A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  ‘Can you find the rapist?’ Garcia asked. ‘Any evidence?’

  ‘Not that we can see. We’re still processing the tests taken from her at the hospital. If we assume there’s been DNA transfer from him to her, we still won’t know until we get comparisons.’

  ‘A johnny?’ proposed Carter.

  ‘We didn’t find one. No semen either. He cleared up afterwards.’

  ‘Right,’ Carter summed up. ‘There are two theories, as I read it. One, they came here together; the other, they came here separately. I know she took a taxi into town, but how did she get from there to here? We’ll have to check the other cabs to confirm if she used one, but you’re speculating that she might have come here willingly. On her own, to be raped by a stranger in a dark graveyard.’

  11

  Dalry Burial Ground

  Leaving the CSEs to their work, Carter and Garcia strolled around the graveyard.

  For Carter, the feel of Dalry Burial Ground wasn’t the same as Old Calton, where Kelsa rested. While both were decrepit, Calton Burial Ground had history, the famous names, the eye of the Council, and those like his father-in-law to keep the city honest. There’d be no pauper’s grave for the likes of Dunsmuir. Dalry, on the other hand, fell into an outside-tourism orbit and was left to police itself.

  ‘What reason would he choose to attack her here?’ Garcia asked him, noticing that he seemed content to wander through the graveyard in silence.

  ‘Convenience, maybe.’

  This cemetery was on three levels: a top section cosying up to Dundee Street and a bottom section slowly sinking onto Dalry Road. The middle tier boasted an impressive neo-Gothic terrace, dug into the hill’s slope, decaying with grandeur equal to that of ancient royalty. Carter was no expert on architecture, but it had clearly been built to last because everything else around it was crumbling. Its centrepiece was a zigzag set of double sandstone steps, damp with lichen and used as a canvas by spray artists. Left and right, Gothic arches protruded, of the kind found in churches. Dual entrances to Hades, now blocked by black railings, as if to prevent a mass escape of the undead. Unfortunately, as the first defence against the zombie apocalypse, it failed, as significant quantities of human detritus scattered inside the railings attested.

  Carter grasped the irons like a prisoner and shook them, scanning the interior of discarded cans, beer bottles and food wrappings for signs of current occupancy. Collapsed stone inside spelt danger, but some light filtered down from above.

  ‘Why are we still here?’ Garcia tried again to reach him. ‘Is there something else we could do? Taking her phone to the techs?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, but followed up, ‘I’m trying to get a feel for him. He knows things about me he shouldn’t know. He’s targeting me and I’d like to know why.’

  ‘You think you’ll find the answer here?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  They tramped up the damp steps of the mid-tier and surveyed the graveyard from the whole length of the terrace. An abundance of mature trees; chestnut, elm, sycamore and plain, with pine bushes filling in the gaps. Bramble and thicket, lush in summer, provided ground foliage, sucking up the rich nutrients provided by the decaying human corpses deep in the soil.

  ‘We can trace him from the message he sent to Alice’s phone, yes?’ she asked. ‘With phones, this is possible, surely?’

  ‘If it was that easy, he’d be arrested already. He’s using a messaging app I’ve never seen before. We have to wait until he tells us more – and he will. In the meantime, all we have to work with is Alice, and she’s not saying much. But if we could find out where she’s been, we might find traces of him too.’

  Some gravestones stood out; two-foot-high rectangles hewn and polished from grey granite: the resting places of soldiers killed in the Great War. Whoever had pushed over the hundreds of other stones had the respect to leave these ones untouched. In this garden of weeping angels, it was peaceful. At the same time, outside the high walls, heavy traffic rumbled through an ambivalent world.

  ‘Is there a “J” in your life?’ she mused. ‘You mentioned “Johnny” earlier?’

  Carter laughed. ‘You’re Spanish, right?’

  ‘My mother was English.’ Her dark eyes were full of Iberian tension. ‘But I was born and raised in Andalucía.’ She felt Carter was dissing her.

  ‘It’s Scottish slang term for a condom. One of many.’

