Dark is the Day

by Tana Collins

  Fletcher walked over to Munroe’s writing desk and started going through his pile of paperwork. Mostly coursework. She noticed his grades weren’t that good. That tallied with what Mairi Beattie had said. She shifted the sheets of coursework, and underneath, found an unmarked file. She picked it up, puzzled, but when she opened it she got the shock of her life. There were newspaper clippings about his mother and father’s death. She turned to Watson. ‘I think I might have something.’ She took a seat and started reading. Her hand flew to her mouth when she read the details of his mother’s death. Some of the details were completely new to her. And she knew Carruthers didn’t know about them either. Finally, everything started to make sense.

  ‘What have you got?’

  Fletcher tore her gaze away from the article she was reading. ‘You know how his mother died from injuries received most likely from the father? Gayle, this newspaper article says his mother got slashed across the face before she was strangled. I thought she was beaten to death.’

  ‘Same MO as our victims.’

  Watson covered the space across the room quickly, looking over Fletcher’s shoulder at the article. ‘You saying what I think you are? That Davey Munroe murdered his own mother?’

  ‘I think it’s a possibility.’ She looked around her. ‘There must be more here. I feel we’re so close to nailing it.’ She walked across the thick rug towards the back of the room, whipping out her mobile from her bag as she did so. She couldn’t sit on their find. She needed to phone Carruthers and warn him. Her thoughts were now of Mairi Beattie. She had a bad feeling about her. Her foot squeaked as it hit a loose floorboard. She hesitated. Should she phone Jim first or continue with the search? She made her decision, and crouched down on her knees, placing her mobile on the floor. Gayle Watson glanced over as Fletcher ripped the rug up.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Can you give me a hand lifting the floorboard? It’s loose.’

  Watson walked over and joined her. Both her knees creaked as she squatted down. She pulled at the floorboard and it came up with not too much bother. Both women tried to peer into the darkness below.

  ‘We’re going to need a torch.’ As if by magic Watson produced a torch from her pocket, switched it on and shone it down in the blackness.

  Fletcher arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me you were in the Girl Guides?’

  Watson half smiled then resumed her search. She shrugged. ‘We knew we’d be searching the room so…’

  ‘I was going to use the torch on my mobile.’

  ‘Nothing like the real thing. There’s definitely something down here.’ She twisted her body so that she could get her arm at the right angle to explore the space. She yelped as she picked up nothing more than a splinter. Once more, she put her hand in the black space and resumed her search. ‘I’ve got something.’ With a flourish, she brought out a plastic bag which had been flattened to fit into the space. ‘Voila.’

  The two officers exchanged looks. Watson untied the bag and tipped the contents out onto the floor. Fletcher drew in a deep breath as they gazed at their booty. They had found what they were looking for. There, lying on the floor, was a clown mask, a bloodied shirt and a large matchbox. ‘What’s the betting the blood on that T-shirt will be a match for Sarah Torr?’

  Watson picked up the matchbox. ‘Does Munroe smoke?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not that I’m aware of.’ Fletcher looked around her. ‘There’s no sign of either cigarettes or ashtray in the bedroom.’

  ‘Do you want to do the honours, or do I?’ said Watson.

  Fletcher picked up the matchbox gingerly. ‘I’ll do it.’ Anxiously, she slid open the box and recoiled when she saw its contents. A severed finger – probably from Sarah Torr. She could smell the overpowering scent of death. But there was also something else in the box, wrapped carefully in tissue paper. With a pounding heart, Fletcher picked up the object and unwrapped it. When she saw what it was she was glad to be wearing gloves. It was discoloured and shrivelled but still recognisable. A second fingertip.

  Watson dropped the torch, leapt up and pulled her mobile out of her trouser pocket. ‘I’ll call Jim.’

  Fletcher nodded before speaking. ‘Gayle?’

  The older woman looked down at her colleague, worry etched on her face.

  ‘You’d better tell him we haven’t found the knife.’ As Watson made the call, Fletcher silently stared at the damning evidence that would hopefully help put Davey Munroe away for a very long time.

