A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  ‘Justin Greig had it in for him,’ said Carter. ‘Should I read anything into these other known names? Logan gets a “mister”, so does Butler. I think this could be a job for Lisa. Nick, I’d get the CSEs in here as soon as possible.’

  ‘This is mental,’ Mason agreed. ‘We’ll have to keep Cheryl away from here.’

  Podolski and Garcia joined them.

  ‘The bathroom is clean,’ said Podolski. ‘This place looks like my teenage son’s bedroom.’

  ‘The Cucina has the same mess as here,’ Charli said. ‘There is hard blood on a big knife and on the counter. A phone is charging. It is open, and it’s from giffgaff.’

  ‘That’s Jacky’s phone,’ said Carter. ‘But where’s the phone he stole from Nate Butler?’

  60

  Greetings

  ‘The guy who tried to save Jacky Dodds,’ Carter said to DC Garcia once they were back at the station. ‘He’s the key, he must’ve seen it all unfolding in front of him. I’ve got a hunch who he is and why he was there. Contact the scenes of crime manager at Fettes. They should have downloaded the bus video to ICRS. When the CSEs have finished here tell them to send copies of all of Jacky’s writing to Dr Flowers, along with copies of the drawings.’

  ‘I am on it,’ she said.

  ‘Keep Ellen involved, share the workload. How’s Joe Moore’s profile coming along?’

  ‘No driving licence, a home in London, bank account, cards, bills, certificate of birth, not married—’

  ‘Has he got a passport? It would have a photo.’

  ‘I’ll check the Passport Agency. Metropolitan officers are coming to the house today. DI Mason authorised requests for the PNC and Home Office National DNA Database. If he’s been a criminal, we’ll know soon.’

  ‘Does he have a job? His bank will give us a source of funds.’ Satisfied that the plates were spinning, Carter headed for the door. ‘I have to talk to DI Mason, and there’s something else I need to do.’

  An hour later, he unlocked the door of his home. A red envelope was lying on the floor, stamped and posted locally. It was a card.

  The picture on the front was of a walker at the top of a hill gazing at the view. ‘Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh’ was the caption. Inside was a handwritten list of names.

  John Stape, Lowell Baldwin, Joe Moore, Ben Weston, Tom Waterhouse, The Narrator

  Underneath the names, J was prominent, but it was ‘Joe Moore’ that caught his attention. His heart skipped a beat. He’d received another card like this. He went into the sitting room and rummaged through the cards on the mantle and side tables. Its black dahlia motif stood out from the others. He compared the names in the two cards. They didn’t match, but the signature did.

  The letter J itself was large, like a calligraphic signature, with sweeping serifs rendered in black ink. What he’d first assumed was a card from Kelsa’s colleagues was something else entirely. Had he missed a vital clue?

  Suddenly Carter slumped on the sofa. He was exhausted. This simple-but-complex greeting card had diverted him from his purpose in coming home. He should he get the laptop out and do what he came here to do. He relaxed for a few moments, closed his eyes and tried to reboot his mind.

  Ten minutes later, he woke with a start and got himself together. In the garage, he opened the safe, removed Kelsa’s MacBook, her iPhone, the cables and the envelope her father had given him, with its instruction to ‘Open only when you understand’.

  One last compare of the handwriting confirmed that, no, it definitely wasn’t Kelsa who had sent the cards. But did he now ‘understand’, as her words written on the envelope demanded? He understood that there was more to her death than met the eye. He understood that she had made arrangements to keep their son safe. She had left clues for him that suggested she had been assaulted that weekend in March, and, of more importance now, his understanding of this letter’s content had improved.

  He extracted the sheet of paper. The number was the code to unlock her phone. The other clues required more thought.

  8 2 6 4 2 8 9 5

  Licence to thrill, M

  Zip up a dress, Joe

  He lifted her iPhone and pressed the power button: discharged. He tried the MacBook: as dead as a cunning wife. He plugged them in to charge.

