Robbing the Dead (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TUESDAY EVENING, 29TH MAY

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, 30TH MAY

  TWO

  WEDNESDAY LUNCHTIME 30TH MAY

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  THURSDAY MORNING, 31st MAY

  SIX

  SEVEN

  FRIDAY MORNING, 1ST JUNE

  EIGHT

  NINE

  SATURDAY MORNING, 2nd June

  TEN

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, 2ND JUNE

  ELEVEN

  SATURDAY EVENING, 2ND JUNE

  TWELVE

  SUNDAY MORNING, 3rd JUNE

  THIRTEEN

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 3RD JUNE

  FOURTEEN

  SUNDAY EVENING, 3RD JUNE

  FIFTEEN

  MONDAY MORNING, 4th June

  SIXTEEN

  MONDAY EVENING, 4TH JUNE

  SEVENTEEN

  TUESDAY MORNING, 5th JUNE

  EIGHTEEN

  TUESDAY LUNCHTIME, 5TH JUNE

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON, 5TH JUNE

  NINETEEN

  EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING, 6TH JUNE

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THURSDAY MORNING, 7TH JUNE

  (Untitled)

  (Untitled)

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  (Untitled)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ROBBING THE DEAD

  by Tana Collins

  Copyright © 2017 Tana Collins

  The right of Tana Collins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  PRINT ISBN: 978-0-9956926-9-5

  Also, now available in the Inspector Jim Jim Carruthers series

  Care to Die

  Amazon UK – Amazon US

  ONE

  Rhys Evans looked over his shoulder to see two shadows following him. Fear prickled his scalp. His damp hands shook and he wiped them on his jeans. He ducked into a dimly lit doorway, aware of his shallow breathing and bunched fists. Everything smelt of fear, the scent of his own acrid sweat.

  The only sound louder than his heartbeat was the music of the pizzeria next door.

  A fist came out of nowhere. The first punch split his lip and forced him back against the door. Two shadows loomed over him. He tasted the metal of his own blood. His right hand hit a rough patch of ground as he fell. Stopping had been a mistake. He screamed as a black boot stamped, smashing the bones in his fingers. He was hauled to his feet. He should have made a run for it when he could. The hood of his assailant fell back, revealing a familiar grinning face.

  ‘’Ello, Rhys.’

  With wide open eyes he stared at the man.

  ‘You?’ Blood sprayed as he spoke. ‘Why?’

  A second punch to the mouth. Pain exploded in his face. He spat a broken tooth. Blows rained down. Dazed. Confused. He lost the wit and strength to defend himself. A heavy door was dragged open and he was propelled into the poorly lit stairwell. Overcome by the beckoning darkness, he collapsed against the wall as the final blow fell. His last thoughts were of his mother. The mother he had never met.

  ***

  The grey-haired man across the road watched through narrowed eyes as the body was dragged further into the stairwell and away from the prying eyes of the street. A commotion broke out about a hundred yards away. The man shifted to get a better look: just some drunken students on a pub crawl. As they clattered down the street, the man returned to the shadow, his attention back on the assault in the alley. One of the assailants silently touched the other’s arm and nodded. Having done what they were sent to do, they melted away into the evening, the burlier of the two maintaining a tight grip on the objects he’d retrieved from the man’s rucksack.

  The man waited and watched from a safe distance, ramming the black baseball cap further over his hooded eyes. The boy’s death was unfortunate, but the man couldn’t afford to be exposed and the boy had been asking too many questions. He was now very close to achieving his goal. He had waited over forty years and it was finally within his grasp. Nothing and nobody was going to stop him. He smiled and turned away.

  Payback time.

  ***

  TUESDAY EVENING, 29TH MAY

  DCI Jim Carruthers zipped up his brown holdall. All ready for leaving the following morning. He was looking forward to spending the next five days in Glencoe in his newly-purchased and top-of-the-range tent. His only companions were to be a bottle of Talisker and Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale. He had decided to re-read all the Bond books. He stooped to pick up an old newspaper from the carpet. Just as he was about to chuck it in the recycling box the phone rang. He hesitated. As he threw the newspaper into the box he knew with a sinking heart that it would be the station calling. He answered.

  ‘Jim, sorry to do this to you,’ said Superintendent Bingham. ‘We’ve got a suspicious death. You’re needed back here in Castletown.’

  ‘Is there nobody else who could take this one?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bingham. ‘Get yourself over to 39, Bell Street.’

  ‘Who’s the victim?’ Carruthers asked, his innate curiosity kicking in.

  ‘All we know is, he’s young and male. Details are sketchy.’

  ‘OK,’ said Carruthers, ‘I’ll be there in twenty.’

  ‘I’m sending Fletcher and Harris over,’ continued Bingham. ‘Fletcher’s as keen as mustard, and Harris, well, it’ll stop him cramming his face with any more doughnuts. Bloody man’s practically finished the entire bag.’

  Carruthers smiled. Harris wasn’t the only one with a fondness for doughnuts.

