A Wife Worth Dying For

by Wilson Smillie

  He was considering his options when his phone rang, causing his heart to skip a beat. ‘Number withheld’ appeared on-screen. Was J trying to distract him while driving? Hoping he’d die in a motorway pile-up?

  ‘Hello?’ he said warily.

  ‘Sergeant Carter?’ static on the line gave the caller a time-shifted feel. ‘It’s Hugo Mortimer. You called me last night.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carter replied. ‘I don’t have much time, so I’d appreciate your clarity. You were in Edinburgh on the fourth of January. Mind telling me why?’

  ‘A meeting at Murrayfield. Providing intelligence on French rugby players likely to face Scotland in Paris.’

  ‘When did you return home?’

  ‘I caught the Saturday morning flight to Paris.’

  ‘You were in the Reverend bar on Friday, late evening.’

  There was a pause on the line, a breath taken. One that told Carter he’d touched a nerve.

  ‘A catch-up with old friends,’ Mortimer said, tightly.

  ‘Jimmy Logan?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘The Reverend is an easy stroll from Murrayfield. I’m guessing you and your mates went there after games?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Laid on free hospitality, did he?’

  ‘Look, Sergeant, what’s your point.’

  ‘I think you know, Hugo,’ Carter said. He let the slight static on the line reinforce the tension. ‘Logan has many friends; like Jacky Dodds, Nathan Butler and Joe Moore. Some of his friends have Jennyr reputations to protect. You must’ve met many of them, during hospitality.’

  ‘I have to go, Sergeant, I have other meetings.’ Carter heard that breath again.

  ‘Quid pro quo,’ Carter said.

  ‘Goodbye, Sergeant.’ Mortimer’s voice faded.

  ‘James Dunsmuir.’

  The line stayed open, but Mortimer didn’t speak for long seconds.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘She’s dead, Hugo. But you already know, don’t you?’

  72

  Tracking Your Tears

  Helen Street was on the south side of the River Clyde, within coin-throwing distance of Ibrox Park, home of Glasgow Rangers FC, Nick Mason’s avowed team. To someone from Edinburgh, Planet Glasgow was an alien universe.

  Sitting in the car park, Carter read J’s message that had come in before he’d spoke to Mortimer. No reply button was offered.

  [2019-01-23:1517] Paw and Maw well? Could go anytime heart just stops. Unlike the wee man. Next generation has good genes. He didn’t even have a teddy to remind him of his da. J.

  He texted his grandfather’s mobile.

  The ghost may be in your area. Be careful and lock the doors. Dial 999 if concerned. L.

  He dialled Ellen’s number, hoping to catch her while she was still at his in-laws’.

  ‘Do they have an alarm system or CCTV?’ he asked.

  ‘An alarm system,’ he heard Jude reply to Ellen’s relay. ‘No CCTV.’

  ‘Tell her to call the company; he’s bypassed it somehow. Send me a picture of the teddy.’

  Carter had never met Gavin Roy before, but he fitted the type. Dark hair with a double chin, he was a man who over-exercised his fingers and carried his forty-five years’ bulk like the child he never wanted. He escorted Carter through the corridors of a basement to the Cybercrimes area. Carter was aware he was one notch above civilian here.

  ‘You’re no’ what I imagined,’ said Roy, staring at Carter’s hair. ‘Is that a syrup?’

  ‘One hundred per cent pure terminal,’ Carter replied, well aware of Glaswegians’ reputation for straight-talking. The comedy scene in Glasgow was a force of nature. ‘You’ve no idea what I went through to get this look.’

  Roy had multiple computer monitors in his office. Next to them, he’d placed a machine that Carter had never seen before.

  ‘Hardware encryption cracker,’ said Roy tapping it proudly. ‘Designed by GCHQ and better than the Kiosks for cracking phones.’

  ‘Will we need that today?’ Carter asked without irony. ‘I’ve got the code to open her phone.’

  ‘Ah, maybe not, then,’ Roy blushed. ‘Kelsa’s your wife, right? You think she was attacked by the same guy who did Alice Deacon?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Exact dates?’

  ‘Sixteenth to eighteenth of March 2018.’ Carter handed over her iPhone.

