Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2) Read online

‘Okay.’ Bella hopped down and skipped inside the house after her grandparents.

  Vicky took a second to compose herself.

  The white-harled walls of the house glowed in the sun. The kids next door were battering a football around. A thud against the fence made Rob look over at Vicky, then back down into the barbecue, shaking his head. Jamie joined him, peering over the edge into it. Rob brushed a hand through his hair, then looked over. ‘Sausages first, Vicks. Thanks.’

  ‘Sir.’ She saluted the only person in the world she’d let call her that name, then went in the house.

  Their house now. Their home.

  Her eyes were struggling to adjust to the light inside.

  A thick figure was squatting by the fridge, trying to shove a bag of salad into an already overstuffed crisper. ‘Cathy, I told you that’s too much food.’

  ‘George, I’m just trying to—’ Mum looked round at Vicky. ‘We brought a few things.’

  ‘Four bags isn’t a few things, Mum.’ Vicky could see now, so she filled the kettle and stared outside at the billowing smoke. The twats next door would no doubt complain soon enough. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Gasping for one.’ Dad was on his feet, scowling at the fridge. ‘Traffic was a nightmare, by the way.’ He looked over at Vicky. ‘Millions of people in Carnoustie because of the bloody golf and your mother insisted on going to the Co-op.’

  ‘George, if we hadn’t gone, you wouldn’t have seen Samuel L. Jackson and Bill Murray outside the Spar.’

  ‘It wasn’t them.’

  ‘It was so, George Dodds.’

  ‘Mum, where’s Bella?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I’ll find her.’ She disappeared off deep into the house.

  Dad winched himself up to standing.

  Vicky nudged past him and opened the fridge door. All the food she’d spent the morning preparing was buried under a ton of pre-packed rubbish. And who needed three trifles? Vicky managed to ease out the plates and passed them to her father. ‘Dad, can you take this to Rob and do all your alpha-male barbecue stuff?’

  He took the plates but was frowning at her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Can I get you a beer?’

  ‘If you’ve got any.’ He was looking down at the fridge and Rob’s chilling collection of cans. ‘Czech would be my preference.’

  ‘I’ll bring them out.’ Vicky watched him leave her kitchen and took another few seconds to calm herself down. The sound of a football hammering off a fence. Male voices talking, young, middle-aged and old. A flushing sound came from upstairs. Hopefully her mother had found her daughter and all was right in the world. A kettle boiling and clicking off.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Vicky sprung into action and tossed a couple of teabags into the pot, then filled it up with water. Not exactly her old man’s scientific method, but it’d do. She popped the lid back on the pot, then walked over to the fridge. She eased two bottles of ice-cold beer from under the mound of rubbish, then cracked off the lids and took them outside.

  ‘So, who do you fancy, Robbie?’ Dad had taken over the barbecue and was controlling the wall of flames like a pro. The smells of burning meat put lie to that myth, though.

  ‘Not so sure.’ Rob was standing there with the plates, reduced to helper in his own garden. ‘You got any money on it?’

  ‘A tenner on McIlroy, but don’t tell Cathy.’

  ‘Brave man. Oh, cheers.’ Rob took the beer from Vicky and pecked her on the cheek. He passed the bottle over to her dad. ‘Here you go, George.’

  Dad raised his bottle in cheers and took a pull. ‘Ah, that’s the business. Should get your radio out here, Robbie. No chance I’ll get to watch the golf on a day like this.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’

  Jamie was tugging at Vicky’s top. ‘Mummy, I’m still hungry.’

  She crouched down until she was eye level with him. ‘Your daddy’s just cooking something with Granddad, okay?’

  ‘Can I have some crisps?’

  ‘We haven’t got any.’

  ‘Eh.’ Dad took another drink of beer. ‘Victoria, your mother practically emptied the Co-op of crisps.’

  Superb.

  A sharp tug at her shorts. ‘So can I have some crisps, Mummy?’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Vicky led Jamie back over to the house.

  ‘Doubt I’ll win, Robbie, but it’d be nice to listen in.’ Dad was grinning. ‘Mind you, Vicky’s the one winning out with the Open on.’

  Vicky stopped and looked back, squinting into the bright sun. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re renting out your house for silly money, aren’t you?’

