Miss Take - Chapter 1 (3356)

Chapter 1 (3356)

Wraithston Manse, an Edwardian three story house in the rich suburbs of Edinburgh, sat back from the main road, along about sixty yards of driveway behind a tall wall, a thick leylandi hedge and cultivated gardens. It was always quiet during the daytime, there was generally no one in evidence except the gardener that worked in the afternoons of the summer months and the cleaner that came in the mornings on an irregular schedule. The house was often empty at night, the owner's business taking him into the city where he had the choice of three flats to reside in. He would stay away for days at a time if need be, only returning once all his affairs in the capital had been concluded. The Manse was where he stored all his treasure, which accounted for the large amount of money that had been spent on its security and why, at three in the morning on a bleak January evening, it was being robbed.    

On this night, the owner was in residence, but asleep in his room. The alarms were on, but their security only covered the front and back doors, the main gate and the entrance to the walled garden at the rear of the house. None of the windows were alarmed as they were all barred with strong wrought iron grilles. Despite these protections, there was a small dark clad figure prowling around on the second floor, occasionally lighting their way with a headlamp attached to the balaclava they were wearing under their hood. The thief moved from room to room, calmly and quietly opening drawers and scanning shelves. They carried a backpack in their left hand, held low to the floor. The bag was unusually long and narrow, the type that a runner might use, designed to be worn close to the body and anything that the thief liked the look of went into it. In went a gold figurine of a horse, carefully picked up by a latex-gloved hand, then a silver letter opener with an emerald set in the handle, taken from a drawer. Next in was a framed cameo taken from a top shelf, evidently un-dusted for several years. Each item that was stolen was wrapped in a thick black cotton cloth taken from the thief’s figure-hugging jacket pocket, and then secured with an elastic band before being place gently in the pack.

The burglar seemed to know where to find what they were looking for. Most of the time they appeared to know which drawer to look in and which to ignore, as if having prior knowledge. Occasionally they came across something that they had perhaps not seen before and stopped to consider its value in terms of how much it could be sold for versus how much space it would take up in the pack. A large ivory pipe stand was considered, but ultimately passed over, while a set of diamond cuff-links, found almost as if they had been discarded on a dressing table were quickly wrapped and deposited in the pack.

The thief moved silently through a dining room, ignoring everything, and into the library. This room was rarely used, obviously designed with the vanity of the owner in mind. The owner was not a reader and the books had no other purpose than to impress the occasional visitor. As if know exactly what they were after, the thief pulled some first additions from the shelves and wrapping them too, put them in their pack. They stood by the desk and checked the weight of the bag. It was almost full now. The thief let out a little sigh and sat down at the desk. They twirled around a couple of times on the swivel chair. Then, almost idly, they started to check through the drawers.

The desk mainly contained papers, nothing much more exciting than utility bills and bank statements. The burglar switched on their headlamp to read a few, then tossed them on the floor. Next they pulled out a few of the drawers and laid them on top of the desk. Leaning down they looked in and with a cheerful little whistle took out a small, but thick, Manila envelope. It contained photos, holiday pictures, and the dark eyes of the thief seemed to smile as they flipped through them. They were of a young woman, in her early twenties at the most, happy as if on holiday. Somewhere that had canals and in the winter judging by her woollen hat and scarf. Here was one of her by the side of a canal, her hands up in a zany kind of pose. Here was one of her in a restaurant, offering a glass of wine to whoever was taking the photo. Next, a photo of her standing in profile, a thoughtful expression on her face as she gazed out of a window. The room she was in was not decorated and the walls were bare wood. The thief paused over one that showed how beautiful the woman was. She had short blonde hair, a pixie cut, a smooth complexion and a stunning smile. Her eyes were green and seemed to speak of a pure soul. The thief rubbed the girls face, as if lovingly, before moving on to the next photo, putting it at the back of pile as they shuffled through them.

More holiday snaps, but then the photos suddenly changed. Crime scene pictures. It was the same girl, but she was lying dead, in a cluttered and disturbed living room, in a pool of blood, her dead eyes gazing up at the ceiling. She was wearing blue pyjamas and only one pink sock. The thief flicked through more of the photos, it was the same scene but from different angles, and then threw them all down on the desk in revulsion. They stood up to go, but then seemed to reconsider. The thief then gently swept up the photos and returned them to their envelope. Without wrapping them, they then put them into a side pocket of the pack.

After checking how much space was left in their bag, the thief crept down to the ground floor and into the central hall. Soundlessly they opened a door that lead into the kitchen, and in the pale moonlight coming through the un-shuttered windows, walked around the large table too look up at a painting that was hanging on the wall above a glass-fronted cupboard full of fine china.

The thief put their bag down on the table then in a single bound leapt up onto the counter beside the cupboard landings as lightly as a cat. They then pulled themselves up onto the top of the double-door fridge. From there they walked to the cupboard, the thief was not tall and ceiling was high. When the picture was taken from the wall, the thief then returned they way they had came, just as lightly and just as silently.

