The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her placid thoughts. Reality crowded in. The murder inquiry she was supposedly in charge of was still in progress and she had not been in touch for several hours. Anything could have happened. That would be Fyfe at the door, back to tell her how they had found the killer and closed the file while she was otherwise occupied putting her love life back on an even keel. The bastard now had the perfect opportunity to patronize her and put her down. She had no alternative but to grin and bear it. She could hardly believe she had acted so recklessly such a short time before. It must have been a kind of temporary insanity. At least now she was back living and loving in the real world.

  Moya got dressed as quickly as she could. Dalglish tossed and muttered but didn’t wake up. By the time she went to answer the door the bell had only rung twice. Fyfe showing consideration, she speculated. Before she opened the door she paused and took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to be the one to suffer agonies of embarrassment. She was going to stare him out, force him to look away first. She would slap his face if he dared to try and intimidate her. The fact that it was Bill Matthewson on the doorstep confused her. When she tried to speak she couldn’t get the words out. It was getting to be a habit, this opening of doors to find someone unexpected on the other side.

  ‘Is DCI Fyfe with you, Ma’am?’ Matthewson asked. ‘I’ve got some important news.’

  ‘No,’ Moya replied, composing herself. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘It’s just that I thought he might be.’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Behind her Moya could hear Dalglish shuffling along the corridor. She saw that Matthewson was pushing his tongue into his cheek to prevent himself laughing. She turned and saw Dalglish with a blanket round his waist and over his shoulder. There was a massive purply-red love bite on the right-side pectoral muscle down from his shoulder. She always did that to him on the good nights.

  ‘Who is it, darling?’ Dalglish asked sleepily.

  ‘Police business, Ian. Go back inside. It’s cold out here.’

  She pulled the interior door closed and turned back to Matthewson. He was standing with his hands behind his back trying not to look amused. She didn’t attempt to explain who Dalglish was. Moya struggled not to smile as well. Her reputation would be torn to shreds by the boys in the locker-room. Still, she reasoned, she had joined them not beaten them and it was better to be regarded as a sexy item rather than a frigid one.

  ‘What do you want DCI Fyfe for?’

  ‘I’ve got new evidence in the murder and he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘He makes a habit of that, doesn’t he? Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘I usually work with Mr Fyfe.’

  ‘I appreciate your loyalty but he’s working with me on this one. I’m in charge of the case and you can tell me.’

  ‘Yes Ma’am.’

  Matthewson told her Janet Dunbar’s story about the broken date and the threats over the alibi from Simon Wright. Moya didn’t let herself show any outward emotion but she got steadily more excited listening to the details. It looked as if they had something definite on him. A little more judiciously applied pressure and he might crack wide open. By the time Fyfe deigned to reappear the case would be closed. That would put him in his place rather nicely.

  ‘Wright came in voluntarily for his interview yesterday,’ Matthewson said. ‘If we lift him now we’ve got six hours to play with before we have to charge him. I reckon he won’t last.’

  Moya thought about it and liked the idea. ‘Let’s do it. I’ll be with you in a few minutes and we can go shake him awake.’

  She went back into the flat to explain to Dalglish that he would have to sleep the rest of the night alone. He would understand.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Friday, 23.24

  ‘How are you feeling, darling? You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you? Head sore?’

  Fyfe blinked and saw Sally’s face very close to his. It seemed distorted, out of proportion as though he was viewing it through one of those spyholes drilled in doors.

  ‘My jealous lover,’ she crooned. ‘What did you think you were playing at? You’ve nothing to worry about.’

  Her face resolved itself into focus. She had the same kind of enigmatic smile that Moya had worn in the flat before reversing him up against the sink in the bathroom. Was this some kind of conspiracy?

  ‘It’s very flattering to have men fight over me. Not very civilized though.’

  The memory of the black brogue and the bald-headed ballet dancer came surging back to him. And then there was Sally sitting on this guy’s knee kissing him. Adultery in action.

  ‘I’ve run a bath for you,’ Sally said. ‘You know how you like a nice hot bath. This one is roasting hot.’

  The adrenalin rush, fuelled by the sight of Sally with another man so soon after the frustration of being kicked out by Moya, had been like a massive shove in the back. Here was somebody he could take it out on. Only it hadn’t turned out like that. Fyfe moved his head and his brain seemed to rattle inside his skull, causing a painful fireworks display of coloured lights to explode across his field of vision.

  ‘Take it easy darling. Careful now. Come with me.’

  Fyfe moved slowly and obediently, allowing himself to be led by Sally. The headache gradually subsided to be replaced by a sensation that his head was twice the size it should have been. Sally took him upstairs and into the bathroom.

  ‘There now. Take your clothes off. I’ll get you something to help you relax.’

  He did as he was told. The wall mirror was misted over with steam from the bath. He wiped it clear and saw that there was now bad bruising around both eyes, extending right across his face like a visor. A pair of pink bloodshot eyes were deeply inset in the puffy flesh. A moustache of blood was crusted on his upper lip.

