In Place of Death by Craig Robertson Read Free Book Online Page A

country. It was
thought that maybe he’d fallen into a river or walked into a peat bog and never got out.
    Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Haynes.
    She missed the low red brick of the old City Mortuary near the High Court on the Saltmarket. Sure it was cramped, cold and outdated but it was the real thing. Bricks and mortar. Rough and ready.
Memories and legends. The victims of Bible John and Peter Manuel had been laid out there. It had an atmosphere that you couldn’t miss. It had scared her witless the first time she was in
there on her own. The new place couldn’t scare her if it tried. Its ghosts were all just children.
    Reggie Haynes was of Jamaican parentage and his photographs showed he had a distinctive hooked nose. The age and height would have fitted but nothing else seemed to.
    Henaghan, Hendry and Hughes. Henaghan, Hendry and Hughes.
    She picked up the bag containing the dead man’s disintegrating shoes. The fact that they’d survived as well as they had was testament to their good quality. They were lightweight and
flexible hiking boots, Gore-Tex lined with a tough rubber sole. Expensive. Size nine.
    Robert Henaghan had dark hair and was just five foot seven. He’d said goodbye to his wife at breakfast and left to go to his office but never arrived. There had been debts and doubts but
no one ever knew if he’d simply disappeared or if something had happened to him.
    The white T-shirt was cheap and mass-produced. Medium. Shop’s own label.
    She’d gathered her MIT squad together in Pitt Street and tasked them with brainstorming ideas of who the man was and why he’d been killed where he had. The suggestions had come thick
and fast, some more helpful than others. Loner. Geologist. Local historian. Dealer looking for somewhere to hide his stash. Hermit. Schizophrenic. Potholer.
    Did any of these tags apply to their man? Was Hendry a geologist, was Hughes or Haynes a hermit? Was Henaghan a risk taker? Did Hillman go willingly with his killer and, if so, why?
    All the loose thoughts would be examined, every thread pulled until something unravelled. Hopefully. These would be hard yards. Nothing more than a methodical slog.
    Ryan Hughes had been missing since he was seven years old in Swansea. God only knew what height he was or where he had been living. No one even knew if he’d reached eight. For a while, the
broken faces of his parents had become familiar on television, then they too slowly disappeared from view.
    Rico Giannandrea was on her MIT squad. Until a few months earlier, they’d both been DSs at Stewart Street and the situation would have been awkward if it had been anyone else. Not Rico
though. If he had to ride shotgun then he’d be the best shotgun in town; there on time, full of bright ideas and positivity. He’d be that way as a DS until he wasn’t a DS any
more.
    It was Rico who had suggested they might be looking at someone reckless. A risk taker. Maybe someone who’d done something equally stupid before. Maybe something a profiler could work
with.
    Why the hell would anyone need three torches? Three of them tucked away inside the nylon backpack along with spare batteries. Had he intended to live down that tunnel for a month? The Swiss Army
knife made sense if he had been hillwalking or camping but why three torches?
    The mortuary was silent and cold. Not cold like the old place where it made you shiver on a summer’s day. Sterile cold, like the sluiced-down tables and floors you could eat your dinner
off. All she could hear was the faint buzz of electricity and the names that danced through her head.
    The squad was sure that the location meant that the killer knew Glasgow well. They guessed that maybe five per cent of people even knew the Molendinar Burn existed. Less than half of those would
know you could get into it or where. She remembered scribbling on her whiteboard.
Local. Knowledgeable.
    Richard Hendry was already