  ‘Ha. A goma.’ Garcia didn’t seem embarrassed by the mistake. It broke the ice between them, and she laughed with him.

  Daylight was fading and being here reminded Carter too much of Kelsa’s funeral. Across on the east side, the CSEs were packing up. The white tent was gone already, leaving crime-scene tape behind as a pathetic deterrent.

  ‘I think it’s time we left,’ he replied, pulling the collar of his Crombie around his neck.

  They exited upwards, onto Dundee Street, crossing the busy arterial road, taking the steps up to the footbridge. Made from post-war iron painted industrial grey, with large round-headed rivets, its splashes of red primer paint reminded him of weeping sores. The bridge was another spray canvas for street gangs. The graffiti was another kind of deterrent, more frightening and vicious than the flimsy blue tape Police Scotland’s accountants preferred.

  ‘Alice fell from this bridge into the traffic below,’ Carter described it for Garcia. ‘Was she pushed or did she jump? If she jumped, what motivated her to do it? Climbing over this barrier is more difficult than it looks. I felt the delicacy of her hand when I held it in the hospital, there was no evidence of metal or paint flakes on her skin. She’s petite, and for a big man, throwing her over the parapet might be possible. But why would she let him do it?’

  He took out his phone and tapped her postcode into Google Maps.

  ‘Her flat is about half a mile away,’ he squinted at the phone in the semi-darkness. ‘Crossing this bridge could be a shortcut for her if she’d been in a bar or restaurant in Gorgie or Dalry. The missing hours between seven-thirty p.m. and two a.m. should tell us how she got here.’

  ‘Where did she meet this Johnny?’

  Garcia had voiced what Carter was thinking.

  12

  Babysitter

  Carter drove back to St Leonard’s station and dropped DC Garcia off just after 6 p.m.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Get Alice’s phone into the hands of our techs,’ he said, driving off without waiting for her acknowledgement.

  It was no more than a ten-minute drive to Hermitage of Braid on the city’s south side. Hermitage Drive was wider than most residential streets in the capital and was populated by expensive mansions. He parked across the road from his in-laws home, an early twentieth-century pile with pencil towers and elongated windows designed and built in the Glasgow Style. Ivy covered its walls, adding thousands to the market price. He walked up the broad pathway, rang the big bell push and hammered on the solid-wood double doors with his fist.

  The door was opened by the maid who’d answered his phone call in the morning. Nathaniel was asleep, she said, inviting him in. She led him through a small maze of corridors, opened the door of a chilly room and asked him to sit while she fetched Sheriff Dunsmuir.

  Five minutes passed, then a man in his sixties entered, sporting a hawk nose and bald head with thinning grey hair at the side. Wearing a classic grey suit and patterned country shirt with a New Club tie, he was bent slightly at the shoulders, making him six inches shorter than Carter. But his chiselled jaw was set, and his grey eyes were blazing with indignation at the intrusion.

  ‘What do you want, Lachlan?’

  ‘I’m here to collect Nathaniel,’ Carter replied, angered by his father-in-law’s tone.

  ‘That won’t be possible. He’s asleep,’ snapped James Dunsmuir.

  ‘He’ll be in his Moses basket. He won’t wake.’

  James Dunsmuir paused for breath as if considering some flawed logic put forward by a witness in his court.

  ‘Wait
here,’ he said, walking out of the room.

  He returned quicker than Carter expected – without Nathaniel.

  ‘I have papers for you,’ he said, coming over all business-like. ‘Drawn up by our family lawyer. Kelsa took legal advice in the months before she died. Obviously, I couldn’t act for her.’

  ‘She said nothing to me about a lawyer,’ Carter was puzzled. ‘Why did she need advice?’

  ‘He drew up her will and represented her in court,’ Dunsmuir said, ignoring Carter’s point, ‘once she was no longer able to attend herself.’

  ‘Court?’

  ‘She knew she was dying and wanted arrangements put in place, of course.’

  ‘Arrangements?’ Carter sat forwards, feeling unbalanced by the conversation.