  He stepped into the bath and the shock of the heat made him gasp, but it cleared his head. The room became abruptly brighter. He lowered himself into the water until he was submerged up to the neck and his whole body tingled. He kept going until he was completely under the water and the tingling was particularly fierce on the bruised bits of his face. When he came up for air Sally was sitting on the side of the bath, offering him a glass of whisky.

  ‘Who was he then?’ Fyfe asked.

  ‘Oliver. He is a student in my department at the university.’

  ‘What was he doing here?’

  ‘I’m his staff-appointed counsellor. He had a personal crisis.’

  ‘At this hour. Your crisis or his?’

  ‘His.’

  ‘Confessing he was madly in love with you, was he?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Then why were you cuddling the bastard. I thought . . .’

  ‘It was obvious what you thought.’

  ‘Well then. What was going on?’

  ‘Oliver came to me to make a confession. It took a lot of doing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He came to confess that he was gay. He didn’t know who else to talk to. I was comforting him.’

  ‘Gay? But . . .’

  ‘They’re not all limp-wristed nancy boys, you know.’

  ‘What is he then? Some kind of karate expert?’

  ‘Tae Kwon-Do actually. Brown belt I understand.’

  ‘Just my luck.’

  Fyfe felt like an utter idiot for the second time in the space of a few hours. He sipped his whisky and ducked below the water again for as long as he could hold his breath. His head deflated gradually to more normal size. When he came up for air Sally was still sitting there on the edge of the bath. Her dressing gown had fallen open to show her legs. He realized she was assuming that all his injuries, bloody nose, included, had been inflicted by her gayboy pal. That saved him from having to bother with a false explanation. Neither would he volunteer to tell Sally about the law of prophecy that had been dinned into h
im lately and had just proved itself accurate once more; the most obvious explanation is likely to be the wrong one.

  ‘What are you?’ Fyfe asked. ‘Some kind of nursemaid?’

  ‘I’m a shoulder to cry on. He’s just a young lad. His parents have disowned him.’

  ‘So you’re the mother substitute.’

  ‘And you’re the red-eyed bull at the gate to remind him of the hostile world outside.’

  ‘Is he gone?’

  ‘What do you think? He made quite a mess of you, didn’t he? You gave him no option. You backed him into a corner and went down fighting. My loyal white knight in shining armour. He passes on his apologies.’

  ‘Very considerate of him. How long was I out for?’

  ‘Not long. It’s nice to know you’re prepared to fight for me.’

  ‘Even if I lose.’

  ‘It’s the thought that counts. How’s the head.’

  ‘Still attached to my shoulders.’

  ‘Do you think I should get a doctor?’

  ‘It’s only my head. Nothing vital.’

  ‘Hurry up and come to bed. I’ll mop your fevered brow for you.’

  That curious smile again, the female equivalent of a sporting handshake with the loser at the end of a particularly one-sided contest. She leaned over the bath, one hand on his knee to balance herself. He screwed his eyes shut and braced himself. She kissed him delicately on the tip of the nose.

  ‘Sorry Sally,’ he said.

  ‘It’s okay. Oliver saw the funny side of it.’

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t damage his sense of humour.’

  ‘I hope he hasn’t damaged yours. How’s your double murder going?’

  ‘It’s going.’

  ‘You must have had a busy day?’

  ‘A pretty boring one. Knocked back at every turn.’

  Fyfe admired his own suggestive wit. It was so impressive. Practice had made perfect. To round off the performance he wondered if he should pull Sally into the bath beside him, like it would happen in a romantic comedy film. They would make love and slop water all over the floor. It was good to be connected to her. Life had been a disaster when they were apart and he had been so lucky to get her back. He was a fool to risk losing her again by lying to her and attempting to play around with Moya. But that was his nature. He was a fool.

  The handset hidden in Fyfe’s jacket pocket on the bathroom floor began to ring. They both looked down at it.

  ‘Will we answer it?’ Sally asked. ‘Or will we just go to bed.’

  ‘If they’re phoning at this time it must be important,’ Fyfe said.

  ‘Let’s go to bed then,’ she said but she didn’t mean it.

  Sally never argued when it was police business. She picked up the handset and handed it to Fyfe. He sat up to take it, careful not to cause the bath to overflow.

  ‘DCI Fyfe here,’ he said, adopting his formal telephone manner.

  There was the sound of weeping and spluttering at the other end of the line. And Fyfe’s name repeated over and over again among unintelligible sentences. Finally a phrase established itself over the verbal static and it electrified Fyfe. He sat bolt upright and a wave splashed over the rim of the bath. Sally dodged out of its way, cursing, but Fyfe wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was focused on the barely audible words coming over the phone.

