not to be a place reserved solely for relaxation and innocent fun. With a large number of young, unattached females living in the immediate vicinity, many sexually motivated attacks have occurred on or near the Meadows giving the place a deservedly sinister reputation. After dark, when few people are about, only naive or foolish young women venture there alone.

Shortly after Paul Wingard’s chance encounter, Sally Myres and her friend, Georgina West, two nurses from the nearby Simpson’s Maternity Unit, having thrown caution to the wind, were nervously walking around the edge of the Meadows. They were acutely aware that the Meadows’ more unsavoury reputation prominently featured young nurses and they would normally have taken a longer but safer route to the infirmary, but they were already late and thinking there was safety in numbers, had decided to take a chance. Their decision would certainly have been different had they been aware of Paul Wingard’s experience of a few minutes earlier. Nervously, they approached the recreation area, their eyes doing cartwheels in their heads as they glanced about them; all the while keeping as far away as was possible from the high privet hedge that protected the southern side of the tennis courts.

When that hedge was first planted, the designers, with admirable foresight, arranged a gap of about two feet between the hedge and the wire mesh enclosing the courts. The scheme ensured easy maintenance for both the tennis courts and the hedge but, less satisfactorily, it also provided an excellent hiding place where those with evil intent could lurk. This was never more true than in winter when Scotland’s capital can remain dark from four-thirty in the afternoon until mid-morning the following day. The girls were aware of the potential dangers of walking too close to that hedge but were also mindful of other unsavoury hazards lurking in the grass immediately adjacent to the path – an area much favoured by dog walkers – so they were constrained to walk just a path’s width away from the hedge.
The hedge is unusual in that it is punctuated by a series of low, cleared arches allowing ready access to the narrow space between it and the tennis courts beyond and it was Sally who first noticed the loose sheets of paper blowing about in the evening breeze. They were coming from a small pile of papers near the hedge.

‘Look at that mess,’ she whispered to Georgina. Though indignant, she was still too nervous to speak out. ‘They’ll be all over the Meadows by morning. There’s an enormous litter bin just over there, but no, some people just have to throw their junk away. They’ve no consideration for others.’

‘Sh!’ Georgina cautioned, digging her friend in the ribs at the same time to reinforce her warning. ‘I think someone’s there. Just keep walking and don’t look.’

Sally tried to do as she was told but being by nature an inquisitive girl, at the last moment, when she was directly opposite the arched entrance, she could not resist a brief glance into the gap.
My god, she thought, her heart beginning to pound in her chest, Georgina’s right. Someone is there. For one fleeting moment, silhouetted against the lights of one of the flats beyond, she thought she could see the outline of a person. Then, quite suddenly, there was no doubt about it. The shape moved. Bending down the better to see out, the person in the gap peered through the arch at the passing girls. For one heart stopping instant, Sally caught a glimpse of a pale face with a slit for a mouth staring intently at her. That stare was like a cold hand gripping her heart and then they were passed. The girls never looked back and such was their panic, they arrived breathless but on time for duty.

It was that same pile of litter that first drew Angus Mitchie’s attention to, what appeared to be, a bundle of clothes lying half hidden between a narrow gap in the hedge and the tennis courts. One of Dr Mitchie’s pet hates was paper-litter and another was what he regarded as human-litter; in his experience, the one usually accompanied the other. As he had observed on many occasions, both were all too common in that part of Edinburgh. He gave a ‘tshe’ of annoyance at the sight but he was in a hurry. Professor Eddlestone’s lecture on ‘Global Warming and its effects on Coastal Margins’ would begin in the Appleton Tower in ten minutes time and he was late. Wasting no time, Dr Mitchie hurried on. He was the last person that evening to notice anything amiss.

Following the death of his wife a year earlier, George Andrews now had trouble sleeping. He missed her company as well as her warmth in the bed they had shared for nearly fifty years. For financial as well as for sentimental reasons, following Margaret’s death, and even though he could no longer generate sufficient heat to combat the chill winter nights in the old double bed she and he had shared for so long, he had not even considered changing it for a more cosy, single one. As well as the cold, his back also troubled him when he curled up on the worn-out mattress. Unable to appreciate his bed as he had when Margaret was alive, he usually got up at five o’clock each morning.
For company and to give himself an excuse to go out walking, he now owned a small dog, a refugee from the Dog and Cat Home that was located to the north east of the city. When she was alive, Agnes had been very house-proud and would never allow pets into her house. ‘Smelly, hairy things,’ she called them, and Patch was George’s first pet, ever. Acquiring a pet was the idea of Annie, his married daughter. ‘You should get yourself a little dog for company, dad,’ she had recommended and, after thinking about it for a few weeks, George finally plucked up the courage to visit the Dog and Cat Home out towards Portobello. Assessing George with a practised eye and learning that he had never before owned a dog, the kennel-maid confided:

‘You need a small, friendly bitch, that’s what you need. Bitches are more biddable and willnae stray.’