  His own laptop was charged and ready for that something else he promised he’d do. He logged into his laptop, opened ICRS and sat down to find the video files Ellen Podolski had uploaded from the DVDs in Alice’s flat.

  He scanned a list of more than a hundred files, all with company names and dates. Alice had been a busy girl. He spotted a known company name: InterMide, the European telecoms giant, and the prominent network in the phone analysis. He opened the first file. It was a corporate video of an InterMide product launch, with speakers and an audience sitting in rows in a corporate theatre. Some others stood at the sides. The commentary was boring and the camera angles changed regularly to keep viewers from falling asleep. After five minutes, he knew he didn’t have time for all this. There were ninety-nine more videos to view.

  Before he stopped the video, a woman in a pale blue dress walked into the shot and back out again. He shot forwards like he’d been stabbed up the arse. Scrubbing the video backwards, he replayed it again and again. He couldn’t see her face, but the dress was hanging upstairs. The timecode read May 2016 – nearly a year before they had met. He scrubbed forwards at four times the speed until the end. She wasn’t presenting, but she was moving around the edge of the shots, occasionally stopping, engaging with colleagues. He closed the file.

  There were three other InterMide files, the newest dated October 2018. He played that video sitting on the edge of his seat, watching it on fast-forward. With no sign of her, he breathed a sigh of relief and switched out of ICRS.

  Alice and Kelsa. Did they know each other? What about J?

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked as soon as Dr Flowers picked up.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’

  ‘I’ve got jobs for you while you’re waiting for the papers from Jacky Dodds’ flat.’

  ‘What papers?’

  ‘Dodds is dead. I think I know why and who killed him. Papers in his flat contain scribbles and names. I’ve asked Charli to make copies, so you can take a look, see if you can make sense of them. But before that, I want you to look at some other stuff I’ll bring over to you. I want your professional opinion.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Taunts, maybe—’

  ‘He’s contacted you again?’

  ‘Rocketman said that if I didn’t react, his taunts would get extreme. He’s resorted to sending me greeting cards.’

  61

  Listening Devices

  Prestonfield House claimed to be the most fabulous, most baroque, most luxurious hotel in Edinburgh. As Carter drove down the long drive with bare trees lining either side, none of its lavishness peeked through the branches. Its whitewashed façade gave no hint of its reputed glamour. Dr Flowers waited on the steps of the entrance. He parked the Smart car and joined her.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, the opulence in here will severely overload your working-class sensitivity. Just follow me, it’s quiet this evening.’

  The flocked paper of rich maroon-on-gold set the tone in the Yellow Room. A sizeable ornate fireplace with real logs burning provided additional ambience, not that it was needed. They sat in a corner away from the door, on a brown leather Chesterfield sofa with a marble coffee table in front of them.

  Carter played his cards, describing the state of Jacky’s flat to Flowers, what writings the papers contained, before filling her in on Cheryl McKinlay’s relationship with Dodds, his teenage castration and his association with Jimmy Logan.

  ‘I’ve just looked at some of Alice’s professional work for InterMide,’ Carter went on as his eyes adjusted to the low lighting. ‘Marketing and video production. Proving she might have known Kelsa. They were both freelancers, and both had InterMide phone
s. The company connection could be what binds them.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘Not yet. But there’s more.’ Carter laid his conclusions on the table. ‘Jacky Dodds knew who Alice was with at the Reverend, and when J discovered I was looking for Dodds, Jacky had to go.’

  ‘And these greeting cards?’ Flowers asked him, reading the hand-written names. ‘You think they’re a message, not a list of colleagues?’

  ‘J knows things I don’t know. Suppose it’s an initial of a name. In that case, it could be Joe Moore, Jimmy Logan, Justin Greig . . . or it could be someone else entirely, with or without an InterMide mobile account.’

  ‘Why would any of them send you cards like this?’

  ‘Taunting. Maybe a list of future victims, I don’t know.’

