by Allan Watson
I found myself being pulled forward and shepherded out the door while the sullen faced man read me my rights with as much feeling as an I-Speak-Your-Weight machine. I wanted to ask these men whom I was supposed to have murdered, but I was too shocked to say a word at that point. Compliantly I got into the police car as Moore and his bushy moustache slid in beside me. He sat so close that I could smell the spearmint chewing gum on his breath and underneath, a faint gangrenous whiff of halitosis.
I thought they would take me to the police station in North Street, but the car sped past the old station and took the road towards the Tay bridge and Dundee. The journey was eerily reminiscent of the one the night before, only this time I could actually see where we were going. Dark country roads flashed by before we sped through Leuchars where the train station shared its berth with the RAF base. The lights of Leuchars were quickly left behind as we returned to more twisting country roads and finally the Tay Bridge which seemed to float above the black waters of the estuary. On the opposite shore, Dundee sat like a fairy-lit citadel, rising in layers to a crowning point in the hills.
Considering the policeman’s ominous words about murder, I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. I recognised the old man’s hand in this. It was just another game to be played out. His strategies were becoming thin and well worn. I wondered how he had contrived to engineer this ridiculous situation. The very thought of me killing someone was ludicrous in the extreme. I almost looked forward to hearing what I was supposed to have done. Had I shot someone? Knifed them? Strangled them? In the darkness of the car I smiled slightly at the images. Then from no-where came a sudden and shocking picture of the silver topped cane smashing into someone’s head. The image lasted perhaps only a tenth of a second, but it made me stop thinking in such a flippant manner. Maybe the notion of killing wasn’t so crazy after all. It might all be some sort of game but I was expected to play by the rules. If I didn’t, the old man might pack up his board and go back to where came from, leaving me stranded where I was.
For the entire journey Moore continued staring at me from a distance of about six inches. I could see him in the driver’s rear view mirror, his jaw continually worrying at the chewing gum, his eyes locked on my profile. This was all about invasion of my personal space, it was meant to intimidate, to peel away any thick skin which might protect me when the real business of questions and answers got underway. The policeman was failing miserably. After being attacked by the spectre of my dead mother, his was a second rate form of psychological tyranny.
The police station in Dundee was a world away from its counterpart in St Andrew’s. Here there were long stretching corridors with never ending panels of bright fluorescent lights, and at every turn, police officers walked briskly with sheaves of paper, their body language in stark contrast to the drunks and vagrants sitting in plastic chairs with bleak expressions. I was first taken to a desk and had my pockets emptied into a clear cellophane bag. They also took my watch and wedding ring. I was mildly surprised when one of the CID men pulled my camera from my jacket pocket and handed it to the duty officer. I was sure I had dumped it on the table back at the flat. I felt as though the camera represented a threat to me, but before I could think much more about this, I was asked a barrage of questions about myself, name, date of birth, that sort of thing. When they were certain they had enough personal details, I was taken to a small room where a bored looking policeman took my finger prints. Something about this ritual brought it home to me that I might just be in big-time trouble and I suffered the first real gut contractions of apprehension.
After being given a paper towel to clean my hands, the man used a metal instrument to scrape beneath my finger nails, depositing the debris into yet another cellophane bag. When the manicure was over, I was marched along a corridor and ushered into an interview room. Aside from a table and some uncomfortable looking chairs, the room was devoid of any other furnishings. There were two objects on the table, a tin foil ashtray and an A4 sized buff envelope. The walls were painted with cheap paint that was cracked and flaking badly in places. Screwed onto one of the magenta painted walls was a black, square transducer microphone with a thin cable trailing down to a bulky tape recorder sitting on a shelf. This room had known a lot of fear and misery and some of it still hung around in the air. The stink of it was as permanent as the paint. The dismal atmosphere depressed me and my spirits sank lower.