  Roy plugged it into the encryption cracker with a cable, then turned his attention to the computer screen. ‘Apart from her tracking data, is there anythin’ you want off the phone?’

  ‘She has the same SMS nano-app system installed that’s on Alice’s phone, and I want to know when some contact names were added.’

  ‘Let’s start with the contacts.’

  ‘Nathan Butler and Hugo Mortimer.’

  Roy tapped the keys, and a stream of contacts appeared, some with pictures and many, like Butler and Mortimer, without. ‘The metadata is dated June 2016,’ said Roy. ‘But it’s the same for many others too. Nothing before that date. It’s a bad import from an older phone. The actual creation date has been overwritten.’

  Carter nodded – it had been a long shot anyway. ‘I want to know where she went that weekend.’

  ‘OK. DCI Jim Geddes wants a word – on the second floor. On your way back get us a coffee from the canteen. This will take a wee while to set up and run.’

  Carter found his way. The station was busy with people running around with purpose, although it was hard to tell what was urgent. Helen Street was also the base for Organised Crime and Terrorism, so people didn’t chat in corridors. Jim Geddes’ office had a closed door, and Carter knocked before entering.

  ‘Sergeant Carter, E Division, sir. You wanted to see me?’

  The man sitting in the chair looked to be in his late thirties, wearing a confident smile and a nondescript blue suit. The jacket hung on a stand, and he was behind his desk in shirt-sleeves. The computer beside him purred like a favoured cat. Geddes extended his hand across the desk, and Carter shook it. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, sir, I have a mission for Gavin on the way back.’

  ‘DCI McKinlay speaks highly of you, Sergeant, and even Nick Mason had a good word. Only the one though. Nick showed me the ropes before he moved across to the dark side, like.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I know you’re busy. Gavin briefed me about the app on a phone.’

  Geddes pushed a bound folder across the table. ‘Official Secrets Act. Just sign it.’

  Carter signed.

  ‘Project Fulcrum,’ said Geddes. ‘Intelligence-led design and development of an ultra-secure text messaging app. All police forces in the country are stakeholders, including military, MI5, MI6, Foreign Office, blah, blah. Design is GCHQ, the app build and beta service are provided by mobile operators. Seeing it appear in an active criminal investigation is a shock. Gavin says InterMide. No one else knows about the leak yet, and I hoped you might enlighten us.’

  ‘A suspect, but no real evidence yet,’ Carter said.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Joe Moore. His profile is filling out. I think he may be ex-army – just by his picture – but we know little else right now.’

  ‘Any connection to InterMide?’

  ‘We’re waiting on an answer to that question.’

  ‘Do you need help? I won’t ram-raid your investigation, but if there’s a leak from InterMide I have to be told.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Carter could almost feel DCI McKinlay’s breath on his neck.

  ‘Cheryl and Nick both said you keep things close. Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Leccy, we’re all on the same side. I can ask my military colleagues on the steering group. A quid pro quo, you understand. The wheels of administration can be slow.’

  Carter was worried about Geddes’ choice of Latin. ‘When would you have answers?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, latest. Kee
p your channels open though.’ Geddes stood up and extended his hand. Carter reciprocated. ‘Better get that coffee for Gavin, before he gets cold.’

  Back in the office with two coffees, Carter was met by a Glasgow map on the screen with a flashing red dot. InterMide.

  ‘That red dot is the location of your wife’s phone on the sixteenth of March.’ Roy said. ‘Starting at the Hilton in Anderston. I’m sure you’re not interested in how she got there. I’ll run it forward – where was she supposed to be?’

  ‘A night out in Edinburgh.’

  ‘The Hydro in Finnieston is where she went. Kings of Leon gig at the Hydro then bars in the city centre, and back to the Hilton – at one-twenty-seven a.m.’

  The red dot moved across the city. Carter had a front-row seat for an animated performance he didn’t care for. ‘She was drugged and raped,’ he told Roy.

  ‘After six a.m. she’s movin’ – inside the hotel. Then suddenly at speed across the city to the Royal Infirmary. A taxi to A & E, I’d guess. She’s there a long time. I checked while you were away, no complaint was lodged by her at that time or since.’

