Wrong It Was, Very Wrong

By chrisreid

Aberdeen is a quiet, law-abiding city. Multiple recent murders has everyone in a state of panic. The police scramble to find a connection between the young women, but apart from the fact they are all very similar in appearance they come from very different backgrounds. The killer is getting much more confident, more bodies and the police are no closer to finding the perpetrators, and yet the killer is leaving clues, quotations from Macbeth to help locate the bodies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: chrisreid
• Release date: Jul 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781773021249

Book preview

DEDICATION

Dedicated to my incredible loving and supporting family.

GLOSSARY

doric to english

Hoose — House

H.P. — A Hire Purchase plan for buying goods

Ither — Other

Jist — Just

Ken — Know

Kent — Knew

Lang — Long

Lass — Girl

Ma — My

Nae — No, Not

Niver — Never

Noo — Now

Oot — Out

Peeled (as in to keep eyes peeled) — Keep a lookout or Watch out

Puir — Poor

Quine — Young Woman

Rates — Taxes

Scratcher — Bed

Tae — To

Telt — Told

Traipsen — Walking/Wandering About

Teuchter — A person from a rural area

Weel — Well

Wid — Would

Windae — Window

Yin — One

PROLOGUE

He stood there watching the dark rain clouds moving slowly across the night sky. Why didn’t the moon come out and illuminate his masterpiece, he thought pettishly. His lips protruded in a childish pout. It seemed as though the forces of nature were trying to thwart him, But as the rain beat down on his upturned face, he suddenly felt a oneness with the universe. Invincible.

He looked down at the still white form at his feet, and training the torch he held downwards, surveyed his handiwork. A slight discrepancy caught his eye. The cross he had carved was not quite correct in its proportion. Taking out his knife he meticulously corrected the error. Everything had to be perfect. Just as he had planned it.

CHAPTER ONE

Chief Inspector Moody closed the file he had been working on for the past hour. With a sigh of relief he placed it neatly on top of the other completed files. The paperwork that came across his desk was formidable. It irked him that he was never able to keep ahead of it, but at least tonight he had made a sizable dent in the pile. Now his ‘out’ basket looked fairly healthy, he thought approvingly — the extra hours he had put in tonight had at least accomplished something. His reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door, and a constable entered carrying an envelope.

This was found on the front desk, sir, he said, handing it over to Moody. I knew you were still working and thought it might be important. He turned and left the room.

Moody studied the typewritten envelope — it and was addressed to Chief Inspector Moody, Lodge Walk Police Station, Aberdeen. As he slit it open, a ragged piece of paper fluttered down onto his desk; it was lined like a sheet torn from a school jotter. His brows knitted together in a puzzled frown as he read what was printed.

The crow makes wing to the rooky wood

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse

While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse

Is the initiate fear that wants hard use

We are yet but young in deed.

It was signed The Watcher.

The printing was rather childlike. He smiled as he remembered his own enforced school sessions of Macbeth. Then his brow furrowed once more as he tried to recall where in the play these lines appeared.

The last two lines are from part of act III, scene 5, he muttered thoughtfully, and he swivelled his chair towards the window, which looked out on the street below.

These sorts of letters came with the territory, as did the ones signed

anonymous, often misspelt. The rain, driven by a north-east gale, beat an incessant tattoo on the window. The sound was hypnotic. His eyes closed momentarily, and he realized just how tired he was. A hot bath, then bed seemed a very appealing prospect right now. He was reaching for his overcoat when the phone rang.

Damn, then an abrupt, Yes, into the receiver.

Sergeant McLeod here, sir. I’m glad I caught you. The voice had a very pronounced Highland lilt.

Make this short and sweet, sergeant, Moody cut in. It’s now, he glanced at his watch, getting on for one o’clock. What’s so bloody important that it can’t wait until morning?

We’ve just had a call, sir. There’s been a body found at Persley Den. A young female, possible murder. The lads who found her will be waiting at the foot of Deer Road, he paused.

Have a driver with my car at the front entrance in ten minutes, said Moody, and call Detective Sergeant Baxter. Tell him to meet me at the scene. And be prepared for a few oaths. He won’t thank you for dragging him out of bed on a night like this. Moody hung up and stood thinking for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed.

Dr. Ramsay’s residence, said a sleepy voice.

Heather, Jim Moody here. Sorry to disturb you so late. Can I talk to Jock?

Och, no, Jim! You can’t be wanting him to come out tonight. Just listen to that rain. Moody heard a whispered conversation taking place, and then Ramsay’s voice came on the line.

What’s up, lad? he asked.

Moody explained, straightening out a local map with his left hand as he talked. I’ll drive down Deer Road and park on the corner of Gladstone Place. I’ll meet you there in about fifteen minutes.

I’ll be there as fast as I can, Jim, said Ramsay.

