Tools of the Trade

Chapter 2

Two

“You have got to be kidding?”

“No, Tom, there's no-one available. My hands are tied. We need someone there A.S.A.P. You accepted the assignment, you’ll just have to suck it up and do your best to get this one figured out quickly if you want your holiday any time soon.”

“Sir, with all due respect…”

“No use arguing, Tom," interrupted Chief Inspector Brian Campbell. "Get yourself up there as soon as you can. The Duty Sergeant has all the information you need.”

Recently retired Detective Sergeant Tom Guthrie stood up, wanting to protest some more, but knew it would be fruitless. He turned to leave his former boss's office, resigned that his long-awaited holiday would have to wait some more. Wait until… until who knows when.

“It’s murder trying to plan anything round here you know.”

“Very funny, Tom.”

***

The police service in Scotland had undergone its biggest change in years, with regional forces being brought under a single command structure. Police Scotland, they called it. Gone was the Tayside Police that Guthrie had been a part of for just over twenty years, slowly progressing from fresh-faced recruit graduating from Tulliallan, to Detective Sergeant based in Tayside Police Headquarters in Dundee. His career had stalled, and he became more and more frustrated with how things were done. Perhaps he was just a little old-fashioned and unable to move and adjust to the environment, but with the changeover to Police Scotland on the horizon came the excuse to pack up his desk in Dundee and take his leave.

It took less than a year for Guthrie to realise just what a large part of his make-up was the old copper. One he could not set aside. The whole retirement lark was not something he was ready for. He was barely forty, after all. He had spent most of his time working on his 1973 MGB GT, a project he had promised himself since he was young. As soon as the car was at a stage he could rely on it for daily transportation, Guthrie sold his “every day” car and enjoyed the slower pace of classic motoring. At least until he needed to actually go somewhere or do something. Then he regretted his decision.

Once the MG project was completed, Guthrie found the hole in his routine, once filled by suspect interviews and door-to-door inquiries, could only be filled by getting back in the game.

Doing so was surprisingly easier than he figured it would be. There were no licensing requirements for private investigators in Scotland. Guthrie formed a company, joined a couple of professional associations, arranged insurance and had some kid—at least that was Guthrie’s assessment of the impossibly young-looking website designer—to produce an online presence.

It was shortly after this that his old boss in Dundee had called him to tell him that, due to the upheaval of Police Scotland, his services would be required. The summons turned out to be a short-lived investigation of a murder that took place in one of the poorer areas of the city. This, however, led to a more permanent arrangement whenever Dundee needed someone with Guthrie’s experience, and now he was considered a civilian contracted consultant. The only promise being that it wouldn’t last forever. “Just until the senior officers get their arses in gear and SCD can supply us with the manpower we need,” said the Chief Inspector.

The newly-formed Serious Crime Division was responsible for the investigation of all major crimes, such as murder. Cases were handled on a relatively local basis but sometimes this stretched the organisation beyond the point they had enough manpower to cover the work. A special commission approved the formation of a small cadre of former officers who were drafted in to help with incidents. The use of civilians was not publicised for fear of questions being asked, but crimes had to be investigated and this was the stopgap solution they had settled on as the internal battles over budget were hammered out between the police bosses and the politicians. Tom Guthrie was one of the few they called.

He pressed the accelerator pedal of the MG hard to the floor as he passed the speed limit signs on the A92 heading northeast out of Dundee. The car made some more noise but didn't seem to go any faster. He cursed under his breath.

It wasn’t too long, however, before Guthrie stopped worrying about the lack of horsepower as he went over in his mind the quick and dirty synopsis the Duty Sergeant had given, before he headed north from Dundee.

“You're a lucky sod!”

“And how, exactly, do you come to that conclusion, Sergeant Davey?”

“Well, it’s a beautiful day, and it seems like you're off to get your fill o’ sea air.”

Guthrie smiled inwardly at Davey’s slight Glaswegian accent, tempered as it was by the last fifteen years on the east coast. “Aye, well, that’s as may be, but apart from seagulls and fishing boats, what exactly am I to expect at the end of this particular rainbow?" Guthrie said. "No pot of gold, I should think.”

“No’ even a poke o’ chips. The lads up in Arbroath called about a couple o' hours ago with the news they’d found a body up by the cliffs. The boss called you when he found out SCD didn't have the resources locally."

“A floater? Great. Who knows where the thing could have come from.” Guthrie could feel his face turning red as he realised all hopes of his holiday were quickly disappearing. “And why do they need me, for crying out loud? Can’t they handle this themselves? How do they even know it’s a murder, anyway? Could be some poor bloke’s gone and fallen off the cliff while taking his dog for a walk. I can see this being a complete waste of time.”

“Perhaps if you'd allow me to give you one or two wee snippets o’ information, you’d be more willing to see this one may need your talents,” Davey responded, throwing on a little forced country bumpkin accent to emphasise to Guthrie that he let him ramble on a little. Tom looked at the floor and kicked an imaginary pebble down the hallway.

“Sorry, Davey. Not exactly what you’d call thrilled about being launched off to look at some auld codger that fell off a cliff.” Guthrie leaned against the counter and, at last, looked at the desk sergeant. “Please. Fill me in.”

Davey picked up a dark brown file folder, opened it and, with a flourish of someone who was about to announce the winner of the biggest jackpot in lottery history, pulled out the single sheet the folder contained. Pausing for further effect, Davey straightened his tie and cleared his throat with a sham cough.

“Oh, come on you old bugger!” was all Guthrie could manage, trying not to laugh.

“Okay, okay.” Davey began to read the details from the sheet. “At 0913 hours this morning we received a call from the station at Arbroath requesting support from Divisional HQ for a CIO, with respect to the discovery of a body. Said body was found at the cliffs on the north side of the town at approximately 0730 hours. The deceased was pronounced as such by a local doctor at 0823 hours.” Davey looked up from the paper and saw that Guthrie was looking down at the floor again. Guthrie looked up when he realised the sergeant had stopped and was now looking at him.

“Sorry, Davey. I’m riveted. Please do carry on.”

Davey raised an eyebrow, but continued, “A Chief Investigating Officer was requested from Divisional HQ due to the state of the body when found.”

“Oh, come on Davey, cut to the chase will you. Stop dragging this out and let me get up and back so I can…”

“The deceased was found tied to the rocks below the high tide line.”

Tom Guthrie was now looking straight at Davey. “I thought that might get your attention. Oh, by the way, they haven't moved the body yet. They’re waiting for you to show up. SOCO’s already there doing their thing, the pathologist's already on his way and the scene needs to be cleared well before 1525 hours.”

“Three-thirty? Why three-thirty?”

Davey shuffled some papers around the counter, then looked up at the recently retired detective sergeant and smiled. “High tide.”