The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  Lambert had seen it so often in the course of his work. It was the change in the eyes of the stricken parents. The emptiness that yawned on ultimate realization, like stepping off a cliff and standing there, cartoon-style, before plummeting down. It had happened to him with his son several days after his death. Laura had never forgiven him for the death of her brother. That was when everything between them had changed. He was still falling.

  Pat had been warm and comforting, taking the edge off his grief, and her own, by inviting him into her bed. They were able to talk dispassionately about the possibility that her husband might have been having a love affair with his daughter, and both decided to agree it hadn’t happened. It was easier that way. It may have been the obvious interpretation but it was the wrong one, Lambert insisted and Pat took comfort from his certainty. The newspapers had jumped on it as an explanation but they didn’t know half the real story. A report on the radio said that relatives (that was them) were travelling north to confirm the identities of the young woman and the middle-aged man found dead at Loch Maree.

  They had driven to Inverness on the near-empty early morning roads. Old friends didn’t have to talk much. No point in blaming themselves for the actions of others. The full story would come out soon enough. Their own affair was discreet, unsuspected and unconnected. Every now and then they exchanged a look of mutual understanding, but not a word was spoken.

  The mortuary was familiar territory for Lambert. He had collected many bodies there for their last journey south. He recognized the staff without knowing their names. They were good, professional in their approach. No undue delay. He was led one way, Pat another. He stood over his daughter’s body and they pulled back the cover to reveal her face. The injury to the side of her head marred her looks. Her hair was matted around it, crusty blood forming into crooked rats’-tails. The post-mortem would make it worse, but it could easily be put right afterwards.

  He could have her made beautiful again. It wouldn’t be difficult. He wouldn’t do it himself, not to one of his own, but it was a great comfort to him that the capability existed to ensure that Laura would sleep pretty in her final resting place.

  He had once had a premonition about Laura’s death. He had never told anybody. It was not recent, but long ago, on the day of her eighth birthday. There had been a party with all her friends in pretty dresses and presents and a cake. By the evening she was exhausted and barely able to walk. He had carried her through to her bedroom and gently undressed her before slipping her into bed. He lay down beside her for a few minutes, aware of the warmth of her body and the small movement of her breathing. It was a stormy summer day outside, still light with torn clouds flying across the sky. He kissed her forehead and wondered at the miracle of the growing child, growing and developing. She could not be a child for ever as his dead son would be. Lambert realized then instinctively that little Laura would die before him. She would grow up and she would die and he would look down on her lifeless body. Nothing surer. It was guaranteed. How sad and how satisfying to be proved right.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Friday, 13.25

  Simon Wright, the lady in the loch’s estranged husband, sat on the edge of his chair in the bare interview room. He kept one hand spread on the table and the other on his knee. He was wearing a grey suit with a red and yellow patterned waistcoat and matching tie. The bright colours clashed with the paleness of his face and the glow of the overhead light on his balding scalp. He retained a semblance of the oily good looks of his youth. He had a flat stomach and broad chest but close up you could see the insidious damage time had inflicted.

  Pleasantries had already been exchanged and the bare bones of the morning’s press reports padded out with the nasty little details next of kin are entitled to know. The table had a large tape recorder on it and wires disappeared into the wall beneath an integral four-foot square mirror which unsubtly suggested there was someone in a room on the other side watching. Fyfe was on the other side, watching Moya question Wright. The tape was running though it wasn’t needed. Wright had come in voluntarily, declining the presence of a lawyer because he used to be one himself and knew the rules of the game.

  Fyfe remembered him from way back. The kind who turned up at the cells at short notice to bail out the kind of crook who racked up convictions for dishonesty the way other people got parking tickets. Eventually, several years ago now, he had abandoned the law as a loss leader and gone into business himself. No convictions yet. Matthewson stood behind Moya with his hands clasped behind his back. He appeared to be looking over her shoulder to get a better view of her legs. Maybe Fyfe wasn’t the only one finding it difficult to concentrate. She had been relaxed and friendly during their trip south, had thought it a great idea to stay in Fyfe’s empty flat rather than go through the rigmarole of getting authorization for a hotel. By the time they reached the Forth Bridge Fyfe was rather regretting the fact that they had a lot of time-consuming work to do. There was more to life than bringing murderers to justice.

  ‘It’s good of you to come in to see us, Mr Wright.’

  ‘I have to tell you Inspector,’ Wright said. ‘My attitude in these matters is to be scrupulously honest.’

  ‘Very refreshing,’ Moya replied.

  ‘I know how the police work so there is no point in my trying to mislead or obstruct you in any way.’

  ‘Good. Then no one’s time will be wasted. When did you last see your wife, Mr Wright?’

  ‘Three weeks ago this morning.’

  ‘You recall it exactly?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘We met to discuss our divorce arrangements and what to do with mutual insurance policies.’

  ‘And what did you decide?’

  ‘That I should continue paying premiums on the life insurance we held and that they should be converted to single life policies.’

  ‘The single life being Laura’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Payable on her death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it a substantial sum?’

