The DCI looked across the room. Rena Bishop’s solicitor was hovering. ‘See what he says and let me know if there are any problems. I’ll leave you to it.’
The solicitor seemed hesitant then spoke. ‘It’s an… unusual situation, Inspector. Normally I wouldn’t be speaking to you like this but…’
‘You don’t believe her either?’
He shook his head. ‘But she insists on signing a confession to three murders and to one attempted murder.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Not really, other than…’ he seemed reluctant to continue.
‘Could she be protecting someone?’
‘I think so. I really should not be telling you this but I’m concerned if I don’t that a miscarriage of justice may occur.’
‘Go on,’ Clare said.
‘Miss Bishop – she’s very fond of the grandson of a close friend. Her friend died some years ago and Miss Bishop has taken an interest in the lad. It seems that he had a difficult time when he was in a children’s home. She harbours some regrets that she wasn’t able to help him. I think this is her way of making it up to him.’
Clare considered. ‘You do know that we can’t allow that to happen? We have to prosecute those we believe are guilty. It’s up to the courts after that to decide what happens to them.’
‘Of course,’ the solicitor said. ‘I just thought you should know. I’m as keen as you that my client shouldn’t confess to a crime she has not committed.’
Clare stood thinking for a minute then said, ‘I’d like to have her examined by a doctor. To assess her capacity to plead.’
‘She won’t like it.’
‘No, she won’t.’
Rena Bishop was indeed outraged at the idea of being examined by a doctor. ‘I am in no need of a psychiatrist, I assure you, Detective Inspector. I am fully in charge of my faculties.’
‘Miss Bishop, you have voluntarily walked into a police station and confessed to the most serious of crimes. I would be failing in my duty of care to you if I didn’t ascertain that you are competent to make such a statement.’
She made no reply to this.
It was growing late now but the doctor agreed to come out. He arrived shortly afterwards and Clare left him to his patient.
Twenty-five minutes later the doctor emerged. Clare called the DCI and Chris to hear his thoughts.
‘A tough cookie,’ he observed. ‘She only agreed to co-operate when I hinted at the possibility of her being detained under the Mental Health Act.’
‘And what’s your view, doctor?’
‘Mentally, she’s as sound as a bell. If you want a specialist to look at her it’ll take longer but I very much doubt she’ll be found unfit to plead.’
The DCI nodded. ‘Anything else?’
The doctor hesitated. ‘If what she says is true then she won’t be with us very much longer.’
‘Meaning?’
‘After I concluded the examination of her mental capacity I asked a few questions about her general health and she came right out with it. She has an inoperable tumour and expects to live no longer than six months.’
The DCI stared. ‘Do you believe her?’
‘Frankly, yes. She doesn’t look well and, given her age, it’s not particularly surprising. But you’ll be able to confirm this with her GP. She’s given me the details.’
Clare took the note with Rena’s GP’s details and thanked the doctor. When he had left the station, she turned to Chris and the DCI. ‘Chris, get on to her GP and find out if she’s telling the truth about having six months to live. Then we’ll get her fingerprints done and see if she matches the white cards. We’ll remand her in custody while we wait for the results of the prints. If they match the white cards, I’ll charge her with the murder of Andy Robb and the attempted murder of Nat Dryden.’
The DCI frowned. ‘Do you still think she’s lying, Inspector? About carrying out all the attacks?’
‘I’m sure of it, sir. I think she probably did the two that Fergus has alibis for – Andy Robb and Nat Dryden. But I reckon Fergus did the others – Bruce Gilmartin and Professor Harris and we have his signed confession.’ Clare put a hand to her ear which was now buzzing loudly, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.
‘You get away,’ the DCI said to her. ‘Young Chris and I will sort out Rena Bishop.’
A sharp bark alerted Clare to the fact that Benjy was still there. She eyed him and Benjy eyed her back.
‘Go on,’ Chris said. ‘Sounds like the pair of you need to get home.’
Clare smiled at Chris and the DCI. ‘Thanks guys. I appreciate it.’ She turned to Benjy again who cocked an ear. ‘Okay,’ she said, and he leapt off the counter and ran towards her.
‘I’ll take this young man home,’ she said. ‘And, unless anything desperately urgent comes up, I’m taking tomorrow off to go and see my sister and my nephew.’
DCI Gibson flashed a rare smile. ‘Sounds like a good idea, Clare. You too, DS West. We’ll sort everything out on Sunday morning. Let’s say ten o’clock.’
* * *
This time, Clare made it home without being called back. Benjy trotted round her feet and she realised he was probably hungry. Fortunately, she still had some of the dog food left and she poured a generous helping and some water into the ice cream tubs. Benjy gobbled the food up greedily and Clare’s thoughts turned to her own evening meal. The pizza was a distant memory now but it was late and she was too damned tired to cook. She went to the fridge and took out a bottle of rosé wine and a tub of humous, which she carried to the front room. There, she flopped onto the settee.
