Detective Sergeant James Boyd woke with a start. Immediately his body reacted to its cramped position on the sofa sending waves of pain through his knees and lower back. Boyd wasn’t sure which noise had wakened him, the screaming baby or his mobile. Through the open bedroom door he could see Bev put their young son to the breast, silencing his cries. Boyd answered the duty officer in monosyllables, pulling on his trousers and shirt as he did so. He turned, sensing Bev in the doorway. She looked pointedly at him.
“I have to go to work.”
Bev said nothing, but her expression was the same as always. Tired, resentful, desperate.
“I’m sorry,” he tried.
“Will Susan be there?” she said sharply.
Boyd covered guilt with irritation. “She’s forensic. If there’s a crime she’s there.”
Bev turned on her heel, Rory still attached to her breast. The last thing Boyd saw before the bedroom door banged shut was a small chubby hand clutching the air.
When his phone rang, Cameron contemplated ignoring it. The only call he would get at this time was one he didn’t want.
“Glad you’re up, sir,” his Detective Sergeant’s voice was suspiciously cheery. “We’ve had a call out.”
“I’ve retired,” Cameron tried.
“Not till Tuesday,” Boyd reminded him.
Cameron listened in silence to the details. A serious incident had been reported at Greyfriars Churchyard, a stone’s throw from his flat.
“I’ll walk round,” he offered.
“No need, sir. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
Cameron wondered if Boyd suspected he wouldn’t come otherwise.
Boyd’s car stank of stale vinegar, the door pocket stuffed with fish and chip wrappers, a sure sign he wasn’t eating at home. His DS looked rough, stubble-faced and bleary-eyed.
“How’s the new arrival?” Cameron asked.
“Only happy when he’s attached to Bev’s tit.”
“A typical male then.”
Boyd attempted a smile. Cameron thought about adding something, like “Hang on in there. Things’ll get better”, but didn’t know if that was true.
They were at the graveyard in minutes, sweeping past the statue of Greyfriars Bobby and through the gates of the ancient churchyard. Ahead, the pale edifice that was the church loomed out of an early morning mist.
A couple of uniforms stood aside to let the two men enter the mausoleum, one of many that lined the walls of the graveyard. Inside, the air was musty and chill. The light-headed feeling Cameron had experienced earlier returned and he reached out to steady himself against the doorframe, bowing his head to relieve the sudden pressure between his eyes. The beam from Boyd’s high-powered torch played over the interior, finally settling on a pool of fresh blood next to a stone casket.
“The caller reported seeing a figure run in through the gate. Then they heard a woman scream.”
Cameron said nothing. He wanted to make it plain that if Boyd expected to take over as DI, this was the time to start.
“We’ve done an initial search of the graveyard. Nothing so far. And no blood except in here.”
Cameron registered the oddity of this, but made no comment. He didn’t want to be drawn in. He didn’t want his brain to focus on anything other than his departure.
They emerged to find a parked forensic van and two SOCOs getting kitted up. Cameron watched as Boyd and the young woman exchanged looks. He walked out of hearing, not wanting to be party to something he couldn’t prevent. Besides, what could he say? Don’t piss on your wife or you could end up like me?
He had no idea what made him look up. The medieval stone tenement behind him merged with the back wall of the crypt. It was blank-faced except for one narrow window. The young woman who watched him was in shadow but Cameron briefly made out a pale face and long dark hair, before she stepped out of sight.
It took him five minutes to circumnavigate the building and gain entry. The internal stairwell spiralled swiftly from ground level, one door on each floor. He climbed to the second landing and knocked.
When the young woman opened the door, Cameron’s voice froze in his throat.
Cameron had been a detective long enough to read body language pretty accurately. Susan was on her knees on the muddy grass, Boyd trying hard not to look at her upturned buttocks. He stood to attention when he spotted Cameron. Another sign.
“I spoke to a girl living up there,” Cameron pointed at the window. “She says she was wakened by the siren. Didn’t see or hear anything before that.”
Boyd gave him an odd look. Cameron wasn’t planning to say the girl looked so like Rebecca it’d almost given him a heart attack, but wondered if the shock still showed on his face.
“Well the police dog was right. It is a grave, but not a fresh one.” Susan sat back to reveal a sunken area in the muddy trampled grass. “They buried plague victims here in medieval times. There were so many it raised the ground level by twenty feet. Heavy rain sometimes washes the top soil away, exposing the remains.”
Cameron stepped closer, his eye caught by a glint of metal.
“What’s that?”
Susan fished it out and wiped off the mud. “Looks like a brooch.” She handed it over.
Cameron felt the prick as the pin caught his thumb. Blood oozed from the wound to form a red bubble. The sight of it made him nauseous.
“The plague bacteria are way out of date,” Susan quipped, “but I’d renew your tetanus if I were you.” She slipped the brooch into an evidence bag. “I should have something for you on the blood in the crypt in twenty-four hours.”
“That’s Boyd’s department now,” Cameron told her.
He left them to it, giving the excuse of packing to cover his early departure. The truth was, in his head he was no longer a policeman. Thirty-five years of detective work had come and gone and the city was no better or safer now than when he’d begun. Worse than that, the dream this morning and the young woman he’d spoken to in the flat above the graveyard had only served to remind Cameron that the one case he should have solved, he never had.
It wasn’t much for a lifetime. Cameron surveyed the meagre group of boxes. Everything had been packed except the books. There wasn’t much shelf space at the cottage. He would have to be ruthless.
He started well, splitting the books into two piles, one for Cancer Research, the other destined for Raasay. There were at least half a dozen on fly fishing, all of which went on the Raasay pile. The last book on the shelf was one about Edinburgh’s past. Cameron recognized it as belonging to Rebecca. Not a native to the city, she’d taken an amused interest in its medieval history, both fact and fiction. The photograph fell out as he transferred the book to the Raasay pile.
Rebecca stood by a dark expanse of water, laughing as she tried to anchor her long dark hair against the wind. On the lapel of her jacket she wore a brooch. Cameron suddenly remembered buying her the brooch from a silversmith near Glendale as a birthday present — a swirling Celtic pattern not unlike the one they’d found in the ancient grave.
The flashback had all the power and detail of the original event. Rebecca standing next to the counter, her head bowed as she examined the selection. He could even smell her perfume as she turned to show him which one she’d chosen.
Cameron sat down heavily, his legs like water. This was how it had been when she’d first disappeared. The powerful, terrible dreams, the intensity of her presence. The fear that she was in danger and he couldn’t save her.
He had no idea how long he sat there unmoving before he heard the buzzer.
Boyd stood awkwardly amidst the packing cases. Cameron thought again how much he liked his DS. He wanted to tell Boyd he would make a good inspector but he shouldn’t let the job take over his life. Instead Cameron said nothing.