A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  ‘Can you read texts or listen to calls?’

  ‘No, not from this analysis. We’d need an actual phone to read texts and scan the calls list. Listening to live calls is banned.’

  ‘Ha,’ she snorted. ‘What are we going to make with it?’

  ‘We’re going to conference Gavin Roy, the guy who will examine Alice’s computer for us. He’s our lead forensic computer tech. He pulled the mobile analysis together for me.’

  Carter dialled the number. Roy’s Glasgow growl leapt from the speaker.

  ‘Leccy. What’s your problem?’

  ‘Gavin, I’ve got Constable Charli Garcia here, she’s working with me on the Deacon case.’

  ‘Hi Gavin,’ Garcia said. ‘The data you sent over is amazing.’

  ‘It’s just a pile of shite if you don’t know how to interpret it,’ he replied. ‘What do you need, Leccy?’

  ‘I want to go back to when she arrived at the pub. Can we do that with this data set or do we need a refresh?’

  ‘No refresh,’ Roy said. He explained to Carter how to make the adjustments to the program.

  ‘Cool,’ said Carter, making the changes.

  ‘I ran it a few times myself at high-speed,’ said Roy. ‘Ms Deacon has an InterMide account, and it seemed to me many others around her did too. An above-average number. It’s just a hunch really. Nothing more to say on the SMS nano-app. I’ll call you when I’ve got something useful.’

  Dr Flowers walked into the room. She spotted Carter and Garcia and came over. Carter left Garcia to work the data while he and Flowers sat in an empty meeting pod.

  ‘How was your meeting with the Chief?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual corporate political stuff,’ she replied casually.

  ‘DCI McKinlay wants a quick win,’ Carter said, getting to his point. ‘If I don’t deliver she’ll put me back on bereavement at the end of the week.’

  ‘I’ve just been the ball in her game of ping-pong with the Chief Super. She’d spent the last few weeks challenging the value of everything I’ve done. At the same time, the Chief was delighted with the foundation work I’ve completed for his mental health initiative. Now it’s all changed. He wants me gone, and she wants to keep me!’

  ‘Welcome to Police Scotland,’ Carter applauded. ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘No decision yet. Anything new on the Deacon case?’

  ‘Still haven’t got any solid suspects. So, it’s back to the drawing board with the mobile data. Charli’s going to run that for me.’

  He hesitated, not sure how to dance around his predicament or walk off the dance floor. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about, related to Alice’s case. On Sunday, I discovered my house had been broken into while I was up town.’

  ‘God, Leccy,’ Flowers said, shocked. ‘What was stolen?’

  ‘It was what was left behind that caused the grief. J is twisting the knife in my back about his affair with my wife.’

  48

  Call Me Carter

  Recounting the truth to a psychologist was only going to show Carter how flawed his character really was. ‘The love of my life, whom I thought to be my perfect wife, was a back-stabbing, lying, cheating, devious bitch.’

  ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ Dr Flowers flipped to psychologist mode.

  For the next twenty minutes, he explained the recent spate of texts and the knickers and the stocking, icing the facts with his new-found views on wife and mistress. He laid out what had happened in his home the night before. Once he’d exhausted himself, he felt better. A bitch shared is a bitch halved.

  ‘Rocketman suggested the psychological side is your territory,’ Carter said.

  ‘Who’s Rocketman?’

  ‘CTO Davey Johnstone, Head of Forensic Science for E Division.’

  ‘What did he say, exactly?’

  ‘Classic over-confident cunt. Quote.’

  ‘Because of the method of delivery of the items of underwear?’

  ‘Yes. And the text messages. Here’s last night’s communiqué. He’s not erased it. I assume he wants me to pass it around. While you’ve got my phone, look at the photos I took of what he did to the pictures hanging in Kelsa’s bedroom.’

  After a few minutes, she handed back the phone. ‘I’ve never seen the emoji thing before, but it does fit the mindset of a psychopath. Only your eyes are covered – why not hers too?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re investigating Alice Deacon. What’s Kelsa’s death got to do with her?’

