Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  Clearly a stickler for the rules this one, thought Carruthers. Superintendent Bingham would approve. Probably why she had been assigned to their station. Or maybe Bingham had just got lucky. Thinking about McTavish and her tidy desk he decided she was clearly everything that he wasn’t. But then he was always on time for team briefs, he reminded himself, before he became too despondent.

  McTavish looked straight at Carruthers before asking her next question. ‘Is there any doubt at all that she’s not your student, Rachel Abbie?’

  Carruthers shook his head before he answered the DCI’s question. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind. And the ID should take place within the next couple of hours.’

  McTavish nodded her approval. ‘Very good.’

  But it isn’t very good, thought Carruthers. It is very bad. Very bad indeed. He had an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach. And his gut was hardly ever wrong. Who was this killer targeting and why? And the most important question of all – if it was a serial killer – who would be next?

  Chapter 9

  A weeping Mr Abbie was shepherded out of the mortuary by a sombre-looking Fletcher. The slim, dark-haired man had done the buttons of his striped shirt up wrong in his haze of shock and grief. For some reason this vulnerability made Fletcher want to cry.

  The middle-aged man brought out a tissue from his coat pocket and noisily blew his nose into it. Fletcher wanted to give the man a hug, but protocol dictated that she remain professional.

  Mackie had covered most of the young woman’s body with a sheet after the post-mortem and they had done what they could to cover up the slash on the face to make things as bearable as possible for the grieving father.

  Fletcher lightly touched the man’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Abbie. I promise you we will find the person who did this terrible thing to your daughter.’ She wasn’t about to tell him at this stage about the severed finger. Not just after he’d viewed his dead daughter. It was too raw. God, no. He was going through enough. And they needed to try to keep it out of the papers too. A murderer was bad enough. But a mutilator too? She shuddered, wondering about the mindset of someone who would do this. Why did serial killers take mementos? To extend the fantasy supposedly. She couldn’t even begin to understand them.

  Fletcher knew from her reading that serial killers, for whom the killing often had a sexual element, liked to collect either body parts or clothes in order to relive the sexual fantasy. Fletcher looked up at Mr Abbie who was holding on to a lamp post. Thankfully his daughter hadn’t been sexually violated. But then again there were different types of serial killer. Fletcher hoped it really wasn’t a serial killer they were dealing with and that somehow, they had got it wrong.

  They stood by Fletcher’s green Beetle. Fletcher looked earnestly at Mr Abbie. ‘I know this is really difficult but I do need to ask you a few questions.’

  He dabbed at his eyes. ‘If it helps to bring her killer to justice then ask me what you need to.’

  Fletcher put a comforting arm round his back. ‘Shall we drive back to your hotel? It might be a bit more comfortable to talk there. I’m going to ask a colleague, DS Gayle Watson, to join us.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  After Fletcher had made the call to Watson both she and Mr Abbie sat silently in the car, each lost in their own thoughts, until Fletcher broke the silence. ‘Do you know why your daughter told her housemates that your home was an address in Ashington, Northumberland?’

  Mr Abbie looked confused. ‘No, we have no connection to Ashington at all. Why would she do that?’

  Fletcher pushed on. ‘Rachel told her housemates that out of term time she lived with you in Ashington yet the philosophy department have your Nidderdale address listed. You can’t shed any light on this at all?’

  ‘No. The only thing I can think of is that perhaps Rachel was embarrassed.’

  ‘Embarrassed? How do you mean?’

  ‘Look, we live in a nice place. I know Castletown’s not short of a bob or two and some of the students certainly won’t be, but perhaps she didn’t want to tell her fellow students where she lived. I know Ruth Skipsey’s family doesn’t have much money, for example.’

  Fletcher pondered this. Was it possible? Well, anything was possible. How likely was it that was the reason she’d given an address in a less affluent place? She honestly didn’t know, but then youngsters of that age, often away from home for the first time, would sometimes go to great lengths to fit in. She wondered if Rachel Abbie was one such person. She tried a different tack. ‘Was Rachel happy here at the University of East of Scotland?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I mean, she’d met Will. They seemed inseparable.’

