Murmuring the Judges

33

It was a clear and cloudless night. Although the midnight sun still cast its aura along the northern horizon, Aberlady Bay was bathed in moonlight as the convoy, led by the Ranger’s Land Rover truck, made its way along the track which crossed Luffness golf course, towards the Nature Reserve.

The silver light glistened on the wide expanse of water, and on the wilderness upon which thousands of birds were settled for the night. With Skinner, Sarah, Martin, Brian Mackie and Maggie Rose in the passenger seats of the long wheelbase vehicle, the Ranger drove slowly, for fear of scaring up the great flocks of geese to which the Reserve offered safe haven.

Occasionally, a family of rabbits would start in the headlight beam, then disappear towards the many entrances to their warren, their night world disturbed.

Another Land Rover in police livery followed, and behind that, a yellow tractor, with a battery of lights arrayed on a bar above its cab. The line of vehicles was completed by a third off-roader, a deep blue shadow in the night. It carried no markings, but it was distinguished from the rest by a revolving ventilator cap in its roof.

‘It’s a wonderland, isn’t it,’ whispered Sarah, as if even within the cab she might disturb the bird population. ‘And to think it’s within walking distance of our doorstep.’

‘Sure,’ said Bob, ‘but you wouldn’t come here on foot at two o’clock in the morning. The terrain’s rough, and even with a torch there are plenty of ways to break an ankle.’

He looked over his shoulder, at Mackie. ‘What did you do with the press, Brian?’

‘I’ve gathered them together on the beach, sir, with three uniformed officers to keep an eye on them. The Assistant Ranger’s there as well. They all wanted to hang on for the next low tide, and as it’s a public place, I’d have had trouble ordering them to leave.

‘We’d only been there for a couple of minutes before the first group arrived. After that they began to descend like those geese at nightfall. Fortunately, no one’s been too close yet. We’ll have photos in tomorrow’s papers, I’m sure, but there’ll be no more detail than we saw on the late television news tonight.’

‘You’re sure none of them know who the body is?’

‘Quite sure, sir. I took the wallet from the body myself. I haven’t even told our people, other than Mags, who it is. Dead judges are getting to be a habit with me.’

‘Let’s hope they don’t come in threes.’ Even on the balmy summer night, something in Skinner’s voice made the truck feel suddenly chilly.

As they drove on they could almost see the wide silver band of the sea retreating on the ebb of the tide. ‘The Aberlady sandflats stretch for more than a mile, from the road out of the village to the low-water mark,’ said the Ranger, breaking the silence once more. ‘It wasn’t always like this. Aberlady had a harbour once. . you can still see traces of the jetty. . but over the centuries the Bay became silted up, until it was unusable.’

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘The tide should be far enough out in about fifteen minutes. After that, you’ll have about five hours to do what you have to do.’

As he spoke, the rudimentary track came to an abrupt end, and scrubby flat-land stretched out before them. The Ranger drove on over the rough ground, jerking and bouncing in his seat as did his passengers, until at last the vehicle crested a small dune which opened out on to the beach. He drove on for a bit, until the rest of the convoy was in sight behind him on the hard, wet sand, then drew to a halt, three hundred yards short of the water.

Skinner looked around. A distance away to the right, on the edge of the dunes, he saw the flickering light of a driftwood fire, with figures clustered around it, some sitting, others standing, looking across at the line of vehicles.

He turned to DCI Rose. ‘Mags, would you dig Alan Royston out of the vehicle behind and go along to see the press people. Tell them that there will be no statements made here, but that Mr Martin will be aiming to have a briefing at Fettes at seven o’clock this morning.’

‘How close will we allow the photographers, sir?’ she asked, as she opened the door beside her.

‘Keep them a couple of hundred yards distant. Near enough to do their work without disturbing ours.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The red-haired detective jumped out on to the sand. At almost the same moment, Alan Royston, anticipating Skinner’s orders, stepped out of the Land Rover behind. She spoke to him, briefly, then together they headed towards the group around the fire.

The others sat in silence, with the windows wound down and the vehicle lights switched off, listening to the distant lapping of the calm sea, and to the rustling sound of a township of sleeping birds, as gradually their eyes attuned to the conditions.

‘Can you see them yet?’ the Ranger asked Skinner, pointing into the shining night. ‘Do you know where to look.’

‘Yes. I’ve been out there.’

‘What you’re looking for is in the one that’s closer to us.You can head off now, if you like.’ He opened the door and stepped out on to the sand. ‘You can handle one of these things, can’t you?’

‘Sure, but aren’t you coming with us?’

The countryman shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’ve seen what’s out there. It was bad enough last time. I’ve got no wish to see it again, after another high tide.’

‘Fair enough.’ Skinner slid across into the driver’s seat, and switched on the headlights, then the engine. Waving his right hand, beckoning the other drivers to follow, he set the four by four in motion, leading the way towards the water’s edge.

He drove very slowly, steering as smoothly as he could over the mounds and through the hollows carved by the rise and fall of the estuarial tide, but always heading towards his objective. At last, he reached it, drawing to a halt with the headlights on full beam, trained on a sculpture of wet, rusted metal.

Although it was in miniature, it was still clearly in the form of a submarine. Within its ribs, there was something else; something grey-hued, with wispy hair, sodden clothes clinging to it.

‘How long has it been here?’ asked Martin, of no one in particular.

‘If you mean the sub,’ Skinner replied, ‘for over fifty years. There are a few local legends about it. . one is that it, and the other one a bit further along, were part of an Italian raid during the war which came to grief. As far as I know though, they were prototypes built for a raid on the German battleship Tirpitz in the early years of the war.