  ‘For after death. She expressed a wish that Nathaniel be brought up by us, in a safe and stable—’

  ‘What?’ Carter leapt to his feet. ‘She can’t do that. I’m his father. He stays with me.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ insisted Dunsmuir, waving a bound folder as his defence. ‘I have here a temporary residence order issued by Sheriff Robertson four weeks ago. We are now the guardians of Nathaniel James Dunsmuir and will bring him up as we see fit.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Carter stared at his father-in-law in disbelief. ‘We’d agreed that I’d pick him up after the funeral. But you never felt it important to mention this residency order then, did you? What does Judith have to say about this?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Dunsmuir replied calmly, ignoring Carter’s question about his wife. ‘It wasn’t appropriate then. It is now.’

  Carter circled the room, unable to comprehend what was happening. Slowly, it sunk in that he was being stitched up. He rushed towards Dunsmuir in anger and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. ‘Just a fucking minute.’ His spittle peppered the old man’s face. ‘You’re telling me that Kelsa consulted you behind my back, to plan the future of our son? Your dead hand is all over this.’

  Dunsmuir’s eyes threatened to pop from their sockets. ‘Release me this instant, Lachlan, or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘I am the fucking police!’

  ‘You won’t be for much longer if you don’t let me go.’

  ‘I have paternal rights,’ Carter said, releasing the old man after a decent few seconds. ‘Why wasn’t I consulted?’

  ‘Scots law allows for exceptional circumstances, and they were put before the court. Kelsa was dying but confirmed she was of sound mind. In the matter of parental rights, she attested that the father expressed no interest in the child and could not be trusted. Sheriff Robertson accepted that the wishes articulated in her will overcame all objections then issued a judgement that the order could proceed.’

  ‘What?’ Carter stopped in his tracks, holding his hands out wide. ‘She said I couldn’t be trusted?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘And when were you planning to inform me of these “wishes”?’ The shock had started to wear off.

  ‘You are hearing them now. The formal reading of her will is soon. Before that event can happen, she left instructions that you receive her share of your joint home. Plus, a cash sum of two hundred thousand pounds and various personal items. Conditional on you not contesting the order.’

  ‘You’re bribing me to disown my son?’

  ‘Of course, you are free to seek legal advice and challenge the residency at court. However, I advise you to think carefully about that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Perhaps, if he was older when she died, things might have been different. But Nathaniel should grow up believing we are his blood parents. Just as you did, Lachlan. But unlike yours, his education will be first-class.’

  ‘Fuck you, Dunsmuir.’

  James Dunsmuir ignored the jibe, knowing he’d won the argument. He opened the folder one last time and presented Carter with an envelope. ‘She asked me to give you this letter after her internment.’

  Carter handled the envelope as if it was poison. Kelsa’s scrawl was clear on the front.

  ‘Open only when you understand.’

  The back was sealed with her scarlet kiss. His anger flared again. ‘You might have residency, but I want access to my son.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said the older man.

  Carter turned on his heel and stormed out of the small room, pulling the door open so hard the handle dented the solid wall.

  ‘I advise you not to come back, Lachlan. There is nothing here for you.’

  Carter stumbled through the dim corridors trying to find his way out. A well-dressed elderly gentleman holding a glass of whisky veered into his path. Carter barged through, causing Old Boy to crumple against a wall. Reaching the front door, he wrenched it open, then turned to Dunsmuir who was helping Old Boy back to his feet.

  ‘At her funeral yesterday. A dark-haired woman wearing a St Christopher pendant was there, about my age,’ Carter said. ‘Who was she?’

  Dunsmuir didn’t even look at him. ‘There was no such woman.’

  ‘She hung back at the end after you’d all gone.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. And you were not to attend—’

  But Carter had already disappeared into the night.

  13

  Action Man

  Carter sat in his lounge for hours with his Xbox turned on, staring at the screen. The game was paused as he slowly exhausted the Balvenie Doublewood. Eventually, he abandoned the game and dragged himself upstairs, trying to douse the embers of his frustration. Despite the large intake of whisky in its purest legal form, images of Kelsa, with her full dark hair and scarlet lips, nudged him awake whenever his eyes drooped. At 1.58 a.m. – at least six hours until his next scheduled appointment with a living human, he got out of bed. An endurance test he knew he’d pass, but the waiting would tick over with agonising slowness.