  ‘I used Alice’s case files to get Kelsa’s knickers tested for DNA,’ Carter said. ‘Only you, me and Rocketman know that, so keep it quiet.’

  ‘And all this evidence is where?’

  ‘Physical artefacts are in FOC Fettes, including Kelsa’s knickers. Other photos, mobile snaps, witness and suspect names, written assessments, facts and conjecture about Alice are documented in ICRS under her case number. You are not to tell DCI McKinlay about the knickers and stocking, otherwise – to quote the bard – “we’re all in the shite”. All means you too.’

  ‘I don’t have access to ICRS,’ Flowers said.

  He reached across the table, keyed in his credentials and gave her the keyboard. Another thirty minutes passed slowly.

  Eventually, Carter needed to hear her assessment. ‘What do you think?’

  She sat back in her chair. ‘It would be easy to jump to conclusions straight away. I may have to do some research, as there’s quite a lot around about psychopathic personalities and how they present and what they mean. But I doubt you care about a clinical diagnosis just so I can pigeonhole him between Fred West and Peter Sutcliffe. What you want is a name and address.’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, wishing he could strangle the bastard right here and now.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. J clearly isn’t your average bloke getting a wee thrill from an illicit shag now and again. He wants you to suffer from Kelsa’s infidelity, but he doesn’t want to be discovered too early because that would end his game. He’s dangerous. He has trophies, and the reason for keeping trophies is for his personal pleasure and manipulating his victims’ relatives. He’ll get high by revelling in your pain and angst. You said no crime could be proved, but what about stalking? I’d say the primary objective is to get him off the streets before he does somebody else. He’ll likely do it again, whether you ignore him or not.

  ‘But this all started with Alice. Mason is sure I’m linked to J too,’ said Carter. ‘J is sending the texts, and he’s connected to Kelsa, other than being her lover. Look at this text ‘but for you to find me you must go where you’ve never been.’ What does that mean?’

  ‘Is Alice connected to Kelsa in any way?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘You’ve got unknown DNA on Kelsa’s knickers. What DNA do you have on Alice’s evidence?’

  ‘Nothing. Rocketman thinks he’s done this before and has developed procedures.’

  ‘Meaning he’s not on Dundee’s criminal DNA database. What about England and Wales? Or Northern Ireland?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Carter. ‘PNC access hasn’t been requested yet.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to share this news about Kelsa with DCI McKinlay?’ Dr Flowers counselled.

  ‘I’ve broken procedure and could face disciplinary action for using State assets for personal use. Fired without compunction is the most likely outcome. The evidence is categorised under Alice Deacon, and I can’t un-categorise it unless he delivers more important items or makes a mistake.’

  ‘So as it stands,’ she confirmed, counting on her fingers, ‘you have to find him, catch him, make him confess and book him up, all on your own, otherwise eventually, you, me and Rocketman are seriously fucked and will never, ever, work in law enforcement again. Nice one, Leccy.’

  ‘What about this rhyme?’ Carter replied to get off the topic of shame and disgrace.

  ‘Classic riddle that means s
omething through your relationship with him, Alice or Kelsa. It could be literal, but most likely it’s obscure, designed to make you chase your tail and drive you down rabbit holes. He might even send half a dozen more before it begins to make sense.’

  ‘So we just wait?’ Carter thought that was the wrong answer.

  ‘No, we try and work it through, because it might be simpler than it appears. Your notes say that Rocketman said the first line was from “Fiddler on the Roof”. At first glance, for me anyway, he wants you to match the stocking, and the match would be to the stocking you don’t have.’

  ‘I’ve assumed he’s got it,’ said Carter. ‘There was no other solo in Kelsa’s drawer.’

  ‘Reasonable assumption,’ she replied carefully. ‘In which case you can’t match it unless he gives it to you. Following this line, he wants you to find it, meaning he once had it, but now he doesn’t.’

  ‘It’s hidden somewhere?’

  ‘Could be, and the second line might be a clue to the location. “If I give you my number, will you promise to call me? Wait till my husband’s away”.’

  ‘I thought it was a phone number,’ said Carter, after ten minutes of kicking other options around and discounting them.