  Carruthers drove like a madman on the twisting dark country roads to the village of Ceres. All he could think of was that Mairi had a serial killer in her house and that she was going to die on her own and that he would be too late to save her. He felt a lump in his throat. He took a deep breath and blinked back the tears. The car bounced as he hit a pot hole and he felt the vibration in the steering wheel. This was no good. He needed to get a grip and to get both him and his car there in one piece. He didn’t want to have an accident. He took some deep breaths to steady his nerves and purposefully tried to slow down.

  He arrived outside her house and jumped out of his car, leaving the door open. He noticed a curtain twitch in the next cottage and then the front door opened. A rotund, red-faced man in his seventies opened the door and beckoned him inside.

  ‘Are you police? I made the call about my next-door neighbour, Mairi Beattie. My name’s Malcolm Duggan.’

  Carruthers took out his ID badge. The man nodded and continued to talk. ‘There’s definitely someone in the house with her but I dinnae think it’s her boyfriend. I’m worried about her. She didnae sound right when I spoke to her. She sounded scared.’

  ‘Did you try to see her?’

  ‘Aye, but she wouldnae open the door. Said she couldnae get to the door, but somehow it just didn’t feel right. That’s why I phoned you lot.’

  ‘You did the right thing. It’s important to listen to your gut feeling. Have you got a spare key to her property?’ As he spoke, Carruthers kept an eye on Mairi’s house, but all was silent. The hall light was on but all the other rooms were in darkness. He didn’t want to think about what he might find on the other side of the door. Was he already too late?

  ‘Aye. Not to the front door though. I’ve got the key to the back.’

  ‘That’s even better.’ Carruthers followed him inside. He was forming a plan that might just work. Malcolm was going to have to play a crucial part, though. He hoped the older man was up to it.

  His mobile rang, a shrill noise. It was Watson. She sounded breathless. And excited. ‘Jim, we’ve got it. The mask, and the fingers. There were two of them. The second is older. Could be his mother’s. They were hidden in a plastic bag under the floorboards in Davey Munroe’s bedroom, along with a shirt soaked in blood, but we haven’t found the knife.’

  While Carruthers knew that finding the fingers, mask and shirt weren’t actual proof of Munroe’s guilt, he knew instinctively they were one step closer to nailing him.

  Watson was breathless as she spoke. ‘I’m giving them to forensics ASAP. With a bit of luck, the mask might have some DNA on it from when Serena Davis tried to rip it off, and the blood’s a likely match with that of Sarah Torr. Is Mairi okay?’

  Was she okay? He was still to find out. ‘I need to go.’ He cut the call.

  Carruthers took the back door key from Malcolm. He then called again for back-up, and got reassurance that there was finally a unit on its way. Carruthers knew he should wait for them to arrive and he also knew he should call DCI McTavish and touch base with her. He was breaking every rule in the book, but with a killer on the loose, and now most likely threatening his ex-wife, every second was vital.

  He crept round the back of the property, cursing that he hadn’t had a chance to see the layout of the house. But then again Mairi hadn’t wanted him in her home.

  Carefully, he unlocked the back door, and inch by inch turned the handle. A few seconds later he found himself standing in Mairi’s kitc
hen. Silhouettes from the street lamps cast their eerie glow across the worktops. He fumbled for his mobile phone, put it to silent and shone the light on it in order to see better. He strained his ears to catch any sounds in the house. He heard a male and female voice in another room and breathed a sigh of relief. The female voice was Mairi’s. She was still alive.

  This was madness, being in the house without back-up, but he did have one thing in his favour: the element of surprise. Voices suddenly grew louder. They were coming his way. He heard a mobile phone ring and a male voice hissing for Mairi to leave it.

  Mairi needed to keep Davey Munroe talking. It was her only hope. She couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, but she had to feign interest. ‘Tell me about why you killed these students? What had they ever done to you?’

  ‘They’re women. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Well, they were university students. Is that relevant?’

  ‘Why would it be?’

