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‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘Her left hand was missing when she was recovered, but the right showed multiple fractures to the hamate bone and the metacarpals.’
‘Did these injuries occur pre-mortem?’ Shona asked.
‘Doesn’t say. Why?’
‘I’m with the pathologist now. The victim has broken bones in his hands from a historic injury. Two to four weeks ago.’
‘So, you do think there’s a connection?’
‘The time frame is interesting. However, once Isla’s body was in the Solway it would be impossible to predict she’d end up right on the border,’ Shona said. Not even lifeboat skipper Tommy McCall would be able to foresee that.
‘But to most people the whole of the Solway Firth is the border,’ said Dan. Shona conceded he had a point. ‘What if the deaths are linked?’ he continued. ‘Bodies deposited in the border, broken bones to the hands, similar ages and both from groups targeted by right-wing vigilantes. I keep thinking about what Gringo said, how Duncan Saltire was threatening Isla. I’ve been doing some digging on him, he’s a nasty piece of work, links with the English Defence League and alt-right groups in Europe. Disposal and display of the bodies on the border could be a political act.’
‘I know all about Saltire,’ said Shona. ‘But presently we have two deaths that could equally both be road traffic accidents. That was mentioned as a possible cause of death for Isla. Someone panicked, got rid of her body. Our new victim could have been a drunken disagreement that ended in him leaving the vehicle by accident.’
‘But you don’t believe that?’
‘What I believe doesn’t matter,’ said Shona testily. ‘It’s the facts that count. The Procurator Fiscal needs to be convinced by the evidence.’
‘Okay, but this case has cross-border implications. Let’s get the evidence. Let me have a crack at Duncan Saltire.’
‘If anyone’s talking to Saltire about this it’s Dumfries Police. I’ll consider your request to sit in on the interview, Detective Constable Ridley.’ Shona ended the call. He had a point about the border, but she wasn’t going to be pushed into any course of action before she’d considered all the options. And certainly not by a detective constable still wet behind the ears.
Shona said her goodbyes to Professor Kitchen and headed back to the office. When she arrived Murdo and Kate were eating a late lunch at their desks. The opening credits of an afternoon drama played silently on the TV.
‘Anything from the public appeal?’ Shona asked.
Kate finished her sandwich and lifted a sheet of printout. ‘I’ll read you a few. “A waste of police resources on scum who got what they deserved”. Or how about that old classic, “they should go back where they came from”?’
Murdo raised his eyebrows at Shona. ‘Sound like anybody we know?’
‘Is this the Scotland we know?’ Kate said. ‘Never used to be this bad.’
Murdo dusted crumbs from his fingers. ‘That’s because we were united in our distaste for the English. Border rivalry. Expected really. You tanned their hides at rugby, but not this.’ He shook his head.
‘If you asked Ravi that question, he’d say it’s always been around, but I take your point,’ Shona said. ‘This rise of right-wing politics, it’s a different sort of nationalism.’
‘If it’s murder, will we be handing this over to a Major Investigation Team too?’ said Kate sourly.
‘At present it’s an unexplained violent death. Toxicology reports will take a few days. Since there’s no match with DNA or fingerprints on our database let’s use that time to identify the victim. I spoke to the Procurator Fiscal’s office. They want more evidence before deciding if this is a racially motivated attack, so first thing tomorrow we’re going to have another word with Mr Saltire.’
Chapter 15
The next morning, Dan Ridley tapped on Shona’s office door. ‘Thanks for giving me a chance.’ He smiled. ‘I won’t let you down. What time is Saltire arriving?’ He shrugged off his dark suit jacket and rolled up his white shirt sleeves.
‘He’s coming in at ten, with his solicitor,’ she replied, concentrating on the morning roll call of action points on her screen. ‘No one’s reported our victim missing. Without any ID, we need to consider if he was here unofficially, but let’s avoid the term illegal immigrant. Time of death is fixed by the motorway cameras for 11.56 p.m.’
‘Okay. I’ve done the background,’ Dan said, holding up a photograph. ‘You’d think he was a student, or your local barista, rather than a tech-savvy neo-Nazi.’
She looked at Dan sternly. ‘I hope you’ve prepared a watertight interview strategy. Saltire’s no fool.’ She took his sheet of notes, scanned it, and checked her watch. ‘Okay, good. If we can get him on the back foot he might let something slip.’ She took a swig of water from the bottle on her desk and tucked loose strands of dark hair behind her ears. Smoothing the purple silk blouse into her navy trousers, she motioned Dan to lead the way. ‘Let’s have a chat with our very own hipster fascist.’
Duncan Saltire, and a portly middle-aged man with bulldog jowls who introduced himself as Ross Balfour, solicitor, were waiting downstairs. When they were all settled in th
e interview room, Dan opened a slim folder and laid out a series of slogans taken from the Sons of Scotia website.
‘The Islamisation of the West. The Great Replacement. What’s this all about?’ Dan asked.
‘I’d have thought that was pretty obvious.’ Saltire sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Immigration policy is a legitimate topic for political discussion.’