She looked around the room. It had been an easy house to move into a couple of months ago when she’d upped sticks from Glasgow, but it wasn’t really for her. A bit too modern and soulless. Her mind wandered to that cottage along the road from Fergus. She vaguely recalled seeing a sign at the entrance. Daisy Cottage, or something like that. She would really like to have a proper look round. She checked her watch. The estate agents had closed hours ago but perhaps she would call them in the morning and arrange a viewing for next week. In fact, if she called them now and left a voicemail – then she remembered the phone call she had ignored.
She fished her mobile phone out of her bag and saw that she had four voicemail messages. She switched her phone to speaker, clicked to start playing the messages and uncorked the wine, pouring herself a glass.
The first was from Tom. Asking her to call him. Hoping she was okay and not too busy with the investigation. She smiled. If only he knew what had happened in the past twenty-four hours. He’d be flapping round her like a mother hen. ‘Thank the Lord he doesn’t know,’ she muttered, taking a glug of wine.
The next message was from her sister Judith asking if she was free at the weekend.
‘Baby James would love to see his Aunty Clare,’ her sister’s voice said.
‘And Aunty Clare would love that too,’ Clare said to her phone.
Realising she had brought nothing to dip in the humous, and that she was too tired to go and fetch some tortilla chips, she stuck a finger in the tub and scooped as much as she could with her fingertip.
‘And I don’t even care,’ she told Benjy, as the next message clicked on.
‘Oh hello, Inspector. Geoffrey Dark here. Just to say it was nice to meet you and I hope I was able to help. And – well – I’m back in Dundee next week, lecturing. Evening this time. Perhaps if you’re free, you’d like to come along? We could meet first for a drink and I could explain a bit about it. You have my number so, it would be lovely to hear from you. Bye, then.’
Clare thought back to the tall figure in dark jeans and the blue Oxford shirt. The cabinetmaker turned sculpture expert. She thought his lecture might very well turn out to be her thing. And maybe – just maybe – he would turn out to be her thing too. Perhaps she could ask him to look round Daisy Cottage with her. An expert eye, so to speak. A smile played on her lips and she clicked to save the message.
>
And then the final message began to play.
‘Clare? It’s Drew Walsh here. I was hoping to speak to you, but you’re probably still tied up with this investigation. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know about Pam Cassidy. Spoke to her this morning and the upshot is she’s withdrawing the statement she gave to the Ritchies’ solicitor. She won’t be testifying against you if their private prosecution comes to court, which it probably won’t now. I think she was their only witness. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. That’s all. Good work last night. Remember, if you ever want to come back to armed response, just let me know. Okay – well, bye for now, Clare. Take care.’
Clare let her phone fall to the floor. Suddenly, she was outstandingly tired. The events of the previous night flashed before her eyes. Fergus in that kitchen. His gun inches from her. The split-second decision to tackle him to the floor and the gun going off. The armed officer’s eyes beneath the balaclava. The eyes that became Pam’s face. Pam, whose life she had probably saved by flooring Fergus before he could fire through the door. And now Pam was returning the favour.
It changed nothing. Yes, the private prosecution against her would probably be abandoned now. But she had still shot and killed Francis Ritchie, mistaking his replica for a real gun. A mistake she would have to live with.
That would never go away.
She reached down for her phone and dialled her sister’s number. ‘Jude? Hiya. I’d love to come to see my nephew tomorrow if that’s okay. I could do with a day off.’
Her sister was delighted. ‘Oh, Clare. That would be lovely. Will you stay?’
‘Not this time, Jude. I’ve to be in work on Sunday. But maybe I could bring my new lodger? He’s called Benjy…’
Acknowledgements
The crime-writing community is endlessly kind and supportive and I must thank Claire MacLeary, Dawn Geddes and the remarkable Ray Banks for their help and encouragement in the early days of this book. Thanks also to my dear friends David Murtagh and Ruth Darbyshire who ploughed manfully through the early drafts.
For technical information I cannot thank my brothers, Iain, Stuart and Kenneth and good friends Alan Rankin and Richard Renwick enough. They fielded endless questions from me with seemingly inexhaustible patience. Any errors and inaccuracies in these matters are entirely mine.
I was so lucky that Diane Banks at Northbank Talent Management liked the manuscript for See Them Run and that she placed me with my incredible agent Hannah Weatherill who has made this whole process such a thrill. I’m also so grateful to my amazing editor Louise Cullen whose insight and skill has helped me craft a better book.
I must apologise to the good folk of St Andrews, Strathkinness and the surrounding area for taking some liberties with this most beautiful part of Scotland. I hope they will forgive the occasional geographical inaccuracy and the worrying body count! Likewise, to Police Scotland whose procedures I have tweaked for literary convenience.
Finally, to my wonderful children, Ally, Euan and Alicia, and to Peter, my long-suffering other half: thank you for bearing with me and for believing in me. Without your love and patience, DI Clare Mackay would still be a vague idea.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Copyright © Marion Todd, 2019
The moral right of Marion Todd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788637473
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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