Dark Waters Read online

  She stared out of the windscreen. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  CHAPTER 3

  The pathologist raised his head and smiled up at the sound of the door as Monica pushed it open. It was the first time she’d seen Dr Dolohov since the case at the start of the winter.

  ‘DI Monica Kennedy.’ His unusual accent rose in greeting – Russian that somehow sounded closer to southern English than anything. He ran a hand over his shaved grey hair and adjusted his glasses. ‘The best investigator in the north! Back to fight more of this world’s monsters! Has she still got it though?’ He smirked then tilted his head to look up at her with genuine curiosity. ‘You look sad though; I expected you to be excited.’

  Monica shook her head at Dolohov’s facetiousness, though she couldn’t help but like the man. There was something refreshing about his naked curiosity. Better than being lauded as a hero, better than the dark whispers about her past.

  ‘Just my daughter, everything that happened in the last case …’ she heard herself say. Though why she was opening up to him of all people, Monica had no idea. ‘I think it makes me overprotective …’

  ‘Children can be little devils,’ Dolohov said, as if delivering a piece of sage advice for the ages. ‘I’m sure a lot of people would be happier without them. Before she met my grandfather and moved to St Petersburg my grandmother was a child in the Ukraine. During the famine in the 1930s she said her little friends would go missing from the street. People sold their children as food. Can you imagine?’

  ‘I’d rather not think about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dolohov said. ‘Well, maybe those people wouldn’t either. But then they had to. Maybe it’s better to have some hate in your heart for your children. Just in case.’

  Monica frowned at the doctor’s curious philosophy. Even after six months away, a few minutes of conversation with him was more than enough. She glanced back at the morgue door. She had messaged two of her colleagues from the Major Investigation Team to meet her here.

  DC Connor Crawford was about to turn thirty. Monica had first worked with him on the case six months before. She had initially been wary of his taste for bars and women, before growing to trust and even like him. His sometimes barely contained wildness meant it wasn’t exactly a surprise he was running late. He might well have been out drinking or in someone’s bed, even on a Sunday evening.

  DC Ben Fisher’s absence was more puzzling. He was the younger of the pair, in his mid-twenties. He was a university graduate, academic and precise. More openly ambitious than Crawford, who he seemed to irritate perpetually. Fisher’s hair was dark and he wore it short with a conservative side parting. Sometimes Monica couldn’t help thinking of the pair as opposites: Crawford a lively jack of hearts, Fisher a quiet, calculating jack of clubs. The three of them had worked closely together on the previous case, and each had paid a price. In one way or another.

  Monica shook her head to dislodge the nagging memory of the case. It was in the past; best it stayed there.

  Fisher was annoyingly keen and determined to make a good impression, and she’d been a little surprised to find the corridor outside the morgue empty. No DC dressed in a well-cut suit, already fiddling over his laptop, setting up a decision log for the case. Had he changed that much in half a year?

  ‘Anyway,’ Monica said finally, determined to change the subject. She trusted Crawford and Fisher enough to know they would both get there as soon as they could; she would fill them in on the details of the case later. ‘Why was Hately so keen to have me come back early for this?’

  Dolohov’s face lit up. ‘Over here.’ He pulled on a fresh pair of surgical gloves then walked over to one of the refrigerated storage units at the back of the mortuary. ‘Some fishermen spotted him – he was caught up before one of the hydroelectric dams, near Beauly.’ Monica nodded. She knew the area from scenic drives out to the west of Inverness to visit the glens.

  Dolohov paused then pulled the drawer open. What was left of the body was bloated, swollen and badly decomposed. Blanched skin that had begun to break down into its constituent fats and proteins. The face was barely recognisable as human, spread out wide so the features were indistinct. Monica swallowed her instinctive disgust and forced herself to lean in a little closer until she could see the black facial hair on the chin and above the lips. She ran her eyes over the rest of the body. The left leg missing from the calf down. The right arm gone at the shoulder, the left arm at the elbow.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He drowned,’ Dolohov said. ‘Water and plant material in his lungs. Before that he … had a bad time.’ He cleared his throat, pointed to the mess of flesh at the shoulder where the right arm should have been. ‘Removed at the joint, the whole thing torn out,’ he said with a flourish. Then he gestured to where the lower left arm should have been. ‘Removed at the joint, the whole thing torn out,’ he repeated, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘It’s possible these two injuries could have occurred naturally in powerful, fast-flowing water. If his arms were caught up in a weir, for example.’

  Monica nodded, although this scenario sounded highly improbable to her.

  ‘But look.’ Dolohov pointed to the remains of the left leg. A visible section of white bone stuck out from the bloated flesh. ‘Here the bone was torn. Chewed through by a cutting implement.’

  ‘A cutting implement?’

  ‘Probably a saw,’ Dolohov said. And his eyes flickered up to meet Monica’s.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Her softly spoken words echoed in the white-tiled silence of the morgue. ‘You said he drowned. So this was done to him pre-mortem?’ She understood now why even Hately had sounded rattled.