Moody made another couple of calls before grabbing his coat and heading out. A constable was waiting at the front entrance.

Your car’s ready, sir, he said.

It’s Constable Black, am I right? enquired Moody.

Yes, sir, said the man. He had a square, good-humoured face and stood about an inch taller than Moody’s 6’1".

Right, Constable, let’s get going, then. Moody pulled on his gloves and turned up the collar of his coat against the driving rain. They hurriedly made their way towards the car park and Black took the wheel. As they were driving through the deserted streets, Black gave a quick sideways glance at his superior officer.

Are you familiar with the Woodside District, sir? he asked.

No, I haven’t been here long enough to get to know all the outlying areas.

Well, Persley Den’s a well-known lover’s walk, said Black, as he stared intently through the windshield, the wipers trying valiantly to deal with the deluge of rain the wind kept throwing at them. But it’s a god­forsaken spot on a night like this.

He turned off Great Northern Road, drove down Deer Road - parking behind a black rover. Moody watched Jock Ramsey’s figure, clad in yellow oilskins and rubber boots, emerge from the car in front. Jock and he had been friends since their university days. They had been known in that seat of learning as Mutt and Jeff. Moody, tall with the dark looks of his Cornish ancestors, Ramsay, short, stocky, freckled and the class wit. Moody got out and strode over, he couldn’t help grinning at the comical figure his friend made as he stood waiting.

Well, at least you’re wearing the correct gear should Moby Dick ever show up at Aberdeen Harbour.

You can laugh, mate, answered Ramsay, but then you don’t have a wife, old son. Let me tell you I just managed to get out while she was hunting for a woolen scarf to tie around my neck. Just then two men emerged from under the railway bridge where they had been sheltering.

Are you the police? one shouted, temporarily confused by Moody’s Jaguar. Noticing the constable he went on, You took your bloody time getting here.

Moody stepped forward introducing himself. I’m Chief Inspector Moody. Could you give the constable your names? he asked, raising his voice above the wind.

I’m Alec Stewart, and this is my pal, Johnny Thomson. His voice was dour.

Well, Alec, I’m sorry for your wait, but we did get here as fast as possible. Moody tried for a conciliatory tone.

Ach well, said the man, finding that lassie’s body is nae the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had, and forby that we’re baith soaked tae the skin. He spoke with a thick local accent.

Right, give me a second to grab a couple of torches, said Moody, fishing in the boot of his car as he talked. The lights of another car raked the scene as it pulled in beside Moody. A younger man uncurled his length from the interior and hurried over to Moody.

I got here as fast as I could, sir, said Baxter.

Moody grunted and handed the sergeant a torch. Let’s go, he paused as a squeal of brakes heralded yet another arrival. A figure, hampered by the camera equipment slung across his shoulders, hastily joined them.

They slipped and stumbled along the path, and Moody contemplated the young men ahead of them who had found the body. They damned well hadn’t been out for a midnight stroll on a night like this, he thought sourly as he felt the rain dripping down the back of his neck. A poaching expedition was more likely, but he’d find out more about that later. Right now it took all his concentration to keep from slipping on the muddy path and landing in the river that rushed past, swollen with the heavy rain.

The men stopped suddenly by a dark shape under the trees. As Moody reached the spot he stood for a moment looking at the coat covering the body and realized why Alec only had a suit jacket to protect him from the elements.

Is this yours? he asked Alec, holding out the coat.

Weel, ah could’na leave her lying there bare naked now, could ah? he looked around the group for confirmation.

No, of course you could’na laddie. Of course you could’na, said Ramsay. The young figure lay there on the muddy ground, her long, blonde hair plastered to her naked body and one arm posed above her head. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the rain beating down. Moody bent down and gently closed them, then stepping aside, gave the police photographer room to manoeuver. The man had the job done in record time, then hastily packing away his equipment, gave a gruff salutation to the group and disappeared into the darkness.

Moody turned to Constable Black, Take Alec and Johnny home. The crime squad should be here by now. He turned to the shivering men, You lads had better get out of those wet clothes before you catch cold. We’ll get your statements in the morning. Just give the constable your addresses and places of employment... and thank you both for your help tonight. He turned back to Baxter. Make arrangements for a guard, Baxter, and set up a cordon. I’ve already instructed the crime boys to park at the railway bridge. There’ll be a helluva lot of plaster casts needed. Baxter had a blank look on his face. Well, you know the procedure, said Moody in an irritated voice. Just go by the book, man! He knelt down by the body, thereby dismissing the sergeant. Ramsay gave his friend a rather quizzical look as Baxter departed.

You are aware, Jim, he said, that this is the first murder the city’s had since that girl’s murder in forty-five... and that’s seven years ago, man.