  ‘And you think there are connections between all the names on the cards?’

  ‘If it’s not obvious, try Googling them,’ Carter said mischievously. ‘As a starter for ten, Moore’s name is on the most recent card. He’s our number one suspect, and he has an InterMide phone.’

  ‘And what are you going to do while I try and work this out?’

  ‘Flush out some rabbits.’

  The Reverend bar on Dalry Road was Jimmy Logan’s preference for quiet business meetings during the week. This Tuesday night, the regulars were in place for the Scottish Professional Football League post-winter restart. Pie-and-pint deals and a few pence off drams offered encouragement. It was any pub in an unfashionable part of town tourists never saw.

  Just after 8 p.m., a bright young couple entered and ambled up to the bar. They glanced around. She spotted a free table. Her man went to the bar, scanning the taps as he approached.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ Jake Malone asked.

  ‘Pint of Deuchars and a vodka coke. Absolut, if you have it.’

  ‘Seven-fifty,’ said Jake, serving the drinks. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Fraser Thomson. That’s my wife, Debbie.’ Debbie waved. ‘Want to see my ID?’

  Jake shook his head, dispensed change of a tenner and began serving other customers.

  Fraser sat beside his wife, watching the TV. Rangers at home to Dundee. He kept one eye on the game and the other on the punters. She took her phone out and fiddled with it. The bar gradually got busier, and men moved about, getting animated as the game ebbed and flowed, but nobody bothered them. At half-time, they finished their drinks and left. ‘Bye,’ Fraser called towards Jake.

  Carter, Garcia and Nick Mason sat in their unmarked Astra in the Lidl car park and watched the couple appear on the street. They turned down a side lane, disappearing from view. Fifty metres away from the Astra, a dark-coloured Mercedes four-by-four was parked. After a few minutes, the radio crackled, and Fraser Thomson gave them a sitrep of the pub.

  ‘The snug was closed, but lit. Two men outside the snug. Tattoos, one with a snake running up his neck.’ Carter and Mason looked at each other. ‘Also, two blokes strategically placed at the entrance. Malone is behind the bar.’

  ‘Did they snap you?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Fairly sure they did when we left. There was a group at the bar shouting, and I saw some phones come out. There’s no obvious CCTV.’

  ‘Jimmy won’t like it on home turf,’ Mason said. ‘Too risky for his private meetings.’ He switched the Airwave radio to broadcast. ‘Ready? Uniforms in two minutes from . . . now.’

  The trio got out of the car. One minute later, they entered the pub and stood just inside the doors. Jake Malone spotted them.

  ‘Mr Mason. You’re becoming a regular.’

  Carter turned to the two doormen who’d started to rise from their seats. ‘Sit down, lads, nothing to get excited about.’

  Garcia sauntered toward the snug, where she could be seen but wouldn’t be a threat. Everyone was watching the detectives. Most knew the result of the fight the week before and weren’t keen for a replay. The group of five men that Fraser thought had snapped pictures began to split up and move away from each other.

  The door from the street opened, letting in two uniforms, followed by more. At the back of the bar, where the kitchen and toilets were, four PCs appeared. The Dobermen stood up. One rapped on the glass of the snug door. Carter ambled towards it, keeping his distance from Garcia. Three PCs trailed him.

  The snug door opened; Justin Greig’s head appeared. ‘What?’ he asked.

  Carter was only feet away. ‘Step out please, Mr Greig. I’m Detective Sergeant Carter, you know me.’ Carter closed the snug door behind Greig and held up his identification card. ‘We’re going to take you into the kitchen for a few moments. Stay calm.’

  The cops guided Greig through the narrow passageway. He sneered but said nothing. The cook wasn’t sure what to do so kept back. Other uniforms guarded the exit door leading from the kitchen to an open back green and a close.

  Carter told Greig to sit on a chair.

  ‘What’s this about, copper? I haven’t done nothin’.’