George had winced each time the kennel-maid used the word ‘bitch’. The word was familiar to him, of course, but it didn’t seem right to call a sweet little bundle of love, a ‘bitch’. He preferred the term ‘lady dog’ and that’s what he always used.

His new companion was no ‘Rin-Tin-Tin’ and nor was she a ‘Lassie’. Unable to think of a suitably grand name for his little mongrel, and for no better reasons than that the tiny creature had a dark mark across one eye and that George recalled the name being used in a children’s book he had read to Annie many years earlier, George called the new arrival, “Patch”.

In the last few months, as they had made their way to the Meadows for their early-morning constitutional, George and Patch had became a familiar sight to other early-morning risers. Their routine was unchanging. They always entered the Meadows through Jawbone Walk, passing on the way the little fountain dedicated to the long-dead Helen Acquroff, the blind Edinburgh musician who became the terrifying Sister Cathedral whenever she preached the evils of the devil drink to her audience. But that was a long time ago and of no interest to George. As he made his slow way down the Walk, but with Patch always charging from pillar to post, the pair would proceed anticlockwise around the perimeter of the recreation area before they exited once again under the same whale jawbones that gave the path its name.
It was shortly after five-thirty the following mid-November morning when Patch took an interest in a bundle of clothes lying near the tennis courts. By that time the immediate surrounding area was awash with paper litter. Initially, George thought Patch might have found a pile of discarded clothes but then he became concerned that his pet might be about to disturb a sleeping bag-man or woman. When the bundle made no move and when Patch showed no signs of returning to him, George went over to investigate. What he found would give him recurring nightmares for the few years still remaining to him.

Just before six o’clock that same morning, Detective Sergeant Bill McCabe was sitting at his desk in ‘B’ Division Headquarters in St. Leonard’s Street. St Leonard’s Street is located to the south east of the city centre and, coincidentally, happens to be quite close to the Meadows. ‘B’ Division is home to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Lothian and Borders Police and Bill was halfway through the umpteenth cup of what the drinks dispenser down the corridor jokingly called “tea – with milk and sugar”. Evil tasting as was the concoction; at least it kept him awake. The truth was, Bill was bored. He’d been on call all night and, unusually, it was one of the quietest tours of duty he could remember. Indeed, so quiet was it, he was even tempted to leaf through his copy of the Manual on Policing, which normally sat untouched on the shelf behind his head. He was still young and ambitious but study came neither easily nor naturally to Bill and now he could hardly wait for his shift to end.

He was a strongly built, dark-haired man of average height. Still in his late twenties he had lived all his life in Edinburgh. He was happily married and already had two children. His strong, local accent owed much to having spent his childhood in Broomhouse, a large council estate on the outskirts of the City. He was an experienced police officer but, because his senior partner had recently retired from the force, he was temporarily unassigned.

Betty, Bill’s wife, worked in the Edinburgh Solicitors’ Property Centre in the middle of the city. Property Centres are a peculiarly Scottish invention and because of them, solicitors in Scotland have almost completely cornered the housing market, making estate agents almost an endangered species north of the Border. Not that Bill ever harboured sympathetic thoughts for the sorry plight of hard-done-by estate agents attempting to make an honest living in Scotland.
At that moment all he wanted was to go home and, indeed, it was just as an image of his cosy bed began floating across his mind’s eye that Joyce Cameron arrived at his side. WPC Cameron had been on duty all night with Bill and she brought with her a notice of an incident someone had just telephoned in.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, Bill finished off his tea with a grimace of distaste commenting, ‘Can ye no gi’ that to Willie Robson, Joyce? He’ll be coming on duty any minute now, and it’s high time he did something aroond here.’
The remark was unfair, as McCabe and Cameron both knew, and Cameron ignored it as McCabe expected she would.
As she handed him the notice, Joyce gave McCabe a sympathetic smile, which lit up her pretty, young face. DS McCabe was one of her favourite colleagues and more than once she regretted the fact that he was a happily married man. And not for the first time and even though he was indeed very happily married, McCabe did not fail to notice what an attractive woman Cameron was, even at six o’clock in the morning.

