‘Ms Cruikshank? DI Addison?’
The Procurator Fiscal and the Glasgow DI nodded back at him, and Croy turned to the constables who held the drill and repeated the gesture. The officers swapped fleeting glances before one of them reached down to flick a switch and a low rumble immediately began to disturb the uneasy silence that swamped the room. Within seconds, it grew and grew until the noise became a clatter that turned into a pneumatic thunder, which must have rattled into Brig o’ Turk and halfway to Callander. It was loud enough to wake the dead.
The drill bounced back off the frozen earth at first, barely biting the surface; six feet below seemed a long way off. It was like drilling through concrete and the cop’s swear words only went unheard because of the infernal racket of the jack-hammer. It took just a few minutes to confirm what they’d all known: it was going to be a long, hard shift till they got anywhere near the girl’s coffin.
Half an hour passed and half a foot of soil had been displaced. The cops had changed shift on the drill; the first two having fallen back cold and hot and glad to be replaced at the helm. It was obvious that the initial rush of anticipation had already worn off and a weary hush had settled over the tent instead. It was hard work over the drill and nearly as hard to stand there and freeze while the others worked. After a while, Addison looked over to Winter and jerked his head in the direction of the tent opening.
‘I need to go over the photographs I want you to take,’ he murmured, the words meant more for Croy’s ears than Winter’s.
Winter followed him out until they were back in the open graveyard and saw that fresh snow was falling softly.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ Addison muttered. ‘Let’s get in the car.’
‘Discuss photographs?’ Winter asked incredulously.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. What would I be interested in that for? No, I’m thinking car heater, Adele on the CD player and a wee drop of magic heating mixture,’ he said with a hearty tap against his back pocket. ‘I came prepared.’
They dodged past the waiting press pack and settled in his car, which was parked round the corner and out of sight. Addison switched the heating up to full blast, turned on the music and produced a hip flask of whisky from his pocket.
‘What is it?’ Winter enquired.
‘Ardbeg.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Too right it is.’
Addison swigged a mouthful of the cratur and shivered as it disappeared inside him. Winter followed suit, letting it warm his mouth before it slid down and set fire to his throat.
‘Better,’ Addison sighed.
‘Yeah.’
They sat in silence and looked through the windscreen, watching the flakes tumble onto the ground. Adele crooned in time to the drill and the flask was passed between them at regular intervals, only sips now but Addison’s share was still bigger as the DI took full advantage of not driving.
‘Funny fucking business this,’ Addison offered.
‘Yeah.’
Adele had stopped rolling in the deep and now she was banging on about rumours.
‘So how come you knew about it?’
‘What?’
‘How did you know about this Lady in the Lake stuff? Our DS Narey been chatting to you?’
‘A bit. Said she wanted photographs done and she’d rather keep them in-house than let Central do them.’
‘Right.’
Addison rolled the window down an inch or two and lit a cigarette, drawing deep on it and puffing the smoke towards the gap.
‘You do know this car constitutes a place of work and therefore you are breaking the law by smoking.’
‘I’m a police officer — of course I know.’
Adele was now turning tables.
‘What do you make of that prick Marty Croy?’ Addison asked.
‘Nothing much.’
‘He and Rachel seem a bit chummy, don’t you think?’
‘Never noticed.’
Addison aimed another long gasp of cigarette smoke through the open car window.
‘Good-looking bastard, too. I hope he’s not mowing Glasgow’s lawn.’
‘We should head back in and see how they’re getting on.’
‘Suppose. Cosy in here though.’
‘I’m going in for a look.’
‘Sit on your arse. It’s colder than Thatcher’s heart out there. Being stuck in the office does my head in but at least it’s warm.’
‘You stay if you want but I’m going back in.’
Winter heard a stifled laugh as he slammed the door closed behind him. Sod him. Back inside the tent, the work continued and he could see they’d made significant progress, although there was still a long way to go. His eyes were drawn to Croy and Rachel, standing side by side and observing the dig. As Winter watched, Croy leaned in close to Rachel, far closer than was necessary and whispered something. Whatever it was, Rachel smiled and dug her elbow playfully into the DI’s ribs. Winter’s immediate urge was to grab one of the shovels and wrap it round Croy’s head. It was also his second urge.
He managed to resist it but sent some serious thought waves over to Rachel, mentally ordering her to look at him instead. Bizarrely, it seemed to work and she stared over at him, confusion quickly giving way to annoyance. She said something else to Croy and headed out the door, a passing glare telling Winter to follow.
‘What the hell was that look for?’ she hissed at him when they were both outside.
‘What was Croy saying to you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Croy. He whispered something to you that made you laugh. The two of you seemed pretty pally.’
Her eyes flashed back angrily.
‘Are you jealous?’ she hissed. ‘Unbelievable. What are you, twelve? Stay out of my way, Tony. I’m doing my job here and I can’t afford to have it cocked up because of your fragile ego.’
‘I’m doing my job too. Or at least I will be as soon as your friend Croy gets his flatfoots to dig a fucking hole. I’ll be in the car.’
As Winter slid back into the heat of the car, Addison greeted him with an exaggerated smile.
‘Change your mind?’
‘Just shut the fuck up, give me some of the whisky and change the bloody record. Put something else on instead of that sentimental pish.’
It was three torturous hours before the cops were far enough down into the frozen grave that they could abandon the jackhammer and begin the even more laborious process of finishing the last painful foot or two by hand in case they hit the coffin and damaged its contents. The clang of shovels echoed round the cemetery as they dug, a jarring cacophony that seemed more in keeping with the surroundings yet more eerie in the morning mist.
The extra toil also forced the cops to haul in large gas heaters to provide more heat inside the tent. Despite the temperature climbing to a balmy minus eight, the officers were complaining it was so cold the sweat was freezing on their backs. By eleven, they were almost out of fit constables, as the digging took its toll, but they knew only the final inches of soil lay between them and their prize. At long last the resounding clang of metal on wood rang around the tent like a shot from a starting pistol.
Every eye turned to the two cops inside the grave. Addison, back inside after his prolonged break, shot a glance at Winter and they both instinctively took a step forward to get a better view. The group had been joined by a young, pretty blonde that Winter took to be Professor Kirsten Fairweather and the Central Scotland pathologist, Dr Angus Comrie, an angular man with tufts of grey hair on either side of a bald pate. He was dressed in a ground-length green apron, the only person in the tent wearing anything other than white, and he assumed control of the final proceedings.