  ‘You’d met him?’

  ‘Oh yes, a couple of times when I visited Rachel. Nice boy. I don’t really know her other housemates though. And to be honest I don’t really know Will that well. I was hoping to get to know him better. Now I’ll never get the chance.’

  Fletcher observed the man’s downcast eyes and sad expression. All of a sudden the man started to sob. Fletcher felt wretched for him.

  She gave him a few moments to compose himself.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ He sniffed.

  ‘Please don’t apologise. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Was it serious? The relationship with Will?’ Fletcher thought back to her own student days. She’d had a couple of flings but certainly had never met anyone she had wanted to settle down with. Nineteen was far too young in her view.

  Mr Abbie heaved a great sigh. ‘For Will certainly. For Rachel, I think so. The first couple of months she had a wobble about him. Wasn’t sure how she felt about dating him, if youngsters still use that expression, but she seemed to get over that. I don’t know how much you know but we lost Rachel’s mother four years ago.’

  ‘Yes, I did know. I’m so sorry. Was there anything bothering Rachel?’ Or anyone, Fletcher wanted to add.

  ‘She was struggling a bit with the course but then philosophy’s not meant to be easy is it? To be honest I wasn’t sure it was the best course for her.’

  ‘Oh, why was that?’

  ‘Rachel tends… tended to overanalyse everything. Philosophy is all about critical thinking, isn’t it? I’m just not sure it’s the best course for someone who already overthinks things.’

  Fletcher could see the logic in that. She thought fleetingly of Carruthers having been married to a philosophy lecturer. Wondered if any of the overthinking had rubbed off on him. She didn’t think so. ‘And were you and Rachel close?’

  ‘When she was young she would tell us everything. After we lost her mum so suddenly we were close, for a while. Since she started at university, not so much. We don’t…didn’t spend so much time together. She used to come to church with me, well, until her mother died, but then she didn’t want to go any more. I suppose you could say she lost her faith. I don’t blame her, of course. And at university,’ he shrugged, ‘she had a new set of friends. They’re not into the church. Quite the opposite in fact.’

  Fletcher looked worried. ‘You mean devil-worshipping?’

  ‘Oh no, no, nothing like that. But you know what it’s like when you study philosophy. For her recently it’s now all about rationalism, which I guess is to be expected. And I guess she was finding it hard to marry rationalism with Christianity. She was exploring different options. And, if I’m honest, she was growing up. Wasn’t a kid any more. Didn’t need me as much, which is how it should be. But she was a kind-hearted person. Would do anything for anyone, but I told her to be careful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was a very open girl. People can take advantage.’

  Fletcher wondered if someone had taken advantage of Rachel. ‘Would she open up to you if she had any problems?’

  Mr Abbie took his time to answer the question. ‘I’m pretty sure there was something troubling her, but she wouldn’t confide in me.’

  ‘Any idea at all what it was?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’
>
  ‘You don’t know whether it was something to do with her studies or perhaps a falling out with one of her friends?’ Fletcher tried to be delicate in her probing but it was difficult.

  Mr Abbie shook his head. ‘You might try asking Will. I think she’d have been more inclined to confide in him. At least I told her to talk to him about what was worrying her if she wouldn’t talk to me.’

  Fletcher scribbled in her black police notebook. She looked up at Mr Abbie. ‘Do you know if she did? Talk to him, I mean.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Fletcher dived into her handbag and brought out a copy of the photograph she had found in Rachel’s bedroom. She showed Mr Abbie.

  ‘This was found in your daughter’s bedroom. Do you have any idea who either of the two men in the picture are?’

  Mr Abbie studied it, frowning. ‘Er, I do know these two men. And this photo was taken outside our house. They’re, er, business acquaintances. Did my daughter take this photo?’

  ‘We don’t know, Mr Abbie, but as I said, it was found in her bedroom.’

  Mr Abbie turned away, still holding the copy. ‘It’s ironic really. I was trying to get Rachel to confide in me about her problems but she was better at talking to me about mine.’