‘Some bloke’s been found dead on the Meadows in suspicious circumstances, sarge. The incident team’s been informed and is on its way – and as Willie Robson won’t be here for at least another hour, I’m afraid this one is up to you. Sorry.’
‘Just my luck,’ McCabe said, with a sigh. ‘I knew it was all too good to last. You know, Joyce, I could almost taste my breakfast; but now, by the time I get back and have filed my report, I’ll be lucky to get home in time for dinner.’

Levering his powerful body out of his chair, Bill pulled on his jacket and headed for the door. Over his shoulder he called back, ‘Will you let Betty know I’ll no be home for breakfast, Joyce? Ring just after seven. She’s sure to be up by then.’
‘Will do, sarge,’ Cameron called out after McCabe’s rapidly disappearing back.

It took McCabe just five minutes to drive from St Leonard’s to the Meadows. At that time of the morning in mid-November it was still quite dark and because the morning rush hour had not yet started, there were few cars about. Fast as he was, through the early morning gloom he could see that an ambulance had beaten him to it. Presumably it had come from the Royal Infirmary, just around the corner. Also, despite the hour, a small group of sightseers had already gathered and were standing around in a little knot of curiosity. These were mostly men and women on their way to or from work, but among them were a few, retired, early morning risers like old George Andrews. Why people gathered around the scene of a crime never failed to mystify Bill. There was rarely anything for them to see.

PC Jim Leach and WPC Harriet Thompson, also based in St. Leonard’s Division, were successfully keeping the inquisitive public at bay while those with an official reason for being there were clustered around a gap in the hedge. Recognising McCabe, WPC Thompson detached herself from crowd control and waited for him to draw near.

‘Good morning, sarge,’ she greeted him flashing him her best smile.

‘Not for everyone it isnae,’ he growled back. McCabe was a fastidious man, and particularly so as far as his personal appearance was concerned. He knew he looked as crumpled as he felt; he felt tired; he was cold and hungry; and he was definitely in need of a good shave.
‘What’s happened here?’
All too familiar with the eccentricities of senior officers, Thompson was not at all put out by McCabe’s truculent attitude and continued to exude goodwill notwithstanding the seriousness of the matter at hand. In any case, it never did any good to be too affected by crime when you met it on a daily basis.

‘Some guy’s been murdered, sarge. Leastways, we’re pretty certain it’s murder. It’s rather messy, I’m afraid. There’s blood everywhere.’
‘A vagrant, is he?’

‘I don’t think so, sarge. This bloke’s quite well dressed and there’s an expensive briefcase next to him. We reckon all these papers,’ she gestured vaguely about her, ‘must belong to him. Of course, I’m only assuming the briefcase is his. By the look of things, I think he had something to do with the National Documentation Centre.’
Noting McCabe’s look of enquiry, Thompson explained. ‘There are still some papers in the briefcase and they all have the NDCS logo on them.’

‘Hmm. In that case it seems a reasonable assumption to make, I suppose,’ McCabe agreed. ‘Has the duty pathologist arrived, yet?’
‘Not yet, sarge, but if I’m not mistaken,’ she looked passed Bill, ‘that looks like him now.’

Bill turned to look down the path he had just come along and there he saw Dr Alex Toomey, normally suave and unflappable, but now, apparently, in a hurry. Usually the picture of sartorial elegance, the doctor’s overcoat was flapping open about his corpulent form to reveal a beautifully cut, pin-stripe suit beneath. He was half-walking and half-jogging along the path and his appearance and peculiar gait brought the ghost of a smile to McCabe’s grim features. Unused to moving under his own steam at anything more than a sedate stroll, even in the cold chill of that November morning, by the time he reached McCabe and Thompson, Toomey was beginning to perspire.

Remembering to leave off the ‘good’ part of his greeting, McCabe growled, ‘Morning, Doc,’ as the doctor drew level with him.
Alex Toomey was a product of Edinburgh University’s Medical School, though his early education was in Forfar, a small town between Dundee and Aberdeen. Technically, Toomey was excellent and was highly regarded by his colleagues for his ability but if he had a fault, it was that Alexander Cameron Toomey M.D. was rather too pleased with himself.

‘Good morning, Sergeant McCabe,’ he replied to Bill’s greeting. ‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry this morning so I want to get this done as quickly as possible. I’m the guest speaker at an international conference in London later today and I have a plane to catch,’ he added, somewhat self-importantly. ‘Now, is there anything I should know before I examine the body?’

It was quite obvious to the two police officers that the doctor was in an agitated state of mind and even before they could reply to his question he blurted out, ‘This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. It really is most inconvenient.’

‘I believe the deceased is a wee bitty pissed-off wi’ the start to his day as well, Doc,’ McCabe remarked, using his grating voice to good effect.