  ‘Someone cut him up while he was still alive.’ Dolohov said, nodding slowly. ‘Piece by piece.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Monica stood on the bank of the River Beauly and watched the eerie lights of the dive team as they moved out into the deep black water behind the Aigas power station dam. It was almost 10 p.m. now and completely dark apart from the industrial lights on the dam and the headlights from the Volvo, two marked police cars and a police van. Cutting through the cold night. The divers were beginning their search for the missing body parts. For clues that might help answer the questions the body presented. Who was the victim? Why was he in the water? And, most importantly, who did it?

  ‘Feels really remote out here. Only twenty miles from Inverness but it’s a different world once you’re in among the mountains.’

  Monica glanced down at the sound of DC Connor Crawford’s voice. He was almost a foot shorter than her. She took in his high cheekbones and narrow face, his wiry but muscled body lit by the headlights. Inevitably his red hair was carefully combed up into its sculpted quiff. He was wearing a slightly shabby brown wool suit under a tan leather jacket, a contrast with the crisp white collar and cuffs of his shirt and the strong smell of expensive aftershave that drifted off him into the cold night air. Almost as if he’d planned his outfit for effect. The ruffled but attractive detective dragged away from his exciting extracurricular activities.

  Crawford had turned up just as she was leaving the morgue, carrying three cardboard coffee cups. A convenient explanation for why he’d missed the delights of a close look at a dismembered and decomposing corpse.

  ‘That’s the Highlands,’ Monica said finally in reply. She knew that Crawford had grown up on the remote west coast, but he seemed to have developed a mix of fear and disgust for any non-urban area. She’d wondered more than once why he hadn’t just transferred down to London or the Scottish Central Belt. It would have suited him much better.

  He stared into the black water, shrugged. ‘My grandad used to say that they had to re-convert parts of the Highlands to Christianity. That they had gone back to paganism in the remote areas. The dangers of superstition, he called it. Always gave me the creeps.’ He folded his thin arms across his chest, a barrier against the idea and the crawling cold.

  Monica pulled her own
coat tighter and took a sip of lukewarm coffee, DC Fisher’s cup. Well, your second young protégé still hasn’t turned up so you might as well have it. The thought reminded her. ‘Did Ben Fisher call you?’

  Crawford stared straight ahead at the water. ‘Why would he call me? You know what he’s like. He’s probably tucked up in bed with a bit of light reading from the Senior Investigating Officers’ Handbook. Thinking of ways to impress you,’ he said over his shoulder. For a moment Monica couldn’t help but imagine Fisher sitting in bed, dark hair in a precise side parting, glasses on the end of his nose, a neat pair of pyjamas instead of his well-cut suit, studying theoretical cases while missing the messages on his phone about an actual case. Monica almost smiled at the picture, but she continued to stare at Crawford. She sensed he knew more than he was letting on. He had a knack for ferreting out information after all. ‘Wouldn’t want to be in there at night, that peaty water, can’t see your hand in front of your face.’ Crawford nodded at the water. She watched the sinister white ripples of the divers’ lights deep under the surface. Unnatural, like fairy lights crossing over from a different world. Monica imagined the claustrophobic dark waters, shivered and wondered for a second whether Crawford was speaking from experience. She seemed to have a dim recollection of overhearing him describe a diving trip he’d taken. Exploring ancient shipwrecks? In the Mediterranean?

  ‘We have to be seen to at least look,’ she said finally. If Crawford did know anything about Fisher’s absence he wasn’t about to share.

  ‘You think it could be organised crime?’

  ‘It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Given what little we know of the victim’s profile. Middle-aged male, physically large.’ Some of the most disturbing cases Monica had worked on were gangland crimes in London and Glasgow. Brutal tortures, sadistic dismemberment. But for some reason her instincts told her it didn’t quite fit here.

  ‘Why not get rid of the body properly? Bury it somewhere?’ Crawford gestured vaguely into the darkness further up the glen. He was jogging up and down now to keep warm, his jacket and suit inappropriate for the icy spring weather it turned out.

  ‘Maybe they wanted him to be found? Maybe—’ Before Monica could finish the thought she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. The number was unknown but when she answered with a curt ‘DI Kennedy’ the voice on the other end of the line was strangely familiar. An unexpected echo from the past.

  CHAPTER 5

  Annabelle could feel the blackness all around her. She opened her eyes, blinked and blinked. Panic rising with every second that the darkness failed to clear. Something was very, very wrong.

  For half a second she hoped she might be home in her flat with the shutters closed. It’s the middle of the night; you’re still mostly asleep. The thought made sense. But as she tried to force this idea into reality an image entered her head: a map with a picture of mountains and lakes on its cover. The other memories quickly followed. The gate. The road. The little girl. The crash.

  You’ve been blinded, that’s why you can’t see! Your eyes are gone!

  The thoughts sent adrenaline surging through her body. She tried to sit up and the first wave of screaming agony came on. Searing up from her right leg.

  ‘Help me! Someone help me!’ she screamed, trying desperately to sink back away from the pain. But it stayed remorselessly with her until the tears were running down her face.