  ‘It’s not because they’re women at university taking up places that could be taken by male students?’ She remembered that there was a case back in 1991 when a male student had turned a gun on women engineering students at a Canadian university. He had asked all the men to stand up and leave first. Then he’d opened fire on the women. She wondered if some of those men still suffered survivor’s guilt and how their lives had turned out after witnessing such unspeakable horror.

  ‘Women remind me of my mother. She was weak.’

  Once again, a mobile phone started ringing in the house. Mairi wondered if it was Brian, her new boyfriend. He should be here by now. She hoped it wasn’t him phoning to say he was going to be late, or worse, needing to cancel.

  ‘Leave that phone,’ Munroe hissed.

  ‘So why was your mother weak? Because she didn’t stand up to your father?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘But why travel to Scotland and kill here?’

  ‘My mother was Scottish.’

  That explained the red hair and freckles. But surely that couldn’t be the only reason.

  There was a knock on the front door. Mairi’s heart soared. It must be Brian. She then heard the sound of the letterbox being lifted. The noise startled both Mairi and Davey Munroe. ‘Mairi, it’s Malcolm again, hen.’ As soon as she heard his voice Mairi felt a ray of hope. He obviously had picked up in her voice that something was seriously wrong. ‘Can you open the door? Sorry to be a bother. I’m just a wee bit worried about you.’ Keeping the knife behind his back, Davey walked Mairi closer to the door.

  As Mairi and Davey were distracted with Malcolm yelling through the letterbox, Carruthers strode swiftly through the kitchen and out into the hall.

  At the last moment, before Carruthers could take advantage of the element of surprise, his foot crunched on what sounded like broken glass. Davey Munroe heard the noise and swivelled round to face Carruthers. He tightened his grip on Mairi and moved the knife from behind his back to her throat.

  ‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll slash her throat.’

  Carruthers backed off a couple of steps, heart in his mouth. He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender as he took in the butcher’s boning knife. ‘Don’t hurt her.’

  Davey now had his back to the front door. Out of the corner of his eye Carruthers saw the letterbox flap fall. His heart sank. His plan for Malcolm to distract Davey long enough for him to unarm the student had backfired. Sick to his heart, he stood where he was. What the hell was he going to do now?

  Keeping his eye on the suspect he said evenly, ‘Let Mairi go, Davey. It’s finished. Give yourself in to the police.’

  With his back still to the front door Davey tightened his grip on Mairi. ‘You won’t be doing anything to me while I’ve got her – your ex-wife.’

  Carruthers wondered if the student was on drugs. He was seriously pumped. He watched the spittle form at the side of his mouth when he talked.

  ‘And it’s pretty obvious you’ve still got feelings for her, otherwise why are you here?’

  ‘I’m a police officer. That’s why I’m here.’ An image of DCI McTavish came into Carruthers’ mind, hands on hips, wagging her finger at him, telling him quite rightly he was too close to the case. Yet again he’d gone charging in. He hadn’t even kept McTavish informed of his actions. He wondered briefly if Fletcher had said anything to her.

  Carruthers saw a movement behind Davey. The flap of the letterbox was being pushed back up. Horrified, Carruthers saw the barrel of a gun appear. What the hell was Malcolm doing, if it was indeed Malcolm? He couldn’t see the person on the end of it.

  Before Carruthers had a chance to shout a warning there was a crack, followed by a scream of pain. Davey fell to the ground, hit in the back of the leg. The knife shot out of Davey’s hand and skittered across the floor. Carruthers rushed forward, seized the knife from the ground, before grabbing Mairi, who fell into his arms, sobbing.

  As he hugged his shaking ex-wife close, he could see over the top of her head Davey trying to drag himself to a standing position. A well-executed kick from Carruthers brought him back to his knees. At that moment, Mairi’s next-door neighbour came lumbering through her kitchen into the hall, drawing up short when he saw Davey prostrate on the floor covered in blood.

  ‘I got him,’ shouted Malcolm. ‘My army training came in useful after all. That’ll teach the wee shite.’