  ‘You have a database full of numbers, could he mean one of those?’ Flowers was getting irritated with their lack of progress. ‘Or do we go back to the first line and think of another angle?’

  ‘Charli called the twenty-eight phone numbers close enough to Alice in the bar. She spoke to everyone, except a Joe Moore. But following your line, he wants me to call him. How would he know it’s me calling?’

  ‘Maybe he already has your phone number. He had Kelsa’s underwear and possibly a key to your house. What other personal items you don’t yet know about? I want to research this, see what comes up.’

  ‘Can you research it here? My user profile has internet access.’ Letting Flowers do her own thing unsupervised might take days he didn’t have.

  ‘OK,’ she said, a bit weary. ‘Let’s try putting the whole second line into Google, see if there are any references.’

  She typed it in and pressed enter.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped.

  49

  Doing the Right Thing

  Jacky Dodds was scared and anxious and had been wandering the streets aimlessly for a long time. He couldn’t go back home; the cops would arrest him. And his sister would be angry that he’d embarrassed her again. He’d no idea what he’d done this time, but that didn’t seem to matter. They always came for him.

  The sky darkened. Cold rain fell in big drops. He ignored it, preferring to get soaked than seek shelter. Keeping moving was the only way to stay ahead. He hadn’t eaten since Friday when he’d run away from the copper. There was a soup kitchen in the Cowgate, just five minutes away, but they were police informers.

  He worried about the woman in the pub. She was no more than a girl, really. She shouldn’t have been there. It upset him and made him nervous. Girls teased him because they knew what was wrong about him, and that made it worse. She had stared at him all the time, reading his mind the way girls do. He still had the phone in the pocket of his jacket that wasn’t his. When she went to the toilet, he’d had to leave the bar and was to keep the phone on and switch it off once he got home.

  The copper had spooked him, asking questions about her. He couldn’t remember what he’d said to the copper but knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. When Mr Logan came round to his flat, he told him about her. Mr Logan was angry and pushed him about, slapped his face, said he wouldn’t be allowed back in the bar until he learned to do the right thing.

  Soon after Mr Logan left, while he was still thinking about what ‘doing the right thing’ meant, Justin turned up. He hated Justin, all the way back to when they were at school together. Justin always picked on him and called him an idiot. Mr Logan could say bad things, but when he calmed down, he’d tell Jacky he was a good man, and he’d look after him. Justin asked him to do things that Mr Logan wanted doing, but Mr Logan never asked him to do those things, so he was confused. Mr Logan said he’d speak to Justin and sort it out, that he’d keep Justin away, but once he did, he’d expect Jacky to stay out of trouble and do what he was told. But Justin didn’t stay away.

  Justin had said Mr Logan wanted him to do a job, but he didn’t want to do any more jobs. Justin punched him in the guts, saying he didn’t have balls, that he was a freak, that Mr Logan was angry and would come around to his flat and kill him if he knew what he’d just said. That Mr Logan would shoot him one day when he wasn’t expecting it. Mr Logan killed people he didn’t like, and the police allowed him to do it.

  Without telling Justin or Mr Logan, Jacky had asked his sister how that could be? She said killing people wasn’t allowed, he knew that, so why was he asking her about it? He wanted to know how Mr Logan could shoot someone and not get put in jail, but she said it was complicated and he shouldn’t worry about it because it would never happen.

  But he did worry about it, and it scared him. He asked Duggie McLean what ‘doing the right thing’ was. Duggie seemed to know but wouldn’t tell, and there was no one else he trusted to ask. When he tried to think about what it might be, he got anxious and tried not to think about it. Everyone was after him. They wanted him dead so he wouldn’t tell lies about them.

  The rain in Newington got heavier, the traffic slowed down, and people on the pavements huddled under umbrellas and tried to find shelter off the street. Cars and buses swished past, splashing water over him as if he wasn’t there. Pedestrians didn’t look at him, and that made him feel untouchable to ordinary people, just like Batman, his favourite superhero. Cold water dripped off his hair and ran down his face and neck. Batman never felt cold or wet, and today he would fly like Batman. He just had to get up high enough. The Bat-phone in his pocket kept ringing.