The one thing you learn as you move up the ladder, Jock, is how to delegate. He’s a good copper... he knows what’s needed, and if he doesn’t, he’ll bloody soon learn. Moody watched as Ramsay examined the body. Time of death, eleven p.m. That’s only approximate, you understand? Moody nodded.

Cause of death, manual strangulation. He looked over at Moody. The knife wounds were made after death, and his voice hardened. What kind of bastard would mutilate a young girl like this?

A mad bastard, sighed Moody, as he straightened up and brushed off the knees of his trousers. A bloody mad bastard, he repeated as he watched the flickering lights coming towards him.

CHAPTER TWO

8:00 a.m. Tuesday, December 28th.

Morning dawned bright and clear. The gale had blown itself out overnight, and a pale December sun now penetrated the room where Moody sat eating breakfast.

He was glad he had accepted a transfer from the Glasgow division. He liked the slower pace of life in Aberdeen, and he had even found time to fit in some fishing in the short time he’d been here. And of course there was Meg, who had her practice close by in the city. He finished off his porridge, topped with cream, and pulled forward an ample portion of bacon and eggs. He thought, again, how lucky he’d been to find such a paragon as Mrs. McFadden for a landlady. For not only were his rooms the last word in comfort, but the well-cooked meals she served him were in the substantial amounts his large-framed body demanded.

As if his thinking had in some way summoned her, Mrs. McFadden bustled in carrying a teapot. His craggy face broke into a smile. She was such a cheerful little woman, small, plump and comfortable-looking, with the high-coloured cheeks of a country woman. The complete opposite of his own mother who was tall and slim, with pale, patrician features. Once, when the cook had unexpectedly fallen ill, his mother had served them an atrocious mess and tried to convince them it was porridge! They still teased her about it.

Another cup of tea, Inspector? she asked. She was always very exact in her mode of address.

No, thank you, Mrs. McFadden, he answered. But seeing her evident disappointment hastily added, Well, perhaps just half a cup. Looking around the room as she poured, he asked, When was this house built?

Near the end of the last century, Inspector, and I often wish I’d lived then. People took time to enjoy life, what with all the servants hired in those days. Didn’t have the fancy modern gadgets then. Now I only have Lizzie to help me, and to tell you the truth, I sometimes wonder if it’s worth my while employing her. She’s so dreamy at times. Lives in a world of her own, she does. She picked up the used dishes from the table and hurried out.

As he drank his tea he could almost see the horse-drawn carriages proceeding down the street at a stately trot... then the horn of a passing car brought him back to the present. He got up, and carrying his cup over to the window, stood contemplating the busy street. His thoughts were on the young murder victim and the work that lay ahead of him that day.

In a different part of the city, high above the street, another figure stood at a window. He felt all-powerful standing there. The people moving below had diminished in size from that great height. He felt he only had to bend over to crush them like ants. His fingers were actually making a crushing gesture as he turned away.

It was 8:30 a.m. and the Station was a hive of industry when Moody arrived. The desk sergeant was simultaneously trying to deal with the press and members of the public and not faring too well with either by the look things.

Jim slipped past them and entered his office. He gave a disgusted look at his in-basket, already half full again, and sat down at his desk to write out a press release of the murder. He called in a passing constable.

Take this down to the front desk before we have another murder on our hands!

Constable Parker grinned. Yes, sir. Sergeant Dickson does have a short fuse when it comes to reporters invading his sanctum.

Moody glanced at the reports from the previous night. The week had only just begun, but already it was gearing up to be a busy one. Two break and enters and five inmates occupying the cells. He put a call through to Detective Inspector Bill Stewart.

Stewart, known to his friends as Stewarty, was a big, mountain of a man with a mop of red hair and the temper that often goes with it. However, his keen sense of humour tended to even out the score. He was known as a bit of a maverick. Born and raised in the Woodside area, his size and bull-like voice had convinced many where their civic duty lay, without too much effort. He was also on a first name basis with many of the rougher elements of the city, having known a goodly number since boyhood.

Give these top priority, said Moody when Stewart entered, handing over the break and enters. Put whatever else you have on hold or pass it over to Sergeant Hunter. The phone rang as he finished speaking. He waved Stewart out as he reached for his phone, grinning at the mock salute he got in reply.

It was Detective Sergeant Baxter on the line. We might have an I.D. on that body, sir, he said. A call just came in about a missing girl.

Right, get all the details. I’ll meet you at the front entrance, said Moody.

Moody stopped by the front counter and asked the sergeant to find out what he could about the letter that had been left for him the previous night.

Where are we headed? he asked as Baxter backed the car out. Greenfern Road, sir, said Baxter. That’s in a housing estate on the outskirts.

I know where that is, said Moody. That’s the new housing estate they call Mastrick. I’ve been up there before, although it would be a damned sight easier to get around in this city, if they had the American system of 1st Avenue, 2nd Avenue, etc., etc.

"Oh, I don’t know