Bury Them Deep Read online

  Copyright © 2020 James Oswald

  The right of James Oswald to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain by WILDFIRE

  an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2019

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Jacket design by Patrick Insole

  Jacket image © David Baker/Trevillion Images

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 4998 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by James Oswald

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  About the Author

  James Oswald is the author of the Sunday Times bestselling Inspector McLean series of detective mysteries, as well as the new DC Constance Fairchild series. James’s first two books, NATURAL CAUSES and THE BOOK OF SOULS, were both short-listed for the prestigious CWA Debut Dagger Award. BURY THEM DEEP is the tenth book in the Inspector McLean Series.

  James farms Highland cows and Romney sheep by day, writes disturbing fiction by night.

  Praise

  ‘The new Ian Rankin’ Daily Record

  ‘Oswald’s writing is a class above’ Express

  ‘Creepy, gritting and gruesome’ Sunday Mirror

  ‘In a league of his own as a thriller writer’ Crime Squad

  ‘Crime fiction’s next big thing’ Sunday Telegraph

  By James Oswald and available from Headline

  Constance Fairchild Series

  No Time to Cry

  Nothing to Hide

  Inspector McLean Series

  Cold as the Grave

  Bury Them Deep

  About the Book

  BURY THEM DEEP

  The tenth book in the Sunday Times bestselling Inspector McLean series, from one of Scotland’s most celebrated crime writers

  When a member of the Police Scotland team fails to clock in for work, concern for her whereabouts is immediate . . . and the discovery of her burnt-out car in remote woodland to the south of Edinburgh sets off a desperate search for the missing woman.

  Meanwhile, DCI Tony McLean and the team are preparing for a major anti-corruption operation – one which may raise the ire of more than a few powerful people in the city. Is Anya Renfrew’s disappearance a coincidence or related to the case?

  McLean’s investigations suggest that perhaps that Anya isn’t the first woman to have mysteriously vanished in these ancient hills. Once again, McLean can’t shake the feeling that there is a far greater evil at work here . . .

  For all the people who work behind the scenes.

  Without you nothing would ever get done.

  Acknowledgements

  You would think that after writing ten Inspector McLean books I would have got the hang of the acknowledgements section by now. You list all the people who have helped make the book a thing, and you thank them. Job done.

  And yet for some reason I always manage to forget someone, or worry that I’ve spelled someone’s name wrong. I wonder, too, if many people actually read the acknowledgements other than those of us in the industry who want to see if we’ve warranted a mention.

  All that said, there are some people who most definitely deserve my thanks, even if they never know I’ve given them. My agent, the amazing Juliet Mushens, is certainly one. Seventeen books on, Juliet. Who’d have thought it? And to Liza DeBlock, who keeps Juliet in line, thank you for the cheery emails!

  It was the wonderfully talented Anna Mazzola who brought the legend of Sawney Bean back to my attention just as I was beginning to think about a new adventure for Tony McLean. I am extremely grateful to her for that. You should all look out her books; they’re awesome and contain very little actual cannibalism.

  This is a Wildfire book, and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Wildfire and Headline teams who have made it a thing, rather than simply a random assortment of words in my head. Alex Clarke, Ella Gordon, Jo Liddiard and Jenni Leech – thank you all.

  I have dedicated this book to the people who work behind the scenes. I get my name on the cover, but there is an army of people who support me along the way. First and foremost among them is my better half, Barbara. It’s nigh on a quarter century since I first stole her surname for my detective. Thank you for putting up with such endless abuse of your name.

  And last of all, if you are reading this then chances are you’ve also read the book. Or at the very least picked it up and riffled through a few pages. My thanks to you for doing that. Without readers I’d probably still carry on writi
ng these stories, but it wouldn’t be half as much fun.

  Sawney Bean was a Lothian man, who left his home and the honest profession to which he was born. He took up with Black Agnes Douglas, a woman of low morals. Both unsuited to work, they travelled the land as beggars until they made a home in a cave on the Ayrshire coast. Sawney provided for his wife by robbing travellers through the nearby woods, and soon realised it was better to murder them than risk being identified, caught and hanged. And how better to dispose of the bodies than by eating them?