By the light of the moon, the thief examined the picture. It was under glass so had to be angled just right to see. It was an unremarkable pastoral scene, but if the viewer cared to look it up, it was worth considerably more than might be expected for picture hung up in a kitchen. They undid the catches on the back of the frame and removed the painting. They then rolled it up and place it into a cardboard tube of just the right size taken from the pack. With the painting stowed away, they then opened up some of the drawers, almost idly, holding up any utensil of unusual shape that caught their interest to the light. None made it into the pack though and were left lying around on top of the counter.

The thief gently opened the fridge and looked inside. Just as they were reaching for a can of beer there was a sudden crash from upstairs, so loud it seemed to shake the whole house. The thief froze, not even daring to shut the refrigerator door. They waited, seeming to strain to hear any other sound, for a full minute, before slowly closing the door and returning the kitchen to darkness.

Silently they crept into a small gap between two worktops and eyes wide in the darkness pulled the bag in with them. They waited a while longer, but there were no more sounds, no lights went on, no footsteps or shouting. Nothing at all. The thief slowly uncurled from their bolt-hole and stood in the darkness, unmoving, as if doubting they had heard the sound at all. It had been so loud though, like a sack of cement hitting a wooden floor. Eventually they crept to the foot of the stairs and looked up. There was nothing but silence and darkness. Slowly, eyes wide in apprehension they sidled up to the landing and looked up at the next set of stairs. Light filtered in from a stained glass skylight. Moonlight, coloured red, green and blue fell across the thief’s masked face. Hesitating, full of doubt, the thief could not bring themselves to go up any further. The noise had come from the top floor and that was where they had come in, through a tiny window in the high sided west wall of the Manse.

There was no other way out for the thief, the doors were locked and the windows were barred. The small window in an unused attic room that looked out over the annex had a single bar across it and there was just enough space for a small-framed person to squeeze through if they dared to make the climb and had the means to open the narrow sash window. With no other option, the thief crept up to the third floor of the Manse.

They padded across the landing to the room they had entered the house from, but paused when they noticed that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. The thief edged closer to the door until they were near enough to peer around it. The curtains were open and the light of the full moon shone down through the tall windows illuminating the room faintly with a ghostly light. In a pool of light by the windows, lying on a thick rug was the body of man dressed in a unicorn-headed onesie. It was a ridiculous outfit for a grown man, complete with a pink main and fluffy tail, presumably worn ironically. Either way, the wearer was past caring, as he was lying in a thickening pool of blood that had departed his body via a deep cut in his throat.

The thief stood motionlessly for several moments, then sniffed and looked around the room. They rubbed their face through the mask then sighed deeply, whistling through their teeth at the end of the sigh. They made to leave, but the stopped and looked at the body again, as if drawn to the graveness of the occasion and seeking to think out all the ramifications of breaking into a house where the owner had been murdered.

Eventually they moved, leaving the bedroom and crossed the landing, then creeping down a long narrow passage to the room they had entered from. It was closed, but not locked. The room was disused, full of furniture and cardboard boxes left by the previous owners. The room's only narrow window was set into the gable roof on the opposite side from the door. The thief lowered the pack from their back as they walked through the maze of dusty furniture, then gently leant it against the wall when they got to it. Before opening the window they paused to look out, trying to take in as much as they could in the widest range of view the window afforded them. The thief was about to slide it open, when they saw movement down on the driveway. A dark figure had just left the annex and was now heading across the grass to the gates. A security light went on, but they ignored it. The thief got a good look at him, a man in his late forties with chiselled features and a sour expression, wearing a Barbour jacket and a flat cap, looking for all the world like an angry gamekeeper off to shout at some kids for trespassing on his master’s property. The man was not leaving by the gate though, he walked right through the flowerbeds and into the hedge where he was lost from view.

As soon as he was gone, the thief opened the window and lowered their pack down to the ground on a length of thin rope. Once the pack was down they dropped the rope after it. Next they squeezed out of the window, between the frame and the single bar and scaled the side of the house, from the third floor down to the flowerbeds, choosing their handholds carefully, but quickly. There was no hesitation as they went, they appeared to know where every hand and foot hold was. On the ground they wound up the rope and put it in the pack, then ran towards the hedge, following the killer, keeping to the shadows.

***

‘I told you the Cowgate would take ages,’ said Corum Lavius sternly and sighed. He was joking, he was in no hurry.

‘I am sorry, Sergeant,’ replied Mable Yoyuwevuto, choosing to take him seriously.

‘Doesn’t matter, we’ve time. As your punishment though, I’m going to smoke,’ he said as he pushed the button that wound down the window of the care they were in. He then lit a rolled-up cigarette with a Zippo lighter he grabbed from the dashboard and inhaled deeply before blowing it vaguely out of the window.

‘We’re just asking questions, just asking questions. Feels weird though, him being just a kid,’ said Lavius as he pulled a flake of tobacco from his teeth. ‘You arrested him the first time right, Yoyo?’

‘That is correct, Sergeant. Myself and Detective Constable Yang.’

‘What was that like?’

‘It is all in the report, Sergeant.’

‘Call me Sergeant one more time and I’ll thump you Mable, just tell me,’ said Lavius who was not famed for his love of reading reports.

