The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  ‘Who is Pat?’ Moya asked.

  ‘Pat is Ron’s wife. She works here as advertising manager and general dogsbody. He bought the magazine for her, if you want to know the truth. She must know about this too, I suppose. You would tell her, wouldn’t you? Before the papers got hold of it.’

  Moya nodded encouragingly. The curve of the ruler slackened slightly. Illingworth coughed and his rib cage took as much punishment as the creaking chair.

  ‘You will know that Laura Lambert is dead too.’

  ‘Suicide pact the papers say.’

  ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘She was a bit dippy.’

  ‘Dippy?’

  ‘And Ron was a true dewy-eyed romantic. So it’s possible.’

  ‘Were you aware that the owner of this magazine was having an affair with one of your columnists?’

  ‘No, I certainly wasn’t. I work in glorious seclusion up here. There’s Pat and Norma and a couple of temporaries we take on in pre-press week. All the commissioning of articles is done by phone and seventy per cent of the pages are adverts anyway. I never saw Laura for months on end. She just fired in her column on computer disk. There were never any problems with her. Never missed a deadline yet.’

  ‘And Mr Gilchrist?’

  ‘He was in regularly. He liked to keep an eye on all the admin and stuff but it was really Pat who ran it day to day. We were making a healthy profit, you know.’

  ‘What do you make of Laura’s latest column?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Its content I mean,’ Moya said. ‘Doesn’t it surprise you?’

  A puzzled expression became one of pain as Illingworth turned his head to one side to let a cough out. He put down the ruler and picked a stapled proof copy of the magazine from one of his drawers. He turned to the correct page and began to read. Moya looked at Fyfe and then back at Illingworth waiting for his reaction. Fyfe snatched a sly glance at her ankles.

  ‘Not bad,’ Illingworth said after a few minutes. ‘The island in the middle of the loch and all that.’ Realization of the significance dawned on him suddenly. ‘It’s incredible. That’s where she was found, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mr Illingworth?’ Moya said. ‘Why should it surprise you? Don’t you believe in the power of prophecy?’

  Illingworth sat back in his chair and genuinely relaxed for the first time since they had sat down in front of him. ‘Do me a favour, will you. This is just a job. Was a job, rather, now that Ron’s dead. God knows what will happen here with him six feet under.’

  ‘You should sign him up from beyond the grave,’ Fyfe said. ‘After all you’ve lost your princess of prophecy.’

  Moya kicked him gently in the shin. ‘When would this column have been written, Mr Illingworth?’ she continued.

  ‘Weeks ago probably. Norma organized it every month. She was always the point of contact with Laura.’

  ‘But when is the latest deadline?’

  ‘Seven days before print day.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Tuesday was print day, so the Tuesday before. The finished glossies will be ready for distribution today.’

  ‘When Laura Lambert was very much alive and kicking.’

  ‘If you say so, but I rather think if you read some of our back numbers you’ll find some equally bizarre predictions that never came true. This one was just lucky.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Fyfe said.

  Illingworth shifted uncomfortably and creakily in his chair. ‘I’ll get you a bundle of old mags,’ he muttered.

  ‘You’re not a psychic yourself then, Mr Illingworth?’ Moya asked.

  ‘No. I leave that to my staff and contributors. I just give the readers what they want. I’m a professional in the here and now. Presentation, snappy headlines, quality lay-out. The hereafter is a closed shop to me but I’ll make one prediction if you want.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The publicity over the murders will make this issue a sell-out.’ He sat up, enlivened by the prospect as it occurred to him. ‘It might even attract a new buyer. I might not be out of a job after all. Pat might carry on too.’

  ‘Always a bright side, eh Eddie?’ Fyfe said.

  ‘What about Mr Gilchrist?’ Moya persisted. ‘Was he into mysticism and the like?’

  ‘You could say that. Definitely a bit other-worldly but he put his money where his spiritual being hovered and was making a substantial profit out of it, so he can’t have been that daft.’

  ‘Laura Lambert?’

  ‘Oh yes. She was a real weirdo. Certified. Category one. She used to be on the telly, you know. It didn’t last.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘She wasn’t weird in a careless way. She knew what she was about. When she got chucked off the telly she turned to mail-order fortune telling and psychic consultations.’

  ‘Very commendable.’

  ‘I thought she was good. Good writer too. She provoked floods of letters every month.’

  ‘Her husband seems to think she was a fraud.’

  ‘Never met her husband. I’ve heard he’s a right bastard. Mind you, she could probably give as good as she got. She was a tough lady. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.’

  ‘Ever meet any of her boyfriends? An attractive woman like that with a broken marriage was bound to have more than one admirer.’

  ‘No. I had absolutely no idea Ron was poking her. Honest. He never let on.’

  ‘Any reason why he should?’

  ‘What? Poke her?’

  ‘Tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You weren’t, were you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Poking her? She was a good-looking woman.’

  ‘Who? Me? Laura? I’d have liked to but she was way out of my league. I didn’t have the money or the stamina.’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Robert?’

  ‘Lots of people probably.’