  ‘Doesn’t make up for not being able to get anyone to rent it the rest of the year, mind. The mortgage is crippling us.’

  ‘Well, hopefully it’ll give you a bit of breathing space.’

  ‘Hope isn’t going to cut it.’

  The doorbell chimed, cutting across the football kicking and the greyhound snoring.

  Vicky took the plate from the low wall. ‘That’ll be my brother, then?’

  ‘Andrew’s sitting this one out.’ Dad winced. ‘Your mother’s taking him to Glasgow on Tuesday. Supposed to be seeing this specialist who might be able to help.’

  ‘I thought he was better.’

  ‘Never learns, that boy.’ Dad took another glug of beer and grimaced. ‘Burning the candle from the middle as well as both ends. Never learns.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Vicky took the plate and led Jamie across the path. She found the least-crap bag and opened it for him. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thank you, Mummy.’ Jamie took the bag and ate the giant crisp.

  ‘You stay here and wait for me, okay?’ She padded through the house.

  A shadow at the door. Short, and slim. Before she could open it, her phone rang. It was sitting on the console table just inside the porch.

  DI David Forrester calling…

  Like she had time for that just now. She swiped to cancel it as she walked over to open the door. An old Ford sped off out of their cul de sac, back onto the main bit of Corby Drive. Black and modified for speed, with a tall spoiler.

  Who the hell was that?

  A card was stuffed into their letterbox. Plain white, folded over.

  She snatched it out.

  “V — I KNOW”

  Handwritten in caps. No name or number.

  Vicky got that deep panic, like her veins were filled with ice.

  She checked her phone again. Should she call Forrester back?

  She caught a smell of cooking meat. No. This was Sunday, time for family, old and new.

  Rob walked through, his shorts dripping on the laminate. ‘Who was that?’

  Vicky stuffed the note in her pocket. ‘You’re soaked through.’

  ‘Your old man needs another beer.’

  ‘Already?’

  Her phone chimed. Forrester again, but a text this time:

  “I’m your boss. When I call, you answer. Capiche?”

  She looked at Rob with a sigh. ‘It’s work.’

  He looked away, his lips screwed up. ‘Right.’

  Vicky felt that sting in her gut again as she picked up her phone and put it to her ear. ‘What’s up, sir?’

  ‘Did you bounce my call?’ Sounded like Forrester was outside. A crowd chatting and shouting, cut through by a distant announcer.

  ‘It is Sunday and I’m kind of busy.’

  ‘Well, you’re about to get a whole lot busier, Sergeant. Need you to get out to the coast between Carnoustie and Arbroath. There’s a new golf resort there.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Aye, well there’s been a murder.’ And he was gone.

  Vicky dropped the phone back on the table and looked over at Rob. ‘Sorry, I have to go to work.’

  Rob folded his arms. ‘Leaving me with your parents and two kids?’

  ‘I know. It’s more like
four kids.’

  2

  Vicky should have been at home, but instead she was en route to a crime scene. Typical.

  And the A92 was heavy with traffic. Really unusual for any time, but especially a Sunday. Not every day that the world’s biggest golf tournament hit Carnoustie and upended everything.

  Vicky pulled off the dual carriageway and swung round the loop until she crossed under the road. She rose out of the pit and headed towards the sea, which was glistening in the afternoon sunshine. Across the waves, the Fife coastline was hazy under the bright sun. Been ages since she’d been over there. Then again, it was Fife.

  Just before the road swung along the coast towards the far end of Carnoustie from where Vicky lived, she slowed, her indicator clicking away.

  The new LA Golf course was hidden behind five-metre walls that would maybe survive an Angus winter. A seasoned cop guarded the entrance, red-faced and struggling with the heat despite wearing as little of his uniform as he could get away with. Didn’t even need to see ID, just beckoned her through.

  Vicky rumbled across the car park towards the rows of cop cars and vans littering the place, disrupting any attempt at order and instilling the usual chaos. The gleaming hotel building was squat, four floors of white stucco pockmarked with blue windows and balconies. Still had that brand-new look, with the forty or so trees bare and shivering in the heat haze. She had no idea how they got planning permission for this, save for a lot of brown envelopes under a lot of tables.