  He was coming to help him on the previous call to take him off the street before something terrible happened. But that was ten minutes ago when he was walking in circles on the grass around the Queen’s Park. Now he passed Surgeons’ Hall on South Bridge, heading towards Calton Hill in the New Town. Once there, he could become a superhero. He’d be high enough to fly above the city where nobody could touch him. He’d think straight and work it out. Invisible among the clouds, superheroes always did the right thing.

  He took the phone from his pocket and held it to his soaking ear.

  ‘I see you, Jacky.’

  Jacky stopped, turned around sharply and looked back the way he’d come. Two people nearly knocked him over, then elbowed past him. ‘Fuckwit,’ one of them muttered. He couldn’t see any people on the street; all he could see was umbrellas.

  ‘Keep walking and listen to me, Jacky. Mr Logan is looking for you. He said he’ll kill you now. You understand why, Jacky, don’t you?’

  ‘I never touched her. You know that.’ He picked up his pace, approaching the Royal Mile, seeing Calton Hill further ahead.

  ‘I’ll help you, Jacky. Mr Logan uses you to get what he wants. He’s not happy about you speaking to the copper, he knows you’ll shop him, that you’ll tell them about the girl. He’s going to take you out before the copper finds you again. I’ll help you escape Jacky, so you’ll never have to see him again. Cross the Royal Mile, Jacky, and keep on North Bridge. I’ll meet you at the bus stop.’

  The rain got heavier, but the walking was more manageable. Jacky felt a burden lift from his shoulders and that made him happy. Cars tooted at each other, buses and lorries argued for space on the busy road, but he kept his eyes on the bus stop. It was just in front of him, a plastic shelter with people crammed inside out of the rain. He got there and squeezed under the canopy, the phone still at his ear.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Jacky. ‘You’re not here.’

  ‘You’re on the wrong side of the road, Jacky, do you hear me? I can’t wait for you any longer, I have to go now, you’ve taken too long. You’re late, Jacky. I can’t protect you from Mr Loga
n if you can’t be trusted to do the right thing. Jacky, you hear me?’

  ‘Don’t leave me here.’ He began to cry. ‘Help me.’

  ‘I’m across the road, in the other bus shelter, Jacky. Do you see it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Cross now, Jacky – right now. You have to come with me. Mr Logan is getting out of his car. He’s coming for you, Jacky. He’s got a gun. Quick, across the road. Now.’

  Jacky Dodds looked across the street to his right. Twenty metres further down North Bridge, the northbound bus shelter was also crammed full. Cars sped past in both directions. The number 7 bus heading north to Newhaven tooted its horn angrily. It swerved around a Corsa that had stopped suddenly to drop off a passenger.

  But he was already halfway across with the phone tight against his ear.

  ‘Bye-bye Jacky baby, don’t cha cry no more.’

  50

  Who the Fuck is Alice?

  ‘What’s Elton John got to do with it?’ Carter asked.

  ‘It’s a song lyric,’ Flowers replied. ‘From his 1973 double album “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”. Side three, track four, “All the Girls Love Alice”.’

  She turned the monitor around so he could see the LCD display. Album art, with a smiling young Elton stepping out of a poster of the yellow brick road, filled half the screen. Underneath was the song title and the lyrics picked out in red: “If I give you my number / Will you promise to call me? / Wait till my husband’s away.”

  ‘Long before my time.’ Carter read through the full lyric. ‘I’d never have found that on my own.’

  ‘You’re a policeman in the twenty-first century, Leccy. You Google anything you don’t know.’

  He didn’t answer, preferring to consider what this revelation could mean. What did this have to do with Alice’s rape? Surely there was more to it?

  ‘So,’ Carter voiced his thoughts, hoping Flowers had something to add, ‘what’s this telling us? That the stocking is linked to Alice, or is there more depth to the lyric? Is there a phone connection? Something on Alice’s phone we’ve missed, perhaps. Should we call all her phone contacts?’