Alex Toomey looked hard at McCabe who kept a deadpan expression on his face while Constable Thompson, next to him, was hard-pressed to suppress a giggle.

‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ Toomey ordered.
McCabe followed the doctor to the gap in the hedge where they found the police photographer still at work, forcing the two men to wait until he finished; Toomey hopped from one foot to the other with ill-concealed impatience all the while. Finally satisfied, the photographer moved to one side.

With a clear view for the first time, the detective and the doctor saw the dead man who was laying face down across the gap. He was wearing a long, black, mud stained raincoat over a grey suit, which latter had a thin, black pinstripe running through it. The deceased was also wearing a pair of almost new, good-quality shoes; the unmarked leather between the heel and the sole of each shoe still shone out brightly. Bill called across to WPC Thompson.

‘Constable, has anyone touched the body since it was found?’

‘I don’t think so, sarge. That gentleman over there was the one who found him.’ Thompson pointed to George Andrews who was sitting anxiously on a park bench and where, with increasing difficulty, he was trying to hold on to his wriggling dog. Patch objected to being restrained when there were so many interesting people around and she was keen to continue her own investigations.
Thompson continued. ‘When I asked him if he’d touched anything, he said he hadn’t.’

‘Thanks, constable.’ Bill turned back to the body. Because the head of the deceased pointed away from the path and in towards the tennis courts, Bill had to lean over to get his first look at the victim’s face. Naturally, he made very sure no possible evidence was disturbed while he did so. The victim’s eyes were still open, as was his mouth, and there was a look of frozen horror on his face. Two large pools of blood had congealed next to the deceased but, until the body was moved, it was not possible to see what injuries it had suffered. Before allowing Doc Toomey access to the body, McCabe scrupulously examined the region around it for signs of footprints and for anything else that might make the job of finding the perpetrator that much easier. The bare earth gave nothing away. With a sigh, McCabe stood to one side to give the doctor access.

Dr Toomey humphed and tutted as he conducted his initial examination and all the while the incident team continued erecting a plastic screen around the site to hide it and police procedures from the curious eyes of the growing public throng. The noise of a portable generator starting up suddenly broke the silence of the still, autumn morning and arc lamps buzzed into life. As they cast their harsh, brilliant-white light onto the scene, they further accentuated the early morning darkness in those areas their illumination failed to reach.

Later, with McCabe’s help, Toomey moved the body to determine the cause of death, – not an easy task in the confined space between the hedge and the wire fence of the tennis court. The photographer then took a few more photographs before Toomey continued his examination.
‘As you can see, sergeant,’ he said, ‘in addition to this large bruise above the victim’s temple, there would appear to be just two wounds; a long, deep slash to the neck and another, smaller puncture, in the region of the heart. A more detailed examination will be needed to give us an estimate for the time of death, as well as its exact cause but my initial guess is that the victim was first stunned by a blow to the head and was then stabbed once in the heart before being hacked about the neck – or vice-versa, possibly. Whether the blows were expertly directed or were just the result of bad luck – as far as the victim is concerned – clearly, I don’t know, but I would guess that either one of these wounds would have killed him, especially if he was unconscious at the time. As you can see, they both resulted in a massive loss of blood.’
McCabe liked neither the sight nor the smell of blood and he could do no more than dumbly nod his agreement before he returned to his car to ring in a preliminary report and to ask for assistance.