  Fletcher looked at his red-rimmed eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  He coughed. It was a rather embarrassed cough. ‘It’s silly, but I’ve had some anonymous phone calls recently.’

  Fletcher’s ears pricked up. ‘And you told Rachel about them?’

  Mr Abbie nodded. ‘She wanted me to report them to the police. Since her mother died, she’s the sensible one.’

  ‘So, who are the men in the photograph?’

  I’d rather not say.’

  ‘I’m sorry for asking awkward questions you’d rather not answer but they may be important.’ Fletcher was starting to build up a picture of Mr Abbie and his daughter. She suspected that since his wife’s death Rachel’s father had leant on his daughter for emotional support, perhaps a little too much.

  Fletcher forced her mind back to the conversation and picked up the threads once more. ‘But you didn’t report it to the police, these anonymous calls?’

  ‘No, well what could I say? That I’m getting nuisance calls? You hear about the police being called out for hoaxes all the time. I know about your limited resources. They don’t need another time-waster phoning in about a nuisance whistler.’

  ‘Sorry? What did you say?’

  Mr Abbie looked at Fletcher. ‘Well, that’s just it. They didn’t say anything. They just whistled.’

  Fletcher’s stomach did a somersault. It was just a whistle and yet… ‘What sort of whistle? Can you describe it?’

  ‘Not really. Just a whistle. Completely tuneless. I can’t describe it. And then they hung up.’

  Mr Abbie had just described the whistle in the same way as Serena Davis had described the whistle she’d heard. Tuneless. It had to mean something. It just had to. Fletcher felt her hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Serena Davis had heard strange tuneless whistling just before she was attacked. Rachel Abbie’s father had received anonymous phone calls from a tuneless whistler. It was a possible connection between the cases of Serena Davis and Rachel Abbie.

  This was the first important, really important, breakthrough they’d had, and it had come quite early on in the case. Fletcher felt a huge wave of excitement wash over her. Not only might it further the investigation but the fact she had been the one to find out something so vital wouldn’t do her career any harm at all.

  She was already searching in her black handbag for her mobile. ‘Mr Abbie, would you mind if I made a quick call to the station before we get going to the hotel?’

  Chapter 10

  Carruthers tapped on Sandra McTavish’s door.

  ‘Come.’

  As Carruthers entered his former office McTavish hastily pushed her mobile back into her leather handbag. Carruthers got the impression it hadn’t been a work-related call. The DCI was looking harassed. As well she might. Carruthers noticed that the DCI was missing her tights. Perhaps she’d got a ladder.

  Her eyes followed his gaze. She frowned before looking back up at him. ‘What is it, Jim?’

  ‘Thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. Andie’s just told me that Rachel Abbie’s father has been receiving anonymous calls which he hasn’t reported to the police.’

  McTavish was wearing reading glasses that were on the tip of her nose as she looked up at her DI. He wondered why she hadn’t bought varifocals.

  She pushed the glasses further up the bridge of her nose. ‘You think these anonymous calls may be relevant to the case?’ McTavish glanced down at her mobile in her bag.

  What is it about this woman and mobile phones? Carruthers didn’t feel he had her full attention. He bristled and held himself a bit straighter. ‘It may be. Mr Abbie has reported that the person on the other end of the phone was whistling before they hung up. Tuneless whistling.’

  Sandra McTavish carefully laid her pen down on her desk. ‘Tuneless whistling? Didn’t you tell me that–’

  ‘Yes, Serena Davis also reported hearing tuneless whistling just before she got attacked.’ Carruthers didn’t mean to interrupt his new boss but he couldn’t help it. It was a bad habit of his, especially with those more senior. He usually did it when he was impatient to get a point across. He remembered all the times he’d interrupted Superintendent Bingham and how irritated the man had been with him.

  McTavish pursed her lips together and took in a deep breath. ‘May mean nothing, of course, but you did right to tell me. And I definitely think it’s worth following up. Oh, and I want you to organise background checks on all Rachel Abbie’s housemates. Anything you can dig up on them, like you did for Serena Davis’s housemates. I want it done with more rigour this time, Jim.’