  ‘Four policies amounting to eight hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘Eight hundred thousand pounds?’

  ‘Yes. I doubled the amount three weeks ago because they fell for renewal and I exploited the opportunity.’

  ‘You’re bloody right you did.’

  ‘It seemed like the thing to do. Increases could be made without charge and without recourse to medical examination. I guess I was just lucky.’

  ‘Your wife seems to have had the bad luck, doesn’t she?’

  Behind the mirror, Fyfe folded his arms and shook his head at Moya’s impetuosity. Matthewson raised his eyebrows at the mirror and rose a little off his heels in body language straight out of Donald McIsaac’s repertoire. If he had bent at the knees and snapped his braces Fyfe would not have been surprised.

  He had to admire Wright’s brazen approach. No apologetic admission. No shamefaced murmurings or expressions of regret. Bumping up your insurance a few weeks before the death of your spouse might look bad to suspicious minds but that was just the way it was. Of course, Wright knew full well his finances would be checked out to see if he had profited from Laura’s death. He would never have been able to hide it. So he used it to his advantage. Had it taped at his own request? Would my client have acted in such a way if he intended to kill his wife, the QC would argue at the trial. Good question. Think about it ladies and gentlemen of the jury.

  ‘You will inherit eight hundred thousand pounds as a result of your wife’s death?’ Moya asked rhetorically.

  ‘I will,’ Wright answered unnecessarily.

  ‘That’s an awful lot of money.’

  ‘It is. The premiums were quite heavy too.’

  ‘You haven’t had to pay them for very long.’

  ‘That is the nature of insurance. It is to allow for the unexpected. You are insured, aren’t you Inspector?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Moya sna
pped.

  ‘You are very wise to be insured. Everybody’s future is uncertain.’

  ‘Yours looks pretty assured now.’

  ‘Naturally, I will allow a decent interval before I collect the money.’

  Moya was getting flustered. Fyfe could see the colour rising in her cheeks. Her eyes flashed threateningly. She fidgeted on her seat, making her blouse crease endearingly where it was tucked into the top of her trousers. He could just see a nicely turned ankle round the side of the table. Matthewson was looking at the ankle too. So was Wright, before lifting his gaze to meet Moya’s. He had that little half-smile on his lips all crooked lawyers wear on their faces when they are sure of themselves. Go on, it invited. Do your worst. I am an expert at playing games with the legal system.

  Wright held up a hand and studied the palm for ages before looking back across at Moya. Fyfe leaned closer to the far side of the one-way mirror so he didn’t miss any of the game. He felt the light stubble on his chin. He would definitely need to shave soon.

  ‘Can you account for your movements earlier this week?’ Moya asked.

  Wright crossed his legs and sighed. ‘Last night I was in the office all day and had dinner with a friend at my home. Wednesday was another full day in the office and I had a ticket for the Hearts game at Tynecastle.’

  ‘Who was playing?’

  ‘Kilmarnock.’

  ‘What was the score?’

  ‘Three nil to Hearts. I was in one of the executive boxes so there are plenty of witnesses. I stayed for two hours after the end of the game enjoying the hospitality, then I got a taxi home.’

  ‘Tuesday?’

  ‘Tuesday was the office again and later I met my girlfriend. We had sex at my house and I ran her home around eleven.’

  ‘Run that by me again, will you.’

  ‘I am having an affair with a married woman. We were together on Tuesday night.’

  ‘We’ll need her name.’

  ‘Of course. I would appreciate it if you would contact her at work. There is no need for her family to know about this. She will be very anxious for this to be dealt with sensitively.’

  ‘I’m sure she would.’

  Back off the bastard, Fyfe advised silently through the mirror as he saw Moya’s face harden. He’s got the upper hand for the moment. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how frustrated you are. Back off until we can find something to use against him.

  Matthewson butted in. ‘When did you last see your girlfriend?’

  ‘Last night. She was there when you arrived to tell me about Laura. She hid in the kitchen.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning it Mr Wright, but you don’t seem very cut up about your wife’s death? You didn’t last night either.’

  ‘We don’t all have to wear our emotions on our sleeves, you know detective. I was very fond of Laura but we were separated for quite some time and my emotions are now engaged elsewhere. I feel a great degree of sadness at her death but I am not totally devastated. That may seem harsh but that’s just the way I’m made.’

  ‘You don’t seem very surprised either.’

  ‘Nothing Laura did ever surprised me. She was a cruel bitch, viciously cruel, only really interested in herself. That was partly the reason for our separation. Don’t ask me to cry alligator tears.’

  ‘Crocodile.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The expression describing an insincere show of emotion is crocodile tears.’

  ‘Crocodiles then.’

  Moya stood up and all attention in the room fixed on her. ‘Did you know about her affair with Ron Gilchrist?’

  ‘No. Did he kill her?’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Vaguely. Very vaguely.’

  ‘Did she have other lovers?’

  ‘Huh.’

  The unintelligible noise was unexpectedly loud, an explosive exclamation that filled the room and bounced off the mirror. Behind it Fyfe jerked his head back. Wright uncrossed his legs and placed both hands in front of himself on the table.