  ‘She didn’t want police involvement,’ Carter said tightly, controlling his emotions. ‘She knew what had happened, and she knew why. The only person she wanted seeing this was me. Can we do counter-tracking of Moore with this data?’

  ‘Nope, but you’ve got his phone number an’ IMSI code from the Excel analysis I gave you, so ask your boss for authorisation. InterMide will provide us with a tracking feed for the timeframe when Kelsa was here. We can overlay that on Google Maps to help you prove it was him.’

  ‘Anything else on Kelsa’s phone?’

  ‘We’ve got procedures. I’ll let you know.’

  73

  By Royal Appointment

  He parked at the Hilton Hotel in Anderston, close to the River Clyde. After the usual pleasantries, the manager gave Carter the facts. Moore had booked the room in his own name, even used ‘Mr & Mrs Joe Moore’ on the registration, pre-paying, so Mrs Moore didn’t have to endure the tedious chore of checking out. The credit card matched the number NatWest had provided. Carter’s phone acquired a new picture of a cuddly teddy bear. It had red, emoji-like eyes, confirming the break-in theory as truth. J was piling on the pressure.

  He drove to the Royal Infirmary in Townhead. A collection of Victorian and new-build buildings smeared across a large campus with all the delicacy of a Glasgow Oyster and brown sauce. After encountering some dead ends, he finally happened on A & E from the inside. Front-line staff triaged him, concluding he was only mentally scarred. They pointed him at Admissions and Transfer, who would answer his questions in between soothing trollied patients.

  Moira, a Glasgow girl, offered to be his go-to woman once the formalities of warrant cards and authorisations were sorted out.

  ‘Kelsa Carter or Dunsmuir. 17th of March 2018.’ Carter didn’t need to look it up.

  ‘Got her,’ said Moira, pleased with herself. ‘Admitted at just before six-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Doctor’s notes?’ Carter asked.

  ‘She’d been battered. Wasn’t giving anything away. Bruising to the arms, breasts and abdomen. More bruises and cuts under her hair. Blood in her urine. Doctor AJ Nicholls assessed her and wrote it up during and after. Vagina and anus showed bruising but not tearing. She allowed blood tests. They provided alcohol, measurable traces of scopolamine hydrobromide and various drugs. AJ concluded she’d been date-raped and noted that most of her bruising would be invisible when wearing clothes. He says here that suggests intent.’

  ‘She couldn’t fight back?’ Carter replied evenly as if he held no emotions one way or the other. ‘Was any DNA taken from her at the time?’

  ‘She declined police involvement at the time. Do you know who did it to her?’ Moira asked. ‘Has she decided to press charges now?’

  ‘We have a suspect, but you know how difficult rape can be to convict.’

  ‘We see hundreds of women like her every year. The arseholes in this town are sick, they need a punchbag – especially if Celtic lose. I couldn’t put up with it.’

  ‘You’re not married?’ Carter asked, trying to keep it casual.

  ‘Twice divorced. Better off with someone who cares. You know – someone who swings my way.’

  ‘Understandable,’ Carter said neutrally. ‘The clothing she wore when she came in?’

  ‘The women don’t want them back. There are charity shops in the entrance mall. They take the clothes and send them away for cleaning.’

  ‘Do you have a note of what she was wearing?’

  Moira returned to the computer. ‘Yes. Mustard-coloured coat, leopard-print dress, black bra and knickers.’

  ‘Tights or stockings? Shoes?’ Carter asked.

  ‘Not recorded on here. Are you sure you’re taking this seriously enough? The girl deserves justice, and the problem is you lot think it’s not a real crime, so the dicks get off.’

  Carter almost laughed but knew Moira wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Trust me, I’m taking it seriously.’

  ‘When will I see this scumbag at the High Court, do you think?’

  ‘As I said, these things are complicated, and if there’s no DNA, it’s much harder. She was from Edinburgh. A loving, caring girl, married with a young family.’

  ‘You talk about her in the past. Has she topped herself?’

  Carter wanted to scream, but he sighed instead.