Moore, who had been ever present at my shoulder since we entered the station, flung his leather jacket over one of the chairs and indicated I should sit down. His partner sat directly opposite me and smiled nastily. This was the first time I’d had the chance to study the man face to face. The second policeman had short greying hair which perfectly matched his sallow complexion. There was an unhealthy look about him as if he never ventured out in the sunlight much and his skin was pockmarked with old acne scars, complimenting a nose saturated with blackheads. As Moore fiddled with the tape recorder, the second policeman sat opposite me, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up. I almost put my hand in my pocket for my own smokes before remembering the duty officer had taken everything from me.
He must have seen a look of longing in my eyes, for he contemptuously blew the smoke towards me. Then as if remembering his manners, he took out another cigarette and offered it to me, a look of mock apology on his face. As I reached out for it, he grinned and crushed the cigarette between his nicotine stained fingers before sweeping the debris to the floor. Behind me I heard Moore laugh out loud.
‘Oh, McVey, almost forgot to introduce my colleague. This is Davie Wilson. That’s Detective Sergeant Davie Wilson to you.’
The newly introduced Wilson took a deep drag of his cigarette and once again blew the smoke into my face making my eyes sting and water.
‘Look at that Tam,’ he said. ‘He’s greetin’ already. Killers these days don’t have any backbone. Not like the old days, eh?’
The nervousness I’d been feeling over the past ten minutes had cranked itself up a couple of notches and I stupidly found myself pushing the chair away and leaning over the table, both my hands pressed flat against the cheap Formica as if to stop it from flying away.
‘I’m not a murderer,’ I heard myself say to Wilson. ‘You’re meant to be a policeman for fuck’s sake, so why don’t you start acting like one.’
Wilson stood up so that he was on eye level with me, and still smiling he brought his burning cigarette slowly down towards the back of my left hand. I knew there was no way he would risk physically marking me. He wouldn’t be able to blame an injury like that on falling down some stairs while trying to escape. Even so I had to fight against the urge to pull my hand away when the glowing tip was a mere inch from my skin and the hairs on the back of my hand began to curl and singe. Within seconds a small area of flesh flared with pain as if I was being attacked by a large, biting insect. Wilson had obviously done this sort of thing before as the bastard had it down to a fine art. Only when my skin began to visibly redden did he pull the cigarette away.
Moore grinned at his colleague. ‘One day, Davie, you’re going to screw that trick up and burn some poor fucker’s hand.’ Wilson just shrugged as if he didn’t care and took another deep drag from the cigarette. Moore’s attention now turned to me. ‘Before we start, I’d like to put you straight on a few things. Firstly I’m sure someone like yourself is aware of the tried and trusted good-policeman/bad-policeman routine. That’s where one of us knocks you down and the other picks you up again. Well, what you have here is more like a bad policeman and evil psycho policeman scenario. Both of us are bastards and we don’t care who knows. Secondly, we know you’re guilty, that’s an irrefutable fact. There is not an atom in my entire body that harbours any doubt on this. So here’s the plan. Davie and I will ask you a few question and when we’re satisfied with the answers, you sign a confession. You with me on that, McVey?’
I met Moore’s intimidating gaze head on. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ I sa
id. ‘This is all a big mistake of some sort. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to have killed. All of this is crazy.’
Moore just shrugged and switched on the tape recorder. Pulling another chair from the side of the room he sat beside Wilson and announced for the benefit of the tape what the time was and who was present. This done, he leaned forward and steepled his chin in his hands as he sized me up.
‘Where were you this morning, McVey?’
I decide not to be obstructive, if I answered the detective’s questions I would eventually get out of this place. I knew if they really had some concrete evidence linking me with a murder they would have already charged me. The fact that they hadn’t done so told me their bully boy psychology was nothing more than a crude bluff.
‘I was at Ninewells hospital this morning. My daughter took seriously ill last night and now she’s in a coma. I’m sure the hospital will verify where I was.’
