‘Maybe twenty feet.’
‘You think an animal moved it?’
‘Yes. Either that or it was a reflex thing. Put a gun to your head and pull the trigger, there’s going to be a recoil, isn’t there?’
‘I’d think so.’ She paused. ‘So what happened next?’
‘Well, eventually we tried facial reconstruction, then issued the composite photo.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing very much. Thing was, we thought he was a lot older... early forties maybe, and the composite reflected that. God knows how the Germans got to hear of it.’
‘The mother and father?’
‘That’s right. Their son had been missing the best part of a year... maybe even a bit longer. Then we got this call from Munich, couldn’t make much sense of it. Next thing, they’d turned up at the station with a translator. We showed them the clothes and they recognised a couple of things... the jacket, and a wristwatch.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m not. A year they’d been looking for him, going out of their minds. The jacket was just a plain green thing, nothing special about it. Same goes for the watch.’
‘You think they managed to convince themselves simply because they wanted to believe?’
‘Wanted it to be him, yes. But their son was barely twenty... experts told us we had the remains of someone twice that age. Then the bloody papers went and printed the story anyway.’
‘How did all the sword-and-sorcery stuff come into the picture?’
‘Hang on a minute, will you?’ She heard Maclay put the receiver down next to his phone. He was giving instructions to someone. ‘Just past the creels... there’s a hut Aly uses when he’s renting out his boat...’ She imagined Fort William: quiet and coastal, with islands off to the west. Fishermen and tourists; gulls overhead and the tang of seaweed.
‘Sorry about that,’ Maclay said.
‘Keeping you busy?’
‘Oh, it’s always hectic up this way,’ he replied with a laugh. She wished she were there with him. After they’d finished talking, she could walk down to the harbour, passing those creels... ‘Where were we?’ he said.
‘Sword and sorcery.’
‘First we knew about that was when they put it in the paper. The parents again, they’d been talking to some reporter.’
Wylie held the photocopy in front of her. The headline: ‘Did Role Game Kill in Highland Gun Mystery?’ The reporter’s name was Steve Holly.
Jürgen Becker was a twenty-year-old student who lived with his parents in a suburb of Hamburg. He attended the local university, specialising in psychology. He loved role-playing games, and was part of a team who played in an inter-university league on the Internet. Fellow students said that he’d been ‘anxious and troubled’ during the week leading up to his disappearance. When he left home for that last time, he took a backpack with him. In it, to the best of his parents’ knowledge, were his passport, a couple of changes of clothes, his camera, and a portable CD player with maybe a dozen or so discs.
The parents were professionals — the father an architect, mother a lecturer — but they’d given up work to concentrate on finding their son. The story shifted into bold type for its final paragraph: ‘Now, two grieving parents know they’ve found their son. Yet for them the mystery has only deepened. How did Jürgen come to die on a barren Scottish mountaintop? Who else was there with him? Whose was the gun... and who used it to end the young student’s life?’
‘The backpack and stuff, they never turned up?’ Wylie asked.
‘Never. But then if it wasn’t him, you would hardly expect them to.’
She smiled. ‘You’ve been a real help, Sergeant Maclay.’
‘Just put that request in writing, and I’ll let you have chapter and verse.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ She paused. ‘We’ve got a Maclay in Edinburgh CID, works out of Craigmillar...’
‘Aye, we’re cousins. Met him at a couple of weddings and funerals. Craigmillar’s where the posh folk live?’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Was I being fed a line?’
‘Come see for yourself sometime.’
Wylie was laughing when she finished the call, had to tell Shug Davidson why. He came over to her desk. The CID room wasn’t big: four desks, doors leading off to walk-in cupboards where they kept old case files. Davidson picked up the photocopied news story, read it through.
‘Looks like something Holly made up all by himself,’ he commented.
‘You know him?’
‘Had a couple of run-ins with him. Holly’s speciality is blowing a story up.’
She took the article from him. Sure enough, all the stuff about fantasy games and role-playing was kept ambiguous, the text peppered with conditionals: ‘may have’, ‘could be’, ‘if, as it is thought...’
‘I need to speak to him,’ she stated, picking up the phone again. ‘Do you know his number?’
‘No, but he’s based at the paper’s Edinburgh office.’ Davidson started back towards his own desk. ‘You’ll find it in Yellow Pages under “Leper Colonies”...’
Steve Holly was still on his way into work when his mobile sounded. He lived in the New Town, only three streets from what he’d recently called in print ‘the tragic death flat’. Not that his own place was in the same league as Flip Balfour’s. He was at the top of an unmodernised tenement — one of few still left in the New Town. And his street didn’t have the cachet of Flip’s address. Still, he’d watched the paper value of his flat soar. Four years ago, he’d decided he wanted to live in this part of town. But even then it had seemed beyond his means, until he started reading the death notices in the city’s daily and evening papers. When he saw a New Town address, he’d head round there with an envelope marked ‘Urgent’ and addressed to ‘The Owner’. The letter inside was short. He introduced himself as someone who’d been born and raised in whichever street, but whose family had moved away and encountered bad fortune since. With both parents dead, he now wished to return to a street which held such fond memories, and should the owner ever wish to consider selling...
And bloody hell, it had worked. An old woman — house-ridden for a decade — had died, and her niece, who was her closest living relative, had read Holly’s letter, phoning him that afternoon. He’d gone to look at the place — three bedrooms, a bit smelly and dark but he knew such things could be fixed. Nearly shot himself in the foot when the niece asked which number he’d lived at, but he’d managed to fool her well enough. Then his pitch: all the estate agents and solicitors getting their cut... better to agree a fair price between them and cut out the middle-men.
The niece lived in the Borders, didn’t seem to know what flats in Edinburgh were fetching. She’d even thrown in a lot of the old lady’s furniture, for which he’d thanked her profusely, turfing out the lot his first weekend in residence.
If he sold up now he’d have a hundred grand in his pocket, a nice nest egg. In fact, only this morning he’d wondered about trying something similar with the Balfours... only somehow he reckoned they’d know to the last penny what Flip’s place was worth. He stopped, halfway up the Dundas Street climb, and answered his mobile.
‘Steve Holly speaking.’
‘Mr Holly, this is Detective Sergeant Wylie, Lothian and Borders CID.’
Wylie? He tried to place her. Of course! That brilliant press conference! ‘Yes, DS Wylie, and what can I do for you this morning?’
‘It’s about a story you ran three years or so back... the German student.’
‘Would that be the student with the twenty-foot reach?’ he asked with a grin. He was outside a small art gallery, peered in through the window, curious about the prices first, paintings second.