Stewart pulled his coat lapels up around his neck as he looked at the house they had parked outside. It looked almost like a bungalow with another, slightly smaller, bungalow plopped on top of it, standing in a row of similar but non-identical houses.
Dakar and Stewart headed up to the porch, opening the light plastic door and passing inside. It was ever so slightly warmer now they were out of the wind. Dakar knocked on the front door, a once-bright, now slightly marred shade of green. Stewart looked at Dakar, then at the door. He took a deep breath.
It was time. They were investigating a murder, and had already found an affair. Plus Donaldson had been found outside by the police. And he’d looked like quite a brutal guy. The door was potentially going to be opened by a man who was most certainly an adulterer and quite possibly a murderer.
Stewart gulped. Another deep breath as he heard the sound of footsteps inside.
Right. Forget about Dakar and his criminal associates.
Stewart scowled and screwed his eyes up. No fear. No weakness. That was key. A hard man expression. He was ready. Ready for however tough this guy was, however many bloody tattoos or whatever he had. Ready.
The door opened, and Stewart found himself glaring into Martina Donaldson’s red-tinged eyes.
Chapter 19
Stewart’s expression froze on his mortified face as Martina stared back at him, eyes wide in alarm.
“Good evening. Are you Martina Donaldson?” Dakar’s kind voice cut across the two of them.
The woman lost her fearful expression a little as she tore her gaze away from Stewart towards Dakar, but still looked anxious.
“Yes. But I don’t have time to talk about religion.” The words tumbled out of her. She looked back at Stewart. “And I’m not buying anything …?”
Stewart looked over at Dakar. He hadn’t realised before, but given what they were wearing, they were a bit of an odd couple.
Dakar smiled, a warm, encouraging smile. Stewart could feel his face was hot, his cheeks burning with the familiar fire as he also tried a smile.
“My name is Sebastian Dakar. This is my associate, Stewart Scott. We’re investigating the murder of Daniel Mannings.”
Martina’s lips pulled taut. “Are you journalists?”
Pause. “No, we are not. I used to be a police officer, and am now a private investigator. My associate is a lawyer at the firm that hired me. We have just spoken to Sarah-Anne.”
Stewart had been nodding, but hesitated at that last part. It was kind of true, in that he was training to be lawyer, but mostly, or actually exclusively, not true, because he wasn’t a lawyer.
“Sorry, I can’t help you. I already told the police everything I know.” She began to close the door.
“But the police didn’t know everything we know, my sister. For example, that your husband Graham stayed in a hotel three times over the last month, and that there is photographic evidence of who he met there.”
Martina froze in the act of shutting the door, her eyes widening with eyebrows raised. She took a deep breath. Her deep hazel eyes had a curious mix of hope and fear in them.
“The photos? Of Graham? You have them?”
Pause. Dakar’s head tilted slightly forward. “Indeed.”
“Where did you find them?”
Pause. “At Daniel’s house. Amongst his possessions.”
Stewart held his breath again. The moment seemed to stretch out, the half-open door neither opening nor closing. Stewart could see the struggle in her mind playing out in her eyes, flickers of doubt, hope and caution colliding like stars. Eventually, slowly, the door opened again.
“Come in.” She turned, and began to walk back into the house, with Stewart and Dakar following her into the house, down a short hall into an open plan kitchen and living area, similar to the Mannings’s place although a little smaller.
Martina sat down at a kitchen table, a rectangular thing of metal and plastic sitting squarely in the middle of the kitchen. There was an open laptop and a cup which had held coffee sitting beside a half-peeled orange.
Stewart and Dakar also sat down at the table. Now Stewart could see her properly, it was clear she was the woman in the photograph. She looked like she was Italian, or at least from somewhere down near the Mediterranean, with dark curly hair and her deep hazelnut eyes. She was dressed simply, in a pairs of jeans and a loose jumper, her dark hair braided in a single thick braid.
“We are not interrupting?”
She shook her head. “I work as a freelance translator, so I can work at any time.” She closed the laptop lid.
“My sister, the photographs we have appear to show Graham with a woman.” The woman looked back at him, her eyes growing misty once again. Stewart pulled the envelope out of his satchel and gave it to her.
She drew out one or two photographs and looked at them, briefly tracing her fingertips over Graham’s image. “Graham …” she murmured. Then she replaced them, handing the envelope back to Stewart. There was a smile on her face, but it was bittersweet, shot through with lines of sadness.
“I am full of sorrow, my sister. Although I believe what these photos show may already be known to you.”
“I found out about a month ago, maybe more.” She shrugged, and indicated her surroundings. “I have been thinking a lot about life.”
Pause. “How long have you been married?”
She sighed. “Fifteen years. Can you imagine? Fifteen years. Thrown away for, poof. I don’t know what.”
Pause. “You are not from here, my sister?”
She shook her head. “I grew up in Spain, the north of Spain. But we moved to Scotland when I was eight, for my father’s work. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to fully get the accent.” She smiled tightly.
Pause. “How did you know Daniel Mannings?”