  Liberton had been their chosen suburb on the southern outskirts of Edinburgh: a community of families with children, nurseries, schools, parks, a golf club and a smattering of shops. Town was only thirty minutes away by bus, the Royal Infirmary a few minutes’ drive east. They’d bought a newish three-bed detached house with an integral garage. The front and back gardens were of a decent, child-rearing size, and inside the partitions were painted job-lot cream. An ‘executive villa’, touted the brochure when they’d pooled their resources fifteen months ago; the perfect place to start a new family. Kelsa had had a list of requirements to tick off. He’d had only one: a view of Arthur’s Seat and Castle Rock from at least one window.

  Their new home was far removed from the tiny miner’s cottage in Gorebridge where Carter had been raised, but so soon his dream had become a nightmare. The Liberton house reeked of her. The stench of Calvin Klein’s Obsession permeated the walls, and she stalked him nightly, hiding in cupboards and in other unexpected places like a tenant ghost. Their bedroom, now her exclusive lair, was off-limits since she’d passed. Instead, his nights were spent semi-comatose in the back bedroom. He’d sell in the spring. She would always be in his heart, but he couldn’t clear her out just yet.

  Casting off the bedsheets – approaching the fourth week without a change – he started to dress. Such scumminess would never be allowed if she was here. One week tops and sheets always changed after sex. Despite his attempts to limit her presence in the house, many reminders remained. Pictures of them in Las Vegas, taken at their wedding, punctuated the walls, upstairs and down. Professional images of her photogenic gaze and long dark hair that changed the shape of her face if she wore it curled or straight. As he finished dressing in old clothes, he stared at each picture in turn. She wore sunglasses in some; in others, her dark eyes dominated the frame. She was serious, funny, happy, sad, pensive and brooding, in both colour and monochrome. ‘Enigmatic’ summed her up. Carter was in most shots too, standing just behind her as if he’d photobombed a celebrity. Unless he could find a way forward in the coming weeks, he’d be imprisoned in Room 101 with his ultimate nightmare for a long time.
>
  Nathaniel’s room was full of baby stuff: an empty crib, packs of nappies, baby clothes, toys and teddies, a pram, a mobile hanging from the ceiling – all stilled. Both mum and baby had vanished, leaving him behind to soak up the aftermath. He had no idea how to stem the subtle flow of grief that infected him. Downstairs, he buttoned his Crombie coat over a cable-knit jumper and jeans and climbed into the Smart car, knowing he was well over the drink-driving limit, but the hell with it.

  He drove back to the home of his in-laws and parked the car on Hermitage Drive in almost exactly the same spot he’d parked a few hours ago. He was convinced of his mission – that the Dunsmuirs would have no choice but to concede to his plan to save their public face. His breath froze in the cold air as he got out of the car. He crossed the street, pushed back the wrought-iron gate, strode up the pathway with purpose and confronted the black doors that had earlier allowed him entry. His fist hammered on the ancient wood.

  ‘Dunsmuir, you old bastard, I demand to see my son.’ His slurred shouty voice echoed back at him from the cold walls. He kicked the door with the sole of his boot and kept kicking when there was no answer. ‘Nathaniel, I’m your father.’ Carter pummelled the doors again with his fists, then stood back, looking up at the ivy-clad windows. ‘Dunsmuir, you have no right to keep my boy from me.’ The mansion’s door remained resolutely shut, so he slumped on the cold steps, his voice falling low, justifying his actions to himself. ‘I just want to see him. It’s not a crime, is it? I just want to see my beautiful boy.’

  He sat there, defeated, head on his knees until the tears flowed. Half an hour later, the doors stood just as firm and uncaring. Carter picked himself up.

  ‘I gave you a chance to right this wrong. You ignored me, so I’m leaving, but it doesn’t end here. You can’t keep him forever.’