  ‘Moira, please – where are these charity shops? You’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Back out the way you came in, then turn left. Follow the wheelies.’

  ‘Thanks. Email copies of the doctor’s report and the list of clothing to me.’ He gave her an email address and walked away.

  Five minutes later he was in a public sector entrance mall. On his left was a Rape Crisis shop and, across from it, Chest Heart & Stroke. An older woman behind the counter in Rape Crisis remembered the leopard-print dress. ‘It was lovely. Too expensive for here. It got sent to the distribution centre. They’d clean it up and send it somewhere else.’

  ‘A mustard-coloured coat?’

  ‘Yes, that went to the distribution centre too.’

  ‘Leopard-print shoes? Matching the dress?’

  ‘No, not that I remember. We get a lot of shoes, but a pair like that would stand out. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Carter. ‘I think I know who has them.’

  74

  Stretched Loyalties

  Driving home, the M8 was busy with cars crawling nose-to-tail. Carter’s phone nestled on the passenger’s seat like a secret lover. He kept glancing at it, demanding a confession. Moore had been in his home more than once. That took nerve – unless he always knew where Carter was. Carter would have to prove Moore had access to mobile phone tracking services and the secret text messaging technology and was using it for his own ends, all of which would be difficult. The app was designed for stealth, for one thing. What help the UK intelligence community would provide to civilian police was another. Moore could easily dodge a shared suite in one of Her Majesty’s Hiltons if the spooks wanted to bury their embarrassment.

  Moore’s bleeding-edge tech had kept him miles ahead of Carter, so it was time to crank up the ante and use Moore’s own technology against him. It didn’t sit comfortably with him, but swallowing his anger was essential to avenge Kelsa’s death.

  The phone rang. He swallowed.

  ‘Leccy,’ Nick Mason’s voice boomed through the car’s stereo speakers. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on the M8. But you probably know that already.’

  ‘National DNA Database confirmed the profiles we submitted to them are on the wanted list down south. It’s the profile of an unidentified serial rapist, and there’s the possibility of murder too. He doesn’t like women, so you need to catch him ASAP before the brass have your nuts for earrings.’

  ‘You just calling to gloat?’

  ‘Have you fol
lowed up on Nathan Butler?’

  ‘Charli was doing it. You know, delegation. The skills all senior officers pretend to have.’

  ‘He’ll be sitting in your house right now, Leccy. Drinking your Balvenie.’

  Been there, done that, Carter almost said. Instead, he asked, ‘How was North Berwick?’

  Outside the Smart car, traffic on the motorway was easing, speeding up to fifteen miles per hour, passing the Dakota Hotel at Eurocentral.

  ‘A sunny day. But cold by the sea.’ Carter could hear the tension in Mason’s voice.

  ‘Cheryl and me are sorted,’ Carter said. ‘Do you want to be sorted out too?’

  Mason could be a knob at times, and Carter always rose to the fly, angered by these jousts when Mason was digging at him. Mason would keep going only until a higher authority gagged him.

  ‘Can’t do it, Leccy. Privacy concerns.’

  ‘So, Nathan Butler?’ Carter decided to keep his powder dry. Vengeance was best served cold.

  ‘DC Garcia followed up on Moore’s address,’ Mason laid it out. ‘Her retired Met officer is a good find, wish we had people like that. The property doesn’t exist now—’

  ‘This isn’t news.’

  ‘That’s true, but the house was once rented by Butler’s family. Now, why do you think Joe Moore would use that address for his bank accounts?’

  ‘Because they’re brothers?’

  ‘Tut-tut, Leccy. This is good detective work, not a shot in the dark.’

  ‘Get on with it.’ Carter accelerated, passing Newhouse, leaving the Glasgow conurbation in his rear-view. He sighed in relief.

  ‘Another family was living there when the fire was set, but the house was empty at the time. Butler was detained on suspicion of arson but was released for lack of evidence. Butler was an adolescent back then, an angry teenager fighting the system, lashing out at everyone, and was on local plod’s radar. Met Man tracked down their old headteacher. Seems Butler and Moore were thick as thieves back then. Both left school at sixteen, but after that, the headmaster never saw them again.