“We went to primary school together in Glasgow, only for a few years. I went back to Spain after that for high school, but we got back in contact when I returned to Edinburgh with Graham. We were never the best of friends, but we met up for a drink sometimes. And then the children came along, Craig and Sandra, at the same time. They went to the same school, so I saw Daniel and Sarah-Anne more then.”
Pause. “And you have seen him more recently?”
“Yes.”
Pause, thoughtful nod. “You asked Daniel to follow Graham and take photographs of him?”
She sighed. “Yes. Graham, he had booked hotel rooms on his debit card. I put a GPS tracker in his car, and gave the base to Daniel, and asked Daniel to go to this hotel to see if anyone came for Graham. And Daniel did, and he told me he got photographs of a blonde, pale woman.”
Martina smiled, but it was a dark one, her face flushed with red. “Men! Honestly. They always want what they don’t have, no? I am dark – dark hair, dark eyes – and so he goes for some blonde woman. I asked him the colour of the eyes, when I confronted him. Blue, of course. Of course!”
She had grown quite animated as she spoke, her hands and arms swinging up and making various gestures accentuating her words.
“Where is your husband now?”
She shrugged, her breathing a little harder. “Probably at work. He always worked hard, very hard.”
Pause. “His work is in Loanhead?”
“Yes. His office is there.”
Pause. “Does he still live here?”
Martina looked at Dakar as if he had grown horns. “After what he did? Of course not.”
Pause. “Can you tell us where he is living now?”
“Yes. I have the address written down somewhere.” Martina got up, and began scrabbling around on one of the worktops. “You think Graham has something to do with Daniel’s murder?”
Pause. “It certainly appears as a possibility.”
“I can promise you this, my husband is not a violent man. Graham had a difficult childhood, let’s say, but I shared a home with him for twenty-two years, and raised a child with him, and never a word of violence. Certainly no ac
tions. And that’s coming from someone who hates him!”
Pause. “Has he ever been in trouble with the police?”
Martina stopped scrabbling around for a second, and stood quietly. Then she began looking again as she spoke, more calmly. “Yes. He even spent some time in jail. When he was younger, he used to fight a lot. With everyone. He came to northern Spain after jail, looking to start a new life, I think. That’s where we met.”
She finally located a post-it, and turned back to them.
“Once he found out he was to be a father … We were both young. But his determination to become a … real, yes, real man got stronger. He began work as a gardener and builder. He kept working, and now, now he owns the business. He loves being outside. Even here.” She gestured outside the window, a sceptical look crossing her face at the last two words.
Stewart felt a protest growing at this criticism of his land, but as his eyes followed her gesture, the protest died. The only appropriate word for the weather was ‘minging’. Or possibly ‘godawful’. To argue would be the epitome of defending the indefensible. …
“He wouldn’t even marry me until he was sure he could provide for his family. And now he provides for many of society’s lost.”
Pause. “What do you mean, the lost?”
“He only employs people with criminal records. To give them a second chance.”
Stewart took the post-it note as Martina proffered it, and began copying the address. Graham was now also apparently living in Loanhead, as well as working there. Stewart didn’t know Loanhead, but he knew it was near the big Ikea, just on the other side of the bypass.
Stewart heard the front door open and close again. There were a couple of quiet dull thuds as shoes hit the floor, and then a kind of shuffling that grew louder. A young man came into the kitchen, taking his coat off. He looked up as the three of them looked back at him.
He was a short guy, but solidly built. He had a tattoo around one arm, but Stewart could only see the bottom of it. Some kind of circle and lines, along one bicep. The sides of his head were shaved, and he had cropped hair on top, like an army cut or something.
Martina spoke first. “This is my son Craig.”
Stewart wished he had his hard-man expression on now, but it was too late. The guy looked back at Dakar and Stewart with unabashed hostility. When he spoke, his tone was just as threatening.
“Who the hell are these guys?”
Chapter 20
“Craig!” The woman spoke sharply, following up with a torrent of Spanish.
Craig continued staring at Dakar and Stewart, like a Rottweiler in the moments before it attacks. As his mother continued his glare wavered, until eventually he snapped his head around to look at her.
Craig replied in his own stream of Spanish, as loud and as direct as his mother’s. The two sounded like they would come to blows. Both began gesturing as the indecipherable argument went on, Craig’s gestures encompassing Dakar and Stewart. After a minute or so, there was some kind of lull in the hostilities and Craig turned abruptly to Dakar and Stewart.
“Either of you speak Spanish?” His accent was thick Scottish, completely different to how it sounded when he spoke Spanish.
Stewart shook his head, and looked over at Dakar. He half-expected him to say that he was fluent in every language in the world, but the guy just sat there, shaking his head as well.
“What are you doing here?” Craig’s eyes were like slits, glaring at them both, eyes shooting back and forth between them. The hostility in his tone had been suspended, at least, although it had been replaced with a heavy dose of suspicion.
Stewart looked over at Dakar.
Please, in the name of the wee man, don’t do the pause thing. And, God save us, don’t smile.
Dakar paused. And then smiled. “We are investigating the murder of Daniel Mannings, my brother. You were both there …”
“What did you call me?” Craig glowered at him. His shirt lifted ever so slightly as his shoulders tensed. He took a step towards Dakar.