  ‘Bobby’s dead. Bobby’s dead.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Saturday, 00.37

  Moya almost yawned. She stifled it at the last moment, keeping her hands down so as not to draw attention to her contorting facial muscles. She just managed to stop it and no more. Matthewson stood behind her waiting patiently for the interrogation to start.

  Here she was about to turn in a positive result on her first murder inquiry and all she could think of was how good it would be to close her eyes and go to sleep. It had been a long day, with hardly any time for rest in between waking up with Number Five in her bed, to making a pass at Fyfe, to finding physical consolation with Ian Dalglish. There had even been time for some detective work in between. Not hers, but she could make up for that now and take advantage of other people’s efforts. That was the privilege of rank. All she had to do was fight off exhaustion and stay awake, of course.

  Across the table from her sat Simon Wright. She hoped she didn’t look as bad as he did. He had come quietly when they went to get him. It was almost as if he was waiting for them. He had not been drinking, there was no smell of alcohol on his breath, but he was definitely on something. It had been obvious from the moment they confronted him at his house. He seemed to be floating inside his own air-conditioned bubble, looking down on the world from a position of supreme unconcern. Now he sat opposite her with an annoyingly contented expression, swaying imperceptibly on his chair, watching his hands in his lap. He was in a dope-smoker’s dwam. If they had searched his house they would probably have found a stash of cannabis or something harder like cocaine. That would have given them the excuse to hold him for longer than six hours. Too late now. If needs must, they could always run him home and turn him over again.

  ‘Why did you lie to us, Simon?’ she asked.

  He lifted his head slowly and a languid grin spread over his face. Moya was able to see why women were attracted to him. With his defences down and the skin of villainy stripped away, he was boyishly handsome in a vulnerable goofy sort of way that made you want to hold him and squeeze him. She dug the heel of her right shoe into the top of her left foot. For goodness sake Moya, she told herself, will you get a grip on your hormones. She still could not believe what she had tried to do with Fyfe against the sink. Maybe shock was setting in like it did with accident survivors a few hours after the traumatic event when they realize what a narrow escape they have just had.

  ‘First names is it?’ he said. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Come on, Simon, you know the score. You’ve been here before.’

  ‘Earlier today, wasn’t it? Or was it a previous lifetime?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of stuff?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if I believe or not, not if it’s true.’

  ‘New information has come into our possession since we last met.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘Yes. It indicates that you deliberately lied to us.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Simon, but did you not tell me that you intended to be entirely honest. You said you were telling us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’

  Wright’s grin widened. He put his elbows on the table and leaned towards Moya. He crooked a finger to call her closer but she stayed where she was. Matthewson moved a step nearer. The tape recorder was running. Wright had once more confidently waived his right to have a lawyer present.

  ‘I lied,’ Wright said, finishing the statement with a splutter of emphatic laughter.

  ‘You didn’t tell the truth.’

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘Why did you lie, Simon?’

  He sat back, still grinning. One arm was on the back of the chair. A finger drew circles on the table-top. ‘In my experience when the police start cosying up using first names with suspects they usually turn out to have some solid evidence that they are about to deliver like a sucker punch to the jaw.’

  ‘Perhaps we do,’ Moya agreed.

  ‘Go on then.’ He stuck out his chin. ‘Hit me with it.’

  ‘You said you spent most of Tuesday evening with Janet Dunbar. She says in a sworn statement that you didn’t.’

  Wright rubbed his chin. ‘Ouch,’ he said, beginning to shadow box. ‘The knock-out blow but he’s up and fighting again. A right, a left, a feint to the body and an uppercut rocks his opponent.’

  ‘Quit the play-acting Simon,’ she snapped. ‘Tell me the truth this time. No more mucking about.’

  ‘Okay then, I’ll come clean but it won’t do you any good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘This sta
tement will be inadmissible in court because I am under the influence of drugs. A few pills, inhalation of the smoke from a burning substance that I wasn’t quite sure about but can now recommend. With everything taken into account I’m out of my box.’

  ‘Tell me anyway, Simon.’

  ‘All right then. On Tuesday night I received a call which demanded immediate attention. I couldn’t ignore it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Business before pleasure.’

  ‘Who called you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘A lady friend?’

  He grinned slyly. ‘Maybe. Definitely an old friend.’

  ‘What did this friend want?’

  ‘To speak to me.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘To check.’

  ‘To check what?’

  ‘To check that everything was in place as we had planned.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘What was the plan?’

  ‘Patience, my lovely Inspector. I’ll tell you. You’ll work it out for yourself sooner or later anyway. You see, my old friend was leading me on and screwing me up. The whole plan has fallen apart now. Look at me. I’m a broken man.’

  He spread his arms as wide as they would go and hiccuped violently. For a moment Moya thought he was going to vomit across the table into her lap but his head snapped back erect and his whole body suddenly went rigid.

  ‘So who is this old friend then?’

  He relaxed. His neck went down into his shoulders. His arms were lowered slowly, fingers rippling to imitate fluttering wings. The grin spread again.