  ‘Anyone who might have known Laura and was called Robert?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Illingworth wiped his nose and shook his head. He began to bend the ruler again. The outer door of the office opened. Moya and Fyfe looked round and saw an out-of-focus shape cross the floor and approach the frosted windows.

  ‘That will be Norma back,’ Illingworth said, standing up. ‘She’ll be able to give you a better insight into the characters in this drama. She handled Laura and most of our other writers. If it wasn’t for Norma keeping us all on the straight and narrow nothing would ever appear in print.’

  The door opened and Patricia Gilchrist entered. She looked as if she was about to shout at Illingworth but hesitated at the sight of strangers. Fyfe stood up and nodded in greeting.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Pat. We were just talking about the future of the mag. Laura’s last column is likely to make it a best-seller.’

  Pat laughed with dismissive sarcasm. ‘Laura never wrote a column in her life.’

  Illingworth collapsed back into his chair. Moya rose beside Fyfe and turned to face the newcomer. ‘Who did then?’ she asked.

  ‘Norma, of course. She always produced the words and Laura always took the credit.’ She laughed again. ‘They worked well together.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Friday, 15.30

  Eddie Illingworth sat outside while police took over his office to speak to Pat Gilchrist. He fiddled with a computer terminal and started a beat ’em up game from the hard disk, taking on the persona of a battle-hardened jungle commando rescuing hostages held by a cunning and numerically superior enemy. He died twice before he got past the first booby trap and adjusted the sound level of the electronic death screams in case they disturbed his visitors.

  On the other side of the opaque glass he watched the three ill-defined shapes. The woman with the nice legs had taken his seat, Pat Gilchrist had taken her seat in front of the desk and the bloke Fyfe was standing behind her beside the door.

  Illingworth
retrieved another ammo clip and tossed a couple of grenades ahead. The enemy on the screen died with far-off, near-inaudible squeaks of pain.

  He must have looked a bit of an idiot, he supposed, not realizing that his magazine’s star columnist didn’t actually write the material that went under her name. It didn’t matter in a sense, but Norma might have given him a hint about what was going on. She had never harboured any ambition to be a writer as far as he was aware. What was the big secret? Or maybe it wasn’t a secret. Maybe he was the only one not to know. What other tales was Pat telling them about Ron and Laura? What else was going to emerge that he didn’t know about? Maybe he should phone some of his contacts to see if there were any jobs going. He didn’t know that many people any more. They were either dead or sacked or retired from the rat race and growing potatoes on distant crofts.

  His patched-up heart skipped a beat and he coughed, spraying the screen with spittle as a whole platoon of the enemy were taken out by a shoulder-held rocket launcher. He wiped it dry with his sleeve and winced in empathy as a volley of machine-gun bullets thumped into him and blood splashed from his alter ego. His life-meter shrank abruptly to below fifty per cent.

  Where was Norma? Her out-of-body experience on Thursday morning had provided her with a vision of a white-clad woman floating on the water. Then Laura was found on an island in the middle of a loch and a piece in the magazine, written by Laura at least two weeks previously, described the same thing. Where was Norma? What had she done? Illingworth felt very cold. His hands had stopped moving on the keyboard. On the computer screen his life-meter was down to ten per cent and flashing a warning. He licked his dry lips and anticipated a soothing drink.

  Pat was walking past him, saying goodbye. She would contact him soon about the future. The woman policeman went too, leaving Fyfe standing beside him handing him a card from his wallet.

  ‘If your sister is in contact with you we would be very interested to hear from her,’ he said. ‘Phone me on this number. Any time.’

  Illingworth opened the card and handed over the half dozen copies of old magazines he had got ready. Fyfe followed the two women out the door. Oh my God, Illingworth was thinking, what has my sweet sister done? What has she done? Being psychic wouldn’t be much of a defence if they charged the silly lassie with murder. Surely not? Murder? Double murder? Not Norma? His little sister? Did she really have it in her?

  On the screen the enemy attacked and his life-meter fell to zero. You have been terminated, the screen announced in vivid red letters. He died and the unequal game ended with a long drawn-out, whispering scream.

  Chapter Forty

  Friday, 16.45

  A whole new dimension to the case was opened by Pat Gilchrist’s version of events. According to her, Norma and Laura were lesbian lovers involved in a torrid affair. Norma must have planned the murder, sketching out the details in the column she ghosted. Poor, stupid, love-struck Ron was part of the plan. He had somehow been lured to the murder scene and killed so that the finger of blame would point at him.

  ‘It makes sense and explains a lot if it’s true,’ Moya said as they walked the dogs on Corstorphine Hill after dropping Pat off at her home. ‘We’ve gone full circle back to the crime of passion.’

  She was totally convinced. Fyfe could see it in her manner, though she wasn’t going to be too assertive about it after the débâcle of the Robert Ross episode. He wasn’t going to remind her of that or of the new evidence the team had found up there of a distinctive tyre mark in the mud of the forest track outside the cottage. It was the impression of an s-shaped cut in the tread and it was found underneath Gilchrist’s Range Rover so it couldn’t have been made by any of the police vehicles. Of course, it might turn out to be totally innocent, a Post Office van or anything like that. It would be checked out.