Dakar paused again. Stewart stared at him, feeling frozen in place. Dakar didn’t seem to be aware of the tension, even although someone in a bloody coma would have a hard time missing it.
“My brother.”
“I’m not your brother, pal.” The words were shot back, accompanied by a step closer.
Pause. “Perhaps not in flesh and blood. Rather as a bond of our common humanity.”
Craig’s jaw muscles clenched. Stewart could see the calculation in his head, wondering whether Dakar was taking the piss. If he thought he was then … yes … Craig took a step closer, one step away from Dakar now. Both of his hands had clenched into fists, and his head had lowered, coming down closer to his shoulders, his eyes fixed on Dakar.
Oh well, that was that. Dakar was going to get mauled by some stupid young psycho, and Stewart would probably get the shite kicked out of him as well for the dual crimes of being in vaguely the same space and breathing.
Craig opened his mouth, but it was Martina’s voice that cut across the room.
“Craig!” Craig glared at Dakar for a second longer, then his eyes flicked to his mother. “This is my house.” Her tone was low but vicious, a whip cracking in the silence of the room.
Craig looked at her a second longer, then the eyes moved back to Dakar. Craig smiled, but the anger in his eyes remained. He stayed where he was, one step from Dakar. “It was dad’s house too. Until recently.”
“We can talk later.”
“Not in front of your fancy new guests, that it?”
“Craig!”
Craig relaxed his shoulders back, his head coming back up as he took a step back. His tone became conversational, almost friendly as he addressed Stewart and Dakar. “She always tries to be so proper with new people. Pretending she’s such a proper person herself.”
“Craig!” The warning in the tone changed, the urgency giving way to fear.
Craig turned to his mother, indicating Dakar and Stewart with a thumb. “The old boy looks about your type, but I didn’t think you liked the younger …”
“Go to your room!” Martina screamed, rushing over to him. She screamed a torrent of Spanish in his face, throwing her arms around. At first he kept the sneer on his face, but then as the torrent continued, his eyebrows came together, the head coming down again like a hunter. He began shouting back in English, the Spanish words from Martina in between.
“Me? Oh, I’m the bloody problem, am I?” … “You’re just as bad as dad, but somehow he’s the one that gets—” … “Fine. Right, aye. Right!” Craig turned and marched out of the room. Stewart heard the footsteps stomp up the stairs a moment later.
Martina had her back to them, facing the direction Craig had retreated, and stood in a silence that rang around the room after the shouting. Stewart saw her hands go up to her face. Eventually she turned around.
She smiled, a smile that didn’t quite make it to her red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry about that. It’s been a hard time recently. And he didn’t take it very well when I filed for divorce against his father.”
Stewart looked over at Dakar. He felt overflowing with energy, the adrenaline pumping through him. Dakar looked gently concerned at most. The fact that he’d come within a gnat’s eyeblink of getting leathered by an out-of-control psychotic young brick shithouse didn’t seem to have fazed him.
“You have filed for divorce against Graham?” Dakar asked as Martina sat back down.
“Yes.” The energy was drained from her voice.
Pause. “When will the divorce take place?”
“When the court decides that the man you love and trust betraying you over and over is a good ground for divorce.” She spoke flatly, staring at the tabletop, like she’d had this conversation before. “The papers have been served on Graham, but we still have to find the other person. His mistress. Graham won’t say who she is. So we have to wait.”
Pause, nod. “Craig seems to be under the impression tha
t you are, or were, also having an affair, my sister?”
Martina shot up from the table, weight forward on fists that had turned white as they pressed down on the surface.
“Mr Dakar,” she spat the words, “I have loved and been faithful to one man for the last 15 years. Even now – even now – when I have the chance, I have chosen to remain faithful. In spite of what he has done.”
Stewart rocked back in the face of this verbal assault, but Dakar remained unchanged.
“Does Craig then have any grounds for his beliefs?”
“No! Craig is a stupid child.”
Pause. “Did Craig once follow Daniel? When you met him?”
She looked back at him, steadily, but didn’t speak for a moment or two. She rocked back and forth, her weight transferring from knuckles to finger joints. Eventually she sighed and sat down, the wind once again coming out of her sails.
“One time, Craig saw Daniel, here. He came back early from work. Daniel was here, just in the kitchen, telling me about how he had seen Graham, and that he had photographs. Craig, he jumped to his conclusions. Daniel later told me that Craig followed him from the house, and threatened him.”
Pause, nod. “Did Craig speak to Daniel on the night Daniel was murdered?”
“No! No. I told him to keep his distance, and so he did.” She sighed again. Her face had turned pale, the very act of breathing seeming to cause her some effort. She put one hand to her forehead. “I feel very tired, Mr Dakar. I don’t want to talk any further.”
Pause. “Very well, my sister. I think I am beginning to understand what you are going through.”
Martina looked up at him again, but it was a weary gaze, without the energy to light the fire of outrage. “You think you understand when the person you love – have loved for most of your life – betrays you? Betrays everything you’ve built together?”
Pause. “My wife had an affair that lasted nine months.”
Stewart stopped writing, and looked up cautiously.
The Price to Pay Page 10