  ‘Do I interpret that as a yes?’ Moya asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘No names, just bodies. I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Somebody called Robert perhaps?’

  ‘Robert? No. Maybe. I don’t know.’

  Fyfe saw vulnerability pass over Wright like a cloud over the sun. His vanity was hurt that Laura should prefer other men to him. Murders had been committed for less. Moya hit him when he was down by tossing the proof copy of Ethereal magazine onto the table.

  ‘Do you believe in the supernatural Mr Wright?’ Moya said.

  ‘Not really. I do read my horoscope most days.’

  ‘Funny to have a wife in the business and not be a believer.’

  ‘Laura didn’t believe. It was her living that’s all. She was a fraud.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Of course. She would probably admit it herself if you asked her. Only the impressionable and the inadequate were taken in.’

  ‘Is that so? She couldn’t see into the future then?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Have you read her latest column in the magazine? It’s not officially published until Monday, by the way. But that won’t stop us. You can read it now.’

  ‘I never read her stupid column. It’s a heap of nonsense.’

  ‘Maybe so but you should read this one. Go on.’

  Wright’s self-confidence had gone shaky. He was wishing he had never started this confrontation now that he was on the receiving end. Curiosity made him frown unhappily. He picked up the magazine reluctantly and stared into the disembodied eyes on the cover.

  ‘Page sixteen,’ Moya said.

  Wright turned to the page and began reading. Fyfe and Moya and Matthewson studied him intently as he absorbed the words. His face was a picture, heating up to bright pink at the mid-way point and then fading to ash grey as he read through to the end. Once he turned to the cover to check the date and once he looked up at Moya as the significance dawned on him. She smiled the kind of little half-smile police officers allow themselves when they succeed in wrong-footing smart villains.

  ‘The future is with us now, Mr Wright,’ Moya said. ‘Laura can’t be here to tell us herself but it looks as if she left us a few clues.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Friday, 14.54

  Fyfe and Moya ate a pub lunch in an old-fashioned pub where the barmen wore chest-high white aprons and narrow beams of sunlight poked through the clear bits of the stained glass windows like the triggers for a sophisticated electronic alarm system. They walked through the unavoidable lattice of beams to a corner booth and chewed over the possibility of Wright’s guilt or innocence. With the cockiness knocked out of him, he had been released and cautioned to stay available. Matthewson had got the name of his girlfriend and been delegated to check up on him more thoroughly. He wasn’t invited for lunch.

  The offices of Ethereal magazine were ten minutes’ walk away from the pub on the top floor of a short, run-down terrace where the buildings seemed to be held together by blue and white To Let signs. There were two rooms; a large outer one with four paper-cluttered desks and two big computer screens, and the editor’s cubby hole behind flimsy panels and three tall panes of frosted glass. The toilet at the top of three flights of stairs was shared with a firm of insurance brokers on the other side of the landing. The small windows looked out over rubbish-strewn back gardens and long disused rusty clothes-poles onto the rear of another terrace opposite. To the front was an uninspiring cobbled street streaked with lengths of tarmac and another unbroken row of identical buildings. The surroundings were as dowdy as the magazine was glossy.

  After climbing the stairs they were met at the door by Eddie Illingworth who led them across the outer room to his interior office. Space was so limited by the jumble of filing cabinets and book-crammed shelves it was difficult for Fyfe to stop his leg touching Moya’
s as they sat together and introductions were exchanged. He didn’t try too hard. Illingworth looked dreadful. His skin was waxen, his eyes bloodshot, and his unkempt greying hair exploded in clumps from his head. Each sentence he spoke was ended by an unhealthy cough that seemed to cause him a stab of pain. He shifted nervously and constantly in a chair that creaked loudly beneath him. An incipient alcoholic if ever there was a stereotype for one. Fyfe felt sorry for him.

  ‘How’s business?’ Moya asked.

  ‘On the up. Interest in the unknown is a nice earner at the moment, but who knows what will happen now that Ron’s dead.’

  ‘You know that Mr Gilchrist is dead then?’

  ‘Eh, yes.’ He twisted and writhed in the noisy chair. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

  ‘Who told you Mr Gilchrist was dead?’

  ‘It’s in the papers. My sister Norma showed me them. She works here too. She’s the organized one. I’ll get her. She should be around somewhere. Hang on a minute.’

  Illingworth got up and pushed past the two of them to get to the door. A blast of mint-flavoured breath freshener convinced Fyfe that he had already been drinking that morning. They heard him go outside and shout Norma’s name down the stairs. Then he returned and squeezed back into his chair, more nervous than ever. He played with a ruler, bending it dangerously close to breaking point in a curve between his hands.

  ‘She just popped out,’ he explained. ‘I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Your sister?’ Fyfe said.

  ‘We’re a very close family. We’ve got to give each other jobs. No one else will. You’ll like Norma. She’s very funny. Has a talent for mimicry. If she wasn’t so shy she would go far in showbiz.’