  She pulled up next to the crime scene van, half relieved not to have to wait around for the forensics team to show, assuming it was her on duty.

  At least the pathologist’s Nissan was there, plugged in to a charger station, the car’s lime green glowing in the sun.

  Vicky got out into the baking heat. Her trousers were already soaked with sweat. At least she’d decided to keep her summer T-shirt on. She found Forrester’s text with its directions — head down to the sixteenth tee. Like that made any sense to anyone. Still, there were enough uniformed officers to indicate the likely path.

  A blue BMW pulled up next to her with the window down, blasting out Ed Sheeran. DS Euan MacDonald got out with an unreadable expression. ‘Showing a bit too much flesh there, Vicky.’ He hadn’t got the same memo as her, wearing his navy suit in this weather. And Christ did he fancy himself. Wraparound shades, his brown hair swept up into a quiff, and the sort of stubble that’d scratch like hell if you kissed him. His car lights flashed.

  Vicky stood there, tempted to just bugger off down to the beach. ‘This way, I think.’ She set off away from the hotel towards the thickest congregation of uniforms. ‘Forrester called you too, then?’

  MacDonald jogged to catch up with her. ‘Said he needed his A-team on it.’

  ‘And yet he asked you.’

  ‘Very funny. Any idea where he is?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Is that an invite?’

  ‘Christ, don’t you ever stop?’

  ‘You didn’t reply to my text.’

  ‘I’ve blocked your personal mobile.’

  ‘Oh.’ For once, he didn’t have a comeback for that.

  ‘I’m just messing with you. It’s not the law to reply to every text message, is it?’

  ‘True.’ MacDonald ducked his head and followed her inside.

  The crime scene seemed to be a stretch of golf course by the beach, golden sand spreading out in both directions. If this was nearer civilisation, the place would be mobbed. Two miles west and you’d be in Carnoustie, three or four east and Arbroath. A lighthouse sat maybe half a mile towards Arbroath on a squat mound of black rock fighting against the rising tide.

  DC Karen Woods stood guarding their way in. Medium height, blonde hair in a ponytail. ‘Strange to see you two turning up together.’

  Vicky snatched the clipboard off her and signed them in, but deliberately misspelled both of MacDonald’s names. She thrust the clipboard back. ‘Don’t.’

  Karen tossed a crime scene suit to Vicky. ‘Calm down.’

  Vicky unfolded hers. ‘Any sign of Forrester?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  VICKY FOLLOWED MacDonald across the pristine golf course. ‘This is just the fairway and it’s miles better than our lawn.’

  MacDonald twisted round to grin at her. ‘Every time you mention him, Vicky, it breaks my heart.’

  ‘Good.’ Vicky powered on towards the huddle standing by the green. Ten bodies in blue suits, and none of them obviously Forrester, so she pulled up her hood and snapped on the mask.

  Christ, it was hot.

  MacDonald beckoned for Vicky to go first, ever the gentleman.

  She eased between the bodies, most of them crouching and cataloguing. A couple of photographers snapped away when surely one would’ve done. At least they parted to let Vicky see the crime scene.

  A young woman lay in a bunker, face down, her blonde hair splayed out. Little black dress, bare legs, Jimmy Choos strapped on for dear life. No sign of what killed her, though the blood soaking into the sand gave a not-so-subtle hint.

  And even less subtle was the gargantuan behind of the blue-suited figure nearest the body, on her hands and knees as she prodded at flesh. Professor Shirley Arbuthnott, Dundee’s chief pathologist. She turned round and caught Vicky’s gaze, and returned her nod. ‘That’s as close as I can allow you.’

  ‘Fine.’ Vicky stayed up on the edge of the bunker, taking in the scene. The perfect grass lining the lip. The wire mesh keeping the structure in place. The damp, coarse sand. And the dead body lying right in the middle.

  Arbuthnott lifted the victim’s left shoulder to let Vicky and MacDonald see the giant knife wound across her throat. A deep gouge, covered with dark blood. ‘My initial hypothesis is that she died of blood loss from this wound. Will need to confirm that up in Dundee, but I’d say it’s over eighty percent likely.’