‘He was upset as you might expect. There was a social worker and his form tutor present. It took a long time to calm him down and make him understand what was going on. His parents were called, it seemed best. They came to St Leonards with him.’

‘This kid then, he’s got all this treasure in his bag and in his locker. All from that house, the...’

‘Orlando House, Sergeant,’ said Yoyuwevuto trying to help.

Lavius, who was driving, gave her a light punch of the arm.

‘Right, and no one at HBU thought it might not be a fit up?’

‘A what, sorry, Serg... Um.’

Lavius flicked the ash of his cigarette out of the window, then manoeuvred the car a few more feet down the Cowgate towards Holyrood Palace. ‘You know - someone put it there to make it look like he did it.’

‘There was the CCTV as well, his lack of an alibi, and three of his fellow students made statements to the effect that he had been bragging about breaking into Orlando after the event. Usually we will arrest on a lot less evidence than that.’

‘Far be it from me to cast any doubt on the House Breaking Unit then,’ mused Lavius. ‘Is there a “but”? I sense a “but” in your tone.’

Mable gave a small musical laugh. ‘Yes, Sergeant. I must confess I am not entirely convinced of his guilt. We have a solid case and it goes to trial next month. But now this. I interviewed him for the Orlando break in. He is an arrogant and rather mean-spirited boy and quite capable of breaking and entering. However, the break-in in question matched the MO of a personage at the HBU we have come to know as the “Squirrel”, who in the words of my Inspector is a “genuine Raffles, who really takes pride in his work, a climber of some skill and a consummate professional of the old school”.’

‘Sounds like Harvey admires him.’

‘I think he does,’ continued Yoyuwevuto. ‘The Squirrel has been attributed to seventeen break-ins, spanning four years. This would mean that Paul Bevy would have started at eleven years old.’

Lavius snorted, then choked out a laugh as he blew out smoke. ‘Aye, fair enough. This isn’t Dundee after all. You don’t think he did it then? Killed the Mack?’

‘I cannot think it. And yet if he is guilty of Orlando, it follows that he is also guilty of Wraithston.’

‘Baws of steel then, that lad, to be out on bail for one job, to then commit a... Oh here we go.’

The lights changed and they joined the queue of traffic through a long set of roadworks down to the lights beside the Lifehouse where they then stopped.

‘Aye well, he’ll know you, Mable, and how lovely you are. You can do the talking. I’m just here because of Mack,' Lavius blew out a cloud of smoke then continued. 'Jesus, someone did-in Mack the Knife. Biggest drug dealer in Edinburgh and we’ve no idea who could have done it.’

‘I heard Romanians, Sergeant.’

‘Bollocks,’ sighed Lavius as they cruised down into the park. ‘What a bunch of gossips my squad are. I’m going to give up thumping you Mable, if Harvey sees bruises he’ll not let me play with you again.’

Mable laughed her musical laugh again out of politeness.

‘Me and Mable, the dream team,’ said Lavius. ‘HBU and Major Crime together in perfect harmony. No film footage from the Manse, right? You're not holding out on me?’

‘None, they have cameras, but they were not set to record.’

‘And poor old Mack? He was alone that night?’ interrupted Lavius

‘He wasn’t even meant to be in, from what I understand, Sergeant. He was due in Glasgow, there was a car waiting for him, but he changed his mind and went home. He was alone in the house.’

‘So, for now, despite everything, from the point of view of HBU, it looks like a robbery gone wrong? I’ll say it again, you’d need baws of steel to rob the Mack.’

‘And yet someone did. The place had been burgled, there is no question of that. We were at the Manse yesterday. Your Mr Mack kept a clean house, very spotless, much hygienic. I should say, Sergeant, in regards to CCTV, Paul was caught on a safety camera walking all the way down Skene Road. We are also waiting for some private stuff from the other houses.'

‘Show me what you've got.’

Mable dug around in the files she had on her lap and pulled out some black and white stills.

‘No facial ID,’ mumbled Lavius. ‘Just some wee bastard in a hoodie.’

‘Same build, same height. We measured the fence he walked along and estimated his height to be five feet. That is Paul Bevy’s height.’

‘You guys are real Sherlock Holmes’s aren’t you?’ said Lavius with a smile. ‘It wasn’t him though.’

‘Who then?’

‘Mr A. N. Other. Dunno. Mack was stabbed in the throat. And someone marked him. It was pure gangland. Anyway, we’re at the school now, better get our game faces on Yoyo old girl. Leg-breakers and drug dealers I can handle. Kids, I haven’t a clue, sorry.’

‘Do not worry, Sergeant,’ said Yoyuwevuto who had two young daughters of her own. ‘I know what to expect.’

They pulled into the school car park and Lavius pulled up in a disabled space. Just as they were walking up to the double doors their attention was drawn to a small figure dressed in black school-uniform running as fast as he could across the playing fields towards a distant housing estate.

Lavius sighed. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’

‘I fear so, Sergeant.’

Lavius, who had a reputation as a chaser, ran off down the hill, after the fleeing figure.