Moore tried to convey an air of sympathy and only made himself look like a sad clown. ‘That’s Denise you’re talking about, isn’t it? A terrible shame for the wee girl.’
I sat forward in the chair. ‘So you already know where I was then?’
‘Well, the thing is, McVey, I’ve been to the hospital and your wife told me you returned to the flat in St Andrew’s at seven am. That still leaves an awful lot of morning to account for.’
‘You’ve spoken to Teri?’
Moore nodded and smiled at Wilson. ‘That’s right, me and Davie had a very interesting chat with your wife this evening. In fact while we were there your wife was called to the reception desk to answer an urgent phone call from her brother. Seems you were meant to pass on an important piece of information, namely the fact that your father-in-law died this morning. I have to tell you, you’re not a popular man, McVey. In fact maybe you’re in safer hands here with us. So I’ll ask you again. Where were you this morning?’
I rubbed at my eyes and imagined only too clearly the character assassination Teri would have given in my absence. What type of man did I appear to the policemen? The type of man who doesn’t bother turning up to visit his seriously ill daughter - the type of man who doesn’t even tell his wife her father was dead. I knew how bad it must look. It crossed my mind briefly to try and explain why I hadn’t returned to the hospital in the afternoon and then realised how much worse that would sound.
Moore stood up and walked round behind me, bringing his mouth level with my ear. His big hands rested lightly upon my shoulders, the gesture of a concerned uncle, but I could feel the violence trembling through his fingers tips. What Moore really wanted to do was wrap his hands around my neck and squeeze it tightly but he kept his voice friendly and reassuring, the way you would speak to a frightened child.
‘C’mon, there’s no sense in keeping all this to yourself, McVey. The guilt is killing you, eating you up inside. It’s written all over your face. Just tell us where you were this morning.’
The fingers began to gently massage my shoulders. I was becoming more frightened and confused with every passing second. Moore’s actions and voice were totally in contradiction to the rage I sensed inside him. This conflict between his inner violence and body language disturbed me more than he realised. I wondered if the old man was intentionally terrifying me in order to make me remember. Maybe it was only when the adrenaline levels reached a critical point that hidden memories could be ripped free from the dark recess’s in my head. A distant part of me was saying that this was too serious a matter for a game, I should have a solicitor sitting here with me. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know one, there would be a duty solicitor assigned to the police station. All I had to do was ask that he be present.
I didn’t ask for a solicitor however. When I opened my mouth to speak what came out instead was, ‘When we got back from the hospital this morning Teri and my youngest daughter Alice went for a sleep and I took a walk to clear my head.’
‘A walk, you say? And where did you walk to?’
‘The Cathedral and then along the beach. I needed some time on my own, it was quiet there. The past few days have been very difficult, I wanted to get my head straight.’
The hands left my shoulders and suddenly Moore cracked his knuckles together in my ear making me jump. His tone became sharper.
‘How far along the beach did you go?’
‘Not far.’
‘Did you meet anyone on this walk of yours?’
I hesitated a moment before answering. The only person I had met was Alison and I certainly didn’t want to elaborate on that sordid incident. The least said about the man-hungry Miss McCulloch, the better. So I said, ‘No, the beach was empty, because of the fog I guess.’
Moore slowly walked back to his seat and levelled his gaze at me. ‘You’re definitely certain you didn’t meet anyone. A girl perhaps?’
‘I’m positive. Look you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t need all this crap. Yesterday my youngest daughter was abducted, now my other daughter is lying in hospital with a mystery illness the doctors don’t know anything about. My wife is probably on the verge of divorcing me, and to top it all I’m supposed to have murdered someone. I can’t take much more of this.’
Wilson lit another cigarette and shrugged indifferently. ‘Life’s a bastard McVey, but we’re not really interested your personal fucking problems, so shut up and just answer the questions.’
I tried to stare Wilson out, to show him I wasn’t afraid of him, but for a split second the bloated, bruised image of my mother’s face superimposed itself over the policeman’s. I heard him snigger as I averted my eyes from his. Moore slid the buff envelope across the table and shook it so that a sheaf of eight by ten colour photographs slid out.