  Car keys in hand, he left his cottage and locked up. He could hear the sound of water lapping the harbour. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still one or two people by the quay finishing their fish suppers from Anstruther Fish Bar. It was a warm evening. A group of giggling teenage girls walked past. They were wearing short skirts and had flat midriffs on display. Carruthers tried not to stare, but it was difficult. He was just a man in his late thirties after all. One of the girls had her belly button pierced. As obesity levels soared, seeing a group of teenagers with flat stomachs was, sadly, an increasing rarity. Why was it that girls were either bordering on anorexia, or morbidly obese? What happened to nice healthy curves? He must be getting old wondering whether there were any normal and well-adjusted teens around. Perhaps they were just all at home getting ready for bed.

  As he drove towards Castletown, he was aware of an enormous and dizzying expanse of sky stretched beyond him. Fife was so unlike the west coast of Scotland where he grew up, and although he loved the west with its majestic but moody mountains and heather-clad landscape, the Fife countryside already held a special place in his heart.

  Today had been a beautiful day and the sky was still a hazy blue. Carruthers loved the drive to work in the summer. He was reminded of the colours on an artist’s palette, as overgrown verges full of patches of cow parsley, clumps of
bluebell and the occasional scarlet poppy flashed past.

  As he approached Castletown, leaving behind the undulating green and golden fields, he drew in a breath. For all the tourists and students, there was something otherworldly about the historic town.

  There the town stood, nestled by the coast, at one time only easily reachable by sea. The spires of its cathedral and castle ruins glinted in the evening sun, as they had done for at least six hundred years. Lives tumbled upon lives, from the red-gowned student population that had shaped the town since the 1400s, to the gothic Victorians and beyond.

  As he drove into Castletown, the town looked as it would on any other weekday evening. The fine weather meant that it was busy in the centre. Patrons from the Earl of Fife bar spilled out on to the cobbled street clutching their glasses. Carruthers, who had wound down his window to enjoy the fresh evening air, could hear the babble of chatter as he drove past. He saw a couple with a toddler and a baby in pushchair. They didn’t look like tourists. Most likely locals or RAF. His parents would never have allowed him up this late at that age but, he shrugged, things changed. And what would he know about modern parenting?

  Driving into Market Street he spotted a couple of young women in their twenties walking down the pavement arm in arm. Carruthers could imagine that they were confiding secrets or making easy small talk, the way good female friends do, or so he was told. As he turned into Bell Street, the women, who had also turned, stopped abruptly when they noticed the commotion ahead. A small crowd had gathered behind police tape. One of the girls stopped and pointed and the other followed the line of her arm.

  The scene of crime boys were already busy. As Carruthers drew closer he saw most of the activity was confined within the stairwell of number thirty-nine. His senses came to full alert with the familiar quickening of pulse that always accompanied him to the scene of a suspicious death. As usual, he experienced a momentary apprehension for what he might find, just as he had the first time he’d seen a dead body.

  Heart still thumping, he found a space and parked. Jumping out of his car he ran across the street, pushing through the throng of onlookers. He was aware of Detective Sergeant Harris pushing his way through the crowd in the opposite direction. He wondered briefly where the man was going. However, he put thoughts of Harris aside as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. Flashing his police badge, DCI Carruthers ducked under the tape. He nodded at the SOCO who handed him a coverall kit then pulled on the suit and latex gloves and shoes, and went through the partially open front door. The hastily erected mobile lighting lent an eerie cast to the stairwell, making it all extremes of dark and light.

  Carruthers surveyed the scene, his keen blue eyes missing nothing. The flat itself was next to a pizzeria. There was a pungent smell of dough. Every so often he’d hear a blast of loud music. He guessed the stairwell led to student flats. Either that or the proprietor lived above the premises. He focused on the bulky frame topped by white hair. Dr Mackie was talking with Liu, the police photographer.

  ‘What have we got?’ Carruthers asked.

  ‘Young male. Badly beaten,’ responded Dr Mackie.

  ‘Cause of death was a blow then?’

  Mackie wagged a finger at him. ‘You know me better than that, Jim. You’ll have to wait for the lab results. He did receive a massive blow to the side of the head, though. It is a possible cause of death.’

  Carruthers bent down to get a closer look. The victim was lying angled in the hallway, blood from the head wound covering his face and soaking his green T-shirt. Somebody had done a number on him.

  Carruthers turned to Mackie. ‘Do we know what he was hit with and whether he was killed here?’

  ‘One question at a time if you don’t mind, young man,’ said the world-weary doctor, whose dishevelled appearance and five o’clock shadow belied an acute mind. ‘To answer the first, a blunt instrument’s been used. Whether that was what killed him, we’ll just have to wait see. First impressions are he was killed here, or more likely,’ he raised a hand towards the door, ‘just over there and dragged in here to be better hidden.’

  ‘Can you give me a time of death?’

  ‘Always a difficult one, that. Not been dead long. I won’t be pushed on a time yet though.’

  Too soon for anyone to have reported him missing, thought Carruthers, but more than likely he’ll be missed by someone. Soon enough there could be a parent or sibling, maybe a girlfriend or wife whose lives would be changed forever. The boy only looks early twenties, he thought. Bloody shame.