  Carter ignored him and turned away while the uniforms held Greig tight.

  In the bar, the snug door was open again. Carter joined Nick Mason who sat inside, opposite Jimmy Logan. Logan’s face was thunderous. Two other men in the snug wearing business suits looked agitated.

  ‘Mr Logan, we’d like to ask you questions about the rape and attempted murder of Alice Deacon,’ Mason said calmly. ‘Also, we have questions about Jacky Dodds’ death, a man you knew well. You are not being charged at this time but are helping us with enquiries. I’m happy to ask my questions in here, for the two gentlemen to listen to and digest at their leisure. However, you might find our interview rooms at St Leonard’s more accommodating.’

  Logan scowled and stood up. ‘I’m calling my lawyer, Mason.’

  ‘Good. I promise not to listen.’

  62

  Brief Relationship

  Logan and Greig travelled in separate vans on the journey to St Leonard’s. Once inside the station were deposited in individual interview rooms. The two businessmen from the snug received similar treatment. Tam Watson took their particulars, then everyone was left alone to contemplate past sins while drinking police tea.

  Carter and Mason debriefed the uniformed PCs and stood them down: job done and no casualties. While Mason updated DCI McKinlay by phone, Carter got the lowdown from Tam Watson on the unwanted catch.

  ‘Murray McCormack, Labour MSP at Holyrood. Has a private home in Grange. His pal is Willie Taylor, a weel-kent face around the Labour trenches in the City Chambers on the High Street. Lives in a council house in Trinity.’

  ‘Has transport been arranged to take them home?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I heard the car has a puncture. Make sure it’s sorted, Tam.’

  ‘Sure, Leccy. Sure,’ Tam Watson smiled. ‘I’m on it. Interview Six and Seven.’

  In Interview Six, Murray McCormack sat on a hard chair with his head in his hands. He was forty-one but looked older. From the observation room, Carter wondered what was weighing him down. He entered Interview Six and McCormack instantly switched to outrage mode.

  ‘How dare you detain me here. I demand to go home.’

  ‘Transport is being arranged,’ Carter informed him. ‘We weren’t expecting visitors – you are not part of our enquiry, sir.’ He sat down opposite McCormack. ‘However, if you can establish your relationship with Mr Logan and why you were in the bar, it will speed things up.’

  ‘I was having a drink with one of my constituents. That’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘How well do you know Mr Logan?’

  ‘As a constituent. He asks for my help from time to time.’

  ‘Did you give him the benefit of your advice on Sunday, thirteenth of January, sir?’

  McCormack’s eyes bored into Carter’s. ‘I’m not sure, Sergeant. I’d have to check my diary.’

  ‘Mr Logan is not easily forgotten, I’d think.’

  ‘Quite,’ said McCormack.

  ‘If yo
u could confirm tonight, sir.’ Carter stood up, letting the chair scrape on the hard floor. ‘In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you would not share the information I’ve asked for with anyone else. I’ll check when we’ll have a car ready for you.’ Carter gave McCormack his card, left the room and closed the door.

  He repeated the exercise with Councillor Taylor in Interview Seven, then walked back into Tam Watson’s den. ‘That puncture sorted Tam?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Take them home. Tell the constables to warn them not to speak to anyone, including each other, until they’ve given me the information I’ve asked for.’

  Thirty minutes later, Carter and Mason were sitting drinking a mild dose of sheep’s pish with Garcia when Tam Watson buzzed them. ‘The briefs are ready for the interviews, gentlemen. Interview Four and Five. What’s the tag team?’

  ‘I’ll take Logan,’ said Mason. ‘Leccy will take Greig.’

  As they walked down the stairs to the interview rooms, Carter asked DC Garcia, ‘Any update on the witness to Dodds’ accident?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Justin Greig helped castrate Dodds when he was in his teens. Dodds was scared of him, so I’m going to lean in hard. Take my cues, but mostly just listen. If anything significant occurs to you, we can take a break.’