Death in the Black Wood, Oliver Davies [short story to read TXT] 📗

construction site was only a few minutes away. A block of dilapidated old slum housing had been torn down to make way for some new flats and the contractor who’d called in to McKinnon’s hotline was one of the people working for the development company whose project it was. After being issued with hard hats, we were led across the muddy site to the portacabin where he had his temporary office set up. At least they’d put some chipboard down to form pathways so we didn’t sink up to our ankles in muck.

Bill Rogerson was a bulky chap with a protruding beer belly sagging over his belt. He was about my height but a good few stone heavier by the look of him. He didn’t look that old either. I thought he might have a good ten years on me though.

“Inspector Keane.” He shook my hand with a firm grip and seemed satisfied to find that I wasn’t some wimpy desk jockey, “Thanks for calling ahead. I have copies of Dominic’s paperwork here, all ready for you.”

“Thank you, Mr Rogerson, that was very thoughtful of you.” I read through it quickly, making sure Caitlin could do the same. Atovura Dominic Chuol had been twenty-two years old and had been placed with this construction firm by Global Highland Limited on the nineteenth of November. He had a valid CSCS card and was listed as a skilled labourer with a level two technical certificate. Rogerson told us that Dominic had turned up for his shifts punctually and performed well. During the eight weeks that he’d worked there, he’d clocked up over forty hours every week.

“He was a good worker. And he never made any trouble or got into arguments with any of the others. Not very chatty though, and he didn’t socialise with the other lads outside of work.”

“Did he ever give you the impression that he was taking drugs?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t say that he did. I mean, I knew his doctor prescribed him painkillers, but they didn’t seem to affect his abilities and he never drank on the job either. No complaints there. When he didn’t show up on the fourteenth, I phoned the agency to see if he’d called in sick. He hadn’t. They phoned back later to tell me he wasn’t answering their calls.” He shrugged. “I just assumed he’d moved on. That happens quite often, so I didn’t think much of it, except feeling a bit disappointed that he hadn’t given us any warning.”

“So the last time you saw him was Friday the eleventh?”

“That’s right. He left at half six that night. Dominic didn’t mind putting in overtime hours during the week whenever we asked him to but he liked to have his weekends to himself.”

“And this is the address you were given for him?”

“It is. Those are the details the agency sent over.” There didn’t seem to be anything else he could tell us so I thanked him for his time, and the papers, and we made our way back to where I’d parked the car, handing our hard hats back in at the gate on our way out.

“You can drive,” I told Caitlin. “Just hang on a minute while I photograph these sheets first will you.” I climbed into the passenger seat while she walked round to the other side. Once I had clear images of all the information, I attached them to an email and sent it over to Shay. Hopefully, he’d be able to find me the landlord’s contact details pretty quickly.

“Dominic’s home address next?” Caitlin asked.

“Yeah, I think we’d better get over there. I’d like to see what his housemates have to say. At the moment we have a big, blank gap to fill in between the eleventh and the twenty fourth. Maybe they can enlighten us about some of those missing days.” The sky had darkened again, another bank of rapidly moving clouds sweeping down from the north east. Sure enough, as Caitlin drove us up towards Merkinch, the next batch of sleet began to come down, heavy and hard. Windscreen wipers swishing rhythmically, we headed north.

Eight

The room Dominic had rented for himself was in a semi-detached house on Rosehaugh Road in Merkinch.

Merkinch, the old ‘Isle of the Horse,’ was very much a working class area but compared to equally economically deprived areas around Glasgow, it wasn’t an outstandingly bad neighbourhood. Yes, it had its share of drug and alcohol related crime and yes, burglaries and muggings and assaults were not uncommon, but it was also home to a lot of decent, law-abiding people.

Dominic’s semi had been one of the many council houses built in the area, up until the tenants had purchased it under the now defunct ‘right to buy’ scheme. After waiting the obligatory five years, so they didn’t forfeit their discount, the new owners had then sold to a private investor for a good profit. I’d been happy to see the end of the right to buy scheme a couple of years earlier. Almost half a million council homes around Scotland had fallen into the hands of private owners during the years that the scheme had been running and we were really feeling the effects of that now. Waiting lists for affordable social housing were getting longer and longer, due to the shortage of available properties, and who knew when construction would catch up with demand again.

The new owner, by turning the living room into a bedsit, had rented out the three rooms available in the property for years before selling it on to another ‘buy to let’ investor. I found out later, from Shay, just how large the profits that such investors had been making were. Demand for cheap housing was high and the rents they charged were below average, even if they were still higher than council rents. The current owner of this particular house had accumulated half a dozen properties in the same manner and was making a very decent