  Carruthers flushed crimson. He’d tasked Fletcher with that job and she’d been overseeing Dougie Harris. Unfortunately, he’d not passed on his findings to the team before his wife had been admitted to hospital with a medical emergency. Carruthers assumed this is what McTavish was referring to. Although there’d been a delay getting the information back in the end there had been nothing in their backgrounds to warrant concern. And they’d all had alibis for when the young student had been slashed.

  He ignored his boss’s comment and pressed on. ‘There’s something else. Mr Abbie said he thought that something had been troubling his daughter. He had no idea what it might be though. She didn’t want to talk to him about it but he told her if she didn’t want to talk to him then at least she should talk to Will, her boyfriend. I think that’s a line worth pursuing.’

  ‘Yes, I agree, but I still want you to do the background checks on the students.’ McTavish’s mobile started ringing in her bag. She frowned once more, glanced at her bag and shifted as if about to reach for her phone. But instead she clasped her hands together and ignored it.

  She looked back at Carruthers before continuing. ‘Most attacks are carried out by people who the assailant knows so it’s perfectly normal to look into the private lives of the victim. I also want you to dig up anything you can find on Rachel’s father. His background, business affairs; any extramarital relations he may have had. It’s not savoury but it needs to be done. If you want to task Fletcher with that it’s fine by me. She’s a competent police officer. Anything at all. Okay?’

  There was a short rap at the door. Superintendent Bingham stood on the threshold, hand gripping the door frame.

  ‘Oh,’ Bingham stopped short, hovering. He looked at Carruthers then back at McTavish. ‘I didn’t realise you had company, Sandra.’ He looked at his newest DCI. ‘Have you got those reports I’ve asked for? On my desk by close of play, Friday. Can you manage that?’

  McTavish was quiet but she had started to twist her wedding ring on her finger. Carruthers wondered if this was a nervous habit.

  Bingham then stared at Carruthers before glancing back at McTavish
. ‘And if you can’t manage it you need to tell me. I’m not totally heartless. I realise you’re in the middle of a murder investigation so do what you can.’ He then stared at Carruthers with a disapproving look, before turning back to the new DCI. ‘But no stalling tactics. They don’t sit well with me.’ Bingham left the office, shutting the door behind him as he went.

  An annoyed McTavish glanced at a red-faced Carruthers. The unexpected look they exchanged was conspiratorial. McTavish almost had a ghost of a smile on her face until her mobile started to ring again. Then she just went back to looking harassed. The moment of newly found intimacy had passed.

  ‘You’ve got a lot of work on,’ said Carruthers. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  McTavish was busy retrieving her mobile from her bag when Carruthers shut the door behind him. He had already been forgotten.

  Carruthers stood by his desk in the open-plan office. He looked around him. The place was a hive of activity. Helen Lennox was cradling her phone while scribbling notes. Several DCs were taking calls. Even Brown was immersed in a file. Carruthers picked up his phone and called Fletcher.

  ‘Andie, are you still with Mr Abbie? Orders from McTavish. Take him back to his hotel and stay with him for a bit. Find out all you can about him and his daughter. See if you can pick up on what their relationship was really like; how he got on with his wife before her death, what line of work he is in – that kind of thing. And see if you can get any more information on those anonymous calls of his.’

  ‘Okay. No worries, Jim. Gayle’s going to meet me at the hotel. Mr Abbie has decided to stay in Castletown for a few days.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m sorry to have to ask these questions now, Mr Abbie.’ Fletcher looked at the silently weeping father who had just lost his only daughter. ‘But they’re important.’ She glanced at Gayle Watson, who nodded for Fletcher to take the lead.

  Mr Abbie was sitting on the one chair in his poky hotel room the other side of Castletown and the two police officers remained standing. The curtains were drawn, keeping the light out. Fletcher was reminded of the old-fashioned custom of drawing the curtains to announce a death in the family. She had an urge to open a window if for no other reason than it was stuffy and airless, but thought better of it. It was inappropriate. She noticed that Mr Abbie had a copy of the Bible on his bedside table. She wondered if it was his own. She wasn’t at all religious but she could see how it might give comfort to the grieving father.