  Vicky nodded, keeping her gaze on the lifeless body. Looked young, maybe late teens, early twenties. A glimmering rock on her finger, though, so she was engaged. A tattoo of some Chinese symbols on her bicep. ‘Any idea who she is?’

  ‘Trouble with little black dresses is they don’t let you conceal anything.’ Arbuthnott’s cheeks puffed out in a smile. ‘Especially my enormous derrière.’

  No ID always meant extra work.

  Vicky stood up tall to look around. Nothing obvious indicated where the victim had come from, no telltale heavy footprints or tracks. ‘Was she killed in situ or moved here?’

  ‘Can’t tell. There was heavy summer rain overnight, which appears to have reset any trail she might’ve left us.’ Arbuthnott rested against the bunker’s lip. ‘Also makes establishing a time of death extremely challenging. All I can give is from about two a.m. until seven, and there’s a good two hours’ error margin either side of even that.’

  ‘Any forensics?’

  ‘Not my department.’ Arbuthnott slapped the arm of a much-skinnier woman next to her. ‘Jenny?’

  ‘What now?’ Jenny adjusted her mask, giving a flash of blood red hair against the vampire-pale skin. Bright green eyes drilled into Vicky. ‘Hey, look who’s here.’

  ‘Hi Jenny. You got anything?’

  ‘Well, no. I’ve been here five minutes. And no, we don’t have an ID.’

  ‘Can you get a photo of her?’

  ‘A photo? She’s not got any ID on her.’

  ‘I mean, can you flip her over, snap a shot and I can show it to people to see if anyone recognises her?’

  ‘Oh right.’ Jenny stepped out of the bunker to let two of her team in to start erecting a tent over the body. She folded her arms and watched them working away. ‘Well, not yet. We need to capture everything as it was found. Even us lot standing here on this sand is upsetting things and the body’s been out in the open for a good while. Let’s just see what we can find, okay?’

  Vicky let out a deep sigh that’d been building. ‘Can I have a look at the face again?’

  Jen
ny glanced at Arbuthnott and got a shrug. ‘Fine.’ She raised a finger. ‘But let me, okay? You cops are hashy.’

  ‘Hashy…’ Vicky almost laughed, but they were at a crime scene, standing over a corpse.

  Jenny repeated Arbuthnott’s earlier move, lifting her shoulder up.

  This time, Vicky had her phone out on maximum zoom and snapped a couple of shots. ‘Thanks.’ She inspected them and found the one best in focus.

  The woman was definitely early twenties, lacked that teenage puffiness. But the kind of pretty that would stick out in Tayside. Blood covered her jaw, neck and mouth, coming from a wide gash in her throat. But it also covered her left eye.

  Vicky held the phone out towards them. ‘What’s going on with the eye?’

  Arbuthnott frowned at it. ‘My lord.’ She collapsed down to her hands and knees again and twisted the victim’s head around. ‘Good heavens. Someone has cut at her eyelid.’

  ‘Her eyelid?’ Vicky went back to staring at the image on the phone. She zoomed in further, to the point her phone stopped letting her. It was a pixelly mess, hard to determine anything, but there was definitely a dark red mark above the eye. ‘Can you check to see if it was from the same knife as the throat wound?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can when I get her up to town, but until we have the actual knife, it’ll be next to impossible to prove.’

  Vicky gave her a smile. ‘Just see what you can get.’

  ‘Will do.’ Arbuthnott vaulted up out of the bunker with a grace belying her massive arse. ‘I’ll get someone to collect her soon.’ She raised a hand and stared up into the bright blue. ‘Rain’s on the way.’ She gathered her medical bag and scuttled off towards the hotel.

  Jenny sat back on the edge next to where Vicky perched. ‘Can you imagine?’

  Vicky was still staring at the phone. ‘What, bleeding out from a throat wound?’

  ‘No, having an arse that size.’ Jenny shook her head. ‘I mean… Jesus.’

  MacDonald was peering over Vicky’s shoulder. ‘Know what they say in Spinal Tap. “The bigger the cushion, the sweeter the pushin’”.’

  ‘Gross.’ Jenny scowled at him. ‘Remember that your skinny-arsed wife works for me.’

  ‘I’m being ironic.’ MacDonald held up his hands. ‘You know who found the body?’