  This gruesome trade he continued nigh on twenty-five years. The couple had many children and incestuous grandchildren, all nurtured on human flesh and hidden away in their deep, dark cave. That which they didn’t eat fresh, they pickled in salt, and anything left they threw into the sea. Many a local stumbled across grizzly finds washed up on nearby shores. A hand, a foot, mayhap a whole leg.

  And so it might have continued, had Sawney not accidentally allowed a man to escape. His tale reached the ears of King James himself, and a party of men and dogs searched the woods and the coast for this savage attacker. Even then, the true horror might have gone unfound, but the dogs entering the cave gave up a great cry.

  Sawney, Black Agnes, children and grandchildren were taken away to Edinburgh for summary execution. There was no trial, for there was no doubting the horror and evil madness of the whole Bean family, no hope for them as had no souls. And besides, they all remained unrepentant throughout. They were taken to Leith, where the men had their hands, feet and testicles cut off, left to bleed to death while the womenfolk and children were burned at the stake.

  Or so the story goes. As with all these things, it is short on verifiable detail and high on horrific sensationalism. There is no record in the historical archives to corroborate the tale either, and it thereby begs several pertinent questions. What could possibly turn a man, even one so base as Sawney Bean, to cannibalism? How did he manage to elude capture for so many long years? Why, when finally discovered, was he not taken to the nearest Sheriff Court at Ayr, but dragged back to Lothian and the place of his birth? And why, truly, were he and his entire brood summarily executed without trial?

  Barnaby Fortnum, A History of Scottish Myths and Legends,

  Edinburgh, 1935

  1

  She hates herself.

  All the way from work, back to her compact top-floor flat, she feels the loathing in her gut, even as she feels the excitement too. It’s always this way, the tug of war between the self-loathing and the desire. Showering away the grime and sweat of the day doesn’t help either. The filth is deeper than skin, resistant to soap. And, besides, she doesn’t want it to be washed away. She wants to wallow in it. That’s part of the allure.

  The clothes she picks out are her disguise, and with each layer the disgust fades, the excitement builds. It’s been over a month now, the anticipation growing like a tumour in her stomach. The ache of longing.

  One last look in the mirror before she goes. Her transformation is so total she can almost believe none of her colleagues would recognise her in the street. But then that’s the whole point. If they knew, she’d be out of a job. She needs that other life too much to risk losing it. Not so much for the money as for the calm, the certainty. This other world, this other her, is about excitement. It’s about risk and the sweet, sweet pleasure it brings.

  A quick check of her phone confirms everything is set for this evening. A little flutter of nervous anticipation tickles her throat as she readies herself to leave. At the door she almost forgets the package, grabbing it at the last minute, slipping it into the pocket of her long leather coat. Swiftly down the stairs, out the back door, across the broken pavers and concrete drying green shared by the rest of the tenement. Through the gate that leads out to the back lane. This is the nervous time, when she might be seen, recognised, challenged. But no voice calls out, no curtain twitches. Nobody knows who she is. Who she really is.

  The drive across town takes longer than she’d like, traffic jamming the roads around Cameron Toll. She’s about to turn off onto the Braid Hill road when the text comes in. Police presence at the car park. She’d laugh if she wasn’t so hyped up already. There’s another meeting place, not somewhere she’s been before, but not far either. Satnav shows her the route.

  It’s getting dark by the time she arrives. Not many other cars about, but that’s hardly surprising. She finds a suitable spot, under some trees, away from the road. Engine off, crack the window down a little, switch on the passenger compartment light. Wait.

  The first tap at the window comes after less than a minute.

  2

  A low morning sun streamed in through the glass window wall of his office, painting the whole room orange-red with the threat of unbearable heat later on. Unless the weather broke of course, although that seemed unlikely. What was the children’s rhyme? Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. Well, it was certainly red, and certainly morning. Way too early for anyone with any kind of sense.