  Fyfe sat on the bonnet of the car leafing through the old magazines. He kicked a stone and Number Five went scampering after it. They had already tried Norma’s home address. No one at home and now little brother Eddie had disappeared too. An arrest warrant for Norma was being prepared.

  ‘Cold-blooded passion too,’ Moya went on. ‘If we take into account that nasty Norma planned the whole thing a couple of weeks in advance.’

  ‘Try a couple of months in advance,’ Fyfe said. ‘Listen to this from the princess of prophecy in last month’s magazine: And I shall die surrounded by my handmaidens, the water birds, under a vast sky with the coldness lapping at my face and the ferryman fading into the mist.’

  ‘Let me see that,’ Moya demanded, taking the magazine.

  Fyfe opened another copy and bent the cover back on itself. ‘From the month before: I shall be placed in the centre and my atoms will merge with elemental forces once the boat’s final journey is complete. Death will welcome me and justice will be done. A certain similarity in tone and content, don’t you think?’

  ‘She was planning it for ages, screwing up her courage to be able to do it. Once Laura was dead she knew exactly what she was going to do with her.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she bumped her off. What’s her motive?’

  ‘Lover’s quarrel? Insanity? Perhaps she thought Laura was too good for this world so she helped her pass into the next one. Perhaps Laura thought so too and asked for her help. We’re dealing with serious dreamers who are not of our world here. It’s not exactly rational to lay out your murder victim on a slab for public viewing.’

  ‘An element of exhibitionism there.’

  ‘Almost as if the murderer wanted to be caught.’

  ‘Or wanted the body to be found so he could brazen it out and collect his insurance money.’

  ‘The way things are going slimy Simon may be off the hook and home free with his windfall. He might be psychic and not even know it.’

  ‘Pity,’ Fyfe said with feeling. ‘What about Ron Gilchrist? Was he just a convenient fall-guy then?’

  ‘If we’re to believe the grieving widow.’

  ‘And do we?’

  The dogs were running about on the periphery of Fyfe’s vision and Moya was standing directly in front of him. He could have reached out, caught her in his arms and pulled her in against him. The urge to kiss her and squeeze her tightened like a cramp in his shoulders and at the back of his knees. She was smiling at him delightfully. He just managed to stop himself.

  ‘I’m remembering what you taught me yesterday,’ Moya said.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Not to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Aha. The first law of prophecy; the most obvious conclusion is likely to be the wrong one.’

  ‘And the most likely outcome is one that nobody anticipates.’

  ‘Which means we’re no further forward really.’

  ‘Not until we find nasty Norma we’re not.’

  ‘We still don’t know who this bloody Bobby guy is?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t fit in at all, does he?’

  Moya put her hands on her hips underneath her jacket and took a deep breath. Fyfe rubbed his knee and complained obliquely about an ancient sports injury.

  ‘What now then?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve still to see Laura’s father, the undertaker.’

  ‘You can ask him if he knew his daughter was a dyke.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Friday, 17.26

  Matthewson swept all the messages written on bits of yellow sticky paper into the bin. He sat down thankfully and peeled a banana. An afternoon of trudging round trying to dig some decent dirt on Simon Wright had been a waste of time. His alibi had checked out so far. He had been at Tynecastle for the football on Wednesday. If he stuck to his story he was bulletproof and a lot richer with the insurance money. A request for information from the insurance company was currently running the gauntlet of bureaucracy. Matthewson put his feet up on the desk and bit the top off the banana, imagining it was Wright’s head.

  The phone
rang. Matthewson would have liked to, but he couldn’t copy Fyfe’s party trick of ignoring it. His curiosity was always too great. To him every ring was a maddening itch demanding to be scratched. One day, he fondly believed, he would answer a call and it would change his life. At the very least it might give him the lead needed to crack a case and show up his superiors. He stuffed the rest of the banana into his mouth, picked up the receiver and found himself unable to speak for several seconds while he chewed and swallowed.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Matthewson,’ he said at last.

  ‘This is Janet Dunbar. You left a message at my office.’

  Her voice sounded timid and frightened, as if she would be scared away by the slightest thing. He lowered his feet slowly to the floor and hunched over, cradling the phone protectively. He would have to treat this situation very delicately. Somehow he had expected a more strident character to match Wright’s up front personality.

  ‘Mrs Dunbar. I need to see you,’ he said.

  ‘I realize that.’

  ‘I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience or embarrassment but it is necessary that I talk to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I took the afternoon off. I had to have some time to myself.’

  ‘You know why I want to see you?’

  ‘It’s about the murders at the loch, isn’t it? The woman and the man.’

  ‘That’s right. I understand you’re a friend of . . .’

  She wasn’t listening to him. Her voice was steadily rising in pitch, bordering on hysteria.

  ‘My boyfriend’s your murderer,’ she said. ‘He used to be married to the dead woman. He killed her.’

  Matthewson balled his hand into a fist and punched the air. So much for a rock-solid alibi, he thought. He would get this firmed up and present it to DCI Fyfe and DI McBain who, as far as he knew, were out indulging in their own personal extracurricular activities. He would solve the crime and take the credit.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘I’m married, you see. I have children. Can you help me?’