‘I want you to look at these McVey. I want you to take a good look and tell me if you met the girl in these photographs.’
Wearily I picked the photographs up and almost gagged when I saw what was pictured in them. The first image showed a naked girl spread-eagled on a the huge knuckle of rock I recognised as the Spindle. She had been beaten to a pulp, but I still recognised her. It was Alison McCulloch. There were great red weals and bloodied abrasions covering her belly and breasts as if she had been repeatedly stoned with jagged rocks. Her hands resembled fat hocks of raw meat and I numbly realised all her fingers had been hacked off. Her head was worst of all. Only the red hair made me certain it was her.
The full implications of the police having my camera finally hit home like a punch in the guts. The old man had set me up. There was no way I was walking away from this. In my mind’s eye I saw Alison posing beside the rock, her breasts bared to the fog as I took her picture. Even the best lawyer in the world could never convince a jury that the photos were nothing more than circumstantial evidence. I was aware my hands were trembling as I held the crime scene photographs, but I could do nothing to stop them. I forced myself to look at the others, each one seeming gorier than the previous one, especially the close ups of her fingerless hands and her almost faceless head. I knew who had done this. It had been the old man.
I continued to leaf through the photographs but I wasn’t seeing them any longer. He must have been there all the time while I was having sex with the girl. He must have waited until I was gone before attacking her. Then I remembered finding traces of blood beneath my fingernails in the shower. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees. For the very first time I had to consider the idea that I had killed Alison McCulloch. The entire journey back over the rocks on the beach was very fuzzy. Was it possible that he had taken control without me even being aware of it?
I put the sheaf of photographs back on the table and closed my eyes. The law made no allowances for demonic possession. If I tried to tell the detectives about the old man they would merely think I was playing games with them and respond accordingly. I thought again of my pictures of Alison and how my fingerprints must have been all over her breasts and hips. I was in real trouble here. Up until now the police had been a
cting on nothing more than suspicion, but soon it would be replaced with hard, physical evidence.
Moore’s voice cut into my thoughts. ‘Her name is Alison McCulloch. She was seventeen years old. Her body was found a mile or so along the East Sands beside a local landmark known as the Rock and Spindle. Her father was the one to stumble across the body, the poor bastard. We already know she was raped before being killed. Any of this sound familiar to you McVey?’
I opened my eyes and said nothing.
‘Sorry McVey what was that? I’m afraid I didn’t catch your answer. Maybe I’m going a little deaf in my old age.’
When it became apparent that I wasn’t going to make any comment he resumed, ‘Here’s something else to jog your memory. Alison McCulloch worked part time in the St Andrew’s library. The senior librarian, Jean Sinclair, told us that a man dropped by yesterday afternoon asking about a big finger shaped rock along the East Sands coastline. She referred the man to her assistant, a certain Alison McCulloch, who happened to live out that neck of the woods. Miss Sinclair said the man claimed to be a professional photographer and told her his name was McVey, she couldn’t remember the man’s first name but her description fits you to a tee my friend. Then when we dropped by St Andrew’s police station, one of the local boys claimed he knew you, said you had actually been in the station earlier on that day. He also said we would probably find you over at Ninewells where your daughter was seriously ill. And just to prove that arsehole has no hope of ever rising through the ranks, he told me that he didn’t believe it possible that the Mr McVey he knew would do such a thing, as his Mr McVey was such a devoted family man.’
Both policemen laughed sourly as if sharing a bitter irony. It was hard laughter, filled with contempt and spitefulness. ‘Oh, do please excuse our mirth, McVey,’ Moore said, ‘It’s just that when we raced across to Ninewells, this devoted family man hadn’t apparently bothered visiting his desperately ill daughter, and to compound things, had even neglected to inform his wife that her father had dropped dead from a stroke.’