‘The story is that when it became clear that they couldn’t do the job, they were beached here and used for naval target practice. The one along there is smashed to bits, but this one retained its shape through it all.’

He paused. ‘If you mean, how long has the thing inside it been there, that’s for Sarah to tell us in due course.’ He winced in anticipation. ‘Come on, let’s take a look.’

As the four remaining occupants of the Land Rover stepped out on to the sandflat in their rubber boots and yellow waterproof tunics, the driver of the tractor guided his vehicle into position and flooded the skeletal submarine with bright white light. They cast long shadows as they stepped up to the twisted superstructure, and as they did, a fifth joined them. Mackie looked at the man who stood by his left shoulder. ‘I’ll bet this is a first for you, Arthur,’ he muttered, grimly.

‘I suppose it is,’ Inspector Dorward acknowledged. ‘I’ve seen a few bodies on beaches, mind you, but never one at low-water mark.’

‘This’ll be a first for Sheila as well,’ said Skinner to the Superintendent, ‘having you called out in the middle of the night.’

‘She better get used to it,’ Sarah added, as Martin, unaware of Mackie’s new domestic arrangements, looked on, puzzled. ‘Even our kid gets called into the act in our household.’ Alex had been summoned from Edinburgh to look after her brothers, to allow her step-mother to go to the crime scene.

‘So how did the poor bugger get stuck in there?’ asked Dorward, oblivious to the exchange as he stared at the figure in the bowels of the submarine.

‘Not on his own, Arthur,’ Mackie told him, in a slow, even voice. ‘Not on his own. You and the doc had better go and take a look.’

Sarah nodded and stepped closer to the wreck. ‘From the side, ma’am,’ Dorward suggested. ‘Let’s go through those spars as close to the body as we can. That way we won’t be getting in our own light.’

She did as he suggested, with the inspector following behind, and a video-camera operator from his unit bringing up the rear, staying as close as she could to the action.

The old man’s body was pressed on its right side, against the rib-like uprights on the far side of the hulk. The arms were bent behind it, and a wide strip of heavy black adhesive tape, partly detached by the water, hung from the right cheek. The face bulged, not only, she saw, through immersion, but also because of the white handkerchief which had been stuffed in the mouth, and, of which, a corner protruded.

Experienced as she was, her stomach heaved involuntarily as she looked at the head. The eyes were gone, and great strips of flesh, including the right ear, had been torn away from the face and scalp. ‘Would fish do that?’ she asked herself, without realising that she was speaking out loud.

‘I doubt it, ma’am,’ Dorward answered her. ‘The water’s only a few feet deep here, even at high tide. It’s the birds that have been at him.’ He leaned over the body. ‘Look here though,’ he said.

She did as she was told. Below the sleeves of the sodden tweed jacket, and the check shirt, a set of plastic handcuffs were cutting into grey swollen wrists, tethering the man to the upright behind him. His ankles, in green woollen socks beneath his plus-twos, were bound together with more of the black tape, which now hung loose. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

‘Is he dead, then, doctor?’ Skinner had walked down the westward side of the wreck, and was standing outside the cage which it formed. He spoke with an irreverent irony, and she knew at once that it was not out of any lack of respect, but that it was his policeman’s way of breaking the grip in which the horror of the sight was holding her.

‘The poor old man,’ she said, with an unexpected tear in the corner of an eye. ‘Someone forced him in here, tied him up and left him to drown. Although it’s possible he’d have died of fright before the tide covered him. Time will tell about that.

‘Who did you say he was?’

‘Lord Barnfather. A retired Court of Session judge.’

‘Was he reported missing?’

‘Not to us,’ Brian Mackie answered. ‘He was a bachelor, and lived alone in a flat in Ainslie Place. So there was no one to report him missing, other than his neighbours. A twitcher found the body late this afternoon. He trained his field glasses on the sub because there were birds flocking around it.’

‘What’s a twitcher?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Slang for bird-watcher.’

‘Ah.’ Her professional composure recovered, she looked down at the savaged remains once more. ‘For what it’s worth without a full autopsy,’ she pronounced, ‘I’d say from the state of the body that he’s been here for two days. That would make it Sunday.’

‘Why wasn’t the body found sooner?’ asked Dorward.

‘It’s mid-week,’ the DCC replied, ‘and the schools are back. In term-time, the Reserve is fairly quiet during the week. Anyway, not too many people walk out to the subs. It’s a long way off the beach, and folk are afraid of the quicksand.’

The inspector looked at him with sudden alarm. ‘What, sir, are there quicksands out here?’

Amused by his reaction, Skinner smiled. ‘No, but they think there are.’

He looked down at Sarah again. ‘There’s nothing more for you to do here?’ She shook her head. ‘All right. Arthur, call in your lads and take all the footage and still-shots you need, quick as you can, so we can get the poor old chap out of here and into the mortuary wagon, away from these awful fucking birds.

‘I never did like seagulls much.’

Dorward nodded his agreement. ‘Me neither. Noisy, nasty creatures, they are.’ He stepped backwards out of the wreck, keeping his shadow out of the way of the camerawoman.

‘We should give the scene the once-over as well, sir. You never know, whoever brought the old chap out here might have left us a bit of cloth, snagged on some of this metalwork.’

‘See what you can find, then, Arthur: but unless it’s got his name on it, it won’t do much good. I reckon there have been five high tides since then.’