be Polish? Eastern European? Russian, even? Paying off her traffickers through prostitution, and Jones was a client? We’re at a crossroads here. The M6 motorway between England and Scotland.’ Shona held out an arm indicating north. ‘The A75 Euro-route to the ferry port at Stranraer, linking Ireland to the UK and Europe.’ She spun round onto an east–west axis, as if orientating herself to magnetic pull of the earth might give her a direction to follow. ‘If she was being trafficked, working here before being moved on, it might explain why no one’s reported her missing.’
‘I hope not,’ said Dan glumly. ‘No chance of identifying her if she was. And if Jones killed her, the traffickers would want payback. How come he’s still breathing?’
Shona nodded, letting her arm fall. ‘Immigrants, though? Why say that?’
‘He’s a Brexit voter. Bit ironic since he’s a Cumbrian in Scotland, so technically he’s an immigrant too.’ Dan grinned, amused.
‘So, how does an asylum seeker appear to someone like Nathan Jones?’ Shona thought of the cafes and shops she frequented in London’s East End where she would often be the only woman not wearing a headscarf. ‘Dress or skin colour? It was dark. Language? But he claims he didn’t hear what was said. The non-white population of Dumfries is about one per cent. Something made him think the people he saw were not local.’
‘How does that help us?’
‘Not sure,’ Shona conceded. They came to the gap in the fencing and stepped through. The bank down to the water’s edge was steep and littered with rubbish. The tide had left marks high on the muddy slope and Shona could see how a body deposited here could be sucked out into the firth by the combined force of the river and the retreating sea. The bank also gave access to the neighbouring unit. ‘Let’s check out next door.’
A faint fox-path ran through the grass to where the fencing had surrendered completely. The concrete posts uprooted, weeds grew up through the prone metal mesh of its remains.
The roller door at the front of the building had a newish padlock, but the fire exit at the back was propped shut with a length of wood. Pigeons fluttered across the broken skylights in the double height section of the warehouse, the oil stains on the floor suggesting it had once been used to store vehicles and machinery. At the back, a shuttered-off area provided an office. In the thick grey light, papers were strewn across the desk and floor and foam poked from the fabric on an office chair. A collapsed tower of cardboard boxes leaned in one corner.
Shona used her pen to turn over the pages of yellowed Carmine Group headed notepaper peppered with mouse droppings. On the floor beneath the desk something metallic caught her eye. There was a foil bubble pack of pills. She flipped it over, peering closely at the name embossed on the back. Xanax, a prescription-only tranquiliser. If they could find the pills’ box, they might get the patient’s name or a clue to the pharmacist who dispensed it. Shona turned to call Dan.
He was standing in the corner holding a length of damp cardboard by the edge and scrolling through his phone. The uplighting from the screen gave his face a ghostly, greenish tinge. Around his feet, a mound of foil strips like the one Shona was holding. ‘Xanax. Valium.’ He read from his phone screen. ‘Quinox? I can’t find that one, but I bet it’s not a vitamin pill.’ He looked up at her. ‘Some of these other boxes are half full.’
‘Quite the wee chemist shop,’ said Shona, pulling out her own phone and tapping the screen. ‘Hi Murdo, I need you down here. I’ll text you an address. Get the troops and bring anyone you can find from forensics.’
Chapter 7
Murdo arrived at the industrial unit with DC Ravi Sarwar, who sported jeans and an olive-green, funnel-neck parka, both stylish and practical. He got out of the car and combed his dark, glossy hair into place with his fingers. Shona knew he had it cut regularly in one of Glasgow’s trendy West End salons. He waved, flashing his mega-watt smile. A patrol car and a van containing three uniformed men and one disgruntled forensics officer pulled up behind them. Since the creation of Police Scotland there were no local Scenes of Crime staff in Dumfries. Most were now based in Glasgow, Edinburgh or the other major cities and requests needed to meet a twenty-eight-point attendance criteria. By chance, SOCO Peter Harrison, the slim man in his forties now balancing unsteadily on one foot as he climbed into a paper suit, had been in the Dumfries Cornwell Mount HQ for a meeting where he had been nabbed by Murdo.
Shona recognised one of the uniformed officers, a young but experienced constable based at Loreburn Street station. ‘Matthews, I want a statement from Nathan Jones in the yard next door. He heard a disturbance a month ago and phoned it in. I’ve checked the call logs, Friday the third. A patrol had a quick drive-by a couple of hours later and reported it was all quiet. Butter Jones up, stress he’s a valued witness. He was cagey with us, but he might let something slip if he thinks he’s not in the firing line. Do that later.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The young officer nodded.
‘But first,’ Shona turned to the pair of nervous looking special constables in black fatigues and caps, ‘what’re your names?’
‘I’m Lewis Johnstone,’ said the taller one, his face a mass of orange freckles.
‘Campbell Menzies, ma’am.’ The second officer was older; his square build and ruddy complexion hinted at old farming stock.
‘Have you both completed a forensics and evidence-gathering course?’
They shook their heads. Shona’s lips pressed into a tight line.
‘Okay, well, I want you to follow PC Matthews’s lead. Gloves on. Search the riverbank. Our estimated time frame for the offence is four weeks ago. I’m looking for drugs paraphernalia, paperwork, any identifying documents. Also, clothing, especially women’s clothing. Shoes, purse, handbag, mobile phone, anything like that. Hang on a moment.’ She turned to the forensic scientist making his way over. ‘Peter,’ she called. ‘I really appreciate you coming down.’
Peter Harrison looked like he was about to make a sarcastic comment about Murdo giving him no choice but thought better of it. ‘What do we have here?’
‘Haul of prescription pills, mostly tranquilisers.’ She drew him aside. ‘Peter, I’ve also got a woman’s body recovered from the Solway Firth last week. I’ve no ID and no witnesses, but it’s a suspicious death. It’s also just possible that this is where she went in the water, so keep that in mind for me, would you?’ She followed Peter’s gaze to where it rested on Dan Ridley. ‘That’s a colleague from Cumbria CID, he’s helping out.’
Peter sighed, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose with an index finger. ‘Have I not got enough on my plate? Make sure I get elimination fingerprints from him.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I can do a quick assessment for you, photograph the scene and bag the drugs. Any signs of violence, any blood, I’ll need reinforcements from Gartcosh and you’ll need to put in a chit for that.’
‘Thanks, Peter.’ Shona smiled gratefully. ‘We’ve taped off the riverbank too. I was thinking uniform could do a search while you’re inside. Unless you want them for anything else?’
‘Aye, off you go. It’ll keep them out from under my feet anyway,’ he grumbled, shouldering his cases and ducking under the blue and white barrier tape.
Shona turned back to the three uniformed officers. ‘Any questions?’
‘How far along do you want us to search?’ Matthews asked, handing the specials long wooden poles like broom handles and heavy duty flashlights.
‘To the Sark Bridge, on this side only.’ Shona scanned the riverbank in the opposite direction. A row of high, spiked metal palings, running across the back of the factory next door, cut off access to the river upstream. ‘Just to that fence. Anything suspicious, bag it and tag it.’