  Detective Chief Inspector Tony McLean shuffled the papers he’d been pretending to read, case notes, staff rotas and all the other things he needed to know for that morning’s briefing. Except that he didn’t really need to know any of it. There were detective inspectors who could deal with the planning, detective sergeants to shout the orders and detective constables to carry them out, moaning all the while. He sat close to the top of the pyramid, the gritty details of each investigation so far away he’d need spectacles to see them. Or perhaps a telescope. His life revolved around strategy meetings, budget reconciliation, juggling egos. It was almost enough to make a man cry.

  ‘You got a minute, sir?’

  The question came at almost exactly the same time as a light knock at the open door. McLean looked up to see Detective Inspector Kirsty Ritchie standing in the doorway, a worried crease across her forehead. Lately she’d taken to cropping her strawberry-blonde hair short, almost a boy’s cut. It suited her better than the frown.

  ‘A minute, an hour. What’s up?’

  ‘Operation Caterwaul. I’ve been going over the security clearances for the admin staff.’ Ritchie stepped into the room, and now McLean could see the thick wedge of papers she was carrying. More adorned his desk, an endless tide that threatened to drown them all.

  ‘Any problems?’ He had to ask, even though he knew there must be or Ritchie wouldn’t have been here.

  ‘Nothing serious. Just had a couple of kickbacks from the NCA. I guess their vetting’s a bit more serious than ours. They’re talking to the Feds too.’ She handed the papers to him with a half-apologetic shrug. McLean took them and leafed through the pile. Records for a dozen of the many civilian workers who kept the station running almost smoothly. It was yet another thing to worry about, although normally the support staff had sufficient security clearance to work on most investigations. Clearly Operation Caterwaul was considered more risky, although not so risky it couldn’t be given a stupid name.

  ‘We’ve got enough cover though?’ He handed back the files, noting Ritchie’s shoulders slump slightly. If she’d been hoping he’d take the problem off her hands, she was going to have to learn to live with the disappointment.

  ‘If everything goes to plan, aye. You know the saying about plans and first contact with the enemy though.’

  ‘Ah well. If it goes tits up, they can send some of their own people over to pick up the slack. Not sure why we’re involved in this anyway. It could all just as easily be run out of the Crime Campus.’

  Ritchie stepped clear to let him out of the office, then fell in alongside him as they both walked to the operations room. ‘Most of it is, to be honest. We’re just coordinating the financial stuff, seeing as how Edinburgh’s the financial centre.’

  McLean said nothing to that. He’d far rather deal with a violent crime, a burglary or even the drugs and sex-trafficking rings
that popped up more quickly than you could knock them down. Financial crimes, corporate fraud and all that kind of thing gave him a headache. Sure, the crimes needed investigation and the criminals to be punished, but money bought politicians and brought pressure from above. Sweep it under the carpet, or clear it up as quickly and quietly as possible. Neither option sat well with him.

  ‘We got the go-ahead to start yet?’ he asked as they both entered the small room given over to the operation. It was relatively empty for a change, a couple of detectives, some uniformed officers and admin staff all hand-picked by the suits at the National Crime Agency. Trustworthy, dependable, unlikely to talk to the press.

  ‘Started already, sir. We raided a firm of accountants yesterday morning. Lofty Blane’s going through their books with the forensic accounts team.’

  McLean scanned the room, and sure enough there was the giant form of Detective Constable Blane lurking in the corner, his shoulders round, whole body hunched to make himself less of a looming presence over everyone.

  ‘Must have missed the memo.’ Or more likely he’d been distracted by a hundred and one other memos all needing his immediate attention. ‘Guess I’d better rally the troops then.’

  ‘Morning, everyone. Quiet it down now.’

  McLean watched while DI Ritchie brought everyone to attention. Not that the room was exactly packed; that was the whole point. Operation Caterwaul was so clouded in secrecy even he didn’t know what the full objective of it was, only that it involved co-operation with the NCA, Interpol and several other foreign law enforcement and intelligence agencies. High stakes didn’t begin to cover it, which was probably why it was being compartmentalised so thoroughly. Why everyone in this room had been vetted and vetted again.

  Ritchie finished her warm-up act swiftly and efficiently before stepping aside to make way for him. McLean hadn’t brought any briefing notes with him; it wasn’t that kind of investigation. All he needed to do was frighten them all into line. Not something he was particularly comfortable doing, but sometimes that was the job.