The radio alarm next to Detective Inspector Ralph Kingdom’s bed switched on to Radio Scotland at two minutes before seven o’clock that same morning.
‘… across the Forth Road Bridge, so do take care. An update on what looks like a worsening traffic situation will be given at seven-thirty. But, for now, that is the end of the road report.’
Still half-asleep Kingdom listened through the weather forecast for the day and the six time pips before seven o’clock. When the news began, Kingdom’s attention was immediately grabbed.
‘A report has just come in about a murder on the Meadows in the centre of the capital. The crime is thought to have been committed sometime during the night. The identity of the victim has not yet been released but we shall give more information as it arrives. School meals are once more under threat in Strathclyde where dinner ladies are up in arms about …’.
Kingdom lost interest and crawled out of bed. As he did so, his telephone rang.
‘Kingdom,’ he answered, suppressing a yawn while feeling the stubbly growth of whiskers on his chin.
It was Headquarters. ‘A body has been found on the east side of the Meadows, sir. Detective Sergeant McCabe is at the scene together with the incident team. He called in earlier to request assistance and I’ve been told to let you know you should proceed to the Meadows to head up the investigation as soon as you can.’
The message was cryptic but as it lacked the tone of an urgent summons, Kingdom reckoned he still had time for a quick shower and a bite to eat before he left.
‘I’ve just this minute heard about it on the radio. I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he promised.
After a quick shave and a shower, Kingdom stood in front of his steamed-up bathroom mirror to brush his still thick, though prematurely greying hair and to look critically at his reflection. A hard but sharply intelligent, thirty-seven-year-old face stared back at him. Though personally dissatisfied with what he saw, he was still a presentable-looking man despite the long scar running from his temple to his jaw. The scar was the result of a bad car crash in which he was involved when he was a university student seventeen years earlier. If he were a bank clerk or a shop assistant, that scar would have looked out of place and might even have put an end to his chances of promotion. On the face of a CID officer it was no such disadvantage. Indeed, if anything it lent him an air of menace that, over the years, many villains and would-be villains had found most unnerving. He had also noticed that some women were even attracted by his injury, mistakenly believing it to be a battle wound; but by no means all women.
It was a considerable shock when Kate asked him for a divorce. That was five years earlier. The truth was she had never accepted the demands his job placed both on him and on their marriage. Since his divorce, and almost as a punishment for his failure to hold his marriage together, he had thrown himself even more whole-heartedly into his work. The result was that, while he was now very highly regarded by his superiors in the Force, his social life was almost non-existent. When he thought about it, which was not very often, he was forced to admit he had become almost completely one-dimensional. It was during those rare moments of introspection that he wondered, briefly, if he should do something to redress the situation. Those rare moments of self-analysis quickly passed however, and all too soon he settled back into his work-centred routine.
Kate had since re-married and was now the wife of James Coburn, Solicitor and Writer to the Signet. Whenever they met, which was gratifyingly infrequent, she never failed to tell him how content she was with her new life. If she expected him to be deliriously happy for her now that he was out of her life, she badly misjudged her ex-husband. That had always been the trouble with their relationship; neither had fully understood the needs of the other. She also used such opportunities to tell him how Judith, their daughter, was so much happier now that she was in a stable home environment for the first time in her young life. It was stupid and selfish of him but he still felt a twinge of irritation that Kate and Judith’s newfound happiness was only possible following his departure from their lives. It was of little comfort to him but he tried to justify his position by telling himself that even before they married, Kate knew that a police officer’s life could be irregular, and particularly so if he happened to be in the CID. He had worked hard to pass his exams to secure his promotions and to better support the two most important people in his life, but in the process he had lost his family.
Such thoughts were furthest from Kingdom’s mind, however, as he gulped down his early morning coffee and caught an update on the radio about the murder on the Meadows.
‘Reports are coming in that a man died in suspicious circumstances on the Meadows in Edinburgh, last night. The police have not yet revealed the identity of the victim but they have asked anyone with information on the matter to come forward.’
Already, it seemed, the report of the ‘murder’ given at seven o’ clock was already demoted to a ‘death in suspicious circumstances’.
Following his divorce and the splitting of their meagre funds, Kingdom had purchased a sprawling but modest Georgian flat in Drummond Way in one of the more remote and least attractive corners of the New Town. His flat was on the third floor and was the cheapest one in the block. Even so, he had only been able to afford it because it was in desperate need of lots of tender loving care. To the anguish of his neighbours, the flat had declined still further since he had taken possession. There was so little free time in his day to allow him to do the much needed maintenance himself – even had he the ability or the inclination to attempt it – and he just could not bring himself to pay the ransoms demanded by the so-called experts. Repairs would have to wait until he was promoted to Chief Inspector which, he hoped, would not be too long delayed.