  For a long time there was only the pain. Gradually it faded until Annabelle realised that although her head ached like the worst migraine, there was actually no pain from her eyes. She stayed very still and tried blinking again. Still no pain. Reaching up with both hands she felt the balls of her eyes through their lids. They seemed normal. Slowly she opened her eyes and peered into impenetrable blackness.

  It was the darkest hour of the night – that was why she couldn’t see. She was trapped in the car and her leg had been horribly broken in the crash. It was obvious. If she was in the car her phone must be nearby. She replayed the moment: stretching for her iPhone. How could she have been so stupid? She took a deep breath and slowly moved her left arm. Feeling for the steering wheel, for any familiar object. But her hand grasped nothing but cold air.

  Annabelle resisted the new panic that was gathering and tried again. Stretched her hand out to the right this time. If she was still in the car then surely her fingers would touch the door. She could find the handle and begin to orientate herself from there.

  Her outstretched fingers brushed something for just half a second. But she recognised immediately what she had touched. Carpet. A deep shagpile carpet that felt almost identical to the one in her old family home. The one in her bedroom all those years ago. It wasn’t possible. The inside of the BMW was leather and plastic, and the carpet on the floor completely different. When Annabelle brought her shaking fingers back to her nose they carried a musty smell. Absolutely nothing like the freshly serviced citric interior of her car.

  At the same time her overstressed mind registered an obvious fact for the first time: You’re lying flat on your back. Why wasn’t she in a car seat? The terrifying truth that had been circling rose up into her conscious mind with absolute clarity. She couldn’t feel the steering wheel or the door handle because she wasn’t in the BMW. She was somewhere else, somewhere dark. It meant someone had moved her from the wreck of the car. It meant someone had put her here.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘Monica? Monica Kennedy? Is that you?’ She stared into the black water at the divers’ spooky lights. Tried to place the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Bill, Bill Macdonald.’

  Monica squeezed her brain, searching through the hundreds, thousands of names that she’d encountered over the years in her work. Criminals she’d arrested, colleagues she’d worked with, victims, witnesses. The voice was familiar though, with a strong Inverness accent. ‘Give me a clue,’ she said finally.

  ‘You know,’ the man said, sounding almost insulted that she hadn’t recognised him, ‘Bill, Big Bill, from the Marsh.’

  The Marsh was Rapinch, an unfashionable part of Inverness. The part Monica had grown up in, the part her mother still lived in. And as he said the words, Monica was taken back thirty years to school. The micro-hell of the Scottish country dancing classes that all pupils were forced to attend. She was almost always one of the last picks. Her unusual size intimidating to the adolescent boys. But on the rare occasions that Big Bill Macdonald attended he would often raise his head of thick blond hair in her direction. Monica could still remember the feeling of bliss at not having to bend her back and half crouch to hold hands. The feeling of being the smaller of the pair. As his nickname suggested, he was already six feet tall and weighing over two hundred pounds by his third year of high school. He rode his dad’s old Triumph motorcycle from the age of fourteen and wore scuffed leather biker trousers to class, his hands permanently stained black with oil. An aspiring Hell’s Angel, like his father, who was rumoured to have been a member of a notorious biker gang. His family lived just round the corner from Monica’s. Sometimes she used to sit on his driveway and chat to him when he was working on his motorcycle. She could still remember the heat of the afternoon sun on her back in the summer. The way he would glance over, his eyes seeming to linger on her long legs and the shape of her hips.

  ‘I got your number from your mother, I didn’t even know you were back up here. It must be … what? At least ten years?’

  Ten years and the rest, Monica thought. But not long enough. If it hadn’t been for needing her mum’s support with Lucy, she would have stayed away for a lot longer. Unbidden her mind ran back down all those years to the scene with her father. Eyes meeting in horrified understanding, cold rain on both of their faces. The year 2000, the millennium. She’d got into her car, started driving and hadn’t seen or spoken to him again until his deathbed, twelve years later. By then, mercifully, he’d been too far gone to talk. Dad again. Ever since the
last case it felt like he was haunting her thoughts, her dreams. The streets in Inverness she used to love walking down with him when she was a child, the same ones she walked down with Lucy now. All those memories rising up like living things.

  She glanced down at Crawford to break the chain of thought. He was fiddling with an iPad in the passenger seat of the Volvo. Flicking through images of the unidentified body, taken before it was pulled from the water. She could see the bloated corpse snagged in low branches that hung into the water. Right beside the small fisherman’s shelter, just waiting to be found. It occurred to her that someone could even have hooked it up there purposefully.

  ‘Can I help you with something, Bill?’ She was keen to put the call, and the haunting memories it triggered, behind her and get back to the case. Usually when an old acquaintance contacted her unexpectedly it was because they were in some kind of trouble they thought a detective could magically make go away. Dimly she recalled her mum filling her in on gossip about Bill’s family. Did he have a son? Some trouble with drugs?

  But when Bill started talking again what he said had nothing to do with his family. ‘There’s a lad here, causing trouble … He mentioned your name. Told me he knew you, that I should call you to come and get him.’