  Chapter 32

  Tuesday

  Carruthers and McTavish sat opposite Davey Munroe in hospital. Carruthers stared at the baby-faced killer. He wondered what had turned a freckle-faced boy into a monster and, ultimately, a murderer. Good looks and charm, of course, were no barrier to sadistic murder. Just look at Ted Bundy.

  Carruthers considered what dark forces lay behind the veneer of respectability. ‘So why did you do it? Why did you kill them?’

  Davey just shrugged.

  It was startling looking at the background of some of the world’s worst serial killers, thought Carruthers, just how disturbed their childhoods had been. So many of them had either been abused as youngsters by their parents or had been abandoned by parents who often had drug and alcohol problems. But not all of them.

  Of course, they now knew much more about Davey. How he’d been living in Canada with his family. How his father had got the young Davey involved in the Church of Scientology after the youngster had had a breakdown. And how Davey had rebelled and left the church. After that, perhaps it was inevitable he’d always be anti-religion. He wondered what Davey’s experience of Scientology had been like.

  ‘You might as well tell us,’ Carruthers urged. ‘Tell us your side of things. After all, you’re going to prison for a very long time, Davey. And if we still had the death penalty you’d be hanging for these crimes. But answer one question first. Were you in it alone or did Mary-Lou Gettier put you up to it?’

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Mary-Lou Gettier looked up at Fletcher and Watson, who were conducting her interview.

  As Fletcher looked at the Canadian, she critically assessed the younger woman, noting the similarities in looks between the student and the long dead Russian émigré who had started the movement of Objectivism.

  Watson looked at the younger woman keenly. ‘We want to know what part you’ve played in the deaths of Rachel Abbie and Sarah Torr and in the assault of Serena Davis.’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘But you do know them?’ urged Fletcher.

  ‘Sure, I met them a few times. Castletown’s a small place.’

  ‘What’s your relationship with Davey Munroe?’ urged Fletcher. Are you sleeping with him?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business but, yeah, we’re having a sexual relationship, but he’s not my boyfriend. It’s a casual thing.’

  Fletcher leant forward. ‘So, you’re sleeping with other people too?’

  The Canadian student turned away from them and stared at the wall. ‘That really is none of your business.’

  �
�This is a murder enquiry and everything is our business.’ Fletcher riffled through her little black notebook. ‘We’ll need to know where you were for each of the murders.’

  Mary-Lou Gettier looked at Fletcher and frowned. ‘I have alibis for both murders and the assault. You can’t possibly think I’ve had a hand in them.’

  ‘Oh, but you have, Mary-Lou, whether directly or inadvertently. What we want to know is who is the mastermind behind them? You or Davey Munroe? You know he’s in love with you, don’t you?’

  Mary-Lou crossed her arms. ‘I’m not responsible for who falls in love with me, am I?’

  Fletcher tried a different tack. ‘You’re an Objectivist?’

  ‘Yes, but then so’s a whole heap of other folk and I don’t see them being hauled in here for questioning. It’s one of the fastest growing movements in North America. You’re just victimising me cos I’m a follower of Ayn Rand.’

  Fletcher was starting to dislike this assured young woman. ‘You started a branch of the movement here at the university? Davey Munroe was a member. What about Serena Davis and Rachel Abbie? Were they ever members?’

  ‘Having membership isn’t illegal. There’s a global Objectivist club network all over the world. And just for the record, neither Serena Davis nor Rachel Abbie were members, despite Davey’s recruitment drive. We have twenty-five members to date and I don’t recall seeing their names listed.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Watson, ‘but you know who they are, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure, but that doesn’t make me guilty of a crime.’

  Fletcher remained silent, letting Watson have her turn.

  Watson jabbed her open notebook with her black pen. ‘We wondered what linked all those unfortunate women who got attacked. After all, they weren’t all studying the same subject. Although Rachel Abbie and Sarah Torr were studying philosophy, Serena Davis was an art student. But then we sussed there must be a connection when we found books by Ayn Rand in both the bedrooms of Rachel and Serena.’