As he finished dressing, he wondered who the man on the Meadows might be and what the suspicious circumstances were. Though he had never worked with DS McCabe, he knew him both by sight and by reputation; the man was a snappy dresser, he recalled. He also remembered someone telling him that while the man was a decent enough police officer, he could jump to conclusions for Scotland. He could also be somewhat over-imaginative and Kingdom had still not decided if that latter trait was a good or a bad fault in a CID officer.
Almost exactly thirty minutes after receiving his call, he was on the point of leaving his apartment, indeed, he had just pulled on his overcoat, when the telephone rang out once again. For a moment he was tempted to ignore it but thinking it might be more information about the Meadows incident, he picked it up.
‘Is that you Ralph?’ asked a voice he immediately recognised as belonging to his sister, Patricia, affectionately known to her friends as ‘Tricia’; or ‘Trish’.
‘Yes, of course it’s me Trish. Who else did you expect? Listen, I’ve just received an urgent call and I’m on my way out. Can whatever it is wait?’
If Kingdom’s welcome was not the most effusive his favourite sister had ever received from her brother, it was because Tricia was an infamous chatterbox. He needed to take control immediately if he was to get to the murder scene that morning.
‘Don’t panic, Ralph. I know what a busy man you are so I won’t keep you back. I just wanted to remind you that Paul and I are expecting you for dinner this evening, at eight for eight-thirty. Don’t be late,’ she admonished.
Kingdom groaned inwardly. Three weeks earlier, in a moment of weakness, he had accepted an invitation to dine with his sister and brother-in-law. He knew the dinner would be superb as would be the company they provided, they always were, but what Tricia had not mentioned was who else she had invited to make up the four-some or six-some or whatever even-numbered-some she had decided on. It seemed she would not rest until she had seen her only brother safely and happily re-married.
‘Listen Trish, I’m just about to start a new case so I may not be able to make it. It really depends on how things go.’
‘If you let me down Ralph Kingdom, I’ll, I’ll, …. I’ll set the dogs on you.’
Kingdom laughed. ‘Those old Labradors might lick me to death, and they might even gum the hairs off my leg but I don’t see them doing me any permanent damage. Look, I’ll do my best, I promise, but that’s all I can do, honest, Trish.’
‘Just make sure your best is good enough then, Ralph Kingdom. There’s someone very special I want you to meet tonight. Wear your dark grey suit, and remember to polish your shoes.’
‘You’re worse than a mother hen Trish! Stop fussing! If I manage to get there, and that’s a big “if”, you’ll just have to take me as you find me.’
‘That’s a horrible thing to threaten me with. You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Then, with a tinkling laugh and before he could think of a suitably smart reply, she rang off. In spite of himself, Kingdom smiled fondly.
It was just after seven thirty when Kingdom eventually descended the grubby, internal, stone steps he shared with the other residents in his building. Built two hundred and fifty years earlier, the New Town is the architectural masterpiece of Edinburgh. With its wide streets flanked by beautiful and generously proportioned buildings, the New Town is on the northern side of Scotland’s capital. Built on a long slope that leads right down to the Forth Estuary, many of the houses in the New Town command wonderful views across the River and on to the mountains of the Kingdom of Fife on the far shore. Kingdom’s own apartment also had such a view, but only from the corner of one of its windows, which was about the only positive thing one could say about his accommodation.
The New Town reaches right up to George Street, at the top of the slope, as well as down the short decline leading to Prince’s Street and then even further down to Prince’s Street Gardens, the latter constructed on the site of the Nor Loch, a body of water that once balanced the South Loch on which the Meadows now rests. South of and immediately adjacent to but towering above Prince’s Street Gardens lies the historic heart of the city, Edinburgh’s famous Old Town.
The morning rush-hour traffic was beginning to build up but he quickly reached the Mound, the road that connects the New Town to the Old Town and the traffic lights were in his favour as he crossed over onto George IV Bridge. After rounding Edinburgh University’s McEwan Hall, he reached the eastern end of the Meadows.
It was still not quite seven-forty-five when he arrived and Kingdom felt pleased to have responded so quickly. Nevertheless, the body of the murdered man had already been removed to the mortuary and the papers from the victim’s briefcase – or as many of them as could be found – were gathered up. The eastern part of the Meadows was now cordoned off and a careful and systematic search for a possible murder weapon was being conducted in the area immediately surrounding the crime scene.
McCabe had been standing around cursing Kingdom’s tardiness for the past half an hour and he couldn’t resist a pointed look at his watch as Kingdom approached.
‘Morning, sir. Did ye have trouble finding us?’ he growled out his greeting.
Kingdom, nettled by such clear criticism of his timekeeping from a junior officer immediately went on the attack.
‘No, there’s been no trouble, Sergeant McCabe but you’ll be the first to know about it if there is any, I can assure you.’
Cursing his flippancy, McCabe wisely decided to keep his mouth firmly closed. He’d been delighted when headquarters informed him that DI Kingdom would be assigned to the case. Kingdom had an excellent reputation in the Division and being at a loose end, Bill hoped Kingdom might request his continued services. Now, here he was getting up the man’s nose even before they had started.
Kingdom continued. ‘I realise you’ve been up all night, McCabe, and you’d probably like to get home to bed, wouldn’t you?’
A sickly smile played around the corners of Bill’s mouth but he kept it firmly closed to Kingdom’s question. The less said the better was the thought that flashed across his mind.
With a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes Kingdom continued, ‘Well, you can go just as soon as you’ve told me what I want to know. Would that be all right with you?’
‘Yes sir. Certainly, sir.’ McCabe had already written off his breakfast. He now had real concern for his dinner, as he called it. He was determined to be as straightforward and as efficient as was possible from now on. He had a wife and family to go home to, even if Kingdom didn’t.
‘The name of the deceased is Greville, sir, Dominic Greville.’
‘Well, well, well!’ Kingdom interrupted. ‘If my memory serves me right, that’s the name of the head man at the National Document Centre, isn’t it?’
‘The very same, sir,’ McCabe growled. ‘It seems that, sometime last evening, someone tried to rob Mr Greville and either the thief panicked or Mr Greville went for the thief. Whatever the reason, Mr Greville ended up dead. Doc Toomey has already examined the body and he reckons Greville was stunned by a blow to the head afore he was stabbed in the heart and then slashed in the neck – although that could ha’ been the other way around, of course. Whichever way it was, the poor man lost a lot o’ blood and finished up dead.’
‘Do we know what sort of weapon the killer used?’
‘No, we dinnae know that yet, sir. I’ve got a team out looking for anything that could have been used to make the sort o’ wounds we found on the body but so far nothing’s turned up. I s’pose forensics will be able to tell us what sort o’ weapon it was just as soon as they get a chance to look at the body.’
Kingdom nodded his agreement before asking, ‘Is there anything else I should know?’
‘When I arrived, there were sheets o’ paper scattered all over the place, sir; I’m pretty certain they were from the victim’s briefcase. The place was a real mess, I can tell you. So, after we’d photographed the area I sent a couple of the lads out to pick them all up. As far as I could make out, it seems to be some sort o’ confidential report for the NDCS. I’ve sent the papers and the briefcase off to be tested for fingerprints. I hope that was all right?’
‘Yes. Quite right, McCabe. Now, where exactly was the body when it was found?’
McCabe took Kingdom across to the gap in the hedge. ‘We’ve taken photos of the crime scene, which you’ll be able to see later, but the body was laying here. See those blood-stains?’ McCabe pointed to two muddy pools of congealed blood. ‘Well that one was from the guy’s neck and this one here was from the heart wound. I guess his legs came to about here.’ McCabe indicated the positions with what had started out the previous evening as a nicely polished brown shoe. Now, as it peeped out beneath his somewhat rumpled pair of designer-labelled slacks, much to his annoyance, McCabe could see that it, as well as the lower part of his slacks, was covered in mud.
Conjuring up a picture of the dead man, Kingdom said, ‘I met Greville once.’ Mentally measuring the distance McCabe had just indicated he continued. ‘I seem to recall that he was quite a short man. Is that right?’
McCabe agreed. ‘That was my impression, sir. No more than five feet six I’d say.’ He waited for Kingdom’s next question.
Kingdom was thinking back to his only meeting with Dominic Greville. He recalled a dapper, good-looking man who, on being introduced to Kingdom, asked him a question about policing only to turn away to speak to someone else more important and interesting when Kingdom was still only halfway through his reply. He decided then that he did not like the Director of the nation’s Documentation Centre. Turning back to McCabe, Kingdom said:
‘Who found the body?’
McCabe referred to his notes. ‘That was a Mr George Andrews, sir. He’s a pensioner who was out for an early morning walk with his wee pooch. It seems the dog found the body and when it wouldnae come back, the old boy went across and found the victim. As you might imagine, it fair shook the poor fellow up. WPC Thompson, from the local station here, had a few words with him and found out his wife died just a year ago and he now lives alone on the other side of the Meadows, in Warrender Park Road. As he hadnae had his breakfast, and as his wee dog was being a bit o’ a nuisance, I asked Thompson to take him off home and give him something to eat and drink. He’s been told he’ll have to come in to give a written statement later today.’
‘That sounds fine. But tell me, what makes you think this was just a simple robbery that went wrong?’ McCabe was pleased to note that Kingdom’s initial frostiness was beginning to thaw.
‘That was fairly obvious, sir.’ McCabe grew in confidence. ‘The killer took the victim’s watch off his wrist. Doc Toomey and I could see where the impression o’ the strap sat; and the same applied to the victim’s wedding ring. His wallet and credit cards are also missing. Of course, I havenae any idea how much money the victim was carrying, but people dinnae walk around with too much cash in their pockets nowadays, do they?’ he appealed to Kingdom. Then, without waiting for a reply, he continued. ‘Anyway, wi’ so little to gain, I cannae believe the thief meant to kill Mr Greville. It must have been done in a moment of panic. What else could it have been?’
‘If the thief stole the victim’s cards, how did you manage to find out who he was so quickly?’
McCabe grinned. ‘Again, that was easy, sir. The thief either overlooked it or decided it wasnae worth taking; but in the top pocket of the victim’s suit jacket we found his staff pass for the NDCS. It even has his photo on it.’
Kingdom nodded. ‘Well, that certainly sounds convincing enough. Good work. But as for it being accidental, I’m not so sure about that. You said Doc Toomey believes the victim was first knocked unconscious. In which case, why stab him and risk being imprisoned for a capital offence? There again, if Greville came to while the thief was still going through his pockets, I can accept that in a moment of panic the thief might have felt the need to inflict a stab wound to frighten his victim, but two widely separated wounds, and both in such critical areas. That makes me suspect this was more than an accidental killing. Anyway, time will tell.’ Kingdom was famous for his gut feelings and his gut feelings rarely let him down.
‘You said there were papers all over the place when you arrived. I suppose, eventually, I’ll be able to see from the official photographs what it was actually like, but can you describe what you saw when the body was first discovered?’
‘Certainly, sir. Of course, you do realise I wasnae the first police officer on the scene. SOCO was here before me as was an ambulance unit from the Infirmary. A couple of our constables from our South Side station were also in attendance. They were busy keeping a small crowd o’ people away from the immediate scene o’ the crime. Then, as I said earlier, there were papers everywhere and the body was in this gap in the hedge. That’s aboot it, I think.’
McCabe thought his summary was a good overview of the situation as he first encountered it.
Kingdom wasn’t satisfied, though. ‘Yes, yes, that much I already know or could have guessed, but what about Greville’s briefcase? What sort was it? Where was it? Did it contain anything else? Where were the papers? Come on McCabe, think!’
McCabe was a bit put out by Kingdom’s curt dismissal of his earlier effort and was determined he would not be put down again. ‘The briefcase was leaning against the inside o’ the hedge, sir. It’s one of them old-fashioned ones, you know, made o’ leather with an opening at the top.’
Kingdom nodded, ‘I know the sort you mean. Now, was it open and if so, did it have anything in it?’
‘No, sir, it was closed but not locked. There were a few pens and pencils in it, some correspondence, and a great big book on antique furniture. Otherwise, there wasnae much else of value for a thief in it, unless the thief happened to be an antiques dealer, I s’pose.’ Immediately McCabe regretted his flippant remark. Kingdom had definitely mellowed in the last few minutes but Bill was still unsure of his exact mood. He relaxed when Kingdom seemed not to have noticed his feeble attempt at a joke.
‘Now that is interesting,’ was Kingdom’s only comment.
McCabe completely failed to see why his joke about antiques dealers should be interesting, so he said nothing.
After a moment, Kingdom said, ‘Let’s talk about those papers for a minute. I assume they’d been removed from the briefcase. So, where were they?’
‘They were all over the place, like I told you, sir.’ McCabe was becoming exasperated by Kingdom’s interest in these minor details. What did it matter exactly where the thief had thrown the papers?
‘I know that a large number of individual sheets had blown about all over the place, McCabe. You’ve already told me that. What I want to know now is, were there any still left in a pile to show where the thief had originally discarded them?’
Light dawned and McCabe replied. ‘Yes, I see. Sorry! I s’pose about a third of them were left, sir. They were in a pile just here.’ McCabe indicated a spot very close to the gap and on the open, park side of the hedge.
‘Thank you McCabe, that’s been most illuminating.
McCabe waited a few moments more but when Kingdom didn’t ask any more questions he said, ‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I’d like to get back to my desk to write up my report.’
Kingdom’s moment of silent thought ended. ‘Yes, McCabe, there are just a couple of things more. What about the victim’s next of kin? Have they been informed, yet?
‘No, not yet, sir. I thought that was something you might want to do yoursel’. I’ve got his home address ready, though.’ McCabe handed Kingdom the address he had previously written down on a piece of paper torn from his notebook.
‘What about his place of work? Have you contacted anyone there?’
‘It’s a bit early for that, sir. I expect staff in the NDCS willnae get theysel’s sorted out much before nine o’clock and I also thought that was something else you’d like to do yoursel.’
‘You’ve done well, Bill. Run along now and get that report written up. By the way, I know you’re not assigned at present, so if it’s all right with you I could ask for you to be transferred off night duty to help me with this case until a permanent assistant is appointed. Would you be interested?’
‘Yes, I would, sir, and thanks very much.’
‘Right, I’ll arrange it later today. Unless you hear differently, I’ll see you in my office at seven o’clock, tomorrow morning. Now, get that report written and then go home.’