  ‘There’s something you should know,’ continued Mackie. ‘There’s also significant old bruising here. In all likelihood, this man’s been in a bad fight recently, but not as recently as tonight. Poor sod. Clearly wasn’t having a good time of it. Guess his luck finally ran out.’ The doctor lifted the T-shirt, revealing a welt of old greenish bruising across the chest.

  Carruthers frowned. ‘There was a bad fight between some of the townies and RAF boys about a week ago. That’s worth following up.’ He turned at the sound of footsteps to see the diminutive DS Andrea Fletcher approaching. She nodded at her boss as she stopped and wrote neatly in her black notebook.

  As usual she was the picture of professionalism. She’d slipped a SOCO suit over a tailored short-sleeved white cotton blouse with black trousers and slim fitting lace up boots she’d been wearing on duty earlier. Her dark hair had been tied in a ponytail and she had used a grip to keep her fringe from falling into her eyes. Although younger and much less experienced than himself, her presence assured Carruthers the job would be well done. She was already a fine detective.

  ‘So we’ve no idea who he is?’ Carruthers said to Dr Mackie.

  ‘That’s your job, Jim, not mine, but I’ll give you one clue, laddie,’ said Mackie, his highland accent still discernible after more than thirty years in Fife. ‘Look at this.’ Mackie pointed at the man’s upper arm.

  Carruthers stared at the tattoo of a bluebird.

  ‘Cardiff City fan?’ said Fletcher leaning over the corpse. Her clear-cut English accent penetrated Carruthers’ thoughts. ‘That’s their emblem,’ she continued. ‘Nice to know my passion for football can come in useful.’

  As Carruthers peered at the prostrate man, trying to ignore the congealed blood and pulped bone, he was aware of the buzzcut beneath the broken flesh. A military haircut. There was an RAF base just six miles from Castletown.

  Unlikely to be a local if he supports Cardiff, though stranger things have happened, Carruthers thought. He’d once met a Glaswegian who was a fervent Aberdeen fan. That took some beating in a city where there were only two dominant teams split by religious differences. Perhaps that had been the point.

  ‘Victim looks like a squaddie tae me,’ said the sweaty, overweight Detective Sergeant Dougie Harris suddenly appearing and leaning over Fletcher’s shoulder.

  ‘Who found him?’ Carruthers asked.

  ‘Student returning to the flat above,’ said Fletcher. ‘Already taken a statement from him. Victim’s open rucksack was found a few feet from the body,’ she added, ‘but still within the stairwell. It appears to have been rifled through. No wallet or mobile.’ She looked around her. ‘No obvious sign of any weapon. Looks like a straightforward robbery gone wrong.’

  ‘What about staff and customers next door at the pizzeria?’ asked Carruthers, turning to Harris. ‘Somebody may have seen or heard something. I want statements taken from everybody. Nobody’s to leave until they’ve given one.’

  ‘What, all of them?’ grumbled Harris. ‘There must be about thirty people in there. With our luck, there’s probably a two-for-one special offer on.’

  Lazy bastard. ‘Well, you’d better get cracking then, hadn’t you? And when you’ve finished those, talk to everyone behind the police tape. They may have seen something. Then you and Andrea can start conducting a door-to-door. Off you go, chop chop.’ Carruthers wasn’t oblivious to the filthy look Harris shot him but, as ever, he just ignored it. Thin
king about Dougie Harris, he suddenly frowned.

  ‘By the way,’ said Carruthers, ‘where’ve you been for the last fifteen minutes? There’s work to be done. I hope you weren’t taking a piss in an alleyway. I’ve told you about that before. You should use a public toilet like the rest of us.’

  ‘I wisnae taking a piss,’ said Harris, looking offended.

  ‘Well, what were you doing then?’ demanded Carruthers.

  ‘I was over by your car checking out your slow puncture.’

  Carruthers sighed. It looked as if it was going to be a long night in Castletown. He wished he were in Glencoe, already ensconced in his new tent with two fingers of whisky and some old-fashioned espionage.

  ***

  The man joined the crowd. Eyes narrowed, he watched the police. Inhaling his cigarette deeply he felt the nicotine hit him. It tasted good. He pushed past a couple of open-mouthed holidaymakers and jostled to get as close to the front of the crowd as he dared without making his presence too obvious. Deep inhalation made short work of the rest of the fag. He flicked the butt to the ground. Watched as the sparks hit the pavement before he ground it underfoot. He took a silver lighter from his trouser pocket and lit another. He stayed and observed for some time, slipping away just before they started to interview the crowd.

  ***

  Glancing at her watch, dark-haired Siobhan Mathews stared out of the window again. Siobhan wrapped her shawl around her slender frame and turned to Tomoko. ‘Tomoko,’ she said, ‘he’s never been this late before. Where is he?’

  Tomoko pushed her owlish glasses back up on to the bridge of her nose. ‘Why don’t you try his mobile again?’

  ‘I keep trying but there’s no response. I’ve already phoned the base, so I know he left Edenside on time. The guy I spoke to saw Rhys speaking with Dave Roberts just as he was leaving.’