Exclusive to Mistry VIP members is two things – A Sneaky Peek (extract) from The Revenge Pact accompanied by images of Cairnpapple Hill taken when I was undergoing my research.

One of the subplots in The Revenge Pact revolves around the reconstruction of the face of a body found on Cairnpapple Hill many years ago. Cairnpapple Hill is a Neolithic henge near Bathgate in West Lothian and seemed like the ideal place for the discovery of human remains years earlier. But what do these remains have to do with Jazzy & Queenie’s ongoing investigation, especially when the victims doppelganger walks into the police station?

The Revenge Pact

Extract from Chapter 10

‘I’m a dead man.’

Jazzy who had been in the process of sending a sneaky text to Fenton asking for forensic updates on the latest gang-related crime scene – a body dumped on the banks of Linlithgow Loch – looked up at the unfamiliar man. Tall, slender, probably in his early thirties with a riot of floppy brown hair that he had tucked behind his ears. He was going prematurely grey at the temples, and judging by his rapid blinking, he was nervous. She turned to the uniformed officer standing beside him. ‘Sergeant Hobson?’

Wullie Hobson smirked and splayed his shovel-like hands before him. ‘This is well above mah pay grade, DS Solanki. Think it’s more of a detective sergeant’s job than a beat bobby’s. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to it. Loads to do downstairs and I’m off shift in . . .’ backing towards the door, he glanced at his watch, his smile widening as he saw the time ‘. . . fifteen minutes and twenty-five seconds.’

Jazzy got to her feet and in her haste to reach the sergeant before he left, managed to bang her cast on the edge of the desk. A sharp pain radiated right up her arm, through her elbow, and settled in a ball of tension in her shoulder. ‘Wait, Wullie.’

With a wiggle of his fingers and a large wink, Wullie allowed the door of the Major Incident Team’s shared office space to close between them. No bloody respect. A quick glance round the room told her that, for once, she was alone. Trust everyone to be absent when I want to palm a civilian off on them. With a fixed smile, Jazzy gestured to an area to the side of the room, designated for these sorts of civilian visits, then rolled her eyes. Queenie had been at it again, using the desk as a picnic table and not bothering to clean up after herself.

As Mr Nervous settled into one of the two chairs, Jazzy found a bin and, uncaring that Queenie would give her laldie later on, swept the entirety of her colleague’s lunch into it. Settled opposite him, Jazzy rested her arms on the table and, head to one side, smiled. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Solanki and whatever’s bothering you, I’ll see if I can be of assistance, although really, here in the Major Incident Team we don’t usually see walk-ins.’ She paused as a flush made its way up Mr Nervous’s cheeks, then relented. ‘That’s quite a statement you made there, Mr . . . ?’

‘Mackie.’ He extended a hand across the table, then reconsidered and let it fall into his lap instead. ‘Sidney. I mean you can call me Sid. Most folk do, but Sidney is my proper name.’ He grimaced, blinking again, before focusing on his hands in his lap.

Unsure what to make of him, Jazzy allowed the silence between them to grow. He was well presented and, despite his jittery behaviour, she didn’t get any unstable or druggy-type vibes from him – not that she was qualified to make either assessment, but experience and instinct made her pretty sure she was right. Besides, Wullie would have screened him before bringing him up here.

‘So, Sid, would you care to elaborate on what you mean about being a dead man, for if you don’t mind me saying, you look pretty alive to me. Do you feel endangered? Is that why you’ve come here today? Has someone threatened you?’

Sid inhaled a breath so deep it threatened to suck all the air from the room, but it also seemed to settle his nerves because his eyes lifted to meet Jazzy’s. He swallowed as if preparing to speak, and then stopped, but in the end, shook his head and thrust a crumpled and folded wad of paper at her.

Intrigued, Jazzy accepted the sheets, but placed them on the table unopened. ‘I’ll get you some water, Sid. Maybe that’ll help. I can see you’re rattled, but at some point, you’re going to have to speak to me, so let’s just see if we can calm you down a little.’

As she walked over to the water cooler, she considered phoning DC Geordie McBurnie. He was far better at calming people down than she was. Hell, even the normally abrasive Queenie – when in the right mood – was better at it than Jazzy. She handed the recyclable cup of water to Sid, resumed her seat opposite and flicked the papers open. It was a newspaper article printed from a computer but although the headline itself was attention-grabbing, it was the image that made Jazzy’s breath hitch in her throat. For long seconds, she studied it, her eyes darting from it to the man before her trying to make sense of what she was seeing in the context of the article. NowI understand why you’re so upset.

She read the headline again.

CAIRNPAPPLE MAN’S FACE RECONSTRUCTED: DO YOU RECOGNISE THIS MAN?

Jazzy remembered hearing about the case when she was training at Tulliallan. Cairnpapple Hill was such a well-known local Neolithic site, that the discovery of human remains buried in a shallow grave nearby had created quite a buzz. The victim had been murdered and, despite an extensive investigation, was never identified, thus making it one of the most significant cold cases in the region. How tragic that someone could remain unidentified for over thirty years. Had no one missed him? Many theories had circulated at the time – that he was an illegal immigrant, that he’d come over from Ireland, that he’d come from London and some even wondered if he’d travelled from as far afield as the United States, but none of those theories had borne fruit. Finally, with nobody coming forward to identify the man, his case had been referred to the Scottish Cold Case Unit at Glasgow Caledonian University, where it appeared that at last some progress had been made on the decades-old investigation.

Sid leaned forward, his voice hoarse and stilted. ‘You see it, don’t you? That man in the photo is me. I’m that dead man.’

Jazzy took a moment to compose herself. Clearly, the dead man in the newspaper wasn’t Sid Mackie; still the resemblance between the two was disconcerting. ‘Look, let